Mystic Summer (33 page)

T
he morning of the wedding began much the way the previous night ended: an unsettling swirl of pink and orange stretches across the horizon, this time in sunrise. Unable to sleep, I'd been up since five o'clock. There are three completed teaching applications on my laptop: two for positions in Boston, and one for a position in Mystic. Like my mother suggested, I've decided to leave all my options open. Who knows—the MFA graduate program flyer is still in my purse.

Last night, before I went to bed, I climbed up the narrow ladder into the dark confines of our attic, the air rank with dust and the smell of hot shingles. It took me a while to find what I was looking for. When I finally carried it down, my father was standing at the bottom of the steps in his bathrobe, watching me curiously. “What are you doing up there at this hour?”

I held up the crumpled art portfolio for him to see.

“Ah. Traveling down memory lane.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Don't stay up too late. Those memories will still be here in the morning.”

That's the trouble with memories. Whether they are painted in soft strokes by a watercolor brush across a canvas, or are written
in the dreamy teenage scrawl of a best friend who holds a secret: they fade over time, but their imprint lasts. After reading through the letters that Erika and I had passed to each other in middle school, and having sifted through the collection of paintings my mother so painstakingly arranged by date and composition, one thing is sure. Some memories of the past, stored away all these years in my parents' attic, are still very much alive in my mind.

There is the memory of a first friend; the firm hand that grasped yours on the first day of school, and pulled you up the steep stairs of the playground slide. Then wrapped around your middle as the two of you slid down in one shrieking sweep, landing at the bottom in a heap of skirts and back-to-school buckled shoes. Those same hands are the ones you pass a bridal bouquet to in the church today. Despite the rifts that have been caused, or the secrets kept. They are the same hands whose pinky finger wraps securely around your own, before you walk down the aisle on her wedding day.

Then there is the memory of color. The hazy blue that captured the river that ran through your childhood when you entered your first painting in the high school art show and came in second. There are the fiery reds of first loves, and family love, and the kind of love you spend your life wishing for. And there is the gold of a sun setting over a chapter in your life before a new one starts; the same golden hue of a baby's downy hair.

When Erika walks down the aisle on the July afternoon of her wedding day, my heart is full of these memories. Mr. and Mrs. Crane are watching their only child with tear-filled reverence,
while beside me, Peyton dabs at her eyes. But mine are on my best friend: on the shimmering ivory skirt of her wedding dress, the tilt of her head as she kisses the man to whom she has just pledged her partnership, and on the congregation whose applause we turn to face, a smattering of all our shared loved ones gathered to celebrate her big day. This time, when Evan meets me in the aisle, I meet his gaze with a warm smile. I am grateful for him. For his love and his trust and his good intentions. He is not the man I will walk down the aisle with someday, myself. And I will gently tell him that before this weekend is over. But now, I take his hand, and we follow our friends down the center of the pews. Past my parents, who both wave a little too enthusiastically. Past Jane, and Toby, and their children, who have not quite sat still for the entire ceremony, but leap up and call out my name as I sweep by. Lastly, I rest my eyes on the blue sky overhead as we surge through the double doors of our small New England church. This summer day is ripe with possibilities. And tonight, as we dance the evening away at the country club along the Mystic River, as someone once said, the stars overhead will compete with the ones in our eyes.

When the last song of the reception plays, Erika and Trent move onto the dance floor one last time. Watching them from the deck door, I am sated with the celebrations of this delicious summer day. The rest of the bridal party are slumped in ballroom chairs, rubbing their sore feet as guests scrape the remains of wedding cake off their plates. Evan is among them. Seated off to the side, he will be going back to his room alone tonight. He understands that now. He thinks I am making a big mistake; and I don't blame him for walking angrily away from me when
I told him just now, outside on the deck. But I'm sure he'll come to realize that I did us both a favor. Evan is not home for me. And he deserves to take the next step in life with someone who is. But as I stand on the edge of the dance floor watching the way Trent looks at Erika, I know then that there is one more thing I need to do.

Soon, I am dashing up the stone walkway to the gate, the moon barely illuminating object from air. The front door is locked, but it's no matter. I know the way. I slip between the arborvitae and along the side of the house to the rear. At the foot of the stairs, I begin my ascent.

The white balcony takes on a ghostlike glow in the moonlight. I am alone, and yet I feel as if I am not. As if there is also someone from before, someone who has not left, and whose spirit will never quite leave. And yet it doesn't scare me. Because someone very real is coming.

From up here the Mystic River is a mercurial ribbon in the moonlight. To the east, there are the dots of lights and shadows of rooftops. Somewhere among them is the club, music probably still emanating from its deck doors. My friends will be on the dance floor. And up the river, Erika and Trent are just now sailing aboard the beautiful white schooner that swept them away from the reception, moments before I took my own leave, white lights glittering up and down the mast.

But here, at the Edwin Bate House, there is only silence, save for the peepers and the whoosh of evergreen branches in the breeze. I wait, holding my breath. Moments later, headlights appear on the road below. They swing up toward the house, and there is the crunch of gravel beneath tires. I close my eyes. A car door slams.

Soon, footsteps sound on the wooden staircase behind me. I turn as he steps on to the balcony.

Cameron pauses. Even in the pale light I can see him. His expression is uncertain.

“Maggie. Is everything okay?” he asks.

“It is now.”

He comes to stand beside me, but I can sense his hesitation.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him. “I'm sorry I called so late.”

He waits for me to speak, but I can't. “What's going on?” he asks.

Cam's hand is soft and warm when I reach for it on the railing. I fold my fingers in between his. “Lauren is gone, isn't she?”

Cam shifts his gaze away toward the grove of hemlocks, but I keep hold of his fingers. “She's flying out tomorrow. How did you know?”

A breath leaves my chest, a mix of sadness and regret. “I had a feeling after I left the hospital. I'm so sorry, Cam.” No matter what Lauren represented for Cam, she is still Emory's mother.

“It's done now,” he says. Then, “Why did you call tonight?”

I inhale. “When I first came home this summer and ran into you, I never thought I'd be standing here now. So much has happened in these short weeks. And this last week, at the hospital, I caught a glimpse of just how full your life really is.”

Cam looks at me. “My whole life is Emory. It's the way things have to be right now.”

“I know. Which is why I've tried to stay away from both of you, to leave the past where it is. But when I heard Emory was sick, I couldn't. I hope I didn't intrude by coming to the hospital, but I had to see her.”

Even in the darkness, I can feel him turn toward me. “You didn't
intrude. What happened with Lauren would've happened anyway; she doesn't want to be a part of our lives. But you're right—my life is full even without her.”

“I'm glad,” I tell him.

“And you have your own life, too, Maggie,” he adds. “I saw that for myself.”

I know what Cam is referring to. Seeing me with Evan and all of our friends around town. Listening to me talk about how great Boston and city life are. What a fool I've behaved like this summer.

“It's not so full,” I tell him, a sad laugh escaping my throat. “A lot has changed. I'm not seeing anyone anymore. I'm no longer teaching at Darby. Hell, I don't even know where I'm going to live after this weekend is over.”

Cam doesn't say anything for a long time. Behind us the peepers have picked up again. I imagine they've grown used to us; as if we, too, are just another part of night.

Cam clears his throat. “When I saw you at the church yesterday, in your white summer dress . . .” He shakes his head. “Maggie, ever since I ran into you at the pier, I haven't been able to get you out of my head.”

It's all I need to hear. “Yesterday, during the rehearsal, I was feeling so strange. Like I couldn't breathe. I had to get out of there. And then you drove by the church, like some kind of a sign.”

“I don't believe in signs, Maggie.”

“That's okay, because there are real things, too. Things you can put your thumb on: like history, and friendship. Like the foundation of an old house that just needs to be shored up.”

Cam is so close I can feel him. “Is that why you called me here?”

I lean out over the railing. “This is where I first felt it this summer. Before I really understood about you and Emory. Before I lost my job. Or realized I was in the wrong relationship.”

“And now?”

I reach for him. This time when our lips touch, there is certainty. And so much more. He envelops me, and I let him pull me against him, the whole summer exhaling around us. I don't want to let go. When we finally part, Cam pulls me close to his side and we stand entwined overlooking the river. I wonder if Edwin Bate ever stood beside his wife like this. I bet he did.

Finally, Cam speaks. “So what are you going to do about a job, Griff?”

I shrug, but the question doesn't scare me. “I don't know. I guess I'm going to have to figure that out.”

“Any leads on a new apartment yet?”

“I'm thinking of widening the search. Outside of Boston,” I say, looking at him out of the corner of my eye.

There is one thing I still have to ask. “Do you think you could ever let someone back into your life again?” Below, the river is iridescent beneath the moon. Standing up here, with only the sound of the night and our own breath surrounding us, we could be any two people at any point in time. But we aren't. Lucky us.

Cam takes a deep breath and lets it go. “I like to think so. One thing I've learned from Emory is to take things one moment at a time. All we have is today.”

I squeeze Cam's hand. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

They say third time's a charm, but our second time around has proven that one wrong. It has been both a joy and a privilege to work with my editor, Megan Reid, once again. She has done no less than champion my work, sending
The Lake Season
out of the gates and into the heart of the pack. And I'm honored to hand her the reins for this one, too. From the heartfelt handwritten notes that land in my mail with galleys to the brilliantly rendered suggestions on edits, Megan remains a gentle but constant voice of encouragement. She trusts me to run the distance and set my own pace—but she's always waiting at the finish line. Wrapping a book together feels like landing in the winner's circle every time. I can't thank you enough.

MacKenzie Fraser Bub, of Trident Media, remains my scout. Don't be fooled by that soft southern accent—she's the New York agent stuff of dreams. Always abreast of the market and expectations, she provides the measuring stick against which
we all line up. She keeps me ever mindful not of the book I'm working on but the book that I want it to be. I'm forever grateful for her partnership, her sharp ear, and the questions she's not afraid to ask.