Perfect Summer (5 page)

“Shhh. She’s back.” It was La Shay, who’d shoehorned her plus-sized, pregnant body into an extra-small tee. “This here’s something just for you.”

Summer looked down at the small, square box La Shay held gingerly in both hands.

“What?” Summer took it.

“It was at the bottom of that bigger box. There was a sticky note on top of it saying it was for you but”—La Shay shot her best friend, Kesha, a dirty look—“some people don’t respect other people’s privacy. The note got ripped off.”

Kesha rolled her eyes so far back in her head Summer was sure she counted her own brain cells. “I wasn’t the one who tried to pry off the tape on the sides and peek under the top.”

Summer stepped between the two girls. “Let’s end the anticipation.”

She ripped the top off the box and pulled out a plain, white coffee mug. On the front, in kindergarten, block letters was written,
I’m Teacher of the Year and I
wish
all I got was this stupid coffee mug
.

That was funny. How could she not smile? He might be an ass, but at least he knew it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of blue. Lying in the bottom of the box was an elaborate red, white, and blue business card. She picked it up. Clint Grayson’s address, various phone numbers, and email were printed right next to a picture of his smiling face. Flipping it over, she found a handwritten message.

Ms. Ames,

The mug is a peace offering. I hope you enjoy it.

CAG

P.S.—If I ever fall asleep in your class again, feel free to throw it at me.

Grayson didn’t miss a trick. He might not have sent over items she needed, but he’d given her class—and her—a reason to smile. Plus, he’d helped Mario, and that was worth more than copy paper. Grayson had potential.

Summer couldn’t help herself—she was a sucker for potential.

***

At five o’clock that afternoon, Clint eased his tired, bruised body onto one of the teak lounge chairs scattered around his pool. The constant tumble of water over the pool’s zero edge drowned out most of the thundering boat noise from Town Lake. A clump of live oaks to his left cast a tall shadow, lending him some much-needed shade from the bright, March sun.

He loved what passed for spring in central Texas—four weeks of crystal-clear seventy-degree days and forty-degree nights—right before the summer heat settled in with a vengeance.

It took all the energy he had to cross his right ankle over his left. For the past two hours, he and the offensive linemen who were still in town had been scrimmaging in his backyard. Just because it was the off-season didn’t mean they could take it easy. Ten years ago, the fatigue of well-used muscles was comforting. Now they just ached. His body couldn’t take this abuse forever. Every day he healed a little more slowly and his joints screamed a little more loudly.

World Wide was his ticket out of football. Not that he didn’t love it, but it was a young man’s game. Maybe not this year or next, but a good endorsement deal meant he’d have a life after football.

The muscles in his back protested as he leaned forward and grabbed his laptop from the foot of the chair. He flipped it open and clicked on the email icon. Maybe Bunny had heard something from her contacts at World Wide? They weren’t supposed to announce their final decision until the end of next month, but Bunny would force their hand. She got things done, and no one stood in her way.

After all his email finished downloading, he scrolled through the fifty-seven new messages. [email protected] caught his attention. Speaking of World Wide… He double clicked on her email. The subject line was:
Thanks
.

Dear Mr. Grayson,

My students and I thank you for the entertaining gifts. Please see the attached photo.

While using my new coffee mug as a weapon has merit, I’m sure the Austin Independent School District would frown upon it. 
Rest assured
if you do fall asleep again, I’ve borrowed Coach Atan's whistle and am prepared to use it. Partial deafness shouldn’t be an issue, since I’m told that hand signals are the best way to communicate on the football field.

Thanks again,

Summer Ames

P.S.—At this very moment, someone is driving MY Prius to the airport to catch MY flight to Tahiti. I’m sure they’d trade it in to have you as a mentor.

Clint grinned and nodded. She had balls…and a sense of humor. Both were good…and bad. Winning her over was almost too easy. He clicked on the attached photo.

A group of twenty-two smiling teenagers decked out in Lone Star merchandise struck various poses—some sitting, some standing—around Summer Ames. The schoolteacher with the sexy mouth stared straight into the camera, chin up and eyes bright as she pulled the front of her tee shirt tight so the message was easy to read:
I
Tony Romo
.

Saturday morning, Summer knelt in the St. Augustine grass of her front yard and spread the last of the compost around her grandmother’s beloved heirloom rosebush. It wasn’t looking so good these days. Although it had been a colder-than-normal winter, the rosebush should be bursting with leaves, but instead, it was an anemic rope of crunchy brown. Summer stretched the kinks out of her lower back and wondered for the millionth time what she was doing wrong.

Along with her grandmother’s house and all of the contents, she’d inherited her grandmother’s love of gardening. Beds bursting with peonies, lavender, salvia, lantana, and cannas circled the tree trunks and meandered along the front of her three-bedroom downtown bungalow. But the star of the show had always been the dark pink rosebush cascading down the cedar-arched trellis framing the front door.

Now, it didn’t cascade so much as cling for dear life. Summer was ready to do mouth-to-petal resuscitation if necessary. That bush had been her grandfather’s final love token to her grandmother before he’d admitted defeat against pancreatic cancer and gone to pitch horseshoes with Jesus.

The ominous hum of precision German engineering and run-flat tires caught Summer’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder. All the bright, beautiful sunshine dove for cover behind a cloud as her mother’s midnight-black BMW pulled into Summer’s driveway.

Summer rolled onto her knees, stood, dusted off her butt and any dirt flakes that hadn’t mixed with sweat and hardened into scabs, and plastered on a polite smile. She and her mother conversed in smiles and nods, leaving big-ticket items, like the meaning of life and why she’d felt it necessary to buy Summer a husband, completely untouched.

Lillian Summerville Ames opened the driver’s-side door, settled her Prada-heeled feet firmly on the concrete driveway, and regally rose in a swirl of lavender Chanel and old money superiority. The millions she’d married into had given her the style of living she enjoyed and enough pretension to claim that the Mayflower had dropped her family off in Galveston before heading north.

Summer had always felt like the Incredible Hulk next to her thin, petite mother.

“Mother.” She leaned in and kissed the air near the older woman’s cheek. As a child, air kissing was one of the first things she'd remember learning. 
We don't want to smudge Mommy's makeup, now do we?

Her mother backed away. “Not too close, dear, you’re filthy.” She inspected Summer from head to toe, her smile never wavering as she took in Summer’s
Keep Austin Weird
tee shirt, frayed cutoffs, and red Mickey Mouse Crocs. “Really, dear, I would love to hire someone to take care of the yard for you.”

She threw a glance at the withering rosebush sagging on its trellis. “I think it would be best.”

Everything her mother gave her came with strings, and Summer was tired of being a marionette. “No, thanks. I love doing it.”

There was pride in doing things for herself—something her mother couldn’t understand.

“You got that from my mother, along with her masculine body type. It’s a shame you didn’t get more from my father’s petite, graceful people.” Her head tilted to the left as her eyes zeroed in on Summer’s midsection. “Are you putting on weight? You did so well on NutriSystem and looked wonderful. I’d hate for you to gain it all back.”

In her mother’s world, only thin people were happy.

Summer was finally mastering the art of talking while smiling. “I haven’t put on an ounce—”

“Dear, shoulders back and chin up or you’ll be a hunched-over old lady.” Her mother’s voice was just the right combination of Jackie O and southern belle to be pleasant and grating—like biting into a gooey peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then remembering that pesky peanut allergy.

Summer thrust her shoulders back but left her chin where it was. She had to take a stand somewhere. “I was just going in for a glass of tea. Care to join me?”

Her mother pursed her lips and took a moment to decide.

“Sorry. I’m meeting your Aunt Leticia and her latest beau at the club. Today would have been your father’s fifty-fifth birthday.”

To give her mother credit, there was a slight quiver in her voice. Summer only had fleeting images to call memories of her father since he’d died when she was four. The fact that his fatal heart attack had come while he was in bed with his mistress was another one of those smile-only subjects.

“I haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d drop by. I called but you didn’t answer. I have something I need you to sign. The board of directors of your father’s company is voting on something or other, and they need your proxy.”

The real reason for the visit. Not that her mother was worried about Summer because Lillian Ames only cared about her daughter’s weight, how purple was the new black, and whether everyone in her social group knew that Puddy Hanover was screwing her pool man.

Her mother glided—back straight, chin up—to her car and opened the passenger-side door. Bending over wasn’t lady-like, so she squatted, knees together, and delicately rested one butt cheek on the seat while she rummaged in her Hermes. “Here it is.”

Producing a white business envelope, she glided back to Summer. “Read it over, sign, and drop it in the mail.”

“Oh, good, I get to make decisions that make millionaires into bazallionaires, while my kids hustle to scrounge together rent money,” Summer said under her breath, but it didn’t matter because her mother had the amazing ability to see and hear only what she wanted. And she didn’t want to see or hear anything unpleasant.

“Thanks.” Summer had voting shares, and the dividends went directly into the trust fund that one day might be hers, depending on her mother’s mood. As things stood right now, Summer could inherit when she turned thirty-five or fifty or never. It didn’t matter because money wasn’t everything; it certainly hadn’t brought Lillian happiness. Then again, happiness wasn’t a state of being with which Lillian was acquainted.

Her mother ran a hand through her artfully windblown blonde bob. “I know we haven't spoken much about the...incident."

Incident? Incident. Walking out of the bathroom with her dress tucked into her panties was an incident. Leaving a restaurant with a noodle hanging out of her cleavage was an incident. Facing down two hundred wedding guests in an impossibly tight dress while the groom frolicked on the beach with his stripper girlfriend was more than an incident.

"There's a young man I'd like for you to meet."

Summer smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. Good God, would the woman ever learn?

“I’m having him over for dinner. Next Thursday. Seven thirty.”

Her mother tried to sound matter-of-fact, but Lillian was a plotter.

Summer sure as hell wasn't going to be there. “I’m sure y’all will have an excellent time.”

“Don’t be coy, dear. It doesn’t work for you—”

“Summer Ames?” a dark-haired man called from the window of a green Chevy truck rolling to a stop in the middle of the street.

Summer shaded her eyes. “Yes?”

Please, God, let him be the leader of a drug cartel looking to abduct rich old—oops, middle-aged—ladies. Summer would even supply the duct tape.

“I have a delivery for you.” The man rammed the gearshift in park, grabbed something off the seat, slid out of the cab, and walked around the hood. His red and black Office Max button-down was crisp with starch. In his hands was a long, flat, white box—the kind used for long-stemmed roses.

Interest sparkled in her mother’s eyes. “Is there a new man in your life?”

“Not to my knowledge.” 
Why? Are you paying someone else to date me?
  But Summer just smiled. Fighting with her mother would do no good because she lived in a world where money bought the appearance of happiness, and that picture included a husband.

“Here you go.” The man handed Summer the box. “I gotta get back to work. I hope you like it.”

“Thanks.” Summer slid her arms under the lightweight but oddly shaped box.