Summer's Child (4 page)

T
HE LAUNDRY BASKET WAS FULL OF
D
ARIA’S CLEAN WORK
clothes—several pairs of shorts and a dozen T-shirts—and she dumped them onto her bed and began folding. She had the windows wide-open, and a warm ocean breeze lifted the blue and white curtains and sent them floating into the room like the wings of a tired gull. It was the sort of early-summer day that used to make her feel light and carefree, but she no longer seemed capable of experiencing those feelings.

She carried the stack of folded shirts across the room and set them on top of the dresser. Pulling open the dresser drawer, she took out the photograph she kept tucked beneath her T-shirts. She stepped closer to the window to study it, as she did nearly every time she opened that drawer. The picture was of Pete. He was leaning against a split-rail fence at a friend’s house in Manteo, a beer in his hand, a five-o’clock shadow on his face, and he was grinning at her, the photographer. His dark hair, as smooth and straight as hers was full and wavy, fell over his forehead. It was torture to look at the picture, and yet she did it anyway, over and over again. He’d been a part of her life and her future for six years. Now he was only a part of her past, and it was taking her longer than she liked to get used to that fact.

She replaced the picture, then lowered the stack of T-shirts on top of it and returned to the bed and the laundry basket, but her mind was still back with the photograph. Pete and his callous feelings about Shelly were linked together in her mind with the night of the plane crash, the night the young female pilot died. For two months now, Daria had been visited by that pilot’s last moments in her nightmares. She could not seem to free herself from the young woman’s pleading gaze.

That morning, she’d received a call from her old Emergency Medical Services supervisor, a call she’d half expected but had hoped would never come. They were pulling her off CISD duty, he said, and she’d winced as though he’d slapped her in the face. She’d worked as a critical incident stress debriefer for five years. After traumatic incidents anywhere in the county, she’d be called in to help distraught emergency technicians cope with what they’d endured. Now
she
was the distraught technician. Her supervisor summed it up for her when she begged him to reconsider. “If you can’t manage your own stress,” he said, “how do you expect to be able to help someone else with theirs?”

She was finishing folding the shorts when her gaze was drawn through the window to the cottage across the cul-de-sac, where this week’s vacationers were moving into Poll-Rory. Something made her move closer to the window, brushing aside the billowing curtain, to stare hard at the newcomers. A man and a teenage boy were unpacking a blue SUV in the driveway. Even from that distance, and even though she hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty years, she knew the man was Rory Taylor. She’d watched every game the Rams had played on television when he’d been with them, and she’d watched him on
True Life Stories
for years. She had given up on his ever returning to Poll-Rory, though, especially now that both his parents were dead. He probably had more glamorous vacation
spots in which to spend his free time. Yet here he was. Most likely, that was his son with him. She had read he’d gotten a divorce.

For some reason, the first memory that came to mind was of a hayride they’d gone on with some of the neighborhood kids. Her father was the group chaperon, and Rory, who must have been about twelve and full of early-adolescent bathroom humor, told joke after joke that Daria had felt unable to laugh at because her devoutly religious father was along. Rory, of course, understood her predicament and tortured her with ever more raucous stories. The memory made her smile. Rory had been her best friend during the summers of her childhood. When she was ten or eleven, that friendship began turning into a genuine crush, on her part at least. But that’s when he began to snub her in favor of the older kids. She knew that she had never truly lost that attraction to him. When she watched
True Life Stories
, she was not simply excited by the fact that someone she had known had become a celebrity; she was excited by Rory himself.

Rory carried a suitcase across Poll-Rory’s sandy yard and up the front steps to the porch, and Daria noticed the slight limp in his gait. She remembered that he’d been injured playing football. That’s what had ended his career.

She watched until Rory and the boy disappeared inside the cottage for the last time, then she walked downstairs to the screened porch. Chloe was sitting in one of the three blue rockers, reading a book titled
Summer Fun for Kids 5–15
, and Shelly sat at the blue-painted picnic table, stringing shells for a necklace, her long, blond hair falling over her shoulders.

“Did you see who just moved into Poll-Rory?” Daria asked, more to Chloe than to Shelly. Shelly knew that the host and producer of
True Life Stories
was someone who used to live on the cul-de-sac, but she had been very small the last time she’d seen Rory, and it was unlikely she remembered him.

Chloe glanced across the street. “I wasn’t really paying attention,” she said. “Was it a man and a boy?”

For a moment, Daria wondered if she’d only seen what she wanted to see. But she remembered the man’s limp, the breadth of his shoulders, the sandy color of his hair.

“It was Rory Taylor,” she said.

“Really?” Shelly asked. “
True Life Stories
Rory Taylor?”

Chloe said nothing. She stared across the street.

“I’m sure it was him,” Daria said.

“Why would he come here?” Chloe asked.

“Well, he still owns the cottage,” Daria said.

Chloe stared at Poll-Rory a moment longer before lowering her gaze to her book. Rory’s return was probably of little interest to her, Daria thought. Chloe had been older than Rory; she had not known him well. She had not looked forward to spending time with him every day during the summers of her childhood.

“Let’s go say hi to him.” Shelly started to stand up.

Daria felt instantly intimidated. He probably would have little memory of her. How full his life had been since the last time she’d seen him, while here she was, still firmly rooted in Kill Devil Hills.

“Let’s give them a chance to settle in first,” she said, glancing across the street once more before walking into the cottage to finish folding her laundry.

D
AYLIGHT WAS FADING, AND
R
ORY FELT THE PINCH OF A
mosquito bite. If he and Zack stayed on the deck much longer, they would need to light the citronella candle. They’d eaten dinner on the rear deck, which jutted from the second story of the cottage and gave them a view of the ocean to the east as well as the sun falling over the sound to the west. Between Poll-Rory and the sound, though, were many, many cottages. Far more than Rory remembered. Still, little could ruin his pleasure at being in Kill Devil Hills.

They’d eaten carryout North Carolina barbecue for dinner—one of those culinary delicacies he’d been craving ever since deciding to make this trip.

“Let’s have takeout every night,” Zack said, closing the disposable box and lifting a can of soda to his lips.

“Well, a few times a week, anyhow,” Rory said. The truth was, he loved to cook, and two years of cooking primarily for himself had grown old. He was looking forward to spending time in Poll-Rory’s rudimentary kitchen this summer.

“This is crazy,” Zack said, looking above him at the darkening sky. “I’m never going to get used to East Coast time.”

“You will,” Rory said, although they had eaten dinner very
late because their stomachs still thought they were back in L.A. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast at nine, and then we’ll be on track.”

“Nine? Forget it. It’s summer. I’m sleeping in.”

“Okay,” Rory said. This was not worth arguing about. “You can sleep as much as you like.” He slapped a mosquito on his thigh. “I’m going across the cul-de-sac to see the neighbors,” he said. “Want to join me?”

“I saw some kids over on the beach before you got back with dinner,” Zack said. “Think I’ll go see if they’re still there.”

Well, at least Zack wasn’t shy. Or maybe he simply wanted to get away from his father for a while after this long day of togetherness.

“Okay,” Rory said. “I’ll see you later.”

Rory walked down the steps from the deck, through the cottage, and out to his sandy front yard. The warm, humid air smelled strongly of the sea, and he couldn’t shake a sudden bittersweet wave of nostalgia as he walked across the cul-de-sac. The screened porch light was on at the Sea Shanty, and as he neared the cottage, he saw a blond-haired woman inside, sitting in one of the rocking chairs, engrossed in something on her lap. She stood up when she spotted him and walked to the porch door.

“Hi,” Rory said. “Are you Shelly?”

“Sure am.” The woman pushed open the screen door. “And you’re Rory,” she said.

“Right.” Still standing in the sand, he put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to study her. Her smile was wide, her teeth straight and white, and she was very pretty. Her long hair was a silky, pale blond. “You were about three years old the last time I saw you.”

“Well, you were about thirty-five the last time I saw
you
.”
She grinned. “I saw you just the other night on
True Life Stories
.”

He laughed. “Thirty-six,” he said.

“I don’t remember you from when I was little,” Shelly said. “Daria and Chloe remember you, though.”

“Who are you talking to, Shelly?” A female voice came from the living room, beyond the porch.

“Are they here?” Rory asked. “Daria and Chloe?”

“Yes, they’re inside. Come in.” She stood back to let him walk past her onto the porch, and he noticed she was tall—nearly as tall as he was. “Did you get my letter?” she asked in a near whisper.

“That’s why I’m here,” he said.

“Oh, thank you!” She gave him a quick, sideways hug, then led him into the living room.

“Rory Taylor’s here,” Shelly announced to the woman who was sitting on the couch, a book on her lap.

It took him a minute to recognize the woman as Chloe. She rested the book on the couch and stood up. “Hello, Rory,” she said.

She was still beautiful, although she looked quite different from the last time he’d seen her. Her hair was very short, capping her head in dark curls. She looked like a Greek goddess.

“Hi, Chloe,” he said. He wanted to move forward to give her a hug, but her stance, stiff and uninviting, kept him rooted near the door. The sound of an electric saw came from somewhere in the cottage, and he wondered if Mr. Cato was still building furniture in the Sea Shanty’s workshop.

“It’s been a while,” Chloe said. “You remember Shelly, I guess?” She looked at her sister.

“Very well,” he said. “Although I can’t say I would have recognized her.”

“I’ll get Daria,” Chloe said, heading for the door to the porch. “She’s down in the workshop. Shelly, why don’t you get Rory something to drink?”

“We have lemonade or iced tea or soda pop,” Shelly said once Chloe had left the room. “Orange, ginger ale or Coke.”

“Orange sounds good,” he said.

“Be right back. Don’t go away!”

He watched her disappear into the kitchen. It was strange to be in this cottage again. The furniture was different—of course it would be, after all these years. Poll-Rory’s furniture, purchased for him by the real estate agency, was the boxy wood and nubby upholstery type that would hold up to the abuse of renters. The Catos’ furniture, with its blues and yellows and traditional lines, had a homier feel to it. The walls were lighter, and he noticed that the wood paneling had been painted a soft cream color. Were Mr. and Mrs. Cato still living? he wondered once again. Daria was in the workshop, Chloe had said. Was she with her father down there? He remembered that workshop. It was on the ground floor, built into a space among the stilts, and it smelled of wood and metal. He recalled that every time a major storm came through, the Catos would have to pack up the tools and carry them up to the first or second story of the cottage to get them out of harm’s way.

“Rory!” Daria strode into the living room and over to him, wrapping him in a welcome hug. “I can’t believe you’re in Kill Devil Hills.”

He drew away to look at her. She’d probably been about fourteen the last time he’d seen her. He guessed she’d been pretty back then, but now she possessed the rare, exotic sort of beauty that had once attracted him to Chloe, with those dark eyes and long, thick, unruly black hair. Unlike Chloe, though, she still had the body of a tomboy—tight, small-breasted, compact and tan in her shorts and T-shirt. Her hair
was barely contained in a ponytail and there was something pale and feathery scattered through it. Sawdust?

“I’m happy to see that you guys are here,” he said, glancing at Chloe, who stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a small smile on her lips. “I was hoping you would be.”

Shelly walked into the room and handed him a glass of orange soda. “We’re
always
here,” she said.

“How long are you staying?” Daria asked.

“All summer,” he answered. “My son is with me.”

“Well, sit down,” Daria said, motioning toward one of the chairs.

He took a seat. Chloe and Daria sat at opposite ends of the sofa, while Shelly sat on the floor, her back against one of the other chairs in the room. She was wearing a deep purple sundress, and her long, slender legs looked very tan against the pale carpet.

“So, bring me up to date,” he said. “Your parents? Are they…?”

“Mom died fourteen years ago,” Daria said. “And Dad, just last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rory said. “I guess you know I lost my parents.”

“Yes,” Daria said. “The real estate agent who handles your cottage told us. What about Polly? How is she doing?”

“She died two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Rory,” Daria said.

“Me, too,” Chloe added. “Polly was truly special.”

“Mmm, very,” he said.

“I read about your divorce,” Daria said.

He laughed. His life was open to the public. “I guess I have no secrets,” he said.

“That must be strange,” Daria said. She sounded sympathetic. “But the news just reports the facts about a celebrity.
So and so got divorced. So and so landed in a mental hospital. They don’t say how so and so feels about what happened to him.”

“Good point,” Rory said. “Well, I can sum up my feelings about those events pretty quickly. Losing my parents was the pits—they were too young. Losing Polly was even worse, as you can imagine.”

“I bet,” Daria said.

“My divorce was…difficult, but a relief in the long run. And my son is the best thing that ever happened to me, although he hasn’t figured that out yet.”

“Who
is
Polly?” Shelly asked.

“My sister,” he said.

“Why did she die?” Shelly asked.

“She had Down’s syndrome,” Rory said. “It affected her heart.”

“She was so fair,” Daria said. “I remember she’d always burn, every summer, no matter how much lotion your mom put on her.”

“That was Polly,” Rory agreed. “She wasn’t much of a beach person.” He looked at Chloe. “So,” he said, “now all of you know what I’ve been up to. How about the three of you? Chloe? You were so smart. You were in college before I could even spell the word. I remember you were studying history, right? You wanted to be a teacher. Is that what you are?”

The three women laughed, and he raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I’m wrong, I take it?” he asked.

“Well, no, you’re not wrong,” Chloe said slowly, coyly. “I teach history and English at a Catholic school in Georgia during the year.”

Shelly giggled. “Chloe is really Sister Chloe,” she said.

“Sister Chloe?” he repeated, confused.

“I’m a nun,” Chloe said.

“Oh!” He knew he couldn’t prevent the shock from showing in his face. Chloe Cato was a nun? He suddenly remembered that the Cato family had been very religious. Mr. Cato had gone to church early every morning, and he and his wife had been very strict, requiring Daria and Chloe and their cousin, Ellen, to come inside as soon as it got dark, while the other kids were still playing on the beach. Still, this was hard to believe. Chloe’s
head
might be telling her she was a nun, but her body and beauty were doing their best to deny it. He still remembered how she looked in a bikini: those large breasts, tiny waist and narrow hips. The boys on the beach had followed her around with their tongues hanging out. He remembered everyone ruling Chloe out as a suspect in the deserted-baby incident because, except for those breasts, she had been notoriously thin. Anorectic, almost. Yet that body was hidden now beneath long, loose shorts and a baggy T-shirt.

“I think you’ve rendered him speechless,” Daria said to Chloe with a laugh.

“I just…hadn’t expected that.” He laughed himself. That explained Chloe’s reserve in greeting him. “So, do nuns get the summer off? Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m working at St. Esther’s, the Catholic church in Nag’s Head, for the summer,” Chloe said. “I’ve been doing that the past few summers, running a day camp for kids.”

“Well, I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re doing, Daria,” he said.

“I’m a carpenter,” she said.

Rory laughed. “I should have guessed,” he said. “For real?”

“For real,” she said. “I probably have sawdust in my hair right now.”

“I was wondering what that was,” he said. “I thought maybe it was a new Outer Banks trend.”

“It’s just a Daria Cato trend.” Shelly grinned.

“I was working on a bookshelf for a cottage in Duck when Chloe told me you were here. There’s always a lot of building going on in the Outer Banks.”

“Are you living here year-round?” he asked. Despite the fact that Shelly’s letter bore the Kill Devil Hills return address, it was hard for him to imagine anyone living here year-round. For him, the Outer Banks had always meant summer and the beach.

“Uh-huh,” Daria said. “Shelly and I have lived here for the past ten years.”

“Wow.” He wondered what it would be like to live smack on the beach during the winter.

“Daria’s also an EMT,” Shelly said. There was pride in her voice.

“An EMT?” he asked. “Emergency medical technician?”

“Well, I was,” Daria said. “I’m taking some time off.”

“A lifesaver.” Rory studied her with admiration. “You started that avocation early, didn’t you?” He looked at Shelly. “She was only ten years old when she saved your life.”

“Eleven,” Daria corrected.

“I know,” said Shelly. “People around here call her Supergirl.”

“I remember!” he said, flashing back to the newspaper articles that followed Shelly’s discovery on the beach. “They still call you that after all this time?”

“’Fraid so,” Daria said. “I’ll be sixty and they’ll still call me Supergirl.”

“It’s because she’s kept on saving people,” Shelly said. “She’s the local hero.”

“I’ll never forget that day.” He wondered if he should tell them now that Shelly’s letter had prompted his visit to Kill Devil Hills this summer, but he had more catching up to do
first. He set his empty glass on the coffee table. “Is there anybody else left on the cul-de-sac from the old days?” he asked. “I noticed Cindy Trump’s cottage is gone.”

“There was a bad storm more than a decade ago,” Daria said. “The ocean swallowed their cottage in one gulp. It did a lot of damage to the Sea Shanty, too, but your cottage was spared.”

“The Wheelers are still around,” Chloe said. “Do you remember them? They live next door.”

“Still?” He remembered a quiet older couple who often strolled on the beach in the evening, hand in hand. “They’re still living?”

“They’re only in their seventies,” Daria said. “Their cottage is filled with their grandchildren all summer long.”

“Did he know Linda and her dogs?” Shelly asked.

“Yeah, you knew Linda, right?” Daria asked.

He narrowed his eyes in concentration, picturing a mousy young girl lying on the beach with her nose in a book. “I think so,” he said.

“She lives in that same cottage with her partner, Jackie,” Chloe said. “They raise golden retrievers. Linda is a lesbian.”

Chloe revealed that fact as easily as if she’d said that Linda was a teacher or a swim coach. Rory had had little experience with nuns, but he’d assumed that Chloe had become moralistic and judgmental. He hoped her matter-of-fact description of Linda meant that she had not.

“Well, you never can tell how people are going to turn out, can you,” Rory said. “What about your cousin? Ellen? What’s she doing?”