The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (35 page)

They had the whole summer ahead of them, and like that sweet season so many years ago, it was going to be perfect.

About the Author

LUANNE RICE is the author of
The Perfect Summer, The Secret Hour, True Blue, Summer Light, Safe Harbor, Firefly Beach, Dream Country, Follow the Stars Home
—a Hallmark Hall of Fame feature—
Cloud Nine, Home Fires, Secrets of Paris, Stone Heart, Angels All Over Town, Crazy In Love
(made into a TNT Network feature film), and
Blue Moon
(made into a CBS television film). She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

also by
Luanne Rice

T
HE
S
ECRET
H
OUR

T
RUE
B
LUE

S
AFE
H
ARBOR

S
UMMER
L
IGHT

F
IREFLY
B
EACH

D
REAM
C
OUNTRY

F
OLLOW THE
S
TARS
H
OME

C
LOUD
N
INE

H
OME
F
IRES

B
LUE
M
OON

S
ECRETS OF
P
ARIS

S
TONE
H
EART

C
RAZY IN
L
OVE

A
NGELS
A
LL
O
VER
T
OWN

Praise for

the transcendent novels of

LUANNE RICE

THE SECRET HOUR

“Familiar Rice themes of sisterhood, loss and the healing power of love are spotlighted, but Rice's interest in the human psyche has its dark side as well . . . the shore scenes, including a cinematic climax . . . [are] among the novel's strongest. Rice's heartfelt personal tone and the novel's
cunningly deranged villain make this a smooth-flowing
and fast-paced effort, with justice served all around at
the satisfying . . . conclusion.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Rice's lyrical style humanizes the dilemma of justice by the book versus justice for victims.”
—
Booklist

“Luanne Rice is one of the most mesmerizing
storytellers. Her books are always deeply emotional,
[with] wonderful characters.”
—
Daily American,
Somerset, PA

“A beautiful book . . . the reader is drawn in from
the first word. It's a tense, driven, sometimes harsh
and sometimes very gentle love story.”
—
Old Book Barn Gazette

“Salt-of-the-earth characters form the life-breathing
force in this emotionally charged novel. . . .
Suspenseful . . . Possibly Rice's best work to date.”
—
Romantic Times

TRUE BLUE

“With its graceful prose, full-bodied characters and
atmospheric setting, this uplifting and enchanting tale
is likely to become a beachside staple.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Rice, as always, provides her readers with a
delightful love story filled with the subtle nuances
of the human heart.” —
Booklist

SAFE HARBOR

“Luanne Rice has a talent for navigating the emotions
that range through familial bonds, from love and respect
to anger. . . . A beautiful blend of love and humor, with
a little bit of magic thrown in,
Safe Harbor
is Rice's
best work to date.”
—
The Denver Post

“Irresistible . . . fast-paced . . . moving . . . Through
Rice's vivid storytelling, readers can almost smell the
sea air. Rice has a gift for creating realistic characters
and the pages fly by as those characters explore the
bonds of family while unraveling the mystery.”
—
The Orlando Sentinel

“Heartwarming and convincing . . . a meditation
on the importance of family ties . . . buoyed by Rice's
evocative prose and her ability to craft intelligent,
three-dimensional characters.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Luanne Rice's exploration of the difficult emotional
balance between professional success, personal fulfillment, and family ties is pure gold. Evocative descriptions add interest to an already compelling tale. Equal parts romance, mystery, and character study . . . Readers beware: don't start this book at bedtime; you may not sleep at all!”
—
Library Journal

“A story for romantics who have never forgotten
their first love.” —
The State
, Columbia, SC

FIREFLY BEACH

“A beautifully textured summertime read.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“Rice does a masterful job of telling this powerful story
of love and reconciliation.” —
Booklist

SUMMER LIGHT

“Few . . . authors are able to portray the complex and
contradictory emotions that bind family members as
effortlessly as Rice. . . . This poignant tale of love, loss, and reconciliation will have readers hitting the bookstores.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Rice's fans will enjoy this well-spun yarn.”
—The Orlando Sentinel

“The prolific Rice skillfully blends romance with magic.”
—Booklist

DREAM COUNTRY

“A moving story of love and reunion . . . an absolute
joy to read . . . I finally put
Dream Country
down at two
A.M.
and almost called in sick the next day to finish it.”
—
The Denver Post

“Superb . . . stunning.” —
Houston Chronicle

“Captivating . . .
Dream Country
will cast a spell
on readers.” —
The Orlando Sentinel

“A transcendent story about the power of hope and
family love . . . a compelling plot and nuanced character portrayals contribute to the emotional impact. . . . Rice
creates believable dramatic tension.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Engaging . . . a taut thriller . . . Rice's descriptive gifts
are impressive.” —
Minneapolis Star-Tribune

“A story so real it will be deeply etched into the hearts
of its readers . . . Rice once again delivers a wonderfully complex and full-bodied romance.” —
Booklist

“Highly readable . . . moving . . . a well-paced plot . . .
Rice pulls off some clever surprises.”
—
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

FOLLOW THE STARS HOME

“Addictive . . . irresistible.” —
People

“Involving, moving . . . stays with the reader long after
the last page is turned.” —
The Denver Post

“Uplifting . . . The novel's theme—love's miraculous ability to heal—has the ingredients to warm readers' hearts.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Rice has once again created a tender story of a new
family unit, where love and loyalty are more important
than biology and where learning to trust again opens
the door to happiness.” —
Library Journal

“A moving romance that also illuminates the tangled resentments, ties and allegiances of family life . . . Rice
spins a web of three families intertwined by affection and conflict. . . . [She] is a gifted storyteller with a keen sense
of both the possibilities and contingencies of life.”
—
Times Record,
Brunswick, ME

“Powerhouse author Luanne Rice returns with a novel
guaranteed to wrench your emotional heartstrings. Deeply moving and rich with emotion,
Follow the Stars Home
is another of Ms. Rice's classics.” —
Romantic Times

“Beautiful, touching . . . Emotions run deep in this
heartwarming tale. . . . This unforgettable journey will
stay with you long after you've read the last chapter.”
—
Rendezvous

CLOUD NINE

“A tightly paced story that is hard to put down . . .
Rice's message remains a powerful one: the strength of
precious family ties can ultimately set things right.”
—Publishers Weekly

“One of those rare reading experiences that we always hope for when cracking the cover of a book . . . A joy.”
—
The Library Journal

“Elegant . . . Rice hooks the reader on the first page.”
—The Hartford Courant

“Warm, sweet, and deeply touching . . . a novel filled
with poignant emotion and the fine, soft twist of elegant
storytelling . . . a heartfelt look inside the workings of
ordinary yet extraordinary lives.”
—Deborah Smith, author of
When Venus Fell

“A celebration of family and the healing power of
love. Poignant and powerful . . . One of those rare books which refreshes and renews the landscape of women's fiction
for a new generation of readers.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, author of
Sharp Edges

HOME FIRES

“Exciting, emotional, terrific. What more could you
want from a late-summer read?”
—
The New York Times Book Review

“Compelling . . . poignant . . . riveting.”
—
The Hartford Advocate

“Rice makes us believe that healing is possible.”
—
Chicago Tribune

“Good domestic drama is Rice's chosen field, and she
knows every acre of it. . . . Rice's home fires burn brighter than most, and leave more than a few smoldering
moments to remember.” —
Kirkus Reviews

BLUE MOON

“Brilliant.”
—Entertainment Weekly

“A rare combination of realism and romance.”
—
The New York Times Book Review

“Eloquent . . . A moving and complete tale of the
complicated phenomenon we call family.”
—
People

More critical acclaim for

LUANNE RICE

“Luanne Rice proves herself a nimble virtuoso.”
—
The Washington Post Book World

“Rice has an elegant style, a sharp eye, and
a real warmth. In her hands families, and their values . . . seem worth cherishing.”
—
San Francisco Chronicle

“Rice's great strength is in creating realistic
characters readers care about.”
—The Denver Post

“What a lovely writer Luanne Rice is.”
—Dominick Dunne

“Ms. Rice shares Anne Tyler's ability to portray offbeat,
fey characters winningly.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Luanne Rice handles with marvelous insight and
sensitivity the complex chemistry of a family that might
be the one next door.” —Eileen Goudge

“Miss Rice writes as naturally as she breathes.”
—Brendan Gill

A haunting story about
small-town secrets and two
converging lives         .         .         .

DANCE WITH ME

Luanne Rice

On sale February 3, 2004,
wherever books are sold

DANCE WITH ME

BY
Luanne Rice

On sale February 3, 2004

Y
ou weren't supposed to have favorite children. If there was one thing Margaret Porter knew, it was that nothing could divide a family faster than showing favoritism, even in the most minor circumstances. When the girls were small, she had always made sure to let them take turns riding up front next to her, pushing the shopping cart, picking out the breakfast cereal. So that neither of them could ever say to the other, “You're Mom's favorite.”

Now, lying in her bed and waiting for Jane to come home, she watched Sylvie folding the laundry. Her second daughter was thirty-three, unmarried, devoted, and she creased each nightshirt sharply before tucking it into a perfect square. When one tiny mistake was made, one sleeve marginally out of line, the shirt was shaken out and the entire endeavor repeated.

Margaret would have liked some tea, but she didn't want to interrupt. By her silence, she hoped to show Sylvie how much she appreciated her. Nevertheless, she was beset by nervousness. Would Sylvie finish in time to meet her older sister's train? Margaret reclined on her pillows, finding it a bit difficult to lie still. She calmed herself by seeing the scene as a movie. In some eyes, this would be the very picture of mother-daughter contentment: dutiful child, loving parent, clear March light streaming through the big windows.

“Goddamn it,” Sylvie mumbled, shaking out the blue Irish linen nightshirt for the third time. “I can't get it right.”

“Perhaps you could hang that one,” Margaret said. “Instead of folding it. Wouldn't a hanger make all the difference?”

Sylvie gave her a look that could only be described as murderous. It truly made Margaret flinch. Not because she imagined Sylvie genuinely wanting to send her to eternal rest, but because in spite of her best intentions, Margaret had hurt her feelings.

“Oh, honey, never mind. I didn't mean that,” Margaret said.

“It's okay, Mom.”

“You're doing such a beautiful job.”

“Thank you.” Sylvie gave a lovely smile. Margaret lifted her head to see better. It was truly a smile to launch a thousand ships. Sylvie was a radiant beauty, but she kept her light hidden—both the girls did, as if they had become afraid of who would follow it to their doors.

Their fresh-faced beauty was surpassed only by their brains. Sylvie had gone to Brown University, with a semester at the Sorbonne. Jane, who had made her mother proud by entering Brown two years before her sister, elected not to graduate. Eschewing academics, she
had chosen . . . a career in baking. In New York.

Sylvie had stayed in Twin Rivers, Rhode Island. Until recently, she had been the librarian at Twin Rivers High School, where Margaret had been principal. Education was a marvelous field for a woman: it kept the mind rigorous, it offered summers free, and it provided an excellent benefits package. If one wasn't going to marry—and sometimes even if one was—one had to make sure not to overlook practical matters like health insurance.

Neither of her girls had married, and although Jane hadn't finished college, Margaret was proud of her independence. In that way, she supposed she had been a good role model. For although she had been married, she had, for all practical purposes, raised her daughters on her own.

The wall clock ticked loudly, and as the hour advanced, she could hardly contain her excitement. Usually time's passage signified things medical and mundane: time to take her medication, time for a dressing change. But right now, it meant time to meet Jane's train. She gazed across the room at Sylvie, still working on the laundry. She cleared her throat.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Isn't it time for you to go?” she asked, unable to hold back any longer.

“Didn't I tell you?” Sylvie asked, not looking up as she creased a pair of striped pajama bottoms. “Jane's taking a cab.”

Margaret's mouth must have dropped open. She lurched forward, as if to launch herself out of the bed. She would drive to the station herself if she had to.

“What will she think?” Margaret asked. “She'll be hurt, she won't feel welcomed, she'll . . .”

Sylvie gave her a wicked smile. “Just kidding,” she said. “I'm going.”

Margaret tried to smile back, but she couldn't quite. She felt rocked inside, as if she'd gone off the tracks. It wasn't easy, being the mother to such sensitive girls. Not picking Jane up at the train—that could cause a resentment that would send her away for the
next
ten years.

“Is the little rock ready?” Margaret said.

“The what?”

“The wedding cake.”

“Mom,” Sylvie said, finally ceasing her folding, coming to the edge of the bed. “What are you asking me?”

Margaret smiled, feeling that awful panic. She knew the word she wanted, it was right there, on the tip of her tongue.

“Mom?” Sylvie asked again.

Sixty years ago, when Margaret had been the championship speller in this same small town—as Jane was to be years later and Sylvie after her—Margaret had had moments like this. She would know the word, she could see the proper spelling in her mind's eye, but the order of the letters would be momentarily elusive. But if she just focused, held on, it always came to her.

“Is the . . .” Margaret began again. Something was supposed to be ready. She knew that, and all she had to do was remember what it was. So she could complete her question without Sylvie's noticing that she was drifting. She told herself she didn't want to worry her daughter, but deep down it was something worse: she didn't want her daughter to put her into the same home where Margaret had put her mother.

“Is Jane's bedroom ready?” Sylvie asked, helping her out, and Margaret could have grabbed her hand and moaned with relief. Instead she restrained herself, as if nothing major had just happened. Perhaps Sylvie hadn't even noticed.

“Yes. Is it? I'm sure it is. You're so good, Sylvie. You always take such good care of the house, and me, and—”

“It's ready,” Sylvie said calmly, straightening a book on the shelf, lining it up perfectly with the one next to it.

“Sweetheart,” Margaret said, taking her hand. She caressed the small hand, thinking of what a porcelain doll Sylvie had been. She had made heads turn at school, at the mall. And she was still, even at thirty-three, a beauty of the first order. Not that Jane wasn't also lovely, but just—not so classically pretty. Just a bit different.

“Individuals,” Margaret said out loud. “You're both so special in your own ways.”

“Don't get out of bed while I'm gone, okay?” Sylvie asked. “I don't want you to fall.”

“Both so pretty, and smart, and talented. I can hardly believe your sister is coming home. To have both my girls under the same roof again.”

“Not for very long,” Sylvie said impassively, her eyes blank and inscrutable. “Don't get your hopes up, Mom. You know she's very busy.”

Margaret smiled. The girls had been so close as children. She had been so happy to have Jane, and then she'd been thrilled when Sylvie had turned out to be a girl and not a boy—to give Jane a sister. There had been some difficult years . . . but now that the girls were older, and the family was going to be together again, everyone would have the chance to get to know each other—in a
new
way.

“This is just marvelous,” Margaret said. “I feel like Marmee in
Little Women
.”

“Marmee had four daughters, not two.”

“Two are plenty! My girls have more life in them than any four I can think of. Who needs four when I have you and Sylvie?”

“I'm Sylvie, Mom,” she said dangerously.

Margaret's stomach thudded. “I know. I said ‘Jane.'”

“No, you said ‘Sylvie.' But never mind. I know what you meant.”

“Are you sure? Because I meant to say—”

“I know. You meant to say her name. 'Bye, Mom. Be home soon. Don't get out of bed.”

“I won't. Oh, you take such good care of me!” Margaret said, beaming. She smiled as wide as she could and made sure to show the light in her eyes. Sylvie had to know how much she was loved and appreciated. No daughter could ever be so generous with her affection and her time. She had sacrified a lot, taking this leave of absence to stay home with her mother. Margaret had to make sure to show her thanks to Sylvie now—before Jane arrived.

No one could ever accuse Margaret of playing favorites. She had made other mistakes in her life, but not that one. Privately, she thought human nature to be very unfair. Because of course, no matter how hard one strained against it, one always had a favorite. Presented with two of anything, one couldn't help judging, weighing, determining which—however slightly, however secretly—was dearer to one's heart.

Life's challenge had always been to keep it hidden.

THE TRAIN WAS LATE. OF COURSE.

And not just a little late, but a full forty minutes overdue. Apparently there was track work in Kingston, and the train wouldn't arrive in Twin Rivers till three-thirty. Sylvie didn't really mind. It gave her a chance to be alone. She got so little time to herself these days. But she couldn't wait to see her sister, and in some ways it did seem symbolic: if anyone could cause an entire railroad to run late, it would be Jane.

She double-checked—with the trackside tote board and with the stationmaster. Sylvie was known for her punctuality; she was
never
late. So, with forty mintues to spare, she drove the station wagon out of the parking lot, onto Route 1.

Development had really changed the Twin Rivers landscape. Set between two rivers, just a few miles from Narragansett Bay, the town had fallen upon hard times fifty years ago, when the old textile mills closed. But then a huge machine works had opened in Crofton, across the river, and support businesses had begun to spill over into Twin Rivers.

All those old farms, with red barns and apple trees and black-and-white cows, were giving way to more Burger Hamlets, Bedding Heavens, and Now-Marts. Views of the Williams River and the canal were increasingly being blocked by new houses and condos and assisted-living facilities.

But the exciting orchards were still beautiful. Soon the trees would be in full bloom. Spring in the valley was a sight to behold, and Sylvie was glad Jane would be home to see it. Maybe it would make her want to stay.

Sylvie went past the two malls—the old one in Crofton and the brand-new, more upscale mall in Twin Rivers—Jane hadn't been to that one yet, and Sylvie wondered what she'd make of the fact that Langtry's had come to the region. She drove past Audubon Elementary and Middle School, where she and Jane had both gone.

They had gone to Twin Rivers High School, where Sylvie was still—in spite of the leave she had taken—school librarian. She knew her mother sometimes wondered whether life might have been different if they'd shipped Jane off to Sacred Heart, where the nuns could have straightened her out. Sylvie couldn't understand her mother's thinking that—the trouble had occured after high school.

All things happen for a reason, Sylvie had to believe—even when they made no sense. She knew there had to be order in the world, a method to the universe. She liked to think that good acts brought about happy fortune, and bad acts brought suffering. The problem was when some people's bad acts brought about good people's suffering.

That was why Sylvie always did the right thing. It was probably what made her a good librarian: she enjoyed order. In the madness of this world, and with all the available texts and documents and information, Sylvie could be counted on to find what was needed, and to put it back when it was done. She liked to help others.

She drove past the high school now. There was the library, six big windows, second floor, just above the font entrance. She could almost smell the books, the library paste. She could nearly feel the quiet, all the energy emitting from all those students as they studied and did their homework. Sighing, she started to drive away. But first she had to check.

John Dufour's car was there, parked in the assistant principal's spot. He had gotten a new Subaru—it had four-wheel drive. Syvlie knew that—aside from Scrabble—he enjoyed skiing and kayaking. She supposed he would be taking his new car into the wilderness. She hoped he would be safe. There had been several sighting of black bears this year.

Checking her watch, she saw that it was time to return to the train station. It would take her exactly seven minutes, eight if she hit the long light at the Steamboat Mall. As she got closer, her stomach flipped. She hadn't let herself think about this visit much. Sometimes she had thought it would never happen again—that Jane lived in New York now, that she had traded her small-town roots for the big city.

With everything Jane felt about this town, Sylvie could understand her not wanting to come back. In some ways, it was best for everyone that she stay away. But right now their mother was in trouble, and she needed both her girls to help out and decide what should happen next. Sylvie was exhausted, trying to do it alone.

In four and a half minutes, the train would arrive. Sylvie shivered—with anticipation and a weird sort of fear. She could hardly believe this was happening. She hadn't dared to imagine Jane actually coming—she hadn't slept at all last night, expecting the phone to ring, Jane ready with a last-minute excuse for canceling. Not that Sylvie wouldn't, in all sorts of ways, have understood.

But the phone hadn't rung, Jane hadn't canceled. Her big sister was coming home.

And Sylvie wondered how long it would take her to leave again.

THE TRAIN LINE RAN ALONG THE SHORE FROM NEW YORK
to Providence. It passed through cities and villages, fields and marshes. When the eastbound train passed between the river and the bay range, its whistle could be heard all through the Twin Rivers valley.