That Certain Summer Read online

  “How’s the job going?”

  “Okay. It took me a while to adjust to the nine-to-five routine, but the construction business is interesting, and I like the steady paycheck as well as the feeling of independence. I even got a promotion a few months ago. I’m an administrative assistant now.” If she couldn’t compete with her sister on looks, at least she could point to her success in the business world.

  To her surprise, Val’s pleasure seemed sincere. “That’s great! But you always were smart. With your business degree, I was amazed you didn’t shoot for a higher position than secretary to begin with.”

  “I had very little experience, and the degree was fourteen years old. I assumed that was the best I could do.”

  “I’m glad they’re recognizing your intellect. If our places were reversed, I’d still be a secretary.”

  Karen shot her a skeptical look. “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me. People see me and think ‘dumb blonde.’ Including Mom. As far as she was concerned, my appearance was my only asset. She always told me you were the one who got the brains.”

  Her mother had praised her to Val?

  That was news.

  She flexed her fingers on the wheel. “Well, she always told me you were the one who got the looks.”

  “She’s a piece of work, that’s for sure.”

  They lapsed into silence for the remainder of the drive, but for once it was companionable rather than strained.

  After circling the crowded lot twice to find a parking spot, Karen led the way into the store. Pulling a cart free for Val and another for herself, she followed her sister toward the produce section.

  “How did Mom do with her first therapy session?” Karen picked up a bag of Fritos from a table of snack-food specials near the entrance. “When I asked her, all she said was that it went fine.”

  “It did. Mom’s therapist had her wrapped around his finger in sixty seconds flat. It was amazing. Can you imagine Mom being docile? Or flirty?”

  She almost choked on the sample of gooey butter cake she’d snagged from a display as they passed. “What!”

  “Yeah. It’s a kick, isn’t it? David knows just how to handle her. And I’m not having any trouble at home, either, since she doesn’t want to disappoint him on Tuesday.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “I’ll have to take some lessons from him.”

  “Wouldn’t help. It’s that male charm thing. Though I would have thought Mom would be immune.”

  Karen wiped the powdered sugar off her fingers with a napkin. “How old is this guy?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got a five-year-old . . . maybe midthirties.”

  “Handsome?”

  “In a boy-next-door sort of way.”

  “How about that?” She shook her head. “But let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. I was afraid it might take both of us to drag Mom to therapy.”

  “Nope. I think she’ll go like a lamb.” After examining a head of broccoli, Val put it in her cart. “But I get plenty of resistance on other fronts. Like food. She doesn’t like anything I make.”

  “So I’ve heard a time or two.”

  “Now why do I think that’s a gross understatement?” Val snagged a bunch of green onions. “I hear complaints every day, but her eating habits are atrocious. I’m trying to remedy that.”

  As Val regaled her with stories about the healthy menus she’d been preparing—and their mother’s reaction—Karen’s lips quivered. “I’m surprised she hasn’t had another stroke.”

  “Not yet. And not only is her diet healthier, she’s bound to lose a few pounds. A good thing, if you ask me. She’s gained a lot of weight. So tell me how Kristen’s progressing.”

  As Karen gave her an update, they trundled up and down the aisles, heading at last for the meat and seafood section. While Val perused a selection of tilapia, Karen scanned her sister’s cart. Val had focused on natural foods like whole-grain breads and fruits and vegetables, while her own basket was full of microwave dinners, salty snacks, cereal, and sweets.

  “I guess those dishes you’re making for Mom are the reason you stay so slender. Maybe I should adjust my diet too.”

  “Are you trying to lose weight?”

  “No.” Karen picked up a package of ground beef. “But I should be. I’ve put on twenty-five pounds over the past two years.”

  Leaning over, Val did a quick survey of Karen’s cart. “It couldn’t hurt to modify your eating habits a little. A lot of that frozen stuff is high in salt and carbs.”

  “But it’s easy to fix.” Her defenses rose. “And I don’t have time to prepare elaborate dinners.”

  “I don’t either, but I have a repertoire of quick, healthy meals, including some stir-frys that are out of this world. I’d be happy to share the recipes if you want to try them.”

  Karen weighed the pack of ground beef in her hand and put it in her cart. “You know, I don’t recall you cooking very much when we were growing up.”

  “I didn’t. Mom never taught me the domestic stuff. I think she expected me to be a Broadway star and have servants running around at my beck and call.” Val pushed her cart toward the front of the store.

  “I did too. You have the looks and the talent.”

  Karen only had a side view, but she caught a sudden, subtle tightening in Val’s features. “Good looks aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I’d have traded them for your brains any day.”

  As Val guided her cart into the checkout lane and started unloading it, Karen glanced at her watch. This outing hadn’t been half bad. She couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had had a congenial, relaxed conversation.

  Maybe never.

  On impulse, she touched Val’s arm. “Do you want to stop for a quick cup of coffee? There’s a shop next door, and we have time to spare before your two-hour reprieve is up.”

  “A Saturday treat.” A soft smile played at Val’s lips. “That makes me think of our trips with Dad to the ice-cream parlor on summer Saturdays.”

  “Yeah. Those are some of my happiest memories. Mom could never understand why we wanted to go with him to the hardware store every week. I don’t think she ever figured out our little secret.”

  “Me, neither.” Chuckling, Val grabbed the head of broccoli and put it on the conveyor belt. “Okay. Let’s do it. Maybe we can start a new tradition.”

  Five minutes later, as they sipped their lattes at a small café table tucked into the corner of the shop, Val’s expression grew wistful. “It’s not ice cream, but it does remind me of our outings with Dad.”

  “Even after all these years, I still miss him a lot.” Karen played with the edge of her lid.

  “Me too. He was such a great guy. Kind and encouraging and supportive. He always made me feel special. Like I had a lot to offer.”

  “He made me feel the same way.” Karen took a sip of her drink. “You know, I’ve often wondered why he was attracted to Mom.”

  “Beats me.”

  “Maybe she was different in her younger days.”

  “People don’t change that much. But she might have softened during the courtship. People do a lot of things that may be out of character when they’re in love, if they think it will make the other person love them back.”

  Sadness nipped at the edges of her voice, and a question sprang to Karen’s lips. But she bit it back. They’d never been confidantes. Better to stick to a subject that was comfortable for both of them.

  “Dad never complained, though.” Karen swirled her drink. “I can’t remember him ever saying one negative word about Mom.”

  “That wasn’t his style. Whenever I criticized her, he’d say that was just how she was, but it didn’t mean she loved us any less.”

  “He told me the same thing. And he did a good job tempering her. He even knew how to make me feel pretty.” Karen dipped her head as she made the admission.

  “Why was that so h
ard?”

  She shot her a get-real look. “Come on, Val. Mom was right. You got all the looks in this family.”

  Val gave an unladylike snort. “That’s a bunch of rubbish.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Not.”

  “Look . . . I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But if you put the two of us next to each other and gave a man a choice, who do you think he’d pick?”

  Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “Men can be very superficial.”

  “It isn’t just men who notice beautiful women first.”

  “Okay, I might be the first one people notice. Blonde hair does have a tendency to attract attention. But you have great eyes—which a little makeup could enhance, by the way. And wonderful hair. I wish mine had a natural wave like yours. Plus you have cheekbones to die for.”

  “Nice try.”

  Val put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. “I never knew you felt so . . . so . . .”

  “Dowdy? Try living in the shadow of a glamorous sister.”

  Val traced a thin trail of coffee across the café table with one perfect, polished nail. “I know I got the flashy looks, but it never occurred to me that you felt unattractive. Believe it or not, I was always jealous of you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Why in the world would you be jealous of me?”

  “Because you were Mom’s favorite. The smart sister. The one who always did the right thing.”

  Karen’s mouth dropped open. “Mom told you that?”

  “Yes. With annoying regularity.”

  “But . . . but I thought you were her favorite! She always bragged about how pretty and talented you were. How you would go places someday. Maybe as far as Broadway. And she always talked about how the boys were knocking down the door to take you out. I never even had a date till college. I felt like a loser.”

  Val exhaled and shook her head. “I knew she was manipulative, but I never realized how much she played us off each other—and how much it affected our relationship.”

  “Me neither.”

  After checking her watch, Val reached for her purse. “Speak of the . . . well, devil may be too strong a word. I don’t want to imply there was any diabolical intent. I think Mom just likes to control people. In any case, she’ll be getting up soon, and if I’m not there when she wakes up, I’ll have to listen to her complain for the rest of the day. I can take it—but I’d rather not.”

  “I hear you.” Karen rose, but as she started for the door, Val touched her arm.

  “You’re not dowdy, by the way.”

  “And you’re not a dumb blonde.”

  For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

  “What do you say we do this again?” Val hoisted her shoulder purse into position.

  “How does a week from Saturday sound? I have to help with month-end closing next week.”

  Her sister grinned. “I’ll pencil it in.”

  Karen cranked up the oldies radio station, reached into the refrigerator for the leftover spaghetti from last night . . . and stopped as she pictured Val’s shopping cart from this morning. There had been nary a noodle in sight.

  Switching gears, she chose the deli turkey instead. A whole-wheat sandwich would be much healthier . . . and better for her waistline.

  As Karen spread mustard on the bread, Bette Midler began to sing. Ah . . . “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Now there was a song. They didn’t write them like that anymore. And since no one was home, why not join in—even if she usually confined her musical efforts to the church choir, where she could anonymously blend into the group?

  It was a sing-along kind of day.

  Halfway through the first verse, however, she stopped mid-phrase at the sudden bang of the front door. “Kristen? Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Uh-oh. She was home far too early. They were supposed to stay for the fireworks.

  But perhaps there’d been fireworks of a different kind.

  Karen wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked into the living room. Kristen was slumped on the couch, arms crossed, face stormy.

  “Aren’t you home a little early?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “Stephanie wasn’t feeling well.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.

  Karen moved to the couch and perched on the arm. “People do get sick.”

  “Oh, please!” Kristen rolled her eyes.

  “It’s possible.”

  “She was sick all right. Sick of spending her Saturday at a school picnic. I heard her tell that to Dad. And she’s so young! It’s embarrassing. She looks more like his daughter than his . . . whatever.”

  No arguments there. Michael liked his women young. She’d been a student herself when she’d caught his eye. At least his current love was in graduate school. That would put her at twenty-three or twenty-four. Better than eighteen or nineteen, but she was still too young for a fifty-one-year-old man.

  “I don’t know what Dad sees in her, anyway.” Kristen’s words were laced with disgust. “She didn’t talk much, but what she did say was all about herself. What movie she went to last week, what clothes she bought, what classes she was taking next semester. She never asked one single thing about me. Not even about my leg. She is, like, so shallow.”

  “I’m sorry your day didn’t turn out the way you hoped.” Karen draped her arm around her daughter’s stiff shoulders.

  “I should have gone to the picnic with you.”

  Karen tried not to let her second-choice status hurt. “You wanted some father-daughter time.”

  “That didn’t happen anyway.” She reached for her crutches and struggled to her feet. “I’ll be in my room.”

  “Do you want some dinner?”

  “I had a hamburger at the picnic. Stephanie didn’t want to bother, but Dad insisted he owed me a meal.” Kristen stopped on the threshold. “I guess there was one good thing about today, though.”

  “What was that?”

  “There was something wrong between Dad and Stephanie. I mean, it was obvious she didn’t want to be at the picnic. But it was more than that. It was like . . . I don’t know. Like there wasn’t a . . . a connection between them anymore. She wasn’t focused on him at all, and she wouldn’t let him hold her hand. It was . . . different. Maybe they’ll break up.”

  And maybe you and Dad will get back together.

  At the hope in Kristen’s eyes, her throat tightened. How was it possible so many years had passed since the fierce grip of her newborn’s tiny fingers had sealed the bond between them? And wasn’t it just yesterday she’d run behind the bike as her daughter learned to ride, heart in throat, afraid her precious little girl would fall and get hurt? And it seemed like a week rather than a year ago that she’d sat in the audience, filled with pride and trepidation, as the poised young woman her daughter had become executed a flawless routine on the balance beam and walked away with a blue ribbon, her face filled with joy.

  If going back to Michael would help restore that joy, she’d almost consider it.

  Except even without Stephanie, Michael had no interest in her. And she, too, had moved on.

  “Your dad isn’t going to come back, Kristen.” Her words were quiet but firm. “If he and Stephanie break up, he’ll find someone else like her. Thin and pretty and young.”

  “You could be thin and pretty if you made an effort.” Kristen’s eyes filled with tears.

  “It wouldn’t work, honey.”

  “How do you know? You won’t even try!”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “I just want us to be a family again. I don’t know why that’s too much to ask.”

  The first faint hum of a headache began to throb behind her temples. “I wish things could have been different too. But your dad and I weren’t a great match from the beginning. We have very different—and incompatible—priorities. That doesn’t mean you and he can’t have a great relationship,
though.”

  “It’s not the same.” As Kristen choked out the words, her face crumpled. With a strangled sob, she clumped down the hall to her room and slammed the door.

  Hard enough to rattle the pictures on the walls.

  As well as the resolve in a mother’s heart.

  4

  Scott stood at the window of his mother’s guest room and clenched his right hand into a fist. Neither the view of the colorful gardens Dorothy tended with such care nor the brilliant light of the May Saturday penetrated the darkness within him that had stolen his appetite, his energy, his interest in life. Every day was the same. Get up. Get dressed. Sit around his room. Go to bed. Stare at the ceiling.

  What was the point of it all?

  He fingered the dog-eared paper in his pocket. The one he’d been carrying around since his last trip to St. Louis.

  Maybe he should give the shrink a call.

  But the man couldn’t bring back his friends or his career. Nor erase the fact that his years of training and practice and work had been wiped out in an instant by a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel.

  All the psychologist could do was listen as he vented his rage and frustration and despair.

  And he didn’t need to pay big bucks for a sounding board.

  Lifting his left hand, he examined the once-nimble fingers, now stiff and numb. He’d done all the exercises, but there’d been minuscule improvement. At this pace, it would be years before full function returned and he could think about performing again.

  And what was he supposed to do in the meantime?

  He didn’t have a clue.

  “Scott?” His mother’s muted query came through the door. “Everything okay?”

  Taking a deep breath, he struggled to pull off the lie. “Yes. You can come in.”

  The door opened, and Dorothy stepped inside. “It’s a beautiful day out. Perfect for a walk.”

  Another plea for exercise, thanks to that library book about depression he’d stumbled across in a kitchen drawer. Physical activity had been near the top of the “helpful suggestions” list. She’d stuck a slip of paper on that page to mark the spot.