“Hugh told me it was your birthday,” she said, her violet eyes dancing.
I wasn’t sure what else Hugh had told her—or if he’d told her anything about our day together. I’d been tempted to fill Wren in, but then I’d opted not to.
I’d been similarly tempted, over the past two days, to break down and text Ruby all the details. I’d resisted, of course. It feels surreal, that no one knows what happened between me and Hugh, except for me and Hugh. At the same time, I sort of like keeping it as a secret. Something to turn over in my mind and smile about.
I realize I’m smiling again as I slide into the seat next to my aunt and put down my purse. Mom sits on the other side of me and begins scanning the room.
“Mom, you don’t have to make a big thing out of whispering to the waiter to bring me cake,” I tell her, taking a sip of my water. “It’s not a surprise anymore. I know it’s coming.” I glance at my aunt. “She does the same thing every year.”
Aunt Lydia laughs, passing me and Mom the breadbasket. “Yeah, Lucy. You need to drop it. Summer’s sixteen now.”
My aunt wasn’t at my birthday dinner last year—she’d gone to some music festival in Canada—but I remember her being at Orologio’s with us the year before that, when I’d turned fourteen. I hadn’t paid attention to her then, though; I’d been too busy giggling with Ruby. Now it’s nice to have Aunt Lydia here, especially because Ruby isn’t. And because I’ve still had the niggling feeling that my aunt has been avoiding me.
“I’m not looking for a waiter, you two.” Mom sighs, tearing off a piece of bread. “I want to be sure Max finds us when he gets here.”
Max. The bread I’ve been chewing seems to go stale in my mouth. Mom hadn’t mentioned anything about him on the drive to the restaurant, so I’d been fervently hoping that he’d bailed, or even better, that he and Mom had broken up.
“I’m really glad you gave Max a chance,” Aunt Lydia says, lifting her wine glass in a toast to Mom. I glower at my aunt, and Mom gives her a surprised smile. “He’s a terrific guy,” Aunt Lydia continues in her impassioned, genuine way, “and you deserve a terrific guy, sister of mine, after the last prize you had.”
“Lydia!” Mom snaps. She scowls, and her eyes dart quickly over to me.
“You mean Dad?” I glance from my mom to my aunt. I almost want to laugh, even as I feel a stab of hurt, and a rush of loyalty toward my father.
I’d finally heard from him last night—he’d sent me a gushy email wishing me a happy sweet sixteen and sending love and saying that he’d be back in France soon and wanted us to speak on Skype. I have something important to tell you, he’d written at the end. Those words had troubled me a little, but mostly I’d been pleased that he hadn’t forgotten my birthday. After the France debacle, the bar for Dad was set pretty low.
“I’m sorry, Summer,” Aunt Lydia says, dipping her bread into the saucer of olive oil on the table. Her jaw is set, and her brown eyes are filled with a kind of steeliness. “But you should know I’m not a big fan of your father.”
I nod, remembering what my aunt had said—or rather, didn’t say—to me at Better Latte last week. I almost want to bring up that incident now, but there seems to be a sudden air of tension at the table.
“Well … neither is Mom,” I point out. I turn to my mother, whose jaw is also set. “You say worse stuff about Dad,” I tell her.
“That may be,” Mom replies in a taut tone, unfolding and refolding the white napkin in her lap. “But this isn’t the appropriate time to discuss such matters.”
“When is the appropriate time, then?” Aunt Lydia asks, looking at Mom.
“Good evening, folks! Are you ready to order?”
A waiter wearing a burgundy vest, bow tie, and a toothy smile is standing eagerly at our table. I almost want to jump up and hug him for interrupting the awkward moment.
“Yes, give me one second,” Aunt Lydia says, skimming her menu. I already know what I want: the spaghetti Bolognese, my favorite. My stomach growls.
“Actually, we’re still waiting on someone,” Mom tells the waiter. “We should hold off until he—”
Just then Max appears, slightly out of breath. He’s wearing a nice suit and tie, and holding a paper bag from Between the Lines.
“Sorry, everyone, sorry,” Max says. I watch in horror as he leans down and gives Mom a super-quick kiss. Then he sits in the chair beside her and opens his menu. “You guys start ordering, and I’ll catch up,” he adds.
“I’ll have the spaghetti Bolognese,” I say flatly. My appetite has vanished.
Aunt Lydia orders the ravioli, and Mom, rubbing her forehead, asks for the lasagna and a glass of wine. Max gets the lasagna, too—ugh—and the waiter leaves.
Silence blankets the table. I take a big gulp from my water glass and crunch the ice between my teeth. Maybe, despite our fight, I should have invited Ruby to this dinner. Or Wren. Or Hugh, if he wasn’t in Washington, D.C. And if I’d had the guts.
“Happy birthday, Summer!” Max finally pipes up, his tone cheery. As if it’s not totally weird that he’s here. As if I didn’t pass by him on campus several times today. “Here’s a little something,” he says now, handing me the Between the Lines bag.
“Max, you shouldn’t have!” Mom cries, which is super annoying.
“I thought we were doing presents after dinner?” Aunt Lydia asks, and I feel a little pulse of anticipation. I guess being sixteen doesn’t stop you from wanting presents.
“Summer can open this one now,” Mom says, smiling at Max. Then she smiles up at the waiter, who’s come over with her glass of wine.
Hesitantly, I reach into the bag and take out a big, shiny book called Famous Photographs through the Ages, with a black-and-white picture of twin girls on the front. My mouth drops open and I look up at Max, feeling a swell of happy surprise.
“Oh, good, you like it,” Max says, and grins with relief. “I know you’ve been taking that photography class, of course.” He nods toward Aunt Lydia, who’s busy admiring my book over my shoulder. “And your mother tells me you’re very talented.”
“Really?” I blurt, glancing at Mom. I haven’t shown her any of the pictures I’ve taken this summer.
Mom smiles, her brown eyes sparkling. “According to your aunt, you’re her best student.”
My heart soars. I glance questioningly at Aunt Lydia. I remember what Hugh said about my photography on Sunday.
Aunt Lydia gives me a wry smile. “I’m not really supposed to admit such things. But I guess I can make an exception this time.” She peers at my book again, murmuring, “You better let me borrow that one day, kiddo.”
Our food arrives then, and my hunger returns. Steam rises from my bowl of spaghetti, and my head buzzes from the compliments. We all dig in, and I’m grateful to be squished comfortably between my mom and my aunt. Even Max’s presence at the table doesn’t bother me as much as I would have expected. The book he gave me sits on my lap, and I know I will stay up late tonight leafing through it.
All around us, there’s the pleasant din of forks and knives and conversation. I realize that there’s no place I’d rather be on my birthday but Orologio’s.
When the waiter comes over to clear our plates, Mom signals to him and whispers something in his ear. Aunt Lydia and I exchange knowing smiles. But I don’t really mind that Mom kept up the act of secrecy. It feels like a tradition.
“Okay, present time!” Mom sings once the waiter is gone. Her cheeks are red, maybe from the wine, and I grin at her, feeling full from the meal and excited and kind of like a little kid again. “I mean, it’ll be hard to top Max’s gift,” Mom adds, reaching into her purse. Max chuckles, and Mom hands me a small black box trimmed with gold.
I hold my breath as I open the box’s lid. There, on a bed of cotton, is a pair of tiny diamond earrings, glinting and catching the light from the restaurant’s chandelier. I’ve never been one for fancy jewelry, but these earrings are special.
“Oh, Mom
,” I whisper, giving her a hug. “They look like stars.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mom whispers, hugging me back. Her glasses bump against my cheek. I hurriedly remove my hoops, replacing them with the diamond studs. Mom watches me with a proud smile. Our arguing, our frustration with each other that has lingered all summer, seems so far away now that I can barely remember it.
“Remember, Lydia?” Mom is saying to my aunt. The tension between them seems to have lifted, too. “Our parents gave us diamond studs when we turned sixteen?”
“Of course I remember,” Aunt Lydia laughs, picking up her tote bag. “I promptly turned one of mine into a nose ring, and Mom just about killed me.”
I laugh, too, feeling that familiar twinge of I-wish-I-had-a-twin envy.
Aunt Lydia reaches into her bag and takes out a flat, square package that’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “So, I know I gave you a camera back in June,” she says, handing me the package, “but this is something … from my camera.”
I smile at my aunt and accept the package, intrigued. Everyone at the table watches expectantly as I untie the twine and tear off the wrapping. Then I hear myself gasp.
Aunt Lydia’s gift is a framed photograph of me. I can tell she must have taken it from the window of her classroom in Whitman Hall. I am standing beneath the pink magnolia tree that’s right outside of Whitman, with the green campus spread out behind me. I am in the process of raising my Nikon to take a picture of something in the distance. My eyes are wide and my hair is unkempt, yet somehow I don’t mind how I look. I look sort of … like an artist.
“Thank you, Aunt Lydia,” I say, getting choked up and giddy all at once, turning in my seat to hug her. “It’s—beautiful. Does that sound conceited?” Mom and Max laugh while Aunt Lydia grins and shakes her head. “It’s just that no one’s ever done my portrait before,” I explain. Oh. Except for Dad, I think.
“Well, you’re a beautiful subject, niece of mine,” Aunt Lydia says, patting my arm. “I saw you taking pictures before class one morning and I got inspired!” She pauses and leans forward, lowering her voice. “This is top secret information, of course, but our final class assignment is actually going to be portraits. You’ll each take portraits of your respective partners, and then compare the pictures to how you described their faces in your notebooks on the first day of class! After that, you’ll each do a self-portrait.”
“Wow,” I say. The thought of photographing Hugh, and Hugh photographing me, makes my stomach leap. I look back at my photograph, and then around the table. My face hurts from smiling so much. Even at Max.
“You know,” I continue, feeling magnanimous. “I’m aware that I’ve kind of been a baby about the whole France thing. And it’s funny, because maybe it’s better that I ended up staying here.” I tap Aunt Lydia’s photo admiringly. “I mean, this almost makes up for me not getting to see Dad’s painting of me in the gallery.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel bad. I shouldn’t have said almost. I hope I didn’t hurt Aunt Lydia’s feelings. I really do love her photograph.
But Aunt Lydia doesn’t look hurt, only confused. “Which painting of you?” she asks me.
“The one that’s in France,” I reply. I let out a little laugh—why do I suddenly feel nervous?—as I trace my finger along the photograph’s frame. “With the poppies?”
Aunt Lydia frowns, lifting her wine glass. “But that painting isn’t of—”
Then she stops. Her eyes widen and her cheeks turn splotchy as she presses her lips together. Once again, I’m reminded of that moment at Better Latte, when Aunt Lydia started to say something about Dad, but caught herself.
“What?” I ask my aunt. I feel a slight coldness start to spread through my gut. “That painting isn’t of—what?”
“Lydia,” Mom says, her voice a knife-sharp warning.
I glance over at my mother. Her cheeks are red, too, and she is staring at Aunt Lydia so hard I think her eyes can shoot fire. Max appears to be as bewildered as I am; he is studying Mom with concern.
“Mom?” I press. The coldness in my belly spreads up and out, into my limbs. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Mom says, gripping the stem of her wine glass.
But it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels, well … like everything.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia interjects, sounding aggravated. My head swivels from my mom to my aunt and back again. They look so much alike right now—their faces twisted in distress—that it’s scary. “It was an accident,” Aunt Lydia goes on, gesturing in her impassioned way, almost knocking over her wine glass. “It’s getting harder and harder to keep tiptoeing around—”
“Lydia, stop it.” Mom slaps one hand on the table, startling me. “Don’t do this. Not tonight.”
“What are you guys even talking about?” I burst out, frustration rising in me. “You know, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m officially sixteen.” I glance down at my presents. “So can you please stop being all weird and cagey with me?”
Silence answers me. Max gives an uncomfortable cough. The rest of the restaurant continues to chatter and hum.
Finally, Aunt Lydia turns to me. “Summer—” she begins softly, and something in her tone makes me freeze all over. My throat tightens. I’m going to cry, right in the middle of Orologio’s, at my birthday dinner.
“Lydia, don’t,” Mom snaps, and I realize she sounds frightened. “Don’t tell.”
Don’t tell. I’d heard Mom say those same words to my aunt in our kitchen, the morning of July fourth. I have something important to tell you, Dad had written in his email. But nobody has told me anything. Rebellion surges in me. I refuse to be in the dark any longer.
“No,” I say, my voice thick. “Tell.” I stare at my aunt. “Tell me. Whatever it is, I want to know.”
Hesitation flits across my aunt’s face. “I—” Her eyes dart over to Mom. “Lucy?” she says softly, as if she’s asking for permission. “She has every right to know. Don’t you think it’s time she learned the truth about her father?”
The truth about my father. I take a deep breath. I worry I’m going to throw up all of my spaghetti Bolognese.
For a long moment, no one speaks or moves. Then, all the fight seems to leave Mom’s body. She lets out a heavy sigh and bows her head, staring down at the napkin in her lap. Her whole pose suggests defeat.
“I never intended for this to come out tonight,” she says at last, her voice quiet. She keeps her eyes on her napkin. “But your aunt is right, Summer. You’re both right. I suppose it is … time that you learned the truth.” She looks up at me, her chin quivering. “And I should be the one to tell you.”
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you … ”
I blink and turn my head, my eyes full of unshed tears. Our waiter is at our table, holding a big chocolate cake that is aflame with seventeen flickering candles—sixteen, plus one for good luck. He is surrounded by the rest of the waitstaff, and Jerry, and everyone is singing. They are singing “Happy Birthday” to me. The whole restaurant is singing, people turned around at their tables and pointing at me with big smiles.
No one at my table joins in the song.
Our waiter sets the cake down in front of me. I remember how Mom used to tell me about the day I was born, how it was so hot outside she wanted to wear a bathing suit to the hospital. And how Dad was so nervous he practically passed out in the delivery room. When I was born, Mom said, I looked like an alien, all big eyes and tiny body.
I feel like an alien now, staring blankly down at the candles on the cake, not knowing what to do with them. What is this strange earthly custom?
“Make a wish!”
Faintly, I hear Jerry call out this command.
Aha. That triggers my memory, my human instincts. I close my eyes, the restaurant disappearing, aware only of Mom beside me. At another time, I would have wished to go to France, to kiss a boy, to be as brave as Ruby. I wish for light
instead of darkness, I think now. Then I blow out the candles, which seems ironic.
Everyone claps, except for everyone at my table, and the waiter takes the cake away to cut it. The silence is a relief. I dab at my eyes with my napkin.
“Summer and I are going to step outside,” Mom announces. “Will you be okay here?” she asks Max and Aunt Lydia. They nod mutely. Aunt Lydia’s eyes are teary.
Mom picks up her purse and stands, and I do the same; I wonder if we’ll even be coming back here. My heart is pounding as I follow Mom out of the restaurant and onto the street. But I don’t feel as scared as I did before I made my wish.
The night is hot and stifling, with no breeze. Earlier today, around noon, it had rained, hard. The gray pavement is still slick with puddles and the sky is black and heavy with clouds. It’s hard to see any stars. Most of the shops along Greene Street, like Better Latte than Never, are closed.
Mom looks up at the starless sky, hugging herself. I wonder if she, like me, is cold, in spite of the heat. I hug myself, too, and wait for Mom to speak.
“Do you remember,” she begins, after a moment, “how often your father used to travel to France? I mean, before he and I got divorced?”
I nod. I hear the whisper of the river across the street, and the whistle of the train in the distance.
“Well,” Mom says. “That’s because he had—he has—another family there.”
The ground seems to tilt beneath me, and shake, like there’s an earthquake.
I turn to face my mother. I can’t make out her eyes behind her glasses.
“I don’t—another family?” I repeat. The words are gibberish on my tongue.
“Yes,” Mom says. She finally looks away from the sky, and at me. Her eyes are watery but her voice is even. “There was—there is—another woman,” she explains. “A painter. Your father met her in Paris. And they had a daughter. They have a daughter.”
A lone car drives down the street, its wheels splashing in a puddle.