Since Last Summer

  AUGUST

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Isabel knocked on the door of her father’s new house and waited for him to answer. It was one of those homes that had clearly been built to mimic the original cedar-shingled mansions that dotted the Hamptons, but its enormous eaves, elaborately decorated weather vane, and oversize windows gave away its recent origins. She looked out at the oval of front lawn, and beyond it, at Sagaponack Pond, which looked greenish blue under the cloudless sky. Hopefully this wouldn’t take long. The only reason she’d come was because of the e-mail. The tone of it was different from the other terse messages that her dad had been sending since June.

  Isabel,

  I was sorry to miss you the other night. It’s now been more than a month since you’ve been home from school, and I’ve barely seen you. I understand that you have mixed feelings about spending time at my house, and that, as an eighteen-year-old, you’re pretty much free to ignore me if you’d like. But I’d like it if you would consider coming over for a few days, a night, or even just an afternoon. You are my daughter, after all. As much as you probably don’t believe that now.

  Plus, your mother tells me that you were drunk at her party. I find that very unsettling, yet at the same time, I can’t say that I blame you.

  Love,

  Dad

  Her dad sounded almost cool. Maybe there was a reason that all of her siblings were living with him now.

  Okay, I’ll come over, she’d replied. Friday.

  Her dad had only written back one word.

  Okeydoke.

  Yes, this definitely wasn’t the father she knew.

  She paced the porch until the door swept open.

  “Hi,” her dad said. He looked tan and rested and happier than she’d seen him in years. “You made it.” He opened his arms for a hug.

  “Seriously?” she asked, scrutinizing him.

  He lowered his arms. “I thought it was worth a try.”

  She ducked past him and walked into the house. Loud music played on the sound system. “Since when do you listen to Gwen Stefani?” she asked.

  “Come on in,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Inside, the house was strikingly modern. One large room with soaring ceilings made up the living room, dining room, and kitchen, which was filled with sleek, futuristic-looking appliances. A tall, double-sided fireplace enclosed with glass doors was the only real partition in the space. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors revealed a pool, a tennis court, acres of green lawn, and the ocean in the distance. The decor was spare and devoid of color—white leather sofas with wooden block frames, seagrass rugs. “It looks like a James Perse store in here,” she said.

  “Your mother and I never did have the same taste,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Just some water.”

  He walked over to the refrigerator, and she stepped closer to the glass doors.

  “Has Mom even been over here?”

  “Not yet. I think she likes to pretend this place doesn’t exist.” He approached with her glass of water. “Connor likes it, though.”

  “I’ve heard,” she said, taking the glass. “He basically moved in, right?”

  “Pretty much. And you’re welcome to. If you want.”

  She sipped her water, casting a wary glance over her father and his environment. There was something tempting about decamping here for the rest of the summer, with its laid-back beach-house vibe and cool sound system. But it also seemed empty and forced, like it existed only to prove a point. Isabel sat down on one of the couches. As she’d suspected, it was stiff and uncomfortable.

  “So… I’m here,” she said.

  “Finally,” her dad said. “I didn’t think it would happen.”

  “It’s been a busy summer,” she said, looking around. “And I didn’t know that this was such a big deal for you. I’ve never thought that you liked me that much.”

  Her father sat in the chair opposite from her and leaned forward with a deep sigh, steepling his hands. It seemed as if he’d prepared some kind of speech. “Let me try to explain something.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I heard from Connor that he knows about your mother and me. And it’s about time you and I talked about it. Father to daughter.”

  Isabel studied the braided seagrass under her feet.

  “When I heard that your mother was pregnant with you,” he began, “I told myself that I would always treat you like my own daughter. No matter how I felt about your mother and what she’d done. I wouldn’t take that out on you.”

  Isabel snorted quietly.

  “And I think I did that; I think I was true to that. But it was impossible to forget what she’d done. You made it impossible to forget. Every time I looked at you, it was a reminder. And then seeing how much your mother loved you… how much she doted on you. How she couldn’t do enough for you. It made me wonder if it was because she’d felt something for that man—your real father—that she’d never felt for me.”

  “So it was my fault?” Isabel asked sarcastically.

  “Of course not,” her father said. “But I was angry with her. Angrier than I had any ability to express at the time. And I took my anger out on you. Which I can’t say that I’m proud of.” He glanced in the direction of the glass doors, as if searching for some kind of prop to help him go on. “I’m sorry, Isabel. That’s why I wanted to see you. To say I’m sorry. I know I could have been better with you.”

  “Then make it up to me,” she said. “Stop going along with Mom’s ridiculous act.”

  Her father sighed. “You know how much your mother loves the summer. She lives for it every year. I didn’t want to ruin it for her.”

  “But people are going to find out anyway.”

  “You want me to tell everyone why we’re getting a divorce?”

  “Of course not. Nobody needs to know why.”

  He shook his head. “This is what she and I agreed on,” he said.

  “But she hurt you,” Isabel said. “She had an affair with Mr. Knox while she was married to you. Why are you always trying to protect her? Why are we all trying to protect her? Lying to your friends is bad enough, but to your own kids? Come on.”

  Mr. Rule looked down at the concrete-slab floor. “It was a relief when Connor told me he knew.”

  “Then tell Sloane and Gregory,” she said. “Or I will. I can’t hold this on my own.”

  “You always were a strong kid, though,” her father said. “I remember teaching you how to Rollerblade. You must have fallen down a hundred times. Each time worse than the time before. Straight down on the concrete in Central Park. But you never cried. You never broke.” He chuckled, clearly lost in the memory. “Fearless. I always admired that.”

  “Just honest,” she said, shrugging. “I have to go. I have work.”

  She walked to the door, hearing her footsteps echo on the concrete floors. All this time she’d thought her dad’s needs controlled their house, but it had been her mom’s. It had always been about her.

  “By the way,” she said as she reached the front door. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Her father cleared his throat. “I am seeing someone, yes.”

  “I thought so. This place gives off serious girlfriend vibes.”

  He opened the door for her, and then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’d like to start over with you, Isabel. If you’ll let me.”

  “You’re not the only person who’s been saying that to me.” She looked back at him, trying to assess the level of seriousness in his eyes.

  “Come over for dinner soon?” he asked. “You used to think I did an okay job on the grill.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She walked to her car, which gave off ripples of heat in the late morning sun. Her dad was a flawed man in lots of ways, but at least he seemed ready to admit those flaws. Unlike some other people. Every time she thought about
her fight with Mike she got the same roiling sensation in her stomach. She wished she could go back to that day at the surf shop and make everything she’d said to him a little bit harsher. A little bit meaner. Not that it would have changed anything.

  She took her phone out of her purse and saw the text from Evan on her screen.

  Hey! Coffee before work? Starbucks?

  At least there was one part of her life that seemed to be going smoothly. Whatever distance she’d sensed from Evan after her mom’s party had thankfully passed.

  See you there, she wrote, and got into her car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “But how did he do it?” Rory asked. “How exactly?” She crossed her legs underneath her on Isabel’s bed and grabbed a pillow to knead with her hands. She needed something to work off the anxiety.

  Isabel sat back in the chair, dazed. A strand of hair stuck to her tearstained cheek. “I can’t believe this is happening. Two guys in a row? Do I have leper tattooed on my back or something?”

  “No,” Rory said, feeling a lump in her throat. “There is nothing wrong with you. He’s the one who’s obviously screwed up.” Rory grabbed the pillow again and squeezed it.

  “Are you okay?” Isabel asked. “You seem a little nervous.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, willing herself to be still. “Go on.”

  “Well, we were talking at one point—about nothing, really—and then all of a sudden he started in on it. How much he liked me, how he thought I was great. But that he wanted to be fair to me. Which is such bullshit. I mean, no guy ever cares about being fair to someone. Like that’s a reason to break up with someone. But anyway, he said that he had feelings for someone else.”

  “He said that?” Rory asked, willing her face to stay as expressionless as possible.

  “Yep,” Isabel said, smiling grimly. “Some other girl he’s into. But yet, I’m so beautiful and smart and funny. Please. And here I thought he was some nice guy. Turns out that he’s just a player. I guess we were both wrong about him.”

  Rory swallowed. “Do you think he’s really a player?”

  “So then I thought, there’s no way I’m going to spend the rest of the summer hanging out with this guy,” Isabel went on, “so I quit.”

  “You quit?” Rory said, even more shocked now.

  “That job was lame,” Isabel said. “Too much work. The tips were pathetic. And the people were annoying. How many times can you hear that someone wants the chipotle mayo on the side? God, I was about ready to lose it.” She rubbed the ball of her foot. “Plus, I was sick and tired of wearing black.”

  “So what did you say back to Evan?”

  Isabel shrugged. “I said okay and left. What was I going to do? Fight him on it? Burst into tears? I have some dignity, after all. I told him whoever this girl was, she could have him.”

  Rory plucked at a loose string on Isabel’s bedspread, trying hard to think. If she didn’t say anything, then she’d spare them both an awful, deeply uncomfortable talk. If she did say something, then Isabel might hate her, but at least she’d have a clear conscience. And there was the striking possibility that Isabel was right. Maybe Evan was a player. She’d heard about guys who were late bloomers in the romance department, who then went on to give guys like John Mayer a run for their money.

  “But you know what?” Isabel went on, picking up a stack of magazines and plopping herself and them down on the bed next to Rory. “I wasn’t that into him anyway. All he does is shoot these weird shorts for YouTube. Which I don’t even think are that funny. And he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t surf, he doesn’t play sports, he drives this strange beat-up Saab that was discontinued, like, a thousand years ago. And whoever this girl is that he’s into, she’s probably just as lame and boring as he is.”

  Rory was quiet.

  “I mean, if I wasn’t right for him, then it’s probably someone with no style, no sense of humor, and, let’s face it, no looks.” She flopped over onto her stomach, almost fully recovered now, and took a copy of Vogue off the top of the stack. “So it’s all okay. I can do better, and he can’t. It’s as simple as that.” Isabel looked up at Rory. “What’s wrong? I hope I’m not depressing you or anything.”

  “No, no, I think you’re probably right,” she said, swallowing. “I’m sure you can do better than Evan.”

  “I know I can,” Isabel said, opening the magazine.

  Rory got up and backed away toward the door. “I think I’m gonna go down and check e-mail for a sec. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  “Okay,” Isabel said, still lost in thought.

  Rory left and headed down the stairs, feeling sick to her stomach. This was a disaster, and she felt completely responsible. But at least Isabel seemed like she would survive this.

  When she got to her room, there was a text from a familiar 203 number.

  Broke up with Isabel today. Can I call you? Can I see you?

  She sat down on the bed and thought. If she wrote him back, she would be betraying Isabel. But if she didn’t write him back, she would never know if he was more than a crush.

  She picked up the phone and stared at the message. All she needed was a little more time. If she gave herself a little more time, she’d know what to do.

  Isabel sat in front of the surf shop with the engine running, trying to think of the best opening line. There was always, “Hey, I was just nowhere near your neighborhood,” like that line in that movie she saw with Matt Dillon playing a grunge rocker. Or there was something honest, and cute, like, “So… drunk texting: not really my thing.” Or there was simply, “Hi.” Or, “Hey sorry about that text I sent. I can’t stop thinking about it, and it makes me cringe every time, and would you please just forget that I sent it?” But nothing sounded quite right.

  She turned off the engine, convinced that she’d figure out the best opener as soon as she was face-to-face with Mike. Between seeing her dad, getting dumped by Evan, and then reliving the entire episode by telling Rory, her brain was a little addled right now. And Mike couldn’t be that mad at her, if he was as into her as he said he was. Everyone drunk texted once in a while, for God’s sake.

  She was reaching for the door handle when Mike stepped out of the shop. He was talking to someone over his shoulder. Instantly, she ducked behind the wheel. She waited, staring at the GPS screen, and then lifted her head.

  Mike was talking to a slim brunette. A pretty, slim brunette wearing a teeny, tiny tank top and jeans that looked like they were painted on. He was showing her one of the surfboards propped up by the door. With her arms folded across her chest, she seemed to be hanging on his every word, and he seemed to be at least as interested in talking to her, because he was using his hands a lot as he spoke, which she’d never seen Mike do.

  So it’s a customer. Big deal. She’d laughed and joked with her customers at the restaurant in a way that she would never have done with anyone in real life. It wasn’t anything to read into.

  Then Mike grabbed a wet suit off a hanger and held it up to the girl. She grabbed it and pressed it to herself, then twirled around on the tips of her toes, pretending to model it for him. Mike laughed. She laughed. Isabel could practically see the cartoon birds and hearts floating in the air between them.

  That was it, she thought. She jammed her key in the ignition and turned on the engine. Two seconds later she peeled out of the parking lot, and if Mike happened to see who it was behind the wheel, then she couldn’t care less.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Lean down to get the ball!” Mrs. Rule called from the other side of the net. “Bend your knees! Deeper!”

  God help me, Rory thought as she tried to swat the depressurized tennis ball with her solid paddle.

  “Good,” Mrs. Rule called, returning Rory’s hit. “Make sure you get that racket back earlier!”

  Rory rubbed her hairline with the back of her wrist and ran for the ball. The solid metal paddle felt awkward as she swung it back—it had none of the ae
rodynamics of a regular stringed tennis racket, which now seemed like a breeze to master. She pulled back and swung. The ball bounced right past her, then sputtered at her side, quickly dying on the court.

  “Almost!” Mrs. Rule called out. “Almost!”

  “Can we stop? Please?” Rory yelled, gasping for breath. She leaned over her knees, trying to get her breath back.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Rule said, walking to the other side of the net. She patted Rory’s back. “You okay? Was that too much for you?”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for an actual game yet,” she said, still breathing heavily.

  “Oh, well.” Mrs. Rule sighed. “Let’s go get some lunch, then. You’ve probably worked up an appetite.”

  The thought of eating right now made Rory want to throw up, but at least it meant a break from this torture. Of course, she had no one to blame but herself. She should have gotten out of this paddle tennis lesson weeks ago.

  Once she’d showered and changed into a Georgica Club–worthy tunic dress and her Jack Rogers, Rory realized that she was starving. The patio was full of families out to get some sun and social time on a Saturday afternoon. They found an open table on the covered patio, and Rory dug into her Cobb salad, eating it in gulps.

  “The trick to learning any new sport,” said Mrs. Rule, “is to throw yourself into it. Practice day and night. Don’t be afraid to look foolish. But don’t ever have the attitude that you can’t do it.” She sliced off a small piece of brûléed grapefruit with the side of her fork and put it in her mouth. “My father always said that.”

  “Were you close with him?” Rory asked, still eating her salad.

  “Very. He was quite revered in this town. He was on the board of this club for years and years.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Rory said.

  “I was his favorite. Which is how I ended up with the house. He said that I was the only one of his daughters who was a true Newcomb.”