Since Last Summer

  A waiter came by to clear their plates.

  “So, what do you have planned for the summer?” he asked, changing the subject. “Anything fun?”

  “Rory will be there,” Isabel answered. “But she’s dating Connor, so…”

  “So what?” Mr. Knox asked, sipping from his glass of red wine.

  “So I don’t know. It’s different. I mean, we’re still friends totally separate from that. And I’m happy for them. I really am. But when your friend is dating your brother…” She let her voice trail off. She was pretty sure Mr. Knox wouldn’t know what she was talking about if she’d finished the sentence. “Anyway, I have no interest in hanging out at the Georgica. So I’m not sure. I think I’ll try to go into the city as much as possible. Get ready for NYU in the fall.”

  “That’s exactly right. It’s your last summer before college. Have fun. Do something you’ll never forget. If I could tell you how many times I wish I’d had more fun when I was your age—”

  “Dessert?” the waiter asked. His face was Hollywood actor–handsome, with the requisite chiseled features and light blue eyes, but there was a streak of edge to him. A definite bad boy. Last year he would have been exactly Isabel’s type: hot, older, dangerous.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Knox. “What do you recommend?”

  “Well, the tiramisu is very good.”

  “I’ll have some,” Isabel said, smiling at him.

  “Wonderful,” the waiter said, grinning at her. He took their menus away and gave her a pointed, but discreet, smile.

  “If I can ask you one favor,” Mr. Knox said, folding his hands on the table, the candlelight flickering across his face. “Go easy on your mom this summer.”

  Isabel snorted.

  “I know how much she loves you.”

  “Please,” Isabel muttered. “If she loved me, she would have told me the truth herself. And she’d let my brother and sister in on this. Instead of making me the lucky one.”

  “We all come to things in our own time,” Mr. Knox said as he leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “Be patient with her. And if you have to, vent to me. I won’t say a word.”

  “Thanks for being so cool this year,” Isabel said. “Coming up to school to visit me, taking me out to dinner down here, the e-mails… It’s all been really nice of you.”

  “I’m your father,” he said. “Better late than never, right?” He stood up. “I’ll be right back.” He left to go to the men’s room, and a moment later the waiter returned with the tiramisu.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “I think just the check,” she said.

  The waiter cocked his head and smiled at her. “I get off in an hour if you want to hang out,” he said. “We could go get a drink.”

  It was tempting. The past nine months had been extremely quiet. All by choice, of course. Nobody at school had seemed that appealing. And her last relationship had been a disaster.

  But as she looked at this guy now, something told her to stay away from him. Too dangerous. And too good-looking. If she’d learned anything last summer, it was to stay away from both of those things. “Maybe some other time,” she said.

  The waiter had seemed surprised. “Enjoy,” he’d said, giving her a smile that promised a rain check on his invitation, if she wanted it.

  “Excuse me?” she said to the flight attendant walking by with bottles of wine. “I’ll have another, please,” she said, holding up her cup.

  The attendant tipped more white wine into it.

  Beside her, the businessman subtly shook his head with disapproval.

  “If you were going home to my house for the summer,” Isabel said, “you’d get hammered, too.”

  “Sparkling or flat?” asked the young man in a polo shirt and khakis, displaying the two different European water bottles he held in his fists.

  “Um, flat,” Rory said. “Please.”

  He poured her glass to the brim and moved on. Rory wished she could follow him. Attending one of these dinners had turned out to be much more stressful than serving at one of them. She’d learned that during Christmas with the Rules, when she’d eaten her salad with the wrong fork and then used the wrong bread plate. Luckily nobody had said anything—she’d felt like more of a ghost than a guest that day—but the sheer possibility of someone noticing had made her a nervous wreck. She took a sip of water and turned to smile at Connor next to her. He reached for her hand under the table. Feeling him squeeze her palm reminded her of their hookup in her room, and she almost blushed.

  “So what happened to that plot of land you were trying to buy last year?” asked the silver-haired magazine mogul sitting next to Mr. Rule. Mrs. Rule had introduced him as Jay Davenport. “Not that I think you two should move, but it sounded like a helluva property.”

  “That fell through,” Mr. Rule said quietly. “One of those crotchety old farmers; you know what sticklers they can be. Covenants, and all the rest.”

  “That’s a shame,” Mr. Davenport said. “Though it’s hard to believe it was more spectacular than this place.”

  “I, for one, am very happy about it,” said Mrs. Rule from the head of the table. “I love this house. I grew up in it.”

  “So, Rory,” said Mr. Rule.

  Rory let go of Connor’s hand and sat up.

  “I heard you’re going to Stanford,” he said. “Congratulations. That’s an excellent school.”

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to make eye contact with him.

  “What are you going to study?” Mr. Rule went on, sipping his glass of bourbon on the rocks.

  Rory debated what to say. She still felt odd talking about her hopes for a film career around the Rules. She got the feeling that she wasn’t interesting or mysterious enough to qualify as an artist in their eyes. “Probably a double major in poli-sci and film,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said, and took another sip. “Poli-sci. I was almost poli-sci.”

  “You were?” Mrs. Rule asked. “I thought you were always a business major.”

  “I was, but I thought about doing poli-sci,” Mr. Rule answered, a ribbon of tension threading his voice. “It was just a thought.” Maybe it was a trick of the candlelight, but Mr. Rule also seemed thinner and younger-looking than he had last summer. Gone was the pinched, somewhat painful expression he’d worn most of the time. Now he looked content and rested, as if he’d spent the past few months at a spa.

  “Rory is Connor’s girlfriend, everybody,” announced Mrs. Rule at the opposite end of the dining table. “She’s from New Jersey.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Davenport. “What part? Morristown? Basking Ridge?”

  “Stillwater,” she answered. “It’s near the Pennsylvania border.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Mr. Davenport, picking up the tiny artichoke soufflé in the center of his plate and putting it in his mouth. “Stillwater. Hmmm.”

  Rory glanced at Sloane and Gregory Rule on the far side of the table. They watched her eagerly, waiting for her to speak. Connor’s older brother and sister had finally warmed up to her this past year, but they could still go quiet and ultrapolite when she was in their presence, as if she were a foreign exchange student they might offend. At Ping-Pong they’d played her and Connor quietly, refraining from any of the whoops and hollers that she’d noticed when the family played one another.

  “There are some beautiful parts of New Jersey,” said Sloane.

  “There certainly are,” exclaimed the Rules’ other dinner guest, Beatrice Lank. She was a famous interior decorator whom Sloane was assisting this summer during the week. “Just beautiful. I don’t know why it gets such a bad rap.”

  Connor cleared his throat.

  “How did the two of you meet?” asked Mr. Davenport.

  “I worked here last summer,” said Rory.

  “You did?” Beatrice asked. “As what?”

  “I was the errand girl.”

  Mrs. Lank looked at Mrs.
Rule. Mr. Davenport coughed.

  “But now she’s part of the family,” Mrs. Rule said with an iron smile. “Does anyone know if the McAndrews are having a Fourth of July party?”

  And… done, Rory thought. She could now relax. She felt Connor take her hand under the table again and gave him a quick smile that she hoped said Everything’s cool; I’m not embarrassed.

  After dessert, which was a panna cotta with berries and caramel sauce, Rory felt her eyelids start to droop. The air in the dining room had turned close and warm, and she felt herself dangerously close to a yawn.

  “Sloane is such a quick study,” the decorator was saying. “All my clients love her. And she has such a good eye.”

  Sloane took another tiny bite of panna cotta and put down her fork. “I still have a lot to learn.”

  “She could be another Bunny Williams one day, if she keeps at it,” said the woman.

  “That would be nice,” said Mrs. Rule. “It’s always handy to have a decorator in the family. But what I could really use is a dress designer. We have so many events coming up in the fall it’s hard to keep track.”

  “You both are chairing the Alzheimer’s benefit at the Waldorf this year?” asked the mogul.

  “No, I don’t think so, not this year,” Mrs. Rule said. There was an awkward pause as Mr. and Mrs. Rule regarded each other with alarm, as if they’d messed up their lines.

  “Then let’s hope whoever does keeps the price of the tables down,” the mogul said. “Ten grand is as much as I go for food at the Waldorf.” He laughed.

  Mrs. Rule laughed, too, and brought her wineglass to her lips. The moment had passed. Rory glanced at Connor to see if he’d noticed the awkwardness, but he only smiled at her, oblivious.

  Mrs. Lank glanced at her watch and placed her napkin on the table. “Well, that was divine. Divine, Lucy dear. It’s always so good to see the both of you.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Lucy said.

  As everyone got up, Rory stood and then almost sat back down again. Her foot had fallen asleep. “Thanks, the meal was fantastic,” she said to Mrs. Rule.

  Mrs. Rule nodded slightly, and Rory realized that this had been another faux pas. “You’re welcome,” Mrs. Rule said in a low voice.

  Rory followed Connor out of the dining room, trying not to limp. Out in the hall, Rory held on to a chair, trying to shake out her sleeping leg.

  “You want to go to your room?” Connor asked. He peered at her. “What are you doing?”

  “My leg fell asleep,” she said. She sat down on the chair and shook it some more. Her new navy-and-white Jack Rogers sandals, bought especially for this summer, had already given her a blister.

  Back in her room, Connor lay down on the bed and clicked on the TV. “What do you feel like watching?”

  “Is the French Open on?” she asked, going into the bathroom. Her head pounded. She wasn’t sure if it was from the stress of sitting at the Rules’ dinner table or from the glass of white wine she’d drunk at dinner. She rifled through her toiletry bag, looking for Tylenol, and then remembered that it was in her purse, which she’d left on the front seat of the Honda.

  “I have to get something out of the car,” she said, walking back into the bedroom.

  “You want me to go?” Connor asked, still flipping through channels.

  “That’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

  The night was cool and smelled of roses as she stepped out the back door. The roll of the waves in the distance seemed louder than it had been this afternoon. She walked slowly over the paving stones, allowing the pins and needles in her leg to fade, and was almost at her car when she heard the jingle of keys. In the moonlight, she saw that she was not alone. Mr. Rule stood next to his Porsche and then a moment later folded himself inside it. The engine started, the brake lights glowed red, and before Rory could take another step, the car backed up and peeled off down the gravel drive.

  Rory checked her watch. She wondered where Mr. Rule could be going at ten o’clock. There was something about how quickly he left, too, that seemed strange, as if he couldn’t wait to get away from the house. She pulled open the door of her car and felt around on the passenger seat for her purse. At least she didn’t have to worry about anyone stealing it here.

  When she got back to her room, Connor was watching highlights from the French Open on TV. “I just saw your dad take off,” she said.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Rory said, putting her purse on the dresser and then sitting down next to him. “Was he going back to the city for something?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Connor sat up and cleared his throat. He kept his eyes on the screen. “He was probably going home.”

  “Home? What do you mean, home?”

  Connor muted the TV with the remote. “My dad’s renting his own place in Sagaponack,” he said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because my parents are taking some time apart.”

  “They are?” she asked, before thinking.

  Connor looked down. Rory regretted sounding so shocked. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

  No big deal? Rory thought. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  “I wanted to, but then I thought you might not want to come out.” He glanced back at the TV.

  “Are they gonna get a divorce?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So why was he here tonight? It seemed like they were still totally together.”

  Connor coughed into his fist. “Well, they are. For dinner parties and public stuff like that.” He blinked a few times and looked at her questioningly, as if he wasn’t sure she’d accept this as an answer. “I guess they’re keeping it to themselves for now.”

  “Do you know why they’re separated? Is there a reason?”

  “Not that they’ve told us,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t think there’s ever one reason for something like this, you know?”

  She looked over at the glass clock on the nightstand. She realized that she knew the reason: Mr. Knox. She felt sick to her stomach. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How long has it been going on?”

  “They told us a few weeks ago,” Connor said. “But my mom said it’s been in the works for a while. He has his own place in the city, too.”

  “So, they’re not telling anyone?” she asked.

  Connor shifted a few inches away from her. “That’s the way they want to do it,” he said. “It’s seriously not a big deal. I’m not freaked about it or anything.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she said, not sure she believed him.

  “All my friends, their parents are divorced. And it’s not like it’s going to ruin the summer. Too many other good things going on,” Connor said, smiling at her in a sly way. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah. And no more groupies stalking your every move.”

  “Huh?”

  “No more girls doing this.” She batted her eyes and said in a breathy voice, “Hi, Connor. What’s up?”

  “Oh? So someone’s jealous?” Connor asked, wrapping his arm around her. “Is that it? Someone’s a little jealous?”

  “You wish.”

  “Yeah, I think you are,” Connor said. “I think you’re jealous.”

  He kissed her again, and she let herself forget all about the Rules, and polite dinner conversation, and unsettling secrets. At least for a little while.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning Rory woke early. She showered, then sat on the edge of her bed for a good twenty minutes, listening to the stillness of the house and wondering just what to do with herself. Last summer she would have been on her way to town by now, getting newspapers and doughnuts for the Rules’ breakfast, and whatever last-minute items Erica, the former chef, needed from Citarella. But now she was a guest here, which meant that there was nowhere she needed to be and nothing she needed to do. She tapped her foot on the carpet. Her blister still ached. She thought about sneaking upst
airs to see if Connor was awake, but she didn’t want to run into Mrs. Rule. At last she decided to take Trixie for a walk on the beach. The poor dog probably still hadn’t touched sand since she got here.

  She opened her bedroom door and watched as Trixie trotted toward her from her bed down the hall. “Let’s go for a walk, okay?” she half whispered.

  At the word walk Trixie ran straight to the back door.

  “That’s what I thought,” Rory murmured.

  She let Trixie lead the way out the back door. The sky was overcast, and the wind blowing in from the ocean made the tips of her ears tingle. Steam rose off the glassy surface of the pool. The American flag snapped and curled in the breeze. Beyond the dunes, she could see a thin line of grayish-blue ocean. Everything looked exactly the same as it had last summer. But everything was different. She’d been wrong about Lily Pond Lane, Rory thought. Things did change here. More than she’d expected they could.

  She walked down the beach, throwing a smooth piece of driftwood at regular intervals for Trixie to race toward, grab with her tiny teeth, and retrieve. Up ahead she could see the brown-shingled snack bar of Main Beach. On her left, tacked to a crooked fence sunk into the sand, was a sign that read DO NOT ENTER—PIPING PLOVERS NESTING AREA. She still hadn’t actually seen a piping plover, but apparently this was their turf.

  It wasn’t entirely surprising that the Rules were headed for a divorce, she thought. She knew too much about them to believe in their facade of perfection anymore. But even headed for divorce, the Rules still made her feel inadequate. Last night, as she and Connor had kissed and fooled around, she couldn’t relax. Am I pretty enough for him? she’d wondered. Does he like what I’m doing right now? She’d hoped Connor couldn’t tell.

  By the time she returned to the path of wooden planks that led up the sand dunes to the house, the clouds had burned off. A dull, hazy sun beat down on the top of her head and shoulders, and she could tell that today would be hot.

  “Come here, Trix. Let’s rinse you off,” she said, crouching down by the hose near the dressing cabana. As she rinsed Trixie’s sandy curls, she heard a car crunch over the gravel and come to a stop, then a car door slam. It had to be Isabel.