The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) by Luanne Rice Read Free Book Online

into the den. She could hear them in there.
    “Okay, darling,” Tara said in a brogue borrowed from her Irish grandmother. “We're going to play beauty parlor. I'm going to give you a pedicure now, all right? I've chosen this lovely shade for you . . . ‘Tickled Pink.' Is that to your liking now, darling?”
    “Oh, Tara . . . I don't want to play.”
    “Nonsense, darling. Sit still. Give me your tootsies, that's a girl. Sit back and relax, and I'll tell you about my last trip to the beautician. It was a facial-gone-bad. The steam was a tad too hot, and it left me looking like my grandmother with rosacea. Truly, not the look I'd been seeking. Ever had one of those?”
    “I've never had a facial,” Annie said, the tiniest bit of laughter in her voice.
    “Oh, darling. Perhaps once the toes are done, I'll administer a mask of egg whites and beer. Not that you need it, with skin like that. Did anyone tell you you've the complexion of a wild Irish rose? No? Well, just sit back and let me be the first . . .”
    Tara's words and pretend accent almost made Bay smile. Her friend had such a generous way about her, enfolding those she loved with boundless kindness and humor, always knowing just what to do to help.
    Hoping that Annie was okay for the moment, Bay steeled herself. She headed out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, into her bedroom. She looked around, as if she had never entered the room before, and then she closed the door behind her.
    White curtains lifted in the gentle breeze blowing through open windows. The children's voices came up from the yard, but Bay hardly heard. She walked across the floor—polished wood covered by old hooked rugs, made by her own grandmother—to the bed. Everything on it was white: sheets, pillowcases, and summer-weight quilt. It was one of her favorite luxuries, an all-white bed. It always looked so clean and fresh, so ready to bestow sweet dreams.
    Now, sitting on the edge, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter she had found on the boat. Her hands, to her surprise, were shaking. Her eyes scanned the page. Although she had written this to Danny Connolly twenty-five years ago, her own handwriting looked the same as it did today.
    This copy had never been sent. She had written it as a draft, then copied it over on better stationery. She had been fifteen at the time; she had had long, long strawberry-blond hair and as much of a summer tan as she ever got, and she had ridden her bike everywhere. She had worn her bathing suit with just a T-shirt over it, without a trace of self-consciousness.
    She had been so in love.
    Had she known that was what it was? Even now, she wasn't sure. The first stirrings of love are mysterious to the girls feeling them. Heart beating too fast, a sense of standing on the edge of the world, hands that won't stay still . . .
    Danny had been everything to her. To him, she was a summer kid, someone who bothered him while he did his job, building the new boardwalk. There were other jobs, too—painting and reroofing the parking lot guard shack, repairing the latticework at Foley's store—but the main thing was the new boardwalk.
    While Sean had tried to talk her into swimming to the Wickland Light, or diving off the trestle over Eight Mile River, or joining the flotilla of boats out to Orient Point, Bay had stayed by Danny's side, handing him nails and learning how to swing a hammer.
    Bay remembered thinking that he could build anything. He had worn khaki shorts and a faded beach T-shirt. She remembered his brown hair glinting in the sun. He had a Red Sox hat, but rarely wore it.
    One morning, just before he started work, the baseball hat had been resting on the hood of his car, and she had stared at it, and as if he could read her mind, he had grinned and placed it on her head. His fingers had brushed her hair, just slightly, and she had felt weak and strong all at once and wished he would touch her hair again.
    Daniel Connolly. Danny.