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

His name had always been magic to her. She stared at the name now and thought about that summer so long ago—she could almost see him. Before he'd gone away at the end of the summer, he'd made her a swing out of the crescent moon—a sea-silvered arc of driftwood.
    They had written to each other all through that next winter; Bay turned sixteen and began to date Sean. Danny took a trip to Europe. Their correspondence dwindled off, and he didn't come back the next summer, and as Bay's life took off, she lost touch with him.
    Now, holding her letter, she wondered why Sean had taken it. What was the fax about; why had Sean contacted him? Could it even be the same Dan Connolly? Bay hadn't been aware that Sean remembered his existence—or if he did, why he would care. It had all been so long ago.
    She stood and walked to the end of the bed. An antique chest rested at the foot. She used it to store blankets, but at one time, it had been her hope chest. Such an old-fashioned concept, she thought now. Her grandmother had given it to her upon graduation from high school. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, had come over on the boat from Ireland. Some of the first things Bay had packed inside had been her and Dan's letters.
    After twenty-five years, marriage to Sean, and three children, she could hardly believe she still had them, but lifting the lid and pushing aside the blankets and old baby clothes, there they were: a stack of letters nearly an inch thick, held together by a frayed rubber band. Looking more carefully at the paper she'd found on the boat, she realized it was a photocopy and noticed what she had only glanced at before—notations in Sean's own handwriting:
Eliza Day Boat Builders, New London CT.
    Bewildered, Bay closed her eyes. She knew she had only a few minutes, before Annie or the other kids came in and wanted to know what was going on. They were frantic about their father, and Bay needed to have something to tell them.
    Her palms were clammy, her heart racing too fast, her mind swirling with disbelief that today could be happening. What did any of this mean? It felt like someone else's nightmare. Holding the letter, staring at it, she wondered what her husband could have been thinking.
    He had been jealous of Danny Connolly, way back in the day. Despite the differences in their ages, despite Dan treating her like a little sister, Sean was sharp enough to spot a rival. He had wondered how Bay could prefer hanging around a half-built boardwalk to waterskiing in the Sound. And Sean, with all his fire, could never understand the quiet incandescence of the poetic, Irish carpenter.
    Bay cast her mind back to the folder in which she had found the letter. She could see the bold drawing of the van, the swirled-out doodles of “the girl.” Sean was at it again; that's all she could think of. He was obsessing about someone new.
    She didn't know what else it could be; she couldn't imagine. After all these years together, she knew less than ever about how her husband's mind worked.

4

    T ARA HELD ANNIE ' S FOOT CUPPED IN HER LEFT HAND, painted her toenails pink with the other. The girl's foot was as big as a woman's now, but holding it in her hand, Tara was transported back in time, to when Annie was a baby and Tara—her godmother—would play “this little piggy” and make her laugh and would wish to someday have a daughter of her own.
    “Darling, you get the prize,” Tara said now.
    Annie didn't reply. She was almost oblivious to the pedicure, attention riveted on the stairs. No sounds issued from up there. Bay was frighteningly silent, causing Tara's own anxiety level to kick up a notch.
    “Don't you want to know what prize?” Tara prodded.
    “What prize?” Annie asked.
    “For the best beach feet. A-one beach girl beach feet. These calluses rival anything your mother and I had at your age. Close encounters with barnacles, crabbing on the rocks, scalded by hot tar—you are the real