The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel by Susan Donovan Read Free Book Online Page B

prayed that Clancy Flynn wouldn’t remember that week they’d shared so long ago.
    She’d read somewhere that men didn’t retain musclememory as sharply as women, at least the emotional component of it. If that were true, then Clancy wouldn’t have struggled the way Evelyn had, remembering strong arms pulling her from the undertow, fingers brushing wet hair from her face, the scent of Coppertone and sea spray. It wouldn’t have taken him years to forget holding hands by the bonfire, dancing under the fairy lights, and the kisses that started out as timid curiosity and flared into an explosion of awareness.
    He was Evelyn’s first. Her first kiss. Her first love. The first boy she let touch her like that. The fact that he never wrote back hurt like hell for many years, but now she was grateful. If Clancy Flynn didn’t answer her letter, it meant he wasn’t interested, and if he hadn’t been interested back then there would be no reason for him to remember her now.
    Don’t remember me. Don’t remember anything at all. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I hope you forgot everything.
    *   *   *
    “So. You’re never speaking to me again?”
    Tamara looked up from her leather-bound planner, retrieved the eyeglasses hanging from a platinum chain around her neck, put them on, and then directed her attention to the doorway of her home office. She had no reaction whatsoever to seeing her husband for the first time in six days. She removed the glasses and went back to whatever she’d been working on, not bothering to respond.
    Tonight, Richard refused to accept her cold-blooded indifference. Tonight, he was going to stand up for himself. “For God’s sake. This is absurd.”
    Tamara popped up from the upholstered desk chair and marched toward him, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. She got inches from his face, so close he could see the feathering of her pink lipstick, how it ran into the tiny vertical crevices on her upper lip. She used to be so beautiful when she was young.
    “I would never stop speaking to you, dear. Do you know why? Because
you would enjoy the silence
. So I plan to talk—talk, talk, talk, talk, talk—and then talk some more. You won’t be able to shut me up. Care for a drink?”
    She spun away from him and headed to the bookcase. That was what she called the piece of ornately carved furniture with glassed-in shelves, though Richard knew it was more of a book-themed liquor cabinet. “I’m not supposed to drink, darling.”
    “Yes, I am aware of that. So do you want one or not?”
    Richard didn’t answer. His wife was angry. He got it. Tamara wouldn’t mind if he dropped dead right on the spot. He understood that as well. Richard wandered over to one of the white sofas arranged in the center of the room and sat down, trying to get comfortable. He’d always thought it was interesting how Tamara’s things—her furnishings, her cars, her clothing, her jewelry, her hairstyles—everything was chosen for its visual appeal instead of its usefulness or comfort. That’s why her sofas were quite chic but as comfortable as sitting on a steel girder. Her clothing was expensive but restricting, her cars were exotic but in need of constant repair, her jewelry too heavy for her earlobes, and her hairstyle crunchy to the touch. But it all looked fabulous.
    She sat facing him and daintily crossed her ankles. One thing he could say for her—she knew all the steps to the dance. Always had. She was as refined and ladylike as any woman he’d ever known. She had a gift for people’s names and faces. Tamara could talk to anyone about anything. She was an impeccable hostess, generous philanthropist, and sought-after board member.
    Only Richard knew what she really was. He wanted this encounter to be quick. “Go ahead. Let me have it.”
    She raised her cut crystal highball to her wrinkly lips. Richard suspected she’d had some work done around her eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. It