The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel Page 9

  The phone rang. It was Rowan. “Hey, Clancy. You doing good?”

  “Never better. And may I just say that you were stunning as the Safe Haven Mermaid Queen today. And my man Ashley looked dapper at the helm of the Oceanaire float.”

  His sister laughed, amused by his intentional mispronunciation of Ashton’s name. Clancy had enjoyed yanking his chain since their first meeting, and saw no reason to stop.

  “Yeah, well, thanks so much,” Rowan said. “I’ll pass it along to Ashley.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but . . . any word from Duncan?”

  “Nah, but you know how he is.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. I thought Ma was going to have a heart attack last year. I just don’t want her to get all worked up again.”

  The thought had crossed Clancy’s mind, too. Their mother had worried all last summer about Duncan because she hadn’t heard from him. No one had any idea where—or how—he was. True to form, Duncan arrived the evening of the annual Flynn family cookout on the last ferry, without a word of warning. He called Clancy to pick him up and drive him directly to their mother’s cottage.

  It had always struck Clancy as funny how his brother’s job required him to slip unnoticed into hostile territories, yet he loved making an entrance when he came home—the bigger, the better.

  Clancy smiled to himself. “Hey, Row, maybe this year a Navy helicopter will fly directly over Ma’s backyard, you know, and just air drop the bastard right into the crudités platter.”

  Rowan laughed. “Don’t joke. It could happen.”

  “I’m prepared for anything. Well, sis, I’d better go.”

  “Wait a sec. The other reason I called is that Ma told me you wanted your boxes that were in the attic.”

  He took his feet off the desk and sat up straight.

  “Were in the attic? You already threw them out?”

  “What? No, of course not. What’s the big deal—you looking for a long-lost lotto ticket or something?”

  He chuckled. “I wish.”

  “Anyway, we found three boxes of your stuff—trophies and kid junk and even some college crap. I put it all in the carriage house . . .”

  Clancy was already on his feet.

  “. . . So come over anytime after festival week. Maybe you can join Ash and me for supper.”

  He put on his cap. “I’ll take a rain check on the meal, but I’ll be right over to get the boxes.” He grabbed the keys to the Jeep.

  “Uh . . . now? Seriously? Aren’t you just a little busy?”

  “See ya in five.”

  Eighteen years ago . . .

  Amanda grabbed Evelyn’s wrist so hard it hurt. “Oh, my God. There he is!”

  “Where?” She looked all around but didn’t see him. There were thousands of people crammed onto the boardwalk and the edge of Main Street for the parade. How was she supposed to pick out one single teenage boy in this craziness?

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Look around like that, like a gopher on a PBS nature show or something.”

  “How am I supposed to find him if I don’t look for him?”

  “Oh, my God. You just don’t know anything, do you?”

  “So I’m supposed to use ESP to find him? Or Baldwin radar?”

  Amanda cracked up. “God, that would be great, wouldn’t it? But, no. I’m just saying you need to be low-key. If he sees you looking for him, he’ll think you’re dying to see him again.”

  Evelyn was dying to see Clancy again, but decided to keep it to herself. If Amanda knew how interested she really was, this vacation would be a living hell. Could there be anything in the world more embarrassing than having your twelve-year-old sister teach you about the art of seduction?

  “He’s looking over here. He sees you.”

  Evelyn puffed up her hair with her fingers and tried to appear casual. She must have been crazy, but she actually let Amanda help her get ready that morning. On her sister’s advice, she’d applied mousse to her damp hair and let it dry naturally. After Amanda borrowed a pair of scissors from the front desk, she cut off the bottom of two T-shirts so they both could wear crop tops to the parade. They had to hide this from their parents, of course, because people from Maine thought stuff like that was indecent.

  So there she was, hanging out on the boardwalk waiting for the parade to start, pretending not to be looking for the boy she was desperately looking for, all while having big hair and an exposed belly. Evelyn felt kind of silly.

  “Don’t look. Don’t look. He’s coming over here!”

  The parade started. Evelyn tried to appear really, really into the high school band now playing “Achy Breaky Heart,” something that was almost impossible to do.

  “Hey!”

  She turned to see Clancy standing in front of Amanda and herself. She smiled like she was surprised to see him.

  “Hey!”

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sure.” Evelyn shot Amanda a silent look that screamed Oh, my God! and said, “Tell Ginny and Charlie I’ll see them later.”

  They pushed their way through a dozen rows of people and Clancy gestured for her to follow him. Finally they broke into a patch of clear boardwalk where they could actually talk to each other.

  “Who are Ginny and Charlie?”

  “Oh. My parents.”

  “You call them by their first names?”

  Wow—she felt pretty stupid. “No. Not really.”

  They walked down the dock toward the marina and the two of them made more small talk—school, family, sports, music, TV—just trying to figure each other out. They went for ice cream cones and Clancy took her back behind Main Street to a beach access he said only the locals knew about, and they went for a walk.

  “I think you’re really pretty and smart,” Clancy said.

  Of course, Evelyn had just taken a giant lick of butter brickle and it got all over her lips. She shook her head while licking it off, feeling more awkward than she ever had in her life. “Hmm. I’m just average.”

  He laughed. “Trust me. I see girls come and go all the time here and you’re way above average.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from smiling, which meant she was now embarrassed about three things: that she was sloppy with her ice cream, that he thought she was above average, and that she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. This boy thing was hard. She didn’t even know if she was doing it right.

  “I think you’re really special, too.”

  Clancy shrugged, licking a dribble of rocky road ice cream from the side of his cone. “Thanks.”

  “Really. You’re cute and brave and an excellent swimmer. And totally strong. Plus, you’re super nice.”

  That was such a stupid thing to say! Evelyn wished she could turn into a pile of sand and be blown away by the breeze. Had she admitted too much? Did the compliments sound fake? They were real. She honestly felt that way about him.

  But Clancy turned toward her and his face exploded into a smile. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—a straight, white grin that pushed up his eyes and cheeks. For just a second, it was difficult to get air. Her feet seemed nailed down, but her insides—her chest and stomach and heart—were so light that she felt she could fly right up over the beach. This was weird. She was wiggin’ out.

  Clancy reached over and took her hand in his. It wasn’t like he demanded it, or was afraid she’d say no. It was more like he just knew it would be there and she would be fine with it. And she was.

  Evelyn was holding hands with the cutest guy in the world! He liked her. And she liked him. This was the bomb!

  Chapter Six

  What he wanted wasn’t near the top of any of the boxes, of course, so Clancy had to dump their cont
ents onto the living room floor. Once he pulled out all the trophies and set them on the fireplace mantel, he went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When he returned, his dogs were using his memorabilia as a wrestling mat.

  “Fellas! Off!” The two large dogs froze. Tripod was on his back, his pale belly exposed, his three remaining legs sticking straight up in the air. Earl’s chocolate brown butt was aimed toward the ceiling and his elbows were on the floor, and his wide, expressive eyes revealed his guilt. Tripod seemed oblivious as always, eyes crazy, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

  Clancy couldn’t help but chuckle at his companions. A few years back, Duncan had christened them Dipshit and Doofus, which he thought was a bit harsh. But adopting those two rescue dogs had been one of the best decisions he’d ever made. Somehow, it made perfect sense that Barbie couldn’t stand them. The world sorts itself out in mysterious ways. Hard-hearted Barbie was long gone and these two loving, harebrained creatures made him laugh and smile every damn day.

  He placed his coffee cup on an end table and picked a spot on the floor away from the spilled contents of the boxes. “All right. Come on over.” Both dogs spun and twisted, trying to get traction on the slick papers, and eventually piled into Clancy’s lap—two hundred pounds of in-the-moment happiness. He rubbed their ears and scratched their backs and roughhoused with them for a few minutes. “I know I’m not around much this week, but hang in there, all right? Now, listen up. I need to find this damn photo and get some sleep. Okay by you?” Clancy gave them each one last scratch and pointed toward the back of the house. “Outside. Dog door.”

  They happily clambered down the bare pine hallway and squeezed themselves through the cutout. The heavy plastic flap closed behind them.

  Clancy started in on the mess scattered in front of him, deciding that he might as well organize as he searched. Clearly, Mona hadn’t been overly choosy about what she decided was worth squirreling away for posterity. Clancy found programs from elementary school band recitals, science fair honorable mentions, his kindergarten report card, and his first communion photo from Our Lady of the Isle Catholic Church. But some of the junk was highly entertaining, like an essay he wrote for Mrs. Schmidt’s third-grade class with this unique title: “A Mermaid.” His essay read, “The mermaid is dum and ugly. The legend is really stuped.” Clancy tossed the wide-ruled paper into a box, somehow proud that, though his spelling had improved, his opinion of the mermaid hadn’t changed much in the last twenty-five years.

  He uncovered several track ribbons, including a handful from his junior varsity year, and one for his third-place finish in the ten-thousand-meter event at the state high school championships. He found a bunch of shells and sea glass, and a drawing he’d done of his family when he’d been in fifth grade. He stared at it for a moment, deciding it was both sweet and sad. Everyone was standing on the deck of his dad’s old Bermuda sloop, ready to head out for a day sail. His father loomed large over the family the way he always had, and his mother had Duncan pressed into her side, like she was afraid he’d be blown over by the wind. Clancy had drawn himself smiling and making peace signs while Rowan had a bratty look on her face. All in all, fairly accurate, he’d have to say.

  That was the year Clancy turned twelve. Flynn Fisheries was still hanging on and the mansion was still their private home. But soon, everything would change. In a few years the fishery would close, they’d open the house as a bed-and-breakfast, and his parents would begin arguing over whether they should sell the family home and acreage to hotel developers. Though it was no longer an issue—thanks to Ash’s plan to restore the Safe Haven and build a marine research institute on a piece of the land—his parents couldn’t find a way to stop arguing. It was as if they couldn’t remember any other way of communicating.

  Clancy tossed the drawing into the box he’d designated for school stuff, and kept going. It took about ten minutes, but he spotted it. It was a color photo his mother had taken with her auto-focus 35 mm camera. His dance partner was exactly his height and equally lean, her brown hair hanging loose down her back, just as Clancy remembered. He studied the picture, examining the dynamics of it. They were laughing, the girl arched away from him just enough that they could look into each other’s eyes. Clancy had managed to pull her close on the dance floor, holding her hand against his chest while slipping his other arm around her waist.

  Not bad for a fourteen-year-old. Not bad at all.

  At that instant, he remembered her name. Evie. One look at this picture and his mind was filled with the sound of the word.

  Evie.

  The rush of memory and emotion came on so hard and fast that he had to laugh at himself. No wonder he’d forgotten her name—he’d buried it on purpose so he wouldn’t have to remember how much he had loved her.

  But there she was in the photo, beautiful in a pale yellow sundress with thin straps and decoration around the bottom. She had on a pair of those hideous, but popular, jelly shoes. He found something fascinating in the delicate curve of her face and the shape of her chin. Clancy popped to a stand and took the photo into the kitchen, where the light was better.

  She really was beautiful, and it was obvious that she would grow into a gorgeous woman one day. Though the photo captured her mostly in profile, he could see Evie’s long, elegant neck, pretty skin, and nice eyes. But why hadn’t she written him? It made no sense. She really seemed to like him—the photo was proof that she’d liked him.

  Suddenly, Clancy squinted. He tilted the snapshot into the light and pulled back. What the hell? There was no way. It wasn’t possible . . . was it?

  To be certain, he imagined that lean and tanned body slightly more muscular and in shorts and sport sandals. Then he pictured the elegant neck and pretty eyes topped off with a spiky blond haircut.

  Clancy was so stunned he forgot to breathe for a moment. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He yanked himself out of his shock and flipped the picture over in his hand. There in the bottom right corner was his own juvenile handwriting. Evie and me, Mermaid Ball.

  The years fell away, and Clancy was laughing with her, inhaling her flowery, warm skin, and making plans to go visit her in Maine over Christmas break. At least he thought it was Maine. But now she lived in Indiana and called herself Cricket.

  Though it ate up a few minutes of precious time, Clancy ran to his printer and scanned the photo into his home computer. He needed a backup image in case anything happened to the original. Then he shoved the photo in the pocket of his uniform shorts, threw some dog chow in two large stainless steel bowls, and grabbed his duty belt and ball cap. Though the Sand Dollar was a short walk, he took the Jeep in case he got a request for backup. Moments later, Clancy pulled up in the no parking zone and opened the lobby door, a bell tinkling.

  “May I help you, Officer?”

  He quickly scanned the name tag of a small, dark-haired kid on a J-1 summer visa. He’d seen him around, and had always thought him to be polite. “Hello, there . . . Bujar. How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, sir. And you?”

  “Great. So where are you from originally?”

  “Albania.”

  “Enjoying it here?”

  “Oh, yes. It is wonderful. Except I must do cleaning rooms three days a week—I like work at desk better.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.” Clancy could now add Albania to his list. At this point, there were few countries that hadn’t been represented in Bayberry’s summer workforce at some point. “So, Bujar, if you have a moment, I was hoping you could help me out. I have a quick question about one of your guests.”

  The kid’s dark brown eyes got big. “Yes? Yes, sir. I’ll get Mister Cosmo. Please wait.” He ran off to the office tucked behind the wall, and Clancy heard him on the phone, apologizing several times for disturbing Cosmo Katsakis during his dinner.

  Within minutes, Cosmo appeared, coming from his apartmen
t in the back. He was still buttoning a cotton shirt over his tomato sauce–stained wife beater and sucking food from his teeth. “Hey, Chief! What a pleasant surprise! What can I help you with tonight?”

  No, the motel owner would never be elected Bayberry’s most eligible bachelor—or businessman of the year. Cosmo had resisted improving the motel’s amenities and furnishings, which angered his fellow Bayberry Island merchants. More than once, Clancy had been called in to officiate at a Chamber of Commerce meeting at which Cosmo referred to his fellow islanders as “communists” and told them exactly where they could stick their five-year tourism development plan.

  Clancy’s aversion to Mr. Katsakis had nothing to do with his appearance or business practices, however. It was personal. In Clancy’s mind, Cosmo would always be linked to the worst night of his life. The motel owner smirked every time they crossed paths, as if to remind Clancy that he was in on the joke. Which, in a sense, he was.

  It had happened during festival week three years before. Clancy had asked Cosmo to open the door to room forty-seven. Inside was Clancy’s wife, Barbie, knockin’ flip-flops with a tourist. The image was forever burned into Clancy’s corneas—Barbie’s spandex mermaid costume crumpled on the floor while a naked man in a jaunty sea captain’s cap rode her like she was high tide.

  The next morning, Clancy had the very bruised tourist in custody for assaulting an officer and purchased Barbie a one-way ferry passage back to the mainland. Her parting words had been, “I hate this ridiculous island! There’s one week of fun, and the rest of the year I’m bored out of my skull! I’m going back to Boston where I belong!”

  Separation papers were drawn up that week. Within two months, the divorce was final and the sea captain had wisely dropped the idea of filing police brutality charges.