Firefly Summer (11 page)

C
HAPTER
22

S
ailor ran her hand lightly over the cover of her
Upper Room,
admiring the illustration. She pictured her mom reading the little devotional every morning, a habit she'd passed on to her daughters simply by her example . . .
and
because she'd given them each a gift subscription every Christmas. She tucked the little magazine into her Bible and set it on the table next to her chair. She'd fallen a week behind because she'd inadvertently packed her Bible and the little magazine in the bottom of the box of linens and just found them this morning. She always felt as if she raced through the readings, instead of savoring them, when she was trying to catch up. She sipped her coffee, looked up at the puffy, white clouds floating in the summer blue sky, and smiled. “I know I'm usually full of complaints, Lord,” she said, “but I can't thank You enough for bringing me to this place.”

She looked around at the gardens. She'd spent all of yesterday weeding, pruning, adding topsoil—a luxury for plants on sandy Cape Cod—and mulching. While she'd been up close and personal with all the greenery, she'd discovered a wide variety of old-fashioned perennials: echinacea, bee balm, black-eyed Susans, peonies, irises, lilacs, several varieties of lilies, and of course, an abundance of hydrangeas! Near the back steps she'd also discovered a small garden with a cluster of chives coming up, and around it, small wooden signs telling her that there would be thyme, oregano, cilantro, tarragon, rosemary, and lemon balm, too. But she knew if she wanted basil and cilantro, too—both annuals—she'd have to buy new plants.

She leaned back in her chair and watched the birds flutter back and forth to the new feeder. It hadn't taken them long to find it and they seemed to love their new little sanctuary. She watched a pair of grosbeaks land and sit there peacefully, having breakfast and enjoying each other's company . . . and suddenly, she felt a twinge of envy.
How crazy,
she thought,
jealous of a pair of birds!
But she realized that although she loved her newly found solitude, she missed the easy companionship of someone she loved. It had been so long since she'd had that kind of relationship with Frank—their lives were so hectic and conflicted that she hadn't even noticed what was missing. But now, out here, away from all the madness, and with room to breathe, she decided it would be really nice to wake up next to someone and laze around together, sipping an early morning cup of coffee and reading the paper.

She took a sip of her coffee now and wondered if Josiah might be that person. After she'd met him for coffee the other day—he hadn't been the least put off by her disheveled appearance—he'd invited her to dinner, and the following Wednesday, they'd gone to the Ocean House in Dennis Port. They'd sat at the beach bar, eaten lobster rolls, and drunk Whale's Tail . . . and it was just so amazing and . . . easy. And since he'd been on his way back from Boston, she'd met him there, but afterward, he'd walked her to her car, and like a true gentleman, kissed her . . . on her hand! Couldn't he tell that she was ready for a long, full kiss on the lips? Or was he respecting the fact that they were both still married? She wouldn't be certain that Josiah had true potential until she kissed him on the lips. So far, he had everything else going for him—he was handsome, well dressed, and almost divorced, but his kiss would definitely be a determining factor. Oh well, he'd get another chance this weekend because they were going to Provincetown.

She finished her coffee, carried her Bible inside, and set it on the table. She refilled her mug, grabbed her laptop, and went back outside. The phone company had finally hooked up her Internet and she had a lot of catching up to do. She'd been “off the grid” for over a week, and if she hadn't been so busy working in the gardens and getting settled, she would've probably gone through withdrawal! She sat down, opened her laptop, and checked her mail—she had three hundred thirty-two new messages! Yikes! She quickly scanned the list—nothing urgent; checked the news—always a mistake; and then clicked on her Facebook page and realized she had two friends whose birthdays were that day—one was an old classmate from RISD . . . and the other was Birdie (Quinn) Snow! Oh my goodness, she'd almost forgotten Birdie's birthday! Good thing they were both on FB or there would've been hell to pay! She sent her friend and Birdie quick birthday wishes and told Birdie she'd see her at Remy's later. Then she closed her laptop and hurried inside to take a shower.

C
HAPTER
23

R
emy sifted through a cardboard box full of recipes, looking for her mom's recipe for chocolate glaze. Martha had always kept her recipes in an old L.L.Bean shoe box. She'd also kept recipes that had been cut from magazines, as well as recipes that had been given to her over the phone and jotted on scraps of paper—like the one Remy was looking for now. In her mind's eye, she could see it written on a scrap of blue-lined notebook paper—but Remy had already been through the box once, and now, she was nearing the bottom again. She knew it couldn't be that far down because she'd just made the glaze when she'd made cream puffs for Easter.

She started at the top again and slowly looked through each piece of paper. “Someday,” she murmured, “I'm going to get rid of all these recipes that I've never made and put the rest on cards in a recipe box!” It was a project she'd been planning to do for years. Every time she had trouble finding a recipe, she'd renew her resolution but she still hadn't found the time.

She sighed, and then along the front edge of the box she suddenly spied the familiar blue-lined paper. “Here it is!” she said, relieved. She pulled it out, closed the box, and promptly forgot her resolution. She glanced at the recipe, then measured the cocoa, water, oil, and corn syrup into a small saucepan, turned the flame low, and stirred all the ingredients until it was a smooth mixture.

Years ago, when their mom had stopped baking, Remy had taken it upon herself to carry on their birthday traditions. Birdie's cake was Boston cream pie—hence the need for chocolate glaze; Sailor's was devil's food with a homemade orange frosting—the recipe for which was even older and written in her grandmother's handwriting; Piper's was German chocolate, the frosting for which—a homemade buttery coconut and pecan—was
to die for!
Remy would've gladly made her own cake too—angel food with fresh strawberries and whipped cream—but her sisters insisted on taking turns making it.

Remy added a teaspoon of vanilla and a dash of salt to the cocoa, and as she stirred, she thought about Easton's cake—the yummiest cake of all. His had been a four-layer chocolate cake with a creamy chocolate mousse filling in between each layer and a luscious whipped cream frosting on top. Her mom had been making the cake the night they'd gone for a hike on the beach, but they'd never eaten it, and the carton of black raspberry ice cream had just sat in the freezer for months until, one day, she saw it in the garbage. Remy never knew what happened to the cake she'd been making that night and they'd never had it again—it was as if the recipe had been purposely forgotten. It had always been that way in her family—anything that reminded them of Easton was shut down or silenced. Remy had grown up feeling as if they weren't even allowed to say his name. Often, she'd wondered if this was why she had such a hard time letting go of Jim's memory. She'd loved Jim and her brother so much and she could never understand why God took them away.

Remy added a cup of sifted confectioner's sugar and continued stirring. The recipe called for her to remove the pan from the heat, but over the years, she'd discovered that leaving it on low heat until the glaze was smooth and warm made it easier to pour.

She picked up the pan, turned to the waiting cake, already cut into layers that had been spread with creamy vanilla pudding, and poured the warm chocolate over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Then she licked the spatula and stood back admiringly. “It looks like a picture, Mom! You'd be proud!”

She heard the stove
click,
realized she'd left the burner on, and turned it off. It wasn't the first time she'd forgotten to turn one of the burners off, and she often worried she'd leave one on
and
leave the house. She also worried that the pilot light would go out and she'd have a slow and potentially explosive leak. Maybe it really was time, like David suggested, that she thought about getting an electric stove.

She set the pan in the sink, filled it with hot sudsy water, and rummaged through her junk drawer, looking for candles. She took out three candles—one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future—and fit them into three little plastic holders. She and her sisters had decided long ago that they were getting too old to light a candle for each year.

She pushed the candles into the cake and set it back on the counter. Just then, Edison wandered in and Remy eyed him. “You stay off the counter, mister,” she said warningly as he swished through her legs.

Remy shook her head and pulled open the napkin drawer, looking for birthday napkins. She had napkins for nearly every occasion—from New Year's Eve to Christmas, and from someone turning twenty-one to someone turning sixty, but she didn't seem to have any plain birthday napkins—how could that be? She dug a little deeper and found a small stack of
Over the Hill
napkins, pulled them out, and wondered if Birdie would be offended—it didn't take much! She sighed. The old girl really needed to get a sense of humor . . .
and
she needed to stop living in the past. Remy set the napkins next to the cake and looked at her to-do list to see what was left. She pulled out her old perk pot from under the counter—just in case someone wanted coffee—and untied her apron. All she had left was wrapping Birdie's gift—a lovely book about an owl named Wesley that she'd found at the Birdwatcher's General Store.

C
HAPTER
24

“A
re you ready?” Birdie called up the stairs.

“Almost,” David called back from behind the closed bathroom door.

Birdie sighed and walked back into the kitchen to refill her wine glass. Then she tucked the bottle behind the coffeemaker so David wouldn't notice. Someday—if she outlived him—she'd be able to drink to her heart's content and no one would be keeping track . . . unless she ended up in a nursing home. She took a sip and looked down at Bailey. “Need to go out, ol' girl?” she asked and Bailey struggled to her feet. Birdie walked over to open the door, and as she followed her outside, she realized how much better her ankle felt.
Thank goodness!

“Are we bringing Bailey?” David asked, coming out on the porch behind her and startling her.

“Do you want to?” she asked without turning around.

“Sure. We can take my car since it's full of dog hair anyway.”

“Okay,” Birdie said, trying not to let him see her glass. “Will you please run back upstairs and grab my sweater?” she asked.

“It's eighty degrees out. Do you really think you need a sweater?”

“It cools off when the sun goes down, and if we sit outside, I might need it.”

David sighed. “Which one?”

She started to say, “How about the one you just gave . . .” but then she remembered that her new sweater was still in its gift box on the kitchen table and she needed him to go
upstairs
. “On second thought, how about my pink sweater from Bean—it's in my cedar chest.”

She listened to him clomp up the stairs and quickly gulped down the last of her wine. Then she went inside, rinsed her glass, and put it in the dish drainer. She picked up the bottle she'd bought to bring with them and the salad she'd made, and headed out to the car. “C'mon, Bay,” she called and the old Lab hurried over to David's old Volvo wagon—which he affectionately called Tank—and waited, tail wagging. “Hold on,” she said, setting the bowl and the bottle in the trunk. She opened the back door and Bailey eyed the seat as if it were Mount Everest. “Go ahead. You can do it,” she said, but Bailey just gave her a forlorn look. “Okay, get your front up,” Birdie coaxed and Bailey pranced around and then gingerly set her front paws on the seat and looked back at her, waiting. Birdie lifted up her back legs—which immediately folded under her—and set her gently on the seat, but as soon as she got her footing, the old dog turned around and gave Birdie's cheek a lick.

David chuckled as he came up behind her with the sweater under his arm. “Thanks, Mom,” he said in the voice he always used when he spoke on Bailey's behalf.

“You're welcome, sweetie,” Birdie replied, making sure Bailey's tail was tucked in before she closed the door. Then, as she made her way around the car, she realized, in surprise, that the quick downing of her wine had given her a buzz. She got in, focused on buckling her seat belt, and opened her window.

David looked over. “All set?'

“Yes,” she answered, knowing full well not to talk too much.

David started the car and backed up. “Is everyone coming tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Elias?”

“I hope so,” she answered, glancing into the backseat and noticing Bailey had her nose pressed against the window. “Can you put the back window down?”

David pushed the rear window button and the old Lab stuck her head out, and with her jowls flapping, breathed in all the lovely scents of Cape Cod. “Oh, to be a dog,” Birdie mused. “Life would be so simple.”

“Maybe in your next life,” David said with a smile.

“Maybe.”

They passed the sign for the National Seashore and Birdie smiled. “Do you remember when you came to visit me at the Outermost House?”

David smiled. “It's one of my favorite memories. I loved waking up next to you in that little house with the ocean breeze whispering through the windows and the summer sunlight streaming in. It was magical.”

“It
was
magical,” Birdie said softly, picturing David—her young, handsome David—lying naked next to her, lightly tracing his fingers across the curves of her body, and smiling his sweet, mischievous smile.

He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips, still running his fingers along her hips and thighs, circling ever closer. “Shall I stop
now
?” he asked softly.

David looked over. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Ha! They're worth more than a penny!” she said with a wistful smile.