Firefly Summer (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

“I
t's just a sprain,” Dr. Sanders said, slipping the X-ray back into its folder. “You need to be more careful, though, Birdie. You're not a spring chicken anymore.”

“You're not a spring chicken, either, my dear,” Birdie Snow snorted. John Sanders had been Birdie's doctor most of her life. He'd been fresh out of residency and new to her parents' doctor's practice when she'd switched over from the family's pediatrician. At the time, Birdie had felt a quiet pride in being the handsome young doctor's first patient, and through the years, she'd wondered if the teasing relationship they'd always shared might've blossomed into something more if David hadn't come into her life.

“Indeed, I'm not,” John said with a chuckle. “I'll be seventy this year . . .
and
I'm going to retire.”

“You are?!” Birdie sounded horrified.

“Yes, I might even see if I can find a girl to marry. I think it would be nice to have a little companionship in my old age. I've always wanted to travel, and it would be more fun with a companion.”

Birdie didn't even hear his last sentence. She was too busy feeling as if the rug were being pulled out from under her . . .
again!
She'd always appreciated that her doctor was growing old alongside her, and she fully expected him to be there till the bitter end. It never occurred to her that he might retire. And as far as finding a girl to marry—that was an entirely different subject . . . and a frivolous one at that. “You can't retire! Who's going to take care of me? My ailments are only going to get worse, and I definitely won't be able to trust some young, new whippersnapper who doesn't know my history.”

“Yes, you will,” John said, slipping a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “I've got a fine young man lined up, too—Dr. Joshua Hart. He'll be starting next month and we're planning to have an open house so everyone will have the opportunity to meet him. Besides, Birdie, you have my cell phone number, so if something serious comes up, you can always call me.” He put his stethoscope under the cuff and squeezed the bulb. “You're the first patient I've told,” he said, eyeing her, “and I'd like to be the one to tell my other patients, too.”

“Don't worry, John,” Birdie said with a sigh. “I'll take your secret to my grave, which will be a lot sooner now.”

“No, it won't be,” John countered, looking at her chart. “Let's see, you're going to be sixty-seven next month.” He looked up. “And you're
already
retired, I might add.”

“Semi-retired,” Birdie countered. “I'm still very involved in Cornell's bird count, feeder watch, nest watch,
and
tracking snowy owls on the Cape in the winter, as well as continuing to serve as director emeritus on the ornithology board.” She paused. “Not to mention helping David rehabilitate all the orphaned and injured birds that somehow find their way to our house.”

John smiled as he wrapped an Ace bandage snugly around her swollen ankle. “You're as busy now as you've ever been, Birdie, which is wonderful, but your blood pressure is still elevated—one sixty over a hundred—and with your family history, you need to do a better job of keeping it under control.” He secured the bandage. “Have you been taking your Lisinopril?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him off. “Even though I hate taking pills.”

John eyed her skeptically. “There
are
other ways to lower your blood pressure. . . .”

“I know, I know—I could lose some weight. You don't need to remind me.”

“That's one way,” John agreed, “but it would also help if you cut back a little on the red wine.”

“Ha!” Birdie snorted. “Did David tell you there was more to my sprained ankle than just tripping on the rug? Because if he did, I—”

“Not at all,” John said, holding up his hand in defense of his old golfing partner.

“Good! Because he'd be in a heap of trouble, and besides, I just read an article that sang the praises of red wine. Not only is it good for your heart, but it lowers cholesterol, helps prevent cancer,
and
staves off dementia.”

“That
may
be true,” John said, although he wasn't entirely convinced by the recent studies trumpeting the health benefits of red wine, “but that's only when it's consumed in moderation.”

“I hardly ever have more than one,” Birdie said, feigning innocence, even though she knew John knew better—after all, they traveled in the same circles.

John raised an eyebrow. “One glass . . . or one bottle?”

“Ha!” Birdie said, reaching for her crutches. “You know, maybe it
is
a good thing you're retiring. You're getting awfully fresh in your old age.”

John put his hand on her shoulder and looked in her eyes. “Birdie, you know I love you, and I know the curves life's thrown your way, but it's not worth risking your health over. You have a lot of life left to live.”

Birdie knew John had her best in mind. “We'll see,” she said, looking away. “Now, do I get anything for pain?”

“I thought you didn't like taking pills,” he teased.

She eyed him and he chuckled.

“For a sprain you can just take ibuprofen every four to six hours and make sure you keep your foot elevated. Remember R.I.C.E.—rest, ice, compression, elevation?”

“I remember,” she said gloomily.

“Good,” John said, opening the door. “And you also need to remember that anything stronger than ibuprofen will not mix well with alcohol.”

“You take the fun out of everything, you know that?” she said, trying to maneuver the crutches.

“Don't hurt yourself on those,” he said, reaching out to make sure she didn't fall.

“Don't worry, I'm fine,” she muttered. “For an old hen.”

C
HAPTER
3

R
emy Landon stood in the hallway, trying to remember why she'd come upstairs. She walked into her bedroom, hoping it might trigger her memory, and then realized she hadn't made the bed yet . . . and it was almost two o'clock! She started to smooth the sheets, and as she fluffed the starboard pillow, she thought of Jim. She always thought of Jim when she made the bed—it was as if there was a short circuit in her brain and the simple act of fluffing his pillow triggered it. And it was always the same memory, from their wedding night.

“You can always be
my
captain,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

“I
am
saluting.”

Jim had been gone twenty years now, but every time Remy made the bed, the same memory filled her mind, and try as she might, she couldn't seem to stop it.

She propped Thread-Bear, the old teddy bear Jim had given her when they were dating, against the pillow and walked around to open the window. It was a beautiful day—perfect for gardening—but she would definitely need to change first. She pulled open the cardboard box—out of which she'd been living for almost two weeks now—and decided, since it had been reaching eighty degrees every day, it was safe to transfer her turtlenecks and jeans into the box and her T-shirts and shorts into the bureau. Her mother had always warned her not to make the switch too soon because it would jinx the weather. It was the same with flannel sheets—if you put cotton sheets on before mid-May, the temperature would surely drop and there might even be a frost!

Remy rummaged through the box. She'd been wearing the same clothes
forever,
and every season, when she dragged the box out, she promised herself she'd get rid of some of the things she didn't wear anymore—jeans that were way too tight, turtlenecks that were so saggy they should be called hipponecks, sweaters that were pilly—and treat herself to some new things, but then she'd think of all the elderly women who worked at the thrift store. Those hard-working ladies certainly wouldn't appreciate a box of sweaters and jeans dropped off when it was eighty degrees out, or capris and tank tops in October, so she always ended up packing everything back into the box and telling herself she'd try to lose some weight over the summer and fit into those jeans again. Just because it hadn't happened yet didn't mean it couldn't.

Remy pulled out her favorite gardening shirt—a threadbare heather-gray T-shirt she'd bought at the Middlebury College bookstore when she'd gone back for her fifteenth class reunion—and shook it open. It had been the year after Jim died—and although some of her classmates had known, others hadn't. “
Where's ol' Jimbo?
” they'd asked jovially, and then their faces dropped when she'd explained that Jim—her beloved, sweet Jim—had died of a sudden heart attack. “He had a ninety percent blockage in his left artery,” she'd explained, just as it had been explained to her. “Yes, a true widow maker,” she'd agreed, nodding uncertainly. Even though she'd heard the term
widow maker
before, she'd never associated it with Jim's artery. And then fresh tears had welled up in her eyes and her classmates had hugged her and told her how sorry they were, and how strong she was to come to the reunion so soon after his death.

But Remy hadn't felt strong. She'd felt miserable. And after her classmates walked away, she watched them nodding in her direction and knew they were quietly warning one another over their chardonnays and cabernets not to make the same unfortunate mistake of asking her about Jim. And suddenly, feeling as if she couldn't breathe, she'd mustered a weak smile, excused herself, and fled to her car. Why had she thought she could handle it? She'd driven to her hotel, slipped off the new dress she'd spent hours picking out, left it in a crumpled heap on the bed, and driven all the way back to Wellfleet, where the house had never felt emptier.

Remy unbuttoned her blouse and pulled the T-shirt over her wavy silver hair. Thank goodness that was all behind her. In the years since, she'd raised three children, refurbished their old house, volunteered at the library—a position from which she'd recently retired—and hardly ever dwelled on the life she and Jim might have had. And if she decided to grace her old classmates with her presence at their next upcoming reunion, she'd be able to show them that life hadn't gotten the best of her. She'd gotten the best of life!

C
HAPTER
4

S
ailor Quinn-Ross pushed her drawing table up against the window.
Just like Edward Hopper,
she thought,
or any of the countless other artists and writers who'd come to Cape Cod for inspiration and stayed for a lifetime
. The little Truro cottage had been a rare find
and
a steal! When she'd called Josiah Gray—the real estate agent she'd met at the Buzzard's Bay Dunkin' Donuts back when “pay it forward” was popping up everywhere (he'd paid for her large black coffee and then given her his business card)—and left a message that she was looking for something to get her out of Boston and away from her loser and soon-to-be ex-husband, she'd never expected him to call back and say he had just the place. In fact, he'd added, if he wasn't going through a divorce, too, he'd buy it himself.

Sailor had called Josiah right back and met him that evening. She'd walked around the sandy yard covered with scrub oak, gnarled pitch pine, and rambling beach plums, took note of the once lovely—but now overgrown—gardens, and, enchanted by the sunlight filling every room, signed the papers before an ad could even hit the papers. And even though the cottage would need winterizing, it was solid,
and
it was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time.

Sailor stood in the middle of the bright, airy bedroom she'd envisioned as her studio and looked around. Her old oak drawing table—which she'd had since college—fit perfectly under the window, but it also took up half the room. And this was the bigger room! She'd already ordered a twin bed for the smaller room because there was no way her bed from home would fit, not that she even wanted it after she'd found Frank on top of his secretary in it! In fact, there wasn't much she wanted from the four-thousand-square-foot house in Cambridge. Everything she wanted, she'd already packed up and moved. The house in Cambridge, she'd decided, was much too big anyway, especially since the kids had moved out—
and
it was too full of memories that just didn't matter anymore. The kids mattered, but Frank—well, let's just say she was tired of pretending. “Sell it all,” she'd said as she walked out. “I'm done! I am
so
done!”

The simple cottage, on the other hand, was perfect. It was a true beach cottage—a place to crash when you weren't at the beach or out exploring the Cape. It had hardwood floors throughout and a sunny deck with an outdoor shower, and in addition to the two bedrooms, it had a cozy living area that opened into a small kitchen, and although the bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in, she'd manage.

Sailor picked up a cardboard box marked
BOOKS
and put it down in front of a small oak bookcase she'd set up next to her drawing table. She pulled open the flaps, lifted out a pile of children's books, and stood them up on the shelves.
A lifetime of work,
she thought,
and it fits on two shelves!
What would happen to her career now? Frank had always been her editor. He'd been the one who called her that snowy afternoon in early December all those years ago, when she didn't know how she was ever going to pay for Christmas gifts. He'd been the one to tell her he loved
Don't Put the Cart before the Horse
—a silly children's book she'd written and illustrated her senior year at RISD—and ever since that day, they'd been a team—in more ways than one. Any idea she'd had for a book always breezed right through the publisher's meetings. What about now, though? Would Frank make things difficult for her? Would he try to have her blacklisted? She would definitely need to find a new editor . . . maybe even a new publisher. With her library of work, though, and her connections, she shouldn't have too much trouble . . . or would she? Her connections were getting older—some were even retiring—and she was getting older, too. The publishing world was changing. Nothing was certain anymore.

Sailor sighed, stood up stiffly, and made her way through the boxes to the kitchen. The electricity had been turned on that morning, so she'd picked up some basics for the fridge—cheese, butter, eggs, and then she'd stopped at the package store and picked up a couple of bottles of chardonnay. She looked at her phone. It was 4:45 . . . and five o'clock somewhere just off the coast. She opened a bottle, rummaged around in one of the boxes for a glass, and carried both outside to sit on the steps.
Whatever happens happens,
she thought resignedly.
I can't worry about it. Besides, I'm sitting on the steps of my new beach cottage with a bottle of wine, the smell of the ocean, and a new life—it doesn't get any better than this!