Page 11 of Summer Reading

I honked the horn. He jumped a foot in the air. I almost laughed but managed not to as I was quite certain that wouldn’t go over with the prickly teen. He shot me a dark look. I honked again.

He glanced around as if to be sure no one was witnessing his embarrassment of a half sister honking her horn at him. I honked again.

“Stop that!” he cried.

“Then get in,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m following you and honking the whole way home.”

“You’re so immature,” he said. He heaved a very put-upon sigh and opened the passenger door. It took everything I had not to prank him and step on the gas. He tossed his backpack into the foot well and then his body into the seat. He buckled himself in with a click.

“About what you overheard at the library—”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to his earbuds, and I watched as he raised the volume on his phone so that he couldn’t hear a word I was saying. I turned back to the road and drove us home, fuming.

I’d always thought the care of babies was an excellent method of birth control. I mean changing diapers and constant squalling, no thank you, but in that moment, I realized that teenagers were a much better deterrent. Honestly, how did parents not leave them by the side of the road with aFree to a Good Homesign taped to their backs?

I pulled into the driveway, and Tyler was out of the car before I’d completely stopped. I watched as he darted up the porch stairs, unlocked the door, and slammed it behind him.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read 5:20 p.m. or, as I liked to think of it, beverage o’clock.I locked the car and entered the house. There was no sign of Tyler, so I assumed he’d escaped to his room. Perfect. I could use a little alone time.

I surveyed the contents of the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. It was lightly stocked but that was okay. I decided I needed a little sunshine in my day and made a spiked sort of lemonade and then headed back out to the front porch. I sat on the love seat and put my feet up on the coffee table. Our little cul-de-sac was off the beaten path, but a few tourists wandered by, checking out our quaint houses and the abundance of blue hydrangeas that decorated just about every front yard.

I let the cool breeze wash over me while I mentally planned dinner in my head. Tyler was obviously growing, and I was betting that hunger would get him out of his room more effectively than any request by me, so the trick would be to cook something that beckoned him like a siren to a sailor.

He had stubbornly refused to let me pack his lunch today, taking a sad-looking peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple instead. If I didn’t know for a fact we were related, I’d have questioned his parentage.

I sipped my drink, lemony with just a hint of vanilla, and waved at Mr. Dutton across the street as he mowed his very petite patch of grass with the precision of a pilot coming in for a landing.

There wasn’t a lot of yard to tend around the houses of Oak Bluffs, which was why so many of theregular summer residents were in each other’s business. Mr. Dutton waved back and switched off the engine.

I hadn’t seen him, or any of the neighbors, very often over the last ten years, and while his hair was grayer, he still wore his baggy shorts and festive Hawaiian shirts. It made me feel as if I might be able to slip back into Vineyard life without too much fuss. He looked like he was about to cross the narrow street and come chat, when a motorcycle stopped in front of my house.

Interesting. I didn’t know anyone on the Vineyard who rode a motorcycle. I watched as the rider switched off the engine and set the kickstand. He was wearing a white T-shirt, which framed his broad shoulders, and well-worn jeans that clung to his slim hips like he was a walking advertisement for a lickable man pop. The black lace-up boots looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them.

I watched as the rider unfastened his helmet and lifted it off. He shook out his dark wavy hair and set the helmet on the seat. With a flash of recognition, I knew who it was before he turned around, and I thought I might keel over in my seat. Hot librarian guy, Ben, rode a motorcycle! OMG!

I resisted the urge to fan my face with my hand, but the fluttering feeling inside me refused to be still. Instead, I tried to look casual and took a bracing sip of my spiked lemonade as Ben started up the walkway.Mr. Dutton across the street saw that I had a visitor, and turned back to his mower, which was fine. We had all summer to catch up.

“Hi, Ben.” I waved him up onto the porch. Was my voice coming out too high? I cleared my throat, trying not to stare at his shoulders, his hips, his wavy hair. Gah! I didn’t know where to look. Was there an unattractive part of him anywhere? Maybe a nostril or an earlobe?

“Hi, Samantha,” he said. His steps were heavy on the stairs. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all. You’re just in time. Happy hour started about ten minutes ago,” I babbled. “I’m working on my mixology skills. The jury is still out on this concoction, care to have one and offer an opinion?”

He looked at the cocktail in my hand appreciatively. “Are you a professional mixologist?”

“No, I’m a chef by trade, but I like to dabble with beverage recipes and raise my skill set,” I said.

He grinned and my brain went a little fuzzy. “Well, if it’s for the sake of research, I’ll try one.”

“Sit.” I gestured to a chair. “I’ll be right back.”

I hurried into the house and quickly fashioned him a cocktail just like mine. I might have been a bit more careful with his, not that I was trying to impress him or anything. Okay, yes, I totally was, which was ridiculous because for all I knew he was married or had a girlfriend. Never mind that he was obviously a bookperson and I wasn’t. I pushed all of that aside and went back to the porch.

“Here you go.” I handed him the drink.

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