Page 47 of Cool for the Summer

DONOVAN

After gettingall sweaty playing with Cleo outside in the rapidly climbing heat, I drink about a gallon of coffee and demolish the breakfast tacos that a newly squeaky-clean Beck somehow whips up in five minutes. I really love his breakfast tacos.

“So, what’s on your agenda for this beautifully humid Sunday?” I ask while I’m loading the dishwasher. Part of me wouldn’t mind spending the day in bed, since Beck is right here and we have both privacy and a plethora of beds to choose from. Even after scratching my much-delayed itch last night, I’m nowhere near feeling satisfied.

But I know him well enough by now to expect that a lazy Sunday in bed is not Beck’s style.

“I was going to head to the farmer’s market and get us some fresh produce for the week and see if maybe I can talk to Stacy.”

“Stacy?” Is this another member of the Rosedale chapter of the Beck Avery fan club?

“The baker who supplies Hot Brew.”

“Ah. Scoping out your competition?” I’m impressed, if a little baffled, by the way Beck’s taken to the idea of opening his own bakery twenty-four hours after latching onto the idea in the first place.

“Something like that. Maybe she and I could collaborate instead of compete. Anyway, want to come with?”

“Sure. We could grab some lunch out.”

“Sold.”

I go up to my room to get my baseball cap and my wallet and my eyes land on my notebook. I have been doing a champion job of avoiding my play most of the week, but Beck’s newfound goals are an inspiration, so I take my notebook and pen along. Maybe I can find a place to sit and write a little while Beck’s making friends with Stacy.

By unspoken agreement, Beck drives downtown. It takes a few minutes to find a parking space since some of the street is blocked off to traffic for the market. He grabs his reusable bags, and we do a circuit of the fifteen or so booths to check out what’s on offer. It’s a typical small-town market, but a nice one. There’s a local honey purveyor, a table full of jams and jellies, the obligatory fresh produce, even raw milk and cheese.

When we get to the baked goods, Beck pounces on the round, sixty-something woman behind a table piled high with breads, rolls, pies and muffins. “You must be Stacy,” he cries. I can tell he has to hold himself back from hugging the stranger.

“That’s me,” she says pleasantly, inclining her head of gray-streaked black curls.

“I’ve heard so much about you and I’m so excited to meet you,” he says. “I’m Beck Avery. I think you know my cousin Jack and his husband Pete.”

“I do know those handsome boys. Nice to meet you, Beck.”

Beck launches into a jumbled monologue about loving her stuff and not wanting to step on toes, but he’s thinking about opening up some kind of a bakery on Main Street. “Can I buy you lunch one day this week?” he finishes, a little out of breath.

“Oh, you young people and your energy.” She laughs and exchanges an amused glance with me.

“Beck is very energetic,” I agree, smiling. “And his cookies are incredible.”

“Cookies?” Her ears perk up at the word. “You know, cookies are not my speciality. But I hear cookie shops are very popular.”

“Me too! What’s your favorite kind of cookie?”

I excuse myself quietly to let them bond over baked goods and find a nearby bench to sprawl on. I’m mostly in the shade, but my feet are in the sun. I don’t have anywhere particular to be—lunch with Beck is the only thing on my agenda. I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.

For all my complaining about the lack of excitement in small towns, there’s something profoundly calming about Rosedale, about the friendly people and their quiet acceptance. I don’t feel like I have to prove myself here, a contrast to striving hard for twelve years in the city. Here I can just…be. And being here with Beck is exciting in its own way—his plans and, yes, his energy, can’t help but rub off on me. And the fact that we’re letting ourselves enjoy each other in other ways adds a little frisson to everything. I’m almost positive I can convince him to take a dip in the pool after lunch. Hopefully naked.

I quickly get out my notebook to keep that train of thought from running away with me. I look at the last thing I wrote—“Julian doesn’t want to fall.” Julian is the protagonist of the play, such as it is. I have four scenes drafted and a sketchy outline. I owe my agent an update but keep responding to her handful of check-in texts and calls with vague replies. Joan wanted to see a complete draft by mid-July, but that’s barely two weeks away; a literal miracle would have to happen to make that deadline.

But for the first time since I got to Rosedale, I don’t not want to work on it, if that makes any sense. I remember what intrigued me about my original idea in the first place—Julian has achieved some level of professional accomplishment and now he’s wondering what’s next. With his whole life stretching out in front of him, does he choose the traditional markers of success—partner, family, home, career—or does he take a different path?

I jot some notes. Maybe he runs into an old friend. They catch up, and the friend seethes with barely repressed jealousy over Julian’s rather public success. Then?—

Then, what?

I look up and bite the end of my pen. Beck’s still talking to Stacy. A guitarist in a peasant dress is setting up a few feet away with a portable mic and a shade umbrella. A woman in cutoffs and a tie-dyed shirt is helping her, but when she sees me watching she stops, says something to the guitarist, then walks over to me.

“Hi, you’re Donovan Eastman, right?” She has a low, confident voice.

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