Page 88 of Songs of Summer

As Matt and Maggie sashayed by, clearly lost in the music and each other’s eyes, Jason was barely listening to her. His gaze was fixed on his fiancée and Matt, who were dancing as if they had been dancing together all their lives.

“Wow, they’re really laying it on thick for the crowd,” Dylan noted.

Jason shook his head in the way one does when one’s mind is elsewhere.

Time was running out for Matt and Maggie to realize what was so obvious to Dylan—but she hadn’t taken poor Jason’s feelings into account when manipulating the situation. He was a nice guy. She felt badly about it.

“Maggie’s a good actress,” she added, hoping to ease his pain.

“Actually, she’s not. Like really not.”

Maggie and Matt sashayed by again. The boat could have sunk beneath them, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

“Will you excuse me?” Jason asked. “I don’t feel much like dancing. I’m going to go down for a drink. Want anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Dylan stood and watched for a bit more while Matt sang the last verse in Maggie’s ear, “A Sunday, Sunday, Sunday kind of love,” and though she knew that this corny old song and the woman who was singing it were probably one of his old-school favorites, she also knew that his display was spurred by more than loving Etta James. Matt was loving Maggie.

The song ended and the two of them came flying off the dance floor in Dylan’s direction, still hand in hand.

“Where’s J?” Maggie asked, quickly enough. She abruptly dropped Matt’s hand.

It was obvious that Maggie loved Jason deeply. But Dylan loved Matt deeply, so she knew the deal. It wasn’t enough.

“He went downstairs, to the bar,” she answered.

Maggie’s face fell. Not quickly and all at once, more like a pinpricked pool float slowly losing air.

“I’m going to go and find him,” she stated, and headed for the steps.

She was no longer sashaying.

Track 44

Flowers

The Party According to Veronica

All the romanceand coupling around her had Veronica surprisingly pining for her husband. She had hardly been in touch with him since her arrival, partially to torture him a little, and partially because of the Fire Island effect: stepping off the ferry and immediately forgetting the rest of the world’s existence.

Now she found herself not only longing to hear his voice but longing to share the story of how she had saved the day—florally speaking. It had been a long time since Veronica had longed for anything more than the weekly cigarette she poached from her pool guy.

As if reading her mind, Renee approached.

“Veronica,” she gushed, “how can I ever thank you. The arrangements are stunning! I’m so happy you are here!”

Veronica’s smile was so big, it almost cracked her Botox.

Renee moved on through the crowd, and Veronica headed downstairs to the back of the boat to get away from the music and make a phone call, snapping pictures of her floral centerpieces along the way. She felt like a million bucks from beingneeded and creating the arrangements, and two million bucks after hearing the guests’ and Renee’s reactions to her creations. They looked magnificent, if she said so herself, beachy and bright. She was on more than one planning committee for charity benefits in LA, all in need of centerpieces and whatnot. They would probably be thrilled to have her do the flowers.

Flowers by Veronica, she thought with a “dare she dream” type of grin. She repeated it again, but it wasn’t quite right.

Fleurs par V, she thought, brushing her hand across the air as if it were on a marquee.

Her grin exploded. She swallowed it and headed sternward.

Veronica the florist whisked past the bar, trying to avoid the venomous gaze of the bartender. From what she remembered of the other night, Veronica the drunk had made quite a scene at the Salty Pelican. It was a good thing she didn’t care what Chase Logan thought of her.

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