Page 154 of The Book of Summer

The Last Day of Cliff House

Dear Bess,

I’ve come to Cliff House to supervise the movers and pack up the last of your things. Cissy is here, too. She seems to be preparing for departure, but since she loves to keep people guessing, I’ll believe it when she’s physically out of the house.

I write this from my car, parked on the white-shelled drive of the great, grand Cliff House. This will be the last entry in the Book of Summer. I won’t rip it out, even though it’s no less embarrassing than the first.

Do my words look strange? Stilted? Wobbly? Your mom commented that my hands were shaky. She’s right, though I had to play it off. It seems a little callous to admit excitement on such a sad day. I can hardly take the hours between right now and tonight, when I get to escort you to Felicia’s wedding.

A little birdie called last night. She claims you need a chaperone. You’re supposed to “take it easy” and there’s a better shot at following doctor’s orders if someone else is keeping guard. But this babysitting bunk is not the favor she is trying to do us both.

Tonight is tonight but at this very moment my guys are guiding a piano through your front door. Behind them stand empty rooms, the ocean in the distance. It’s damn near choking me up. I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t been in Sconset much this century. These past few days will be tough enough to shake. Deep down, I hope you stay on-island, just like we talked about in our fake Nantucket novel. But I understand why you can’t, and therefore why you won’t. I can only ask that one day you come home.

Well, Lizzy C., until next time, because there will be one.

Always,

Evan Mayhew

62

Monday Evening, Memorial Day

Bess is draped across a tan couch in “For Everyone Else,” the cottage at the edge of the Bradlee property.

She has on wedding wear, but is struggling to gin up the appropriate wedding face. Either her bleakness sullies Flick’s beautiful event, or Bess doesn’t show up at all. There’s no way to win tonight.

There is a knock at the door.

“Whaaaaat?” Bess grumble-moans.

Some envoy, she assumes, sent to usher Bess back among the living. No one in that family will let her get away with skulking all night, recent hospitalizations notwithstanding.

The person knocks again. Bess lets out a whimper and gives a sturdy pout. Answering seems like too much effort but you don’t throw a tantrum on your cousin’s wedding day. Not even Cissy would do that.

“Coming,” Bess gripes, hoping the person has already decamped.

Bess shuffles across the hardwood, grains of sand sticking to her feet. With an inhale, she opens the door. On the fish-and-coral mat stands Evan. He’s in a suit, carrying a reusable grocery bag.

It’s a full minute before Bess can admit that it’s him.

“Oh my God!” she says, heart clunking around inside of her. “What in the world…”

As surprised as she is, Evan is visibly gaping, too. Is it the dress? Or the presumed state of her eyeliner and hair?

“You look fantastic,” he says.

“What you are doing here?”

“I’m your date. Mind if I come in?”

Evan scoots past Bess, as if she’s just said yes.

“But I… who said I needed a date?”

“I can’t tell you,” he says, then grins over his shoulder. “It was Palmer.”

Evan turns all the way around and Bess takes him in. His suit is light gray; he wears a white shirt and periwinkle tie underneath. A tie. The man is wearing a tie.

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