Page 21 of The Book of Summer

“You can ditch those, too,” Bess says.

“You know what?” Cissy flings them onto the floor, where they land with a thud. “I’m going to hang on to them. Just in case. It’s not like you could ever get them back.”

Cissy roots around the wardrobe for several more minutes, casting a flurry of apparel, scarves, and questionable forms of millinery across the scuffed wood floors. Evidently Bess wore a fedora at some juncture. She doesn’t remember it at all.

“Oh!” Cissy exclaims in a burst and without warning.

She twirls around to face Bess.

“You will not believe what happened earlier this morning!”

“All right…” Bess says, cautiously.

Cissy’s “you will not believe” could be anything from spilling her coffee to accidentally rescuing a seal pup from the jaws of a shark.

“Chappy Mayhew,” her mom says. “The bastard encroached upon my property!”

“Um… er… what?”

“Heclaimshe was just fetching the paper. That it was thrown onto my driveway by mistake. Likely story! Benji Folger is the paperboy and he’s a Little League pitcher, a stellar one at that. I’ve watched three and a half of his games. There’s no way he’d miss his target.”

“Okay…”

Bess walks over to her suitcase and extracts a pair of sweatpants. She’d gone to unpack last night but decided not to bother. They’ll be moving on soon. Bess can’t fathom that she’ll never unpack at Cliff House again.

“That Chappy Mayhew,” Cissy says, still at full rant. “The nerve of him! If only his balls were actually as big as he pretends they are.”

“Mother! Enough! And unless he did something wrong, I’m sure it’s well within his purview to wander across the road.”

“I saw him hock a loogie onto my roses.”

“Cis, I get that he rankles you. That family’s always been unnaturally egotistical.…”

“They’re a bunch of smartasses, is what they are.”

“Agreed,” Bess says with a nod. “And I appreciate all you’re trying to accomplish with the beaches and the revetments, but the man has his own concerns. Chappy is worried about his livelihood. You can’t fault him for that.”

“Actually I can fault him for that because it’s a bunch of horseshit. As long as there are tourists on Nantucket, Chappy Mayhew will have a steady stream of income.”

“How’s that?”

“Our entire restaurant industry thrives on the lore of the last remaining fisherman. They’d dump a boatload of bass into the Yacht Club swimming pool, just to be able to say the fish is locally caught. That man isn’t worried about his job. He just likes to piss me off. Chapman Mayhew can smooch my flat, white, wrinkled fanny.”

“All right, Cis,” Bess says with a sigh. “I haven’t had the coffee yet to deal with that mental picture.”

Bess slides one leg into her sweatpants (red, faded, Boston College; fifteen years old), and then the other. She hoists them over her hips, loosening the drawstring as she goes.

“Speaking of,” Cissy says. “I need a favor.”

“A favor? Related to your fanny? Thanks, but I see enough derrières at work.”

“Stop with the jokes, Dr. Codman. Are you helping me or not?”

“Always, Cissy. I’m forever at your disposal.”

“Exactly what I’d hoped. All right, my dear. Here’s what I need you to do.”

12

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