Page 38 of The Book of Summer

Palmer has a sprightly, carefree, all-the-world’s-a-dance vibe that would be utterly hateable if she weren’t so self-aware, not to mention insanely nice. Everyone loves Palmer Bradlee, including and especially her husband, who calls her this, Palmer Bradlee in full, as if it’s her first name or he’s introducing a celebrity.

“Bessie!” Palmer says, giving her a fairy’s hug: delicate, light, and smelling of flowers. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“We thought you weren’t coming until the wedding,” Flick says, and marches to Bess’s side. She wraps her in an athletic, wrestler’s embrace. “What gives?”

Palmer shoots Flick a glare. Or, as close to a glare as she can get.

“What gives is a very good question,” Bess says. “Long story short: Cissy’s back at it.”

Flick walks over to the coffeemaker and pours them each a cup.

“Cissy’sstillat it,” Palmer corrects.

“Yes.” Bess nods. “Still at it. And I’ve come to save the day. Poor Cis, right?”

“Jesus.” Flick rolls her startling green eyes. “I love your mom, but come on. It’s time to give up already.”

“Everyone agrees. Except Cissy, of course. That’s the problem. She believes that nothing or no one can match her will and determination. In fairness, very few can. Lala was born four weeks early but Cissy claims it would’ve been earlier if she hadn’t ‘held her in’ for ten days.”

“Goodness, I just love Aunt Cissy,” Palmer chortles. “She is the best.”

“This is not normal,” Flick says gruffly.

“I agree but…”

“What kind of meds is she on?”

“Meds?”

“I think her dosage might be off,” Flick says. “When was the last time your mother saw her shrink?”

“Oh, Felicia! You’re such a Manhattanite,” Palmer says with yet another charming giggle. “Aunt Cis doesn’t have a shrink. She’s a New Englander!”

“She needs one. I’m sorry but there’s dedication and there’s obsession and your mother’s flown past both. She wouldn’t talk to me for a month after I refused to get married at the house.”

“Well, that’s your own fault,” Bess says. “You were already on shaky ground after buying that place in the Hamptons.”

“Oh God, the ‘eschewing of Nantucket’ garbage!” Flick throws her head back. “I spent an hour explaining that I needed something closer to the city since I work approximately all of the damned time. Anyway, we have Tea Time. And here I am. Back. Getting married on-island and therefore not eschewing.”

“Sorry excuse,” Bess says with a smirk. “You could’ve at least gotten married at her house to compensate for the injustice. But instead you’re ‘mocking her.’”

“Yes. What was I thinking? Oh, that’s right. I wanted my wedding venue to still exist when the guests showed up. Well, my dear cousin,” Flick says, and taps Bess’s hand. “All your mother’s kvetching about the ‘hundreds of weddings’ on the lawn, and your marriage to Brandon will end up being the last.”

“Felicia!” Palmer chirps as a tremor runs across her flawless face.

“I meant the last marriage at Cliff House,” Flick hastily adds. “Not, you know, for you. Unless you want it to be.”

“It’s fine.” Bess waves her away.

Suddenly a phone on the counter buzzes—Flick’s, no doubt. Palmer always forgets to turn hers on or bring it in from the car. Messages collect for days before she thinks to check them.

“Shit,” Flick says, studying the screen. “Oh fuck me. I knew I should’ve stayed a full week at the office. I’m working on this convertible debt offering…”

She punches in a number and then holds up a finger to “shush” Bess and Palmer, though Flick is the only one talking.

“The board says what?” she asks before stepping out onto the patio. “I thought they already approved it!”

The door swooshes behind her as Palmer turns to Bess.

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