Page 88 of The Book of Summer

“Look at this one,” Bess says. “‘She was all a woman should be.’ Bummer. I was planning to use that epitaph myself. I would love to know what it means. She was a good housekeeper? Aces in the sack? What?”

“Both I’d venture. Let’s get a move on.” Evan lengthens his stride. “I think it’s about to rain again.”

Bess scrambles after him. Fantastic. More weather.

“When’d you become an amateur historian?” Bess asks as they round the corner down the Macy Path. “It’s very cute, and you should definitely use that factoid on the ladies, but it doesn’t seem like you.”

Or does it? Bess doesn’t altogether know.

“Hey,” Evan balks. “Who ya calling an amateur? I’ll have you know that I’m the president-elect of the Nantucket Historical Society.”

“What?” Bess says, gawking in surprise. “That is completely…”

“Lame?”

“No. Unexpected.” Bess smiles sadly. “Awesome.”

With each hour, Bess grows ever more glum about her fake novel that will never come to pass. Evan Mayhew is still a handsome bastard and now he’s shown a snapshot of the old man he might become. Salty, quick-witted, and pestering island folk about family trees. That Costa Rican lady must’ve been some kind of idiot to let him out of her clutches. And Ball Cap—well, she’s doing okay. Apparently.

“Ah,” Evan says. “Here we are.”

“What now?”

Bess shakes her head. Though she knows exactly where they stand, she is fifty kinds of lost.

“Right there,” Evan says, and shows her a stone: weather-beaten, grayed, and cracked.

RUBY GENEVIEVE YOUNG PACKARD

March 10, 1919–February 5, 1994

Lived Respectfully, Loved Vastly

Bess smiles.

“Clay and I used to joke her epitaph should be: ‘Stop complaining. I don’t believe in it.’ God, I miss her.” Bess turns toward Evan. “Thanks a lot, jerk. Now I’m feeling even more ‘hormonal.’”

“Hmm. Or are you just ‘feeling,’ period? What did you tell me last night?”

“Uh, my jeans don’t fit? Don’t tell Cissy I hate oysters?”

“Yes. That and you think half the problem with prescription drug abuse in this country is that people are afraid to feel stuff,” he says. “Then you promptly spent twenty minutes justifying your penchant for elastic pants.”

“I’m not afraid to have feelings,” Bess says. “I feel all over the place. Chiefly about my sweatpants.”

“Okay, you big feeler.” He taps the top of Ruby’s gravestone. “The two of you are due for a chat.”

“But I already said good-bye.”

“Not like this.”

Evan takes a step toward Bess. He pushes a strand of wind-and-salt-tangled hair from her face.

“Tell her about Cliff House, and about you,” he says. “Close the circle. It’s the only way to move on and make room for something new.”

“I don’t want anything new. I like the old and the usual,” Bess says. Then adds: “I’m talking about houses, obviously.”

“Of course,” Evan says with a smirk. “I’m going to leave you and your grandmother alone. I’ll wait for you up by the Soldier’s Turn. Take your time.”

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