Page 50 of Last Summer

They’d been displayed in the antique curio cabinet in their tiny apartment. But after her parents’ death and after their belongings had been packed away, Ella despised everything that had belonged to her parents because she hated them for leaving her. And she especially hated anything her mom loved.

One evening Aunt Kathy was cooking dinner, and Ella, missing her parents, sneaked into the garage and snooped through their boxed items. But when she came across her mom’s Lladrós, a rage Ella had never felt before consumed her. Blistering hot anger poured down her face in the form of heavy tears. She picked up one figurine after another and hurled them against the wall.

The sound of shattering porcelain brought Kathy to the garage just in time for her to witness the last figurine, an angel with white wings, explode into miniscule fragments. Porcelain dust sprinkled the garage like new-fallen snow.

“Ella Skye, what do you think you’re doing?” Kathy had shouted.

Ella couldn’t answer. Anger spent, a deep sadness filled her. She’d just destroyed her mom’s prized collection.

Her mom would have smacked her with a spatula and sent her to bed without dinner. But her aunt Kathy only sank to her knees and pulled Ella against her ample chest in a tight bear hug.

Aunt Kathy smelled of apple fritters and warm bread. She’d been baking nonstop since Ella and Andrew moved in. Ella knew she baked the treats to keep her and Andrew happy. But right then, Ella just wanted to keep crying. She’d been holding in her tears for too long.

“There, there.” Aunt Kathy patted her back. “Tell me, Ella. Why did you break your mommy’s statues?”

“Be...be...because,” she stuttered. Ella swiped off tears and, wiping her hands on her shirt, tried again. “Because...I don’t know.” She shrugged a little bony shoulder.

Aunt Kathy pursed her lips. “I think you do know but are afraid to tell me.”

Ella looked at her dirty sneakers. They used to be white. Now they were gray. She twisted her shirt in her hands.

Aunt Kathy tucked a finger under Ella’s chin and lifted her face. “You can tell me. But you must be honest. Honesty is the best policy.”

Ella wasn’t so sure about that. She’d overheard her parents’ last conversation. It was what her mother had said that devastated her father, so much that he not only got them killed but almost killed Ella and her brother.

So yes, Nathan’s right. Ella does blame her mom.

Burning pressure forms behind Ella’s eyes. She blinks rapidly. “I haven’t talked about them in a long time.” From what she can recall, she hasn’t spoken about them since she told Damien during their first year of marriage. The fact she’d told Nathan can mean only one thing. They’d grown very close last summer.

“I know. You mentioned that to me, too. For what it’s worth,” he adds, offering her a handful of trail mix, “you aren’t to blame.”

Ella frowns. “I don’t blame myself. My mom was clearly at fault.”

“I’m not talking about your parents.”

“What then?”

His gaze dips to her midriff and back up to her face. Clarity swoops in like the hawk riding the air currents above them. Yes, she does blame herself for the accident she had last November. Nathan doesn’t have the right to convince her otherwise. He doesn’t know everything.

Neither does she.

Ella grimaces. Time to redirect the conversation. She doesn’t want to talk about her problems anymore. She wants to talk about him. Or them. Yes, that’s a good starting point.

She brushes nut dust from her hands and motions to the recorder. “Mind if we get started?”

“Sure.”

“On the record,” she begins. “Whatdidwe do last summer? My editor told me you took me backpacking.”

Nathan opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it.

“I did,” he acknowledges when Ella circles her hand, eager to get the interview rolling. “We met up June seventh. It was eight months after Carson’s death and my head was still in a bad place. I’d been hiking a section of the PCT, the Pacific Crest Trail. You can access it near here. I guess you could say I had an epiphany of sorts. I needed to tell someone my side of the story. I calledLuxe Avenue, offered the exclusive, and they sent you. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe me.” He smiles, amused.

“I believe you. I mean, my editor did say we went backpacking. I like hiking. Day hikes, like what we’re doing.” She thumbs back at the trail. “I can’t picture myself on a multiday excursion.”

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