Page 33 of Stony Point Summer
“To divorce?”
Kyle nods, leaning his elbows on the table. “Summer is called divorce season because studies show couples in trouble try to rekindle their relationships in the warm months. You know, with all that nice outdoor time. Fun-in-the-sun shit. Picnics, swimming.”
“Like I did? With a walk on the beach?”
“Yep. But the fun times usually backfire and instead couples end up confirming that they can’t stand being together. Then they divorce.”
Jason waves him off. “It’s not like that for me and Maris, I’m telling you.”
“Hope not. At least you guys are talking,” Kyle adds, pointing a stern finger at Jason. “And Maris is exactly why youneedto be at Elsa’s tomorrow. You and your wife should be seen together at a public event.Unlikethat brunch last Sunday.”
Jason shakes his fist across the table. “If I told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. I’llbethere.”
“Counting on it,” Kyle says, standing now.
“It’s the inn’s grand opening after all. I wouldn’tnotshow up, Kyle. Especially for Elsa.”
“Good. You know she’ll throw a bangin’ shindig.” Kyle claps Jason’s shoulder, and when Jason starts to stand, he motions him down. “Sit, bro. You’re beat. I’m beat. And I’m taking off now. See if I can catch some sleep.” He pushes his chair in close to the table and sets his empty beer can on the kitchen counter. “Just put that meal—ziti and meatballs—from the freezer to the oven, whenever. Heat it for forty minutes or so.”
“Got it.”
“And get some rest yourself,” Kyle says—with another sternly pointed finger. Maddy scoops her shark chew toy off the floor and follows behind him. She gives the toy a squeaking chomp, which gets Kyle bending low and patting his legs. “Bring it here, girl. Let me have it.”
The dog does. When she drops the noisy shark, Kyle tosses it across the kitchen floor, with the dog tearing after it. Kyle turns to Jason at the table then. “Be sure to polish up for the big event, too,” he says, motioning to Jason’s disheveled hair and clothes. “Clean up that mountain-man look you got going on again.”
Jason drags a hand across his unshaven jaw. “Anything else you want to nag me about?”
“Nah. That’s enough for now.” Pulling his truck keys from his pocket, Kyle heads to the cottage’s front door. “See you tomorrow, then,” he says.
After grabbing his forearm crutches, Jason follows Kyle to the front step. A heavy mist rises outside, dampening the salt air. “Too bad we’re missing another Friday night fishing, though,” he calls out.
“Yeah,” Kyle says over his shoulder while getting into his truck. “Maybe next week.” He rolls down the driver’s window, flips on his headlights and gives a wave as he takes off into the night.
twelve
— Then —
17 Years Ago
On the Rocks
YOU CAN SEE THE WORKDAY on the two guys. Their clothes are dusty. Their tees, loose at day’s end. Their jeans, cuffed over grimy construction boots. One of the guys—the one over six feet tall—wears a khaki bucket hat. On this hot summer evening, it’s obvious both of them went straight from some manual labor job to dinner to here—the rocky ledge at the end of Stony Point Beach.
“Hey, Neil.” The big guy holds an old fishing rod in one hand and raises a cooler-tote in the other as he clambers over the rocks. “Brought a six-pack.”
“That’s dope. Send one my way,” Neil says while leaning against a boulder and baiting a fishing line.
The big guy drops his gear and opens the tote. “Heads up!” he calls as he tosses Neil a beer.
“Thanks, Kyle.” Neil snatches the can midair and snaps it open before sitting against that boulder again. After a long swallow of beer, he casts his fishing rod. The reel whistles; the line spins out like a wavering thread over the calm water. The sun is just setting; an early moon rises in the eastern sky. “Perfect,” Neil says. Beer in hand, he settles on his boulder again. “A perfect night.”
Climbing over a few rocks, Kyle’s heading closer to the water. “My father had this rod in the garage. Just need some gear on it.”
“Help yourself.” Neil raises his can, motioning to his tackle box.
“First time I’ve fished off the rocks,” Kyle admits while plucking a bobber from Neil’s supplies. “Crabbed? Sure,” he says, giving the bobber a tug once it’s on the line. “But never fished. You didn’t want to go out in your Whaler tonight?”
“Nah. Fish are biting right here,” Neil says. Sitting there, he props a booted foot on a boulder in front of him. “I’m too beat to head out, anyway.”
