Page 54 of A Novel Summer
She found a Dolce & Gabbana embroidered silk corset top that would look amazing with jeans. She pulled off her T-shirt, dropped it to the floor, and slipped the straps over her shoulders. Reaching around to zip it up, she assessed it in the full-length mirror.
Her phone buzzed. She walked over to where she’d left it on her parents’ bed. It was a text from the agency guy, the one she’d hooked up with after Shelby’s reading at the Red Inn. Hunter smiled—so random. She’d actually thought about him just a few days ago. But tonight, she was big game hunting: Anders Fleming would be at the party.
She ignored the text.
Justin’s phone pinged. He hoped it was Kate saying she was on her way. She’d insisted on keeping the store open late that night in a way that seemed almost spiteful. He just wasn’t sure who the spite was directed towards—himself or her father.
After Martin shamed her into staying in Provincetown to take care of business instead of spending July Fourth in Boston, Kate didn’t bring up the holiday again. When Justin reminded her of his parents’ dinner party at the restaurant, she said she was working late.
“I’m not going to stay in Ptown for the store, and then not work at the store,” she’d said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was. It had just surprised him. But they made plans to meet up for dinner and go to the fireworks. So really, there was plenty of time left in the night to celebrate.
But the text wasn’t from Kate. Shelby sent a photo of a packed book event on the beach.
He’d done the right thing. And he was glad his mother had nudged him. It wasn’t any of her business, but that had never stopped her before and—as she herself admitted—probably never would. Some things didn’t change, and that was a beautiful thing. Wasn’t his entire job, in some ways, about fighting change? As his father always said, “There’s a difference between change and progress.”
He peered down the table at his smiling parents; a three-decade wedding anniversary was a small miracle. How did two people ever make it work for so long?
The music piped outside was what his parents referred to as “yacht rock.” Sappy songs from when they’d been kids from bands with names like Air Supply and Chicago. Votives flickered on the tabletops around them, and Mia had strung paper lanterns, along with a banner reading Happy Anniversary!
“WhereisMia?” one of his aunts asked his mother.
“Working at the bookshop,” Carmen said proudly. Justin knew that even though his parents had given Mia a hard time about the restaurant, he suspected his mother secretly saw Mia’s interest in the bookstore as a good sign. It took the sting out of all her complaints about college. How could someone who loved books that much not want to continue their education?
After dinner, his mother brought out a triple-layer chocolate cake topped with chocolate ganache. She’d been baking the cake every Fourth of July since her wedding day.
“Remember you and your sister used to fight over who got to eat the icing flowers?” His mother leaned over with the cake knife and sliced a piece with a fat, fluffy bloom of icing on top. “Speaking of your sister—I’m bringing her a piece.”
“Bringing it to her...where?”
“The bookstore,” she said. “It’s bad luck if she doesn’t have a bite.”
His mother always laughed at his grandmother—her own mother—for such superstitions. Carmen didn’t see that the older she got, the more often she said the same sort of irrational things as if they were scientific fact.
“Mom, it’s not bad luck. And there’s a reading there tonight—a party. That’s why Mia’s not here in the first place. You can’t just bring over a random piece of cake.”
He wondered how many glasses of wine she’d had. His father had kept them coming, all the best reds. Justin might have had one too many himself.
“It’s not arandompiece of cake,” Carmen said. “It’s our anniversary cake. Besides, I want to see Annie and Pam. You should come say hello, too.”
Justin started to say no, but then he realized he had another hour or two before Kate closed the shop and was able to meet up with him. He looked at the photo Shelby sent him again.
Why not?
Thirty-Eight
Hunter, feeling out of place, wandered around the party. The house was a cozy, gray-shingled cottage, but it didn’t feel like a Ptown crowd, and it certainly wasn’t welcoming. The hostess, dressed in all black, chain-smoked on the back deck while inside, people huddled in tight little groups.
She walked around the living room in one final loop before conceding the party was a total fail. She’d made a mistake not answering Ezra Randall’s text. Just as she was reconsidering her strategy for the night, she crossed paths with Anders.
“Hunter! What a surprise.” He was dressed in a casual blazer and dark pants, holding an amber-colored drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. When he kissed her cheek, the scent of Scotch and smoke made her want to pull him into the bedroom right then and there. “I’m headed to the bar. Come.”
After claiming two glasses of wine, they found a quiet corner.
“This doesn’t feel like a bookish crowd,” Hunter said.
“Well, Mimi’s from Berlin,” he said, as if that explained it. Which, maybe it did. Hunter really had to get out of Massachusetts more often. She surveyed the room, recognizing a few notable authors but deciding most of the people just looked like sheshouldknow who they were. Anders took her on a loop and generously introduced her to people whose names she knew from title pages and bylines and screen credits, until she finally noticed a familiar face.
“That’s Kate Hendrik,” Hunter said, relieved to finally be able to point someone out tohim. “She owns the new bookshop in town.”
