Сьюзен Виггс - Summer By The Sea

She gestured at the security camera mounted on a light pole.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked.

“Trying to let my quality people know I don’t need rescuing.” It was late. She couldn’t keep batting this pointless conversation back and forth. She just wanted to go home. Besides, it was taking every bit of energy she possessed to pretend he had no effect on her. “What are you doing here, Alex?” she asked.

He showed her his hand, which held a palm-sized cell phone. “I was calling a taxi. Is the local service as bad now as it used to be?”

“A taxi? You’d be better off hitchhiking.”

“That’s supposed to be dangerous. And I know you wouldn’t want to put a customer in danger.”

“Where are your friends, anyway?”

“Went back to Newport.”

“And you’re headed…?”

“To the house on Ocean Road.”

No one in his family had visited the place in twelve years. It was like a haunted mansion, perched there at the edge of the ocean, an abandoned, empty shell. Wondering what had brought him back after all this time, she shivered. Before she realized what he was doing, he slipped his jacket around her shoulders. She pulled away. “I don’t—”

“Just take it.”

She tried not to be aware of his body heat, clinging to the lining of the jacket. “Your friends couldn’t give you a ride?”

“I didn’t want one. I was waiting for you…Rosa.”

“What, so I can give you a lift?” Her voice rose with incredulity.

“Thanks,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.” He headed for the Alfa Spider.

Rosa stood in the amber glow of the floodlights, trying to figure out what to do. She was tempted to peel out without another word to him, but that seemed a bit juvenile and petty. She could always get someone from the restaurant to give him a ride, but they weren’t feeling too friendly toward him. Besides, in spite of herself, she was curious.

She didn’t say another word as she released the lock on the passenger side door. She waved goodbye to the security camera; then they got in and took off.

“Thanks, Rosa,” he said.

Like he’d given her a choice. She exceeded the speed limit, but she didn’t care. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not even a possum or a deer. This area was lightly patrolled by the sheriff’s department, and given her association with Sean Costello, sheriff of South County, she didn’t have much concern that she’d get a ticket.

At the roadside, beach rose hedges fanned out toward the dunes and black water. On the other side lay marshes and protected land, an area mercifully untouched for generations.

“So I guess you’re wondering why I’m back,” Alex said.

She was dying to know. “Not at all,” she said.

“I knew Celesta’s was your place,” he explained. “I wanted to see you.”

His directness took her aback. But then, he used to be the most honest person she knew. Right up until he left, never looking back.

“What for?” she asked.

“I still think about you, Rosa.”

“Ancient history,” she assured him, reminding herself he’d been drinking.

“It doesn’t feel that way. Feels like only yesterday.”

“Not to me,” she lied.

“You were dating that deputy. Costa,” Alex said, referring to the day he’d briefly returned, about ten years ago, and she’d sent him away. He would remember that, along with the fact that she didn’t need or want him.

“Costello,” she corrected him. “Sean Costello. He’s the sheriff now.”

“And you’re still single.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

Rosa drove even faster. “It was awkward, you showing up like that.”

“I figured it would be. At least we’re talking. That’s a start.”

“I don’t want to start anything with you, Alex.”

“Have I asked you to?”

She pulled into the crushed gravel and oyster shell drive of the Montgomery house. Over the years, the grounds had been kept neat, the place painted every five years. It was a handsome Victorian masterpiece in the Carpenter Gothic style, complete with engraved brass plaque from the South County Historical Preservation Society.

“No,” she admitted, throwing the gear in Neutral. “You haven’t asked me for anything but a ride. So here’s your ride. Good night, Alex.” She thought about tossing off a remark—Say hi to your mother from me—but couldn’t bring herself to do that.

He turned to her on the seat. “Rosa, I have a lot to say to you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then you won’t. Not right now. See, I’m drunk. And when I say what I want to say to you, I need to be stone-cold sober.”

The next morning Rosa went to Pegasus, a coffeehouse furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs, low tables and a luxurious selection of biscotti. The café offered the New York Times and Boston Globe, along with the Providence Journal Bulletin and local papers. Rosa was friendly with the proprietor, Millie, a genuine barista imported from Seattle, complete with baggy dress, Birkenstocks and a God-given talent for making perfect espresso.

While she fixed a double tall skinny vanilla latte, Millie eyed the stack of notebooks and textbooks Rosa had set on the table.

“So what are we studying now?” She tilted her head to the side to read the spines of the books. “Neurolinguistic Programming and its Practical Application to Creative Growth. A little light reading?”

“It’s actually an amazing topic,” Rosa said over the whoosh of the milk steamer. “Did you know there’s a way to recover creative joy simply by finding pleasurable past associations?”

Millie set the latte on the counter. “Too advanced for me, Einstein. What school?”

“Berkeley. The professor even offered to read my final paper if I e-mail it to him.”

Millie eyed her admiringly. “I swear, you have the best education money can’t buy.”

“Keeps me out of trouble, anyway.” Rosa had never left home, but over the years she’d managed to sample the finest places of higher learning in the world—genetics at MIT, rococo architecture at the University of Milan, medieval law at Oxford and chaos theory at Harvard. She used to contact professors by phone in order to finagle a syllabus and reading list. Now the Internet made it even easier. With a few clicks of the mouse, she could find course outlines, study sheets, practice tests. The only cost to her was the price of books.

“You’re nuts,” Millie said with a grin. “We all think so.”

“But I’m a very educated nut.”

“True. Do you ever wish you could sit down and take an actual class?”

Long ago, that had been all Rosa had dreamed of. Then she’d found herself in the midst of an unspeakable tragedy, and the entire course of her life had shifted. “Sure I do,” she said with deliberate lightness. “I still might, one of these days, when I find the time.”

“You could start by hiring a general manager for your restaurant.”

“I can barely afford my own salary.” Rosa had a seat and opened one of the books to an article on Noam Chomsky’s Transformational Grammar.

Linda showed up wearing a T-shirt that read What if the Hokey Pokey is what it’s all about? and went to the counter to order her usual—a pot of Lady Grey with honey and a lemon wedge on the side. “Sorry I’m late,” she said over her shoulder. “I tried to get off the phone with my mom, but she couldn’t stop crying.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I guess, but it might be a little insulting, too. She was just so…relieved. She’s been worried that I’d never get married. A major tragedy in the Lipschitz family. So the fact that Jason’s Catholic didn’t even faze her.” She held out her hand, letting the sunlight glitter through the facets of the diamond in her new engagement ring. “It looks even better in broad daylight, doesn’t it?”