Summer at Sunset: (The Summer Series Book 2) Read online

  Summer at Sunset

  Beth Labonte

  Copyright © 2016 Beth Labonte

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  First Edition (December 2016)

  www.bethlabonte.com

  For Karyn & Steve, who let me drive their golf cart

  “I’m not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping.”

  P.G. Wodehouse

  SUMMER

  ⌘

  We’re engaged!

  What do you mean who?

  Us. Summer Eve Hartwell and Graham Michael Blenderman. You may remember us from such fiascos as Cruising to Bermuda with Summer’s Wackadoodle Parents and, well, I guess that’s probably all you may remember us from. We’ve been living a relatively quiet existence for the past two years.

  Anyway, it was all very romantic. It was the morning after my brother Eric’s wedding, and Graham and I were sipping mimosas over breakfast on the veranda of the Boston Park Plaza. Sure, Mom and Dad were also there—sitting across the table, sipping decaf coffee, and obsessing over the likelihood of developing skin cancer after fifteen minutes exposure to early morning sunlight—but I hardly even noticed them.

  All I noticed was Graham suddenly putting his fork down, pushing his chair back, and getting down on one knee beside me. As I quickly tried to swallow the last forkful of bacon and eggs I’d shoveled into my mouth, Graham told me that I was his one true love, the Arwen to his Aragorn, the Rose to his Doctor, the Khaleesi to his Khal Drogo—I admit that I may have imagined some of those—and asked me to marry him!

  Then he slid the most gorgeous, sparkling, must-have-sold-a-lot-of-iPhone-apps diamond ring onto my finger, while Mom and Dad sat across the table looking completely stunned. I mean, they would not have looked any more stunned had Abe Lincoln Vampire Slayer just lopped off both of our heads with an axe. But we didn’t have our heads lopped off, we got engaged!

  Once Mom and Dad snapped out of it, they went nuts hugging and kissing us and trying to take pictures with Dad’s new smartphone. Then people at the other tables started clapping, and the hotel even sent over a bottle of complimentary champagne. It was like something out of a movie.

  And even though Dad announced, about four minutes after the ring was nestled snugly onto my finger, that he had to find a men’s room due to his Irritable Bowel Syndrome, it was truly the most magical moment of my life.

  Truly.

  It’s funny how a mere twelve months after the most magical moment of my life, I could so desperately wish that I’d never been born.

  1

  When I say that it’s funny, I don’t mean that it’s ha ha funny.

  I mean it’s funny like when you get a pedicure and then immediately drop a book on your big toe after leaving the nail salon. Trust me, it’s happened. And right now my life is my big toe, and all of this is one big, heavy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows-sized book waiting to drop and mess everything up.

  It’s too early to think about any of that, though. All I can think about right now is the fact that it can’t possibly be six o’clock already. I feel like I slid into bed mere minutes ago. It can’t have been more than a millisecond since my head sank into the pillow and I blissfully lost consciousness. I would give anything to be able to hit the snooze button right now. Anything. But I can’t.

  Would you like to know why?

  Because instead of a simple alarm going off—one that I could smash with the palm of my hand, and then roll over into a deep, glorious slumber—I have Graham’s mother pounding on my bedroom door. She’s pounding on it, and she’s singing.

  Good morning! Good morning! Good morning to you!

  The woman is completely insane. I mean, I love her and can’t wait to be a part of the family and all that. But let’s face it, she’s nuts.

  I really hope Graham is enjoying himself, sound asleep in the other guest bedroom. He started sleeping over there after the first time his mother bull-horned the both of us out of bed for a seven a.m. Zumba class. As chipper as Graham can be, he’s actually not much of a morning person. After attending one class, he decided that Zumba should be a mother and daughter-in-law bonding event, and politely bowed out.

  I should mention that these early mornings always occur after several consecutive nights of drinking and dancing on the town common. Let me tell you, the old people here are completely out of their minds. How they are managing to see eighty and ninety years old with this kind of lifestyle is seriously baffling. I mean, here I am—twenty-eight years old—and after only a few weeks at this place I feel as if I’ve got one foot in the grave.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Summer? Are you up? We want to make sure we get a spot in the front row!”

  “Yes, yeah...I’m up,” I mumble into my pillow.

  “Summer?”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Yes! Yes! I’m up!” I scream, before she has a chance to start banging again. Or worse yet, singing.

  Yes, I’m up. At least I don’t have to shower. Zumba class at Sunset Havens doesn’t exactly require one to look her best. That’s where Graham and I are right now—Sunset Havens, or “The Havens,” as it’s fondly known to its residents. Sunset Havens is one of Florida’s largest retirement communities, with a population of over one hundred thousand and a black market for Viagra. They even have swingers.

  No, not golfers. Why would I point out something as mundane as golfers? Every retirement community has golfers. No, I’m talking about the other kind of swingers. Gross, I know. Believe me, it didn’t become any less gross when four of Babette Blenderman’s elderly girlfriends described a swingers party to me in great detail. Babette swore up and down that she and Graham’s dad aren’t involved in that kind of thing, but I’m pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye. I have to remember to bring that up with Graham, actually.

  I grab a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt from the dresser and head into the bathroom. I wash my face, put in my contact lenses, and throw my hair into a who-cares-I’m-doing-Zumba-with-my-mother-in-law sort of ponytail. Done and done. I follow the smell of coffee into the kitchen and take a seat at the island. Babette is whizzing around in her purple spandex workout gear, her shoulder length blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail by a purple satin scrunchie. Scrunchies are still in style here at The Havens, as are shorts with sandals and black knee socks. She slides a plate of egg whites and wilted kale in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, picking up the saltshaker and sprinkling a liberal amount over my food. Babette’s become a bit of a health nut since moving here. I think she’s trying to counteract all of the drinking and sun exposure by overdosing on beta-carotene and Vitamin K. Will it work? Nobody knows. What I do know is that if we were staying at my parents’ house, I’d be eating an Egg McMuffin and hash browns right now. I sigh and take a bite of kale. Sometimes I miss my parents.

  “What time do you expect your parents to get here?” asks Babette, pouring us two cups of coffee. Babette drinks hers black. I dump two teaspoons of sugar into mine.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, a small pit forming in the bottom of my stomach. “They stayed last night in Georgia, so probably later this afternoon. Eric’s going to call me once they’re close.”

  Did I say that I missed my parents? Well, fort
unately, I don’t have long to wait. You see, Graham and I are getting married in one week, right here in Florida.

  Right here in Florida...at a retirement community.

  Yes, you heard right. And yes, it’s all my fault.

  We were down here for a visit shortly after our engagement, when Babette and I attended a bridal show at the Sunset Havens function hall called The Lakeview. I’d been having anxiety over the thought of planning a wedding with my mother—surely wedding planning involved more nervous breakdowns than she was equipped to handle. I mean, soon after our engagement, Mom gave me a lengthy dissertation on the cons of strapless wedding gowns (there were no pros). And so, after a few too many sample glasses of champagne, I had confided some of these fears in my future mother-in-law. I blame myself for not noticing the look of incredulous joy that had crept into Babette’s eyes—a look that I now recognize as belonging to mothers of sons who, after years of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, realize they might finally get the chance to do something girly.

  About three seconds later, Babette found a contest to win an all expenses paid wedding at The Lakeview, and the two of us ceremoniously dropped my name and information into the entry box. After all of the champagne samples I’d consumed, the reality of what winning the contest might mean wasn’t able to work itself into the proper parts of my brain. Besides, what were the odds?

  Quite good, as it turns out. I won the contest.

  After a minor freak-out—in which I repeated the words what have I done for about thirty minutes straight and in a variety of intonations and facial expressions—I decided that getting married at a retirement community would work out for the best.

  First of all, it was too late to take the wedding away from Babette. She would have been completely heartbroken and have nothing girly to look forward to until Graham and I have children. And what if we have nothing but boys? I mean, within hours of winning, she had already started planning how I would arrive at The Lakeview via the Maid of the Havens tour boat. I’m not a monster. I couldn’t disappoint her like that.

  Second of all, when I got up the nerve to tell my mother about having the wedding in Florida, she told me that it was a “huge weight off of her shoulders.” Granted, hearing one’s mother describe her only daughter’s wedding as a “huge weight” is a bit depressing. But that just proved my point. If I didn’t want to run the risk of my wedding being called off every time a slight problem arose, I needed to take my mother out of the equation—even if that meant having my wedding at a retirement community.

  So, you see, it all seemed like a win-win.

  Graham continues to have a few reservations about the idea. He keeps telling me that I’m going to regret not planning the wedding with my mother, to which I simply reply, Have you met my mother?

  Admittedly, it’s been difficult planning a wedding from twelve hundred miles away. Not to mention that the guest list has had to be severely whittled down. The whole thing involves quite a lot of emails, quite a lot of phone calls, and quite a lot of trust in my future mother-in-law. And quite a lot of nervous breakdowns, to tell you the truth. But, it’s my bed and I must lie in it.

  Anyway, here we are.

  With my school librarian job on summer break, and Graham able to build iPhone apps from anywhere he wants, we’ve already been down here for three weeks. Mom and Dad have refused to fly in for the wedding—citing the usual fears and phobias—and are instead being driven down the East Coast by Eric and his wife. They are arriving today and staying for the week, right here with us in the Blenderman house. That’s right, there will be six of us crammed into a fifteen hundred square foot, three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch. I can tell you that I am very much looking forward to Graham and I boarding that airplane and zipping off to our honeymoon in Jamaica.

  But, first thing’s first.

  ***

  Zumba class is taking place this morning at Redwood Corral—the Western themed town common here at The Havens. The town commons are where all of the shops and restaurants are located, and where hundreds of residents gather each night to listen to live music, drink, dance, and drink some more. Each town common is also filmed twenty-four hours a day by live web cams. I’m pretty certain that nobody in the world has ever tuned in to The Havens web cams, but still. It’s very 1984.

  Babette and I are early enough to claim the last two spots directly in front of the bandstand, but the common is filling up fast. Golf carts are pouring in, vying for parking spaces. Somebody lays on their horn. I look up to see a golf cart moving timidly off down the street, while another cart, with pink and purple feather boas wound all around the frame, turns roughly into a parking space.

  I clench my fists as two women get out of the cart and make their way across the common toward us. Let’s just say that Graham has a bit of a history with these two. Let’s also just say that they make my skin crawl.

  The one on the left is Francine—short, dyed jet black hair, with a smoker’s cough. Today she’s wearing turquoise terrycloth pants, and a t-shirt that says Co-ed Naked Shuffleboard. Next to her is Janice—tall, blonde, and with what I can only assume are Jessica Simpson hair extensions. She’s wearing black spandex bicycle shorts, and a pink t-shirt that says Sunset Havens Twirlers.

  “Hi, Summer,” says Francine, poking me in the back. “Babette.”

  “Hello, girls,” says Babette. “Nice to see you up so early. I like what you’ve done with your hair, Francine. Very natural.”

  “My hairdresser says that black is the new blonde.” Francine gives Janice a smug look.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t have enough time to do your makeup this morning,” says Janice, inspecting her nails.

  “Looks like you two girls got the last spots in the front row,” says Francine, ignoring Janice. She gives us an exaggerated wink.

  I look in the direction of the live web cam, and roll my eyes. I find myself doing that a lot here. I know nobody can actually see my individual facial expressions, but it’s fun to imagine. I feel like I’m the star of my own crazy reality show.

  Summer At Sunset.

  It’s got a bit of a ring to it.

  2

  Front row. Big deal. The reason there is such competition for the front row is ridiculous. There is this instructor named Flavio, and he is straight out of a nineteen-eighties aerobics video—including a neon spandex bodysuit, terrycloth headband, and mullet. The old ladies go absolutely crazy for him. Being in the front row means there is a higher chance that he will toss his sweaty towel at you at the end of class. He throws his sweaty, summer-in-Florida workout towel at somebody in the front row at the end of every class, and they love it.

  After my first class—the one that Graham and I attended together—Flavio threw the towel to me and I completely freaked out. I flung it on the ground and screamed as if he’d thrown a squirrel in my face. The ladies took it as a personal insult, as if I thought myself too good for their precious Flavio. I’m pretty sure they held a committee meeting before agreeing to let me back into the front row. Believe me, I would have been thrilled to be permanently relegated to the way back, but apparently it means a lot to Babette that we Merengue directly next to one another.

  So, here I am, on my best behavior.

  The music starts, and Flavio bounds up the steps of the bandstand, dressed to the nines in his signature outfit. The spandex bodysuit is green today, with a large yellow triangle down the front. The crowd goes wild and the next thirty minutes are nothing but a blur of Latin dance moves and bad Gloria Estefan remixes.

  Man, it’s hot out here. The sun is barely up and I’m already sweating bullets. The idea that I have to wear a wedding gown in a week is somewhat concerning. At least it’s sleeveless and fairly lightweight. Mom and Dad offered to drive it down with them so I wouldn’t have to bring it on the airplane, and I agreed. Despite the heat, I smile when I think about finally being able to try it on later.

  I can’t believe that in one week I’m going to be Mrs. Summer Blen
derman. Whenever I say my new name I picture a cheerful man with a blender mixing up colorful frozen cocktails. What’s better than that?

  Air conditioning, I suppose. And water. I turned down Babette’s offer of a bottle of Indonesian coconut water before we left the house this morning, and then I forgot to bring any of my own. Now all I can think about are those ice cold, frozen cocktails, and the fact that my cells probably look like shriveled old raisins rolling around inside my body. Maybe that’s why my side hurts. No, that’s just a stitch. Flavio is really killing us today. You’d think doing Zumba for the past few weeks would have whipped me into some sort of shape, but no. These old ladies still put me to shame every single time. Whatever. Shame accepted. I need water.

  I smile apologetically at Babette and excuse myself to go and find something to drink. I don’t know how these women do it. Some of them are wearing long sleeves. One’s wearing a black nylon windbreaker. I take my time crossing the street to Dunkin Donuts and order myself a lemonade. The air conditioning is absolutely cranking in here, and I can only sit inside for about three minutes before feeling the need to warm up again. I feel like that should be Florida’s slogan—Too Hot Outside, Too Cold Inside.

  I arrive back at the common just in time to see Flavio whip his sweaty towel into the second row. Francine elbows Janice out of the way, and catches the towel tightly in her hands. She brings it to her lips, kisses it—I’m trying hard not to gag at this point—and stretches it up and over her head.

  “Nice try, sister!” screams Janice, flying in from the side and knocking Francine to the ground. She wrenches the towel from Francine’s hand and twirls it around above her head, only to be hip-checked by some woman in the third row, and knocked down on top of Francine. Third-row-woman grabs the towel and holds it triumphantly up over her head as Flavio blows a kiss to the crowd and exits quickly down the back of the bandstand. He speeds away in his purple golf cart with the vanity plate ZUMBA GOD.