Summer at Sunset: (The Summer Series Book 2) Page 8

  We’ve come to a stop in the middle of the dance floor and I pull Summer protectively toward me, running my hands up her back as the band transitions into the slow strains of “Faithfully.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Francine slowly waving her glow sticks back and forth over her head.

  “Do you really not see the way they’re looking at you?” asks Summer.

  “Who?”

  “All of them. Nadine, Francine. Your friend from Starbucks.”

  “Gloria.”

  “Right, Gloria. You realize that you’re like a piece of meat thrown into the lion’s den down here, right?”

  “They’re harmless, Sum.”

  “Well, don’t look now, but one harmless old woman named Francine is giving me the evil eye. And her lips are moving a mile a minute. She looks like Snape that time everyone thought he was putting a curse on Harry.”

  “Who?”

  Summer raises her eyebrows and gives me her Don’t-you-dare-pretend-not-to-get-a-Harry-Potter-reference look.

  “I’m just teasing,” I say. “You know as well as I do that Snape was actually protecting Harry.”

  “Oh, so Francine is trying to protect me? From what, exactly?”

  “Maybe from me.” I lean down and nuzzle into her neck.

  Summer laughs and puts her arms around my neck. She gently rakes her fingers through the back of my hair. Now we’re talking.

  “So, do you remember what we were talking about the other day?” she asks.

  “Um, maybe?”

  “About, you know, how it’s been kind of a long time.”

  I perk up and look down at her face, not at all expecting to have heard those words.

  “Oh, right.” I pull her in even closer. What we’re doing is nothing compared to what I see Gloria doing over there with Burt from Twister Club. I mean, really. Wasn’t she dating Lionel? A guy goes north for a few months and he misses everything around here. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I think I see a hotel over there,” she whispers, pulling slightly away. She’s pointing across the common to a building that clearly says “Hotel” at the top.

  “Don’t get excited. That’s a facade.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, there’s a sales office on the first floor. The rest is empty. Same as how Starbucks used to be Ezekiel’s Tavern. You don’t think Duke’s Mining Company is really located above that Dunkin Donuts over there, do you?”

  “No.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, maybe we should just do it right here in the common. A lot of couples do that.”

  “One couple did that,” I clarify. “And it was gross, and they got arrested.”

  It’s true. They even had a drink named after them—Copulation on the Common.

  Summer doesn’t answer, she just pulls me into a long kiss. She still tastes like red wine, and her crazy Florida hair smells like coconuts.

  “Okay,” I say, catching my breath. “Time to go.” I pull her by the hand, practically dragging her back to our golf cart.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I’m dangerously close to just parking this thing behind a bush and having a drink named after us. But, being me, I’ve planned ahead.

  13

  I drive past my parents’ house and pull up to another, almost identical house, a little bit further down the street. I press the garage door opener that I’ve been hiding in my pocket. The door goes up and Summer looks at me, confused.

  “We’re not breaking and entering, are we?”

  I wave the garage door opener in front of her face, but she doesn’t look convinced. Still, she follows me through the garage and into the house. I don’t bother turning on the lights, as the house is awash in the glow of fifty flickering LED candles. I bought out all of Wal-Mart’s home décor department earlier this afternoon. Two champagne glasses sit side-by-side on the coffee table.

  Like I said, I planned ahead.

  “Um, Graham?” says Summer.

  “Yes?”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “Where do you think we are?”

  Her eyes widen in fear as she turns slowly toward me. “You didn’t buy this place, did you?”

  I can almost hear the gears in her mind turning—calculating how I could have managed to purchase a house in an age-restricted community. Sometimes she gives me more credit than I’m due. I let her freak out for a few seconds before breaking into a grin.

  “Sorry, Sum. I can’t make all of your dreams come true. At least not all at once. This is just where Aunt Jo-Ann and Uncle Chuck are staying after the wedding. Mom and Dad rented it for them. I swiped the keys.”

  As I dangle the keys in the air, her face melts with relief. Then she launches herself gleefully into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and kissing me.

  I back blindly toward the couch, trying not to trip over anything, and lay her down against the pillows. I start at her neck and gently kiss my way down to her collarbone, sliding the strap of her dress off her right shoulder. Then I pause and pull away for a second.

  “Would it really have been so bad if I’d bought this place?” I ask.

  “Um, yes,” she says, running her hand down the side of my face. “It would have been really, horribly bad. Really very horrible and bad.”

  “I’ll ask you again in thirty years,” I say, leaning back down and kissing along the other side of her neck. I slide off the other strap.

  “Deal.”

  I sit up and pull my shirt over my head. Then I pause again before throwing it to the floor.

  “But why would it have been so very horrible and bad?” I ask.

  Summer raises herself onto her elbows and puts her straps back on her shoulders. “Are you serious?”

  I shrug. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “Okay. Let me see. Number one, we’re not a retired elderly couple. Number two, we’re not yet ready to cut all ties with reality—although, you may have already done that years ago. Number three—”

  “Okay, okay,” I laugh. “I get it. I just think it’s fun down here.”

  “I know you do,” says Summer. “And that’s what scares me. I have this nightmare that you’re going to find some sort of loophole and move us here after the wedding.”

  “A loophole,” I say, clicking my tongue. “Now there’s an idea.”

  I dodge the punch Summer throws at my stomach and head to the fridge to grab a bottle of champagne. I pour us two glasses, place them on the coffee table, then pick up the remote control. I found one other little surprise for her this afternoon. Who knew a trip to Wal-Mart could be so lucrative? I turn on the TV and hit play.

  “Sharknado!” Summer exclaims. “Oh my God. We haven’t watched this since that night on the cruise.”

  “I’m a sentimental guy,” I say, sinking down next to her on the couch. “And it was in the bargain bin.”

  She smiles and stretches her legs across my lap as the horrors of a swirling shark tornado begin to play out onscreen.

  “You know I’m only joking around about moving here, right?” I ask.

  “Nope,” says Summer, not taking her eyes off the movie.

  “I am. There are at least six other retirement communities around the United States that I would need to check out first. Never mind Mexico.” I whistle.

  Summer pinches me hard on the leg until I agree not to look at any real estate brochures until we’re at least fifty. Luckily, she didn’t mention websites. Come on, Sum. Who still uses brochures?

  We drink champagne. We make sarcastic comments. And then history repeats itself, and we don’t even come close to finishing the movie.

  ***

  We’re lying on the living room floor, wrapped in blankets, peacefully watching the shadows of candles flickering on the walls, when a brick sails through the front window.

  “Shit!” I jump up and pull Summer into the corner of the living room, away from the debris field of shattered glass.

 
; “What the hell?” she yells. “What the hell?”

  “I don’t know!” I scramble to find my clothes, succeeding in only finding my boxers. I pull them on, along with my shoes. Then I run to the front door, whip it open, and look out into the street. I see nothing but a set of golf cart taillights fading into the distance.

  “Who’s out there?” she shrieks. “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say again, stepping away from the door. My heart is pounding. I pick Summer’s dress up off the floor and toss it to her. “Wait here. And lock the door behind me.”

  I run out into the street and head in the direction of the taillights. I go all the way to the end of the street, and then out to the main road. There are golf carts driving in every direction. A few of them beep at me and whistle. It’s no use. I run back to the house, grab a golf club out of the garage, and do a thorough search of the backyard and the shrubs. Nothing. I knock on the front door.

  “Who is it?” Summer calls.

  “Me.”

  “What’s the secret code?”

  I sigh. We once established a secret code to use in case either of us needed help. Like, if Summer ever texts me the secret word, I’ll know that she’s been kidnapped. We’d just watched an America’s Most Wanted marathon and it seemed like the right thing to do. Having to use it while locked out of the house in my boxer shorts, however, wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

  “Beef Stroganoff,” I say.

  She lets me in. She’s holding a brick in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  “I couldn’t catch them,” I say, walking over and surveying the damage to the window. “It must have just been random. I mean, nobody even knows that we’re here. This is supposed to be a vacant rental house.”

  Summer looks at me, shaking her head and holding up the piece of paper. “No. It wasn’t random. It was her.”

  “What are you talking about,” I ask. “Who?”

  “Francine,” she says, exasperation in her voice. “Read this.”

  I take the paper out of her hand. Written in big block letters are the words BACK OFF.

  “Back off?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. This was a message for me to back off of you.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No you come on! She probably followed us here from Redwood!”

  “You think Francine threw a brick through the window? I don’t think she can even lift a brick.”

  “She’s got you fooled,” says Summer. “She smokes, she drinks, she did God knows what with some guy named Gil. I saw the way she was looking at me tonight. Francine is bad news.”

  “Who says that note was even for you?” I say. “Maybe it was meant for me. Maybe it was one of those blue shirt guys that were checking you out tonight. They’re probably all amped up on Viagra and want me out of the picture.”

  “I’ve never seen any of those guys before,” she says. “No. Francine was cursing me like Snape, and then she followed us here. And if it wasn’t her, it was probably Nadine. Or maybe it was both of them together. The way you had to pry her hands off of you was totally brick-worthy.”

  “You think our wedding planner threw a brick through our window?”

  “Um, maybe you didn’t notice, but Nadine was so dazzled by your presence that she could barely even remember when our wedding is. She and Francine were probably hiding in the bushes this whole time, peeking in the windows.” She shudders.

  “They probably learned a few things, am I right?” I give her a wink.

  “I can’t believe you’re making jokes right now. A crime has been committed, Graham. A crime.”

  “I know it, Sum. I just ran down the street in my underwear and used the words beef stroganoff. It’s just that all this speculation is pointless. It could have been some dumb kids for all we know.”

  “Kids? Here?”

  Good point.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “Whoever did it, we need to call the police. Agreed?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” says Summer. “Listen.”

  Sirens. In the distance, but getting closer. I step back outside and confirm that there is in fact an ADT Security sign staked into the mulch in front of the house. I also confirm that there are two police cruisers turning onto the street with their lights flashing and their sirens wailing, while I stand on the front steps in my underwear. Now they’re pulling up in front of the house.

  Tonight on Cops...

  I’ve seen enough episodes to know that now is not the time to dart back into the house looking for pants. I put both hands in the air and wait for them to approach me—which they do—quickly, and with guns drawn. And then—

  “Graham?”

  I squint into the bright lights. “Daryl?”

  “What are you doing here, man?” Daryl lowers his gun and instructs his partner to do the same. Daryl is Edna Spurlock’s son. He took Summer and I out for drinks a few weeks back after I taught his mother how to use Twitter. Nice guy.

  “Long story,” I say, shaking his hand. “All I know is that someone just chucked a brick through the window and took off in a golf cart.” I motion to the broken front window.

  “Oh, wow,” says Daryl. “Would you look at that. Oh, hey Summer, nice to see you again.” He waves through the screen door.

  “Hey, Daryl,” says Summer.

  “By the way, Graham, you know you’re in your skivvies, right? And what are those? Pink Sperry’s? I didn’t even know men’s shoes came in that color.”

  “It’s been a long night, Daryl. You think we could—” I motion toward the front door.

  “Oh, yeah! Listen to me going on and on. Let’s get you inside and we’ll fill out a report.” Daryl steps into the house. “Oh, wow! Look at all those candles. Okay, now I see why you’re in your skivvies.” He steps back outside to give me a wink and a fist bump. Summer rolls her eyes.

  A crowd of gray-hairs is beginning to gather on the street, watching as the other officer takes a roll of yellow caution tape out of his trunk and starts winding it around the perimeter of the house.

  “Is that necessary?” I ask.

  Daryl shrugs. “Retirement community. People feel safer if we use the tape.”

  That’s when I see them.

  “Oh, no,” whispers Summer. She sees them too.

  Mom and Dad may not be home yet, but Richard and Joan were in for the night—in for the night about four houses down. And now they’re standing there in the street, watching me talk to a police officer, in my underwear, in front of a house that’s slowly being wrapped in caution tape.

  I could almost laugh at the looks of horror on their faces, as they turn from red to blue to red again in the flashing lights of the police cruisers. I could laugh if only I weren’t marrying their daughter in a few short days.

  I give them a little wave before following Daryl into the house.

  They don’t wave back.

  SUMMER

  14

  Graham’s parents weren’t exactly thrilled when they arrived home to police cruisers and rubberneckers all over the street. They were actually less upset about the fact that we had snuck into the rental house to do the deed—completely mortifying, by the way—than they were about the fact that Graham’s aunt and uncle are flying down for the wedding in a few short days. John’s been talking up Sunset Havens as some sort of crime-free paradise for years, trying to convince them to move down here. If they think that the place is overrun with window-smashing hoodlums, it’s not going to help his case. I tried to help by saying that the Back Off note pointed more toward one of the elderly residents, rather than a random hoodlum. But John just gave me a look that said You’re making things much, much worse, so I shut my mouth.

  I told my own parents that Graham and I had gone into the house to practice our wedding vows in private, and that Graham was just about to try on his tuxedo when the brick came through the window—hence the reason that he was in his boxers. I think that they bo
ught it. Graham is still embarrassed. He’s afraid that Mom and Dad think he’s some sort of criminal domestic abuser. I have to admit, it’s kind of refreshing seeing this new, neurotic side of him. Maybe that thing about girls marrying men like their father is true after all.

  Anyway, Graham knows a lady who knows a lady who has a son in the glass repair business, and she’s sending him over this afternoon. John can continue to promote Sunset Havens as a crime-free paradise, and Aunt Jo-Ann and Uncle Chuck will be none the wiser. I suppose there are some benefits to Graham being a ladies’ man. Of course, those benefits come with the chance that a brick might sail through your window and you will have to admit horribly embarrassing things to your in-laws.

  This morning, Mom, Babette, Graham, and I have arrived at The Lakeview for our rescheduled appointment with Nadine. I plan to watch her like a hawk for overt signs of guilt. Chipped nail polish? Bags under the eyes like she’s been up past nine o’clock? Unusually large biceps? I’m on it. We’ve only just entered the lobby when she comes hurtling toward us, full speed, and straight into the arms of my fiancé.

  “Graham!” she cries. “Are you ready for the big day?”

  Honestly, you would think that he’s the bride. She pumps his hand up and down, her curly, rust-colored hair bobbing enthusiastically along. She doesn’t seem the least bit tired, or guilty. And her arms, poking out of her pastel pink, short-sleeved suit jacket, look disappointingly scrawny. I suppose that narrows it down to Francine.

  I stand patiently by while she continues to fawn over Graham, asking him—I kid you not—if he’s had his hair and nails done yet. Finally, she glances fleetingly in my direction.

  “Oh, hello again, Summer.”

  “Hi, Nadine,” I say. “I’d like you to meet my mother, Joan Hartwell.”

  “The mother of the bride!” she exclaims, snapping out of her Graham-trance and turning to look at Mom. She blinks rapidly, her thick, clumpy mascara looking like two large, squashed spiders. “How unusual to meet the mother of the bride so late in the planning! Usually the mother of the bride is very involved. Unless, of course, she’s deceased!” Nadine lets out a burst of laughter, as if she finds deceased mothers to be just hilarious.