Chapter 20

July 2008

After he climbs through my window, Fred and I have a week where I'm so happy, I could burst, but where I'm also nervous that it will go away at any second.

Fred tells me and tells me that things have changed, that we've learned the lessons of the past and we can start planning our future again. But it's hard to hope. I've had other things snatched away from me—my mother, him, tennis—that I didn't see coming, and I prefer to think about what might happen, so I won't be taken entirely by surprise.

So, I'm happy, but it's tinged with something else too. A darkness.

But oh, we have fun. Neither of us has any responsibilities, so we explore together, from one end of Long Island to the other. We take a tiki boat tour in Peconic Bay. We walk around Montauk, our hands glued together. We stand on the point in East Hampton and stare out into the ocean as the wind whips our skin smooth. We go to Shelter Island and ride bikes around it, taking in the wildlife.

At night, Fred climbs up the trellis to my room, and we spend hours exploring each other, finding new ways to please and touch and feel—all the things I'd read about in the romance novels I used to secret away in my room as a teenager. I feel those things, I am those things, a woman, needy, and comfortable enough with Fred to ask for what I want and to give in return.

When I'm not with him, I'm tired and distracted. He has to spend some time with his aunt, which I understand and support. But, but, but. It's hard to be alone. Ash has her own boyfriend—she's started dating Dave, the guy who worked with Fred five years ago. I don't see it lasting, but stranger things have happened.

Sophie is away for the summer, working as a counselor at a summer camp with Colin where his sister, Lucy, goes too. Charlotte is interning with a magazine in the city. So, it's just me and William and Aunt Tracy in the house, asking for details of my "summer romance" as she keeps calling it, despite my assuring her that it's something more.

And now it's my birthday. Fred and I were occupied when the clock ticked over, but I wake with the sun and bury my face in his arm, drinking him in.

"Morning, birthday girl." His hair is mussed, and there's a trace of stubble on his chin. I like him like this in the morning. Rumpled, sleepy.

"Morning."

He kisses my arm. "Twenty-one."

"That's right."

"Legal for everything."

I laugh. "I guess."

"What does the birthday girl want for her birthday?"

"Honestly? I'd love a big pancake breakfast."

"That's what you'd love?"

"Hmm." We've started doing this. Tossing the word love into conversations about everything but each other. I assume it means we're about to say, "I love you," but I've never said that to a person I'm not related to, so I'm not one hundred percent sure.

"I would."

"You want me to make these pancakes?"

"Aunt Tracy will make them."

"Am I at least invited to this breakfast?"

I kiss him. "Yes."

He smiles against my mouth. "I assume I shouldn't arrive from up here for that?"

"Definitely not."

"All right, then." He starts to sit up, but I pull him back down.

"Breakfast isn't until eight."

"Oh yeah?"

"There's something else I'd love before you go."

"Hmm?"

I run my hand along his stomach. I love its ridges and warmth. I love how it feels against mine, how it fits when we come together. "You know."

"Do I?"

"I hope so."

He presses his mouth to mine, and I want to say it, I want to say that I love this, I love him, I want this and him and us forever.

But I don't. Instead, I let our bodies say it for us, and hope we have enough time later for the words.

After Fred leaves, I take a long shower, then trip down the stairs, feeling light and happy. I kiss Aunt Tracy in the kitchen and put in my order and tell her there will be one more for breakfast.

"This boy who's been sneaking into the house every night?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Please. I'm not your father." Aunt Tracy has a smudge of flour on her cheek, and she's wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Chef."

"Is this a good thing?"

"I think so."

She puts her arms around my shoulders. "I hope so, my child."

"It is. I promise. You'll love him."

"Only you need to love him." She kisses me on the cheek. "Now, go into the dining room—your present is waiting for you."

I kiss her back and follow her directions. The dining room is already set for four—her, William, Fred, and me. I decided long ago to stop wondering how Aunt Tracy always knows what this family wants or needs.

There are fresh-cut flowers at my place, and also a card. I pick it up, imagining something humorous and silly, but it's got my mother's handwriting on it.

The last card I got from her was on my sixteen birthday, the one with the tickets to the US Open. I thought it was the only one I was going to get, because it was a birthday we'd talked about so much. Maybe when I turned eighteen, I had a small expectation, but when nothing turned up, I tucked that away.

But now, here it is. Another message from the grave. Just looking at her handwriting makes me want to cry. There's no way I can read this now, with Fred about to arrive. We haven't even talked about the US Open, how I went with Charlotte and had to listen to her complain about everything from the sun, to the food, to the noise. I tried to cancel her out, but my heart was still raw, and I couldn't enjoy anything, not even Roddick's thrilling ride to the trophy. Afterward, I threw myself back into tennis with a renewed energy and purpose. Watching him win made it feel attainable. I could be a professional; I just had to put in the time. So I worked and worked and tried not to think about Fred. But it hurt, missing that experience—no mom, no him there to share it with.

I tuck the card into my pocket. I'll open it later when I'm alone and can deal with whatever's inside.

The doorbell rings and I go to answer it. Fred's holding a bouquet of wildflowers that he's picked from the garden, and his hair's still wet from the shower. He kisses me on the cheek as he hands me the flowers.

I take them, burying my face in their fresh scent. "Come in, come in."

He walks through the threshold. "It still looks like the lobby of a hotel."

"My ancestors had grand designs."

"On what?"

"The future."

"Olivia!" My father calls from the dining room, tinkling the little bell that sits next to his seat. Sometimes he likes to pretend he's living in a Regency novel, a semi-invalid who needs to be coddled and wrapped in woolly blankets like Mr. Woodhouse.

"Is that your dad?"

I pop the flowers into an empty vase on the entrance table and take his hand in mine. "What's the matter? You've met him before."

"That was five years ago. And I'm pretty sure he hated me."

"He didn't. My dad may growl a little, but he's mostly bark, not much bite."

"Olivia!"

"Coming!"

Breakfast is a success as these things go. My father is surprised to see Fred, despite the extra place setting, but he's mostly polite, especially after he exhausts his questions about Fred's "lineage" and learns (again) that he's related to the Crafts. He then expounds on our own family history for another half an hour, but I mostly ignore him as I make my way through the enormous stack of pancakes, fruit, and syrup Aunt Tracy puts in front of me.

I need to get back on a tennis court soon or I'm going to hear about it from my college coach when I go back in the fall. But for now, I mop up the carbs and sugar with as much satisfaction as I can.

Then we spend a lazy day at the beach with Ash and Dave. Dave seems like less of an asshole than he did in the past, and Ash is happy, so I'm happy for her. It's so much easier to be happy for someone when you're in love.

And I am. I am. Every time I look at Fred, I want to shout it out, but not yet, not yet.

We both know enough to avoid a repeat of the lobster dinner at the club. Instead, Fred and Dave get supplies for a "real" clambake, digging a deep hole in the sand to build the fire in, and then putting a large pot filled with fresh seafood on it as the sun sets down low.

The smells are amazing, and when they pull the pot out of the fire and fill thick paper plates with crabs and lobster tails and corn, I sink into the sand and breathe it in.

Fred sits next to me, his own plate piled high. "You want a bib?"

"Ha ha."

"I'm serious. I have some in my backpack."

"I'm good." I kiss him. "Thank you for this."

"My pleasure."

I dig in and it's honestly one of the best things I've ever tasted in my life. The simplicity of it—fresh seawater, the only seasoning—is what I love, I think, but it's also the company, the night, the light from the fire, the darkening sky above.

We eat mostly in silence, all of us greedy with our food. There are other parties down the beach, and maybe when we're done, we'll join one of them and watch the fireworks pierce the sky, but for now I'm content with my small crew, Fred next to me, and Ash across the fire, eating more than usual and sharing small jokes with Dave.

"You all done with that?" Fred asks when my plate is mostly husks of seafood and corn.

"I don't think I could put another thing inside me," I say, and he raises his eyebrow suggestively. "Yikes, that came out wrong."

"Don't worry about it." He takes my plate and puts it in a black garbage bag. He puts his own mess inside too, then rises and passes it to Dave. Then he reaches into the cooler and pulls out a bottle of champagne and four plastic flutes. "Everybody want?"

We all say yes, and he pops the cork and fills the glasses, then passes them out. I take mine and he sits next to me. He holds his glass toward mine. "Happy birthday, Olivia."

"Everything was wonderful." I click my glass to his, but they're plastic, so there's no sound, only a soft thud, and then I take a sip. It's good champagne, not the cheap brand that gets passed around my college dorm sometimes after we win a big match.

Fred sips at his, then makes a face. "Still don't like this stuff."

"Don't drink it then."

He smiles at me, then takes another sip.

"This all must have cost you a fortune," I say. "I want to contribute."

"Don't be silly."

"I'd feel better if I did."

"Ash and Dave split it with me, and that's enough. I want to do this for you."

"Thank you."

"I got you a present too."

"You didn't have to."

"Stop. It's your birthday."

"Okay," I say as I feel the echo of conversations past. I reach for my wrist, to the charm bracelet he gave me five years ago that I put back on after our first night together. I'd almost thrown it out after the breakup, the idea of collecting memories without Fred more than I could take. Instead, I'd tucked it into the back of my jewelry box and tried to forget it was there.

Fred catches my hand and starts to play with the tennis racquet, a mini version of the one I'll need to pick up again soon.

"When I was in the Navy, I went to a lot of places."

"That sounds great."

"It was, mostly. I don't recommend sleeping in a ship's hull with five hundred guys, but when we'd go into port, I always saw everything that I could. When I could, I collected memories, mementos."

I look up at him. "You have a charm bracelet?"

"No, Olivia. For you."

My throat tightens. "You did?"

"I did." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet bag. "I never forgot about you, not for a minute. I hoped that someday we'd find our way back to each other." He opens the bag and tips its contents onto my hand. It's a charm of Big Ben, an enamel flag where the clock face should be. "I loved London most of all. I wanted you to be there, to show it to you. So I got you this."

I run my finger over it. "I love it."

"I love you."

I lift my head and stare into his eyes. "I love you too."

"That's lucky."

"It is."

I kiss him and we seal our words, gently, slowly, like we have all the time in the world. "Happy birthday," Fred says when we pull apart.

"Thank you," I say, my hand closing around the charm.

I'm so touched that Fred has done this, but that small dark cloud of doubt is there too.

The bracelet was supposed to represent our future together, not the time we spent apart. When I add this charm to the other, their weight will be equal, a reminder that there was a gap between our time together where there shouldn't have been.

And though we still have most of our life before us, it feels like a bad omen.

Like seeing high, thin clouds in an evening sky, knowing that tomorrow they'll bring rain.