Chapter 19 Like Summer Camp with Côtes du Rhône
Like Summer Camp with C?tes du Rh?ne
Darcy
Eric probably finds me ridiculous, but fishing is exhilarating. We don’t catch anything large enough to keep, though, and now it’s getting dark.
“Come on,” he says finally, removing the hook from my pole. “I can barely see the shoreline anymore.”
“Fine,” I concede. “But this was amazing. Thank you.”
He steers the boat back to the dock and hops out. Then he does something impressive with a rope to secure it. When I try to step onto the dock, though, the boat rocks. I stumble forward, and suddenly I’m pressed against his chest, his hands instinctively catching my waist to steady me.
We both go still.
In the dim light, his face is only inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His gaze drops to my lips for just a heartbeat, and my pulse stutters.
Do it, I think. His hands are still on my waist, and I can feel the slight pressure of his thumbs against my ribs.
Then Eric clears his throat, his hands dropping away as he takes a step back.
“Careful there,” he says, his voice slightly rougher than usual.
“Yeah,” I manage, my cheeks burning. “Thanks.”
I’m full of disappointment as we go back inside.
His father pours us another glass of wine, and we do a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table until Eric starts yawning. That’s when we head upstairs.
I expect it to get awkward, but it doesn’t. Ten minutes later, I’m lying in the top bunk of his childhood bedroom, feeling content. The window is open to the nighttime breeze, and if I listen carefully, I can hear the gentle sound of the water lapping against the seawall.
Eric shuts out the lamp and tucks himself into bed beneath me. “You okay up there?”
“Never better. It’s like summer camp, but with better food and a nice C?tes du Rh?ne.”
He chuckles softly.
“It’s beautiful here. But I can see why you don’t come back that often. I understand why it’s painful.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It’s both.”
I fall asleep listening to the gentle sound of the waves.
The next morning, his mother makes us a big brunch, while I help out in the kitchen. The meal goes well enough, but I can tell Eric is eager to get out of the house by the way he carries my bag down to the front door well in advance of our departure time.
His mother pours me another cup of coffee and asks me about my classes at school. It’s all very friendly until she happens to say, “You know, I got some photographs of Danny to bring to the wedding. But I can’t decide on the frame. Why don’t I show them to you so you can help me choose?”
My eyes widen as she opens a sideboard to pull out two large pictures—the same photo in two different frames.
“Which one do you think?” She struggles to hold them both up at the same time. That’s how large they are. “The white frame is pretty, but the light wood is warmer.”
“Um…” I don’t remember this photograph of Danny from the dining room wall. He’s wearing a light blue suit. The kind you’d wear on Easter, maybe.
Or to your own wedding.
“And this is for…?” I ask, confused.
“The wedding,” she repeats. “Danny should be there, too. It’s only right.”
“Um,” I say again.
Eric enters the room, then takes one look at the photos his mother is holding and goes rigid. There’s no other word for it. “Mom, did Maribel ask for this?”
“She’s a very busy girl,” his mother says. “Weddings are a lot.”
Eric’s face goes instantly stormy. Like he’s about to explode. He wasn’t this distressed even during game four, when Merritt got crosschecked and the ref didn’t call it. “Mom, you’d need Maribel’s permission for this. Explicit permission.”
“Watch your tone, Eric,” his mother says slowly.
Oh, hell. A door opens somewhere and Mr. Tremaine approaches. He’s probably wondering what all the fuss is about.
Miraculously, my phone starts to ring loudly with my mother’s ringtone. “Excuse me,” I say brightly. “I’d better get this.”
I slip out the kitchen door, and I don’t think anyone notices. “Hi, Mom.” I walk quickly down the driveway toward Eric’s car, so she won’t hear the argument in the background. “What’s up?”
“Just wondered if you’d come to your senses,” she says.
Apparently, it’s Mothers Behaving Badly Day, and nobody showed me the memo. “I’m in Massachusetts for the wedding, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “Would your father make the same effort for you?”
“That’s a question I try not to ask myself, and I’m a little miffed that you’re pointing it out.”
“God, I’m sorry to make you feel bad. That’s never my intention. It just burns me—the way he wants to put on a show, with his family gathered at his feet.”
“Maybe,” I say dully. “But it turns out that the bride is a friend of a friend. She seems lovely, and I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“Just don’t buy them a wedding gift,” she says sourly. “They have more money than God.”
“I’m pretty sure that misses the point of gifting.”
“Just don’t expect anything from your father, okay? We’ve seen this play already. We already know how it ends.”
That is depressingly true. But I’m tired of talking about it, so I change the subject. And when I hang up a minute later, I’m hoping that things have calmed down inside Casa Tremaine.
But no. The first thing I hear is Eric hollering. “Mom, this is not okay! It’s not healthy for you to be so upset.”
“You have no right to tell me how to feel! You’re living the life Danny never got. What did you ever lose?”
“Plenty!” he shouts. “And so did Maribel! But she moved on. You have to let her.”
When his mother replies, her voice is full of anguish. “I just can’t bear it! Danny was the love of her life, and it’s disrespectful of her to pretend otherwise.”
“Patty!” his father gasps.
“Whoa, Mom,” Eric says. “You need help.”
“You will not speak to me like that in my own house!”
There’s a deep silence, and I forget to breathe.
“You’re right,” Eric says ominously. “I won’t.”
“Eric, your girlfriend is waiting for you,” his father says, obviously hoping to turn down the temperature.
“She’d happily wait another minute,” Eric snaps. “If she knew I needed to get all my things from upstairs and get the hell out of here for good.”
Oh shit.
I try the door to the Porsche and find it open. I sit down in the passenger seat. Five minutes later, Eric emerges from the house with his suitcase and mine, too. His face is bright red, and he stomps to the back of the car and puts the luggage inside without a word.
Then he climbs behind the wheel and starts the car. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s okay.” Although nothing is okay—not for the Tremaine family. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His body is tense as he backs out of the drive. “I knew it might be like this. I just hoped…” He shakes his head. “I’ll get you to the hotel in time for your class.”
Oh, heck. I’d forgotten all about the lecture I need to Zoom into. A glance at my watch says it won’t be a problem, though. There’s still plenty of time. “We’re good. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Maybe that’s impossible, though, because Eric’s hands are white-knuckled on the wheel as he steers the car up the winding north shore roads.
I’m trying to think of a soothing topic of conversation when he pulls into a gas station in Salem. Which doesn’t seem weird until I remember that we’re driving an electric car, which he charged in his dad’s garage last night. “Darcy, I’m sorry. But you need to drive.”
“Drive… this car?” I squeak.
He nods and puts his face in his hands. “I’m having a migraine aura. There’s a black spot in the center of my vision.”
“Oh no,” I whisper. “That sounds serious.”
He shakes his head. “It’s really not. But I can’t really drive if the car in front of me isn’t visible.”
“Okay,” I say quickly. “Okay.” I undo my seat belt, while he does the same.
We meet as we circle the hood of the car, and he stops, putting a hand on my shoulder. His gray eyes are squinty. “Sorry for all the drama, Darcy.”
My heart gives an empathetic squeeze. “What did I tell you about other people’s family drama? It’s like a mosquito at a nudist colony—a little annoying, but at least it’s not biting you.”
He coughs out a laugh, and then we switch sides of the car. This involves him moving the passenger seat backward by about a yard, and me moving the driver’s seat up the same amount. “Okay, um, what do I do?”
He slits his eyes at me. “Wait, you do drive?”
“Of course! But I don’t drive this.”
His eyes fall shut. “It’s already on,” he says, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Put her in drive and just watch the speedometer. She’s quick.”
Okay. No big deal. Just me here behind the wheel of a car that costs a hundred thousand dollars. I ease toward the road and pull out carefully, heading toward the Essex Bridge.
The car is smooth and quiet. It’s like gliding. “I think I just became cool.”
“You were always cool,” Eric says in a low voice.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I shouldn’t be taking you to an ER? That visual thing is creepy.”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “It’s a typical migraine. My brother got them, too. The aura goes away after ten minutes or so. That’s when the pain starts. It only lasts a few hours.”
Yikes. “Does this happen often?”
“Twice a year, maybe. That’s why I don’t drink red wine during hockey season.”
“Oh no.” I feel a pang of guilt. “We had some last night.”
“Because it’s so tasty,” he insists.
We reach the bridge, and for a couple of minutes, we’re suspended over a finger of the Massachusetts Bay. Sailboats dot the water on either side of us. So many sailboats. The town of Beverly, ahead of us, is a sprawl of low-slung brick buildings and very green grass.
From there, I make my way onto 128, which is a proper highway. “Oh, wow,” I say as I test the acceleration. “It’s like flying.”
Eric doesn’t open his eyes. “Speed limit is still fifty-five, though.”
I glance at the speedometer. It says eighty. Oops. I ease off the pedal. “God, this is fun. Thank you for letting me drive your only indulgence.”
“What do you mean?”
“This car is the only expensive thing you own.”
“Not true,” he says. “Everything in my life costs a mint. Suits. Shoes.”
“You’re literally required to wear a suit to work,” I point out.
“My penthouse apartment?”
“That’s an investment. I’m serious—you don’t seem to have a bunch of toys or a closet full of Rolexes.”
He lifts his wrist. “I like my smartwatch.”
“Yeah, on a nylon strap. Sorry, but you’re a very practical man, except for this car. Just an observation.”
He rubs his temples. “Practical sounds like a nice word for boring. That’s why the sponsors don’t want me.”
“Oh, please,” I insist while fiddling with the cruise control. “I’ll let that go because your head hurts. But later we’re going to have a little chat about the difference between humble and stupid.”
Ten minutes later, I manage to deliver the Porsche safely into the hands of the hotel valet. Then I take my suitcases from Eric, who’s attempting to handle all our luggage. “Let’s get you inside.”
He shakes his head dismissively. “It’s just pain, Darce.”
It’s just pain. “Who says that? Oh, right, hockey players.” We roll into the beautiful lobby, which is a strangely successful blend of New England nautical and high-end sleekness.
“Ladies first,” Eric says as we approach the desk. “Your class starts soon, right? And it might take me a while to plead my case. I don’t have a reservation.”
Hmm. I step up to the counter. “Hello! Darcy Kendrick, checking in.” I pass my license to the prettily dressed young woman behind the desk.
“Welcome, Miss Kendrick. I see this is your second stay with us and that you’re a Diamond Member.” Her keyboard goes clickety-clack. “Good news. Your room is ready early, and you’ve been upgraded to our Destiny Suite.”
“Sounds fancy?”
“Oh, it is.” She shows me perfect teeth when she smiles. “It’s a one-bedroom suite with a lovely view of the ocean, a plush lounge area, and a bath and a half. Enjoy your private retreat! The hotel is completely full.”
“Even tonight?” Eric asks from over my shoulder.
“Absolutely,” she says smoothly.
He abruptly steps out of line, and I watch as he trudges over to a sofa and sits down heavily. I watch him with a quivering heart.
I used to think the captain had figured out some secret to life that the rest of us were missing. The way he glides through almost every crisis, knowing the right thing to say or do to make it better. This messier Eric is a revelation.
But my crush is unwavering. I just want to kiss it and make it better.