Chapter 2
I’m not wearing a bra.
I can’t.
My shoulders and back and chest and that sensitive skin near my armpits is fried. I have on a loose sundress that if I bend over too far will reveal everything. I don’t even care. The pain takes precedence.
“You look like you need something to drink,” an older man says to me.
Obviously, he’s older. Everyone here is older.
He has on some kind of fishing hat and the tanned skin of the year-rounders.
That’s what they’re called, compared to me and my mother, who are just summer people.
The year-rounders seem to all be over the age of seventy, except Anita and her extended family.
And this guy. He’s more my mom’s age. Anita’s family is exempt anyway because they own the campground.
I overheard another woman call the locals “townies.” I suppose she and her family would qualify.
“I had one,” I say, holding up my empty glass.
I’m only eighteen but there’s no way I’m hanging out drinkless at a cocktail party full of old people.
Not to mention my mother has been crowned queen of the night by the Ocean Beach Family Campground.
Once word got around that true crime author Julia Barnes rolled her shiny silver trailer into the campground for the summer, the fans emerged.
It’s not really a surprise that a village of vacationers are fans of her books, they’re pretty much as “beach reading” as you can get.
One person recognized her from the back of a copy of “Dahmer’s Deaths” and the gossip chain took off.
Now she’s sitting in a beach chair, in the middle of a dozen men and women, telling them stories about all her adventures.
Nothing makes a better cocktail party anecdote than ritualized murder.
I glance at my mother, who is laughing at something, and then at the bottle of wine the older man has offered and hold up my glass for a refill. He smiles and starts pouring. “I thought so,” he says. “My name is Richard.”
“I’m Summer,” I say and take a gulp of my drink. I’m going to need more than a buzz to get through this. I wish Anita was here but this doesn’t seem like her crowd. We’re clustered on a wide dock owned by the campground. The sun is setting, casting a pretty pink glow on everything.
“So what brings you down for the season?” he asks, and I start to wonder if he’s flirting (ew) but he seems genuine so I let it pass for the moment.
“My mom’s writing a book and I tagged along. We decided to go the scenic route and live with the locals rather than the tourists.”
“Sounds adventurous.”
I glance at my mother. “That’s my mom. Always up for a challenge. Have you met?”
His eyes shift to where my mother is animatedly telling a story of some kind. I swear I hear the name John Wayne Gacy. “We have.”
“Oh well, then you know. She’s the life of the party and all that.”
“She is that.” He gives me a sympathetic grin. “And you’re not?”
“Ha!” I laugh, tipsy. “Nah, I’m good. I just never desired to be the center of attention like she does, you know?
She loves the drama and the fame her job provides.
She loves digging around in the history of these murders, all the gore, but also revealing the personalities and people.
I just kind of prefer not to be noticed. ”
“Why’s that? You seem like a perfectly interesting young woman. Are you in college?”
“Vanderbilt. I start this fall.”
“What are you studying?” He leans against the railing of the dock. I notice his shoes are made from a soft, dark leather. Expensive.
“General studies right now. I haven’t picked a major.” I shrug. “I’m not all that together.” That is possibly the understatement of the year.
“You’ll figure it out.” A boat cruises by and Richard waves to the people inside. The water laps at the dock pilings. He tilts his head and raises his glass at me. “Nice to meet you, Summer. Hopefully we’ll see each other again.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “It was nice meeting you also.”
I watch him wander through the crowd of neighbors, stopping once to look at my mother, before disappearing between the campers.
I turn to see the final traces of the sunset now by the edge of the waterway.
The flaming pink and orange fireball dips over the horizon, leaving the world with a cotton candy sky.
Unsteady on my feet, I spin in the direction of my camper and plow right into someone.
“Fuck,” the guy swears.
Two huge bags of ice drop to the ground. One splits and scatters cool wet cubes all over my feet.
“Ohmygod,” I say in a rush. “I’m so sorry.”
“No,” he replies, wiping his hands on his shorts. “Totally my fault. I wasn’t looking.”
I bend over and try to keep the ice from spilling.
He squats, doing the same. He looks up at me with gray eyes and eyelashes a girl would pay big money to have.
He looks close to my age, maybe a little older.
Slim build but wide shoulders under a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
His skin, like everyone else’s here, has a warm glow, and the breeze blowing off the water tousles his curly black hair.
I wait for him to introduce himself but he doesn’t and I don’t trust my tongue due to the wine.
“I think I’ve got it,” he says, lifting both bags. A flurry of ice falls out of the ripped one and I lunge forward, stopping it with my hands. He smiles his thanks and shifts the bag so the tear is against his chest. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
His eyes sweep over me, like he’s really just noticed me. But I didn’t come down here for attention from cute boys. I came down here to escape. He opens his mouth to say something else but I bolt, skirting around him and not stopping until I’m behind the aluminum camper door.