Cruel Summerween

Chapter 1 AT AUTUMN’S DOOR

AT AUTUMN’S DOOR

The leaves were about to turn, and so too was everything I knew about life and love. Although I didn’t know that yet.

I rolled down the car window, breathing in the salty tang of the ocean air.

Appropriately, Bob Dylan was singing about answers blowing in the wind.

After all, in the magical haven of Whisperwind Cove, which was our destination, they literally did that.

In the cove, dreams, invitations and regrets all took flight in the form of whisperwinds, breathy overheards that floated in the air, waiting for someone to catch them.

The confessions I’d heard over the years!

My sister, Tiff, and I kept a notebook of the most salacious ones, which my best friend, Lara, who always joined us on these trips, would then read out in dramatic voices.

It was one of the things I was looking forward to in these coming weeks.

Our family’s annual getaway stretched out ahead, with all its promises of lingering sunsets and pumpkin spice.

I couldn’t wait to dive into my plans, which consisted of sipping cider on a hammock, browsing the local boutiques and playfully wishing for a summer fling to come meandering along, the way the cove’s whisperwinds did.

I’d just broken things off with the guy I’d been seeing, and a low-key dalliance sounded like the perfect antidote for my, well, not broken heart. Mildly bruised heart.

It had been too long since we’d been back at the Pink House, after all. Two entire years! Although we had our reasons for that, not that I wanted to mull on them right now.

Nor did Tiff, apparently.

‘Whisperwind Cove!’ she shouted. She pointed at the sign as her Mini rounded the corner that meant we were just a few miles from our destination. We’d been driving a solid three hours, and I was so ready to stretch my legs farther than the tiny car would allow.

But Tiff actually had a car, so I couldn’t really complain.

Without her, I’d be taking the bus, and would probably still be waiting at the Greyhound station avoiding eye contact with strangers.

I’d have some interesting anecdotes for a slice-of-life column, at least. Eddie, my editor at Easterly Sports, was always looking for something to fill a few inches of space, and even something tangentially related to sports could work.

Like a profile of a bus driver who could lift their own bodyweight in luggage.

‘Whisperwind Cove,’ I repeated. I sadly handed over my snacks and relinquished control of the radio. That was the rule with the Whisperwind Cove sign. The first person to shout it automatically became Queen of the Car.

‘And the hat.’ Tiff pointed at the glove compartment, then changed the radio to NPR.

I pulled out the novelty paper hat that completed the solemn Queen of the Car ceremony, using my magic to settle it on Tiff’s dark hair at a rakish angle.

‘Molly, no magic in the car!’ admonished Tiff. ‘I don’t want to deal with sparks and residue when I’ve just had it detailed. Ugh, you should’ve seen how filthy it got while I was away.’

Nice humblebrag, Tiff. Must be just awful coming back to a dirty car after months working in Europe.

‘All right, all right.’ I used my fingertips to tilt the hat the other way. It sat jauntily, propped up by her sensible ponytail. ‘Look. Manual labour. Happy now?’

‘Very.’ Tiff curved the Mini around the winding roads that led down to Whisperwind Cove.

The cedars and pines stood tall along the roadside, scenting the air with their leaves.

The asters and goldenrods added a splash of colour that instantly made me think of Rosie’s Pink House: the beach house where, with the exception of last year, my family and Rosie’s, the Tuckers, would visit every year.

For a month or so each year, the house would be raucous with the comings and goings of Mom, Tiff and me, as well as Rosie and her two boys, Noah and Finn, who were around my age and had always been like siblings to me.

And Lara, of course, because she was practically family.

We’d take over the rambling Cape Cod and while away the late-summer nights with terrible movies, card games with made-up rules, and way too much wine.

Dad, bless him, tended to sit these trips out, using the time to catch up on his design work and the arthouse film festival that played at the cinema not far from my parents’ townhouse in the city.

Besides, Dad’s freckled skin did not get along with the beachy environs.

We were close now: the soil was turning to sand, the greenery thinning out into a low-lying coastal landscape.

I rolled down my window a tad more to take in the magic of it all.

Enough to warrant a glare from Tiff, who had a thing about road pollution smells.

Wavy, slightly-too-long hair whipped my face as I breathed in the fresh, calming feeling that only the seaside could deliver.

Summer valiantly clung to the air, not wanting to hang up its mantle. It wasn’t long now until the changing of the season, where endless sunsets gave way to dusk-coloured leaves, lemonade cocktails were set aside in favour of spiced cider, and the Halloween decorations were ready to come out.

The town had a name for this time of year, this in-between time where summer and fall crossed paths: Summerween.

And for as long as I could remember, Whisperwind Cove, renowned as a getaway destination for magical types, had hosted a festival of the same name, although the true festivities extended for weeks on either side of the official event.

Our little group definitely helped with that.

It was no wonder that Summerween was the time of year I adored most. And not just because the fiery days of summer started to subside and fragrant candles and cosy clothes began populating the boutiques.

Or even because it meant that beach soccer season was here, which was my favourite sport to cover as a journalist (well, other than pickleball, which was deliciously competitive and gossipy).

Summerween was the time we all got to be together. Even Mom, who practically had to be dragged away from work, and Tiff, who spent most of the year jet-setting off to places I’d only ever seen on The Amazing Race.

Except this year was going to be different. Because, for the first time, Rosie’s husband, Charlie, wasn’t going to be with us.

In fact, he’d never be with us again.

We’d all agreed that Charlie was too sick to manage the demands of a Summerween vacation, so we’d skipped last year’s event. But now my heart ached at the thought that we’d missed our last chance to all be together.

‘How’s Rosie doing?’ asked Tiff as she pulled onto Oceanspray Drive, Whisperwind Cove’s main street, which consisted of a few boutiques, a general store and Lorraine’s – a corner bakery with a striped awning and a patio coloured pink and red with its climbing roses.

Various laneways led to a few other boutiques I couldn’t wait to visit this trip: the cramped bookshop called The Last Word; an ice-cream shop called The Scoop, run by our family friend Soraya; and a cute bar, the Hammer and Thistle, most famous for its pumpkin-carving contest (watermelons were also acceptable during the summer season).

Outside each shopfront, chrysanthemums formed colourful pompoms in their planters, and there were rows of decorative pumpkins mixed with giant candles.

Beyond the shops, the ocean stretched out, blue and sparkling as the sun ran its fingers through it.

I still hadn’t answered Tiff’s question, which was an answer in itself, really.

I drummed my fingers against the passenger-side door.

This year was our first Summerween since Charlie’s death, and I knew Rosie was struggling.

The two of them had been inseparable. I’d never seen a couple so in love – not even my own parents – and it was something I’d always wanted for myself one day.

One far-off day in the future, because I certainly hadn’t figured out the ins and outs of love just yet.

I’d barely figured anything out, really. I wasn’t exactly known for my decisiveness. There was a reason I was a sports journalist and not a referee.

‘You’ve been texting, right? And calling.’

Tiff said it in a matter-of-fact way, but I knew that somewhere underneath was a slight tinge of hurt.

Rosie and I had always been close. Close in a way that made Tiff bristle.

But Tiff was away so often, jet-setting around the world giving her talks on business practices or whatever.

Even her boyfriend, Damien, was long distance.

Sometimes it felt as if she wanted to be anywhere other than home. Anywhere other than with me.

‘Always,’ I said. ‘Rosie and I are like … y’know … you and Mom.’

Who, with their mutual love of spreadsheets, had way more in common with each other than they did with me.

I grabbed the handle above the door as Tiff braked for a group of drunken teenagers crossing the road at seemingly the most diagonal angle possible.

The girls were all in bikinis and floaty wraps, and the guys wore board shorts and half-buttoned shirts.

All were cackling like maniacs, and I sensed the tiny crackles of magic sparkling here and there.

Magic was always heightened in the cove, especially during this season, and magical types came from all over to enjoy it.

It wasn’t that we had to hide our magic back in the city.

It was just that here, practically everyone had magic, so no one raised an eyebrow when you used it or groused about things coming easily to you.

One of the guys managed a magic-enhanced backflip to a chorus of whoops.

I felt ancient looking at them. Although twenty-four probably was ancient to them.

Would that be our Summerween this year, I wondered, as I watched the others try to replicate said backflip, with varying degrees of success. Or would ours be a quieter, more sedate affair coloured by Charlie’s absence?

My heart twinged as I thought of the hurt Rosie, Finn and Noah had experienced this past year.

I hadn’t seen them since the funeral, and although Rosie and I had been staying in touch, I’d only checked in with the boys once or twice.

That was partly due to being busy with work, and partly because I wasn’t sure how to handle their loss.

What could you say? How were you meant to act?

On some level, I knew Finn would manage: he’d always had an easy-going, c’est la vie approach to the world, and a way of partying through the hard times until they became the not-so-hard times.

Noah, however, was a different story. He’d always been the quiet, thoughtful one.

He pressed everything down so deeply inside himself, where it couldn’t break out and cause him pain.

But there was only so much room inside you, surely.

And besides, it wasn’t like I was his girlfriend – that was Meryl’s job.

Well, until recently, although that wasn’t any of my business (although Lara assured me that it absolutely was).

Still, every time I’d started a text to him, I’d let it peter out to nothing.

I was afraid of getting it wrong, of having Noah think less of me.

It was easier just to say nothing at all.

‘Mom’s made her fruit meringue,’ Tiff said brightly, trying to reset the tone. ‘Peppermint chocolate for you, of course, because how dare you be expected to eat fruit with your whipped cream.’

Good change of subject there, Tiff. I’ll take it.

‘The heart wants what it wants,’ I said, trying to match her tone.

‘As if your heart has ever known what it wants,’ said Tiff shrewdly as she pulled the car into the hedge-lined driveway of the Pink House.

She wasn’t wrong, but ouch.