28. Summer
Summer
The piercing ring of my alarm wakes me, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms.
My appointment at the lawyers’ office is scheduled for nine.
I didn’t anticipate sleeping well, and I was right. Before bed, I prepared a pot of drip coffee on a timer ready so it would be ready to go this morning.
The scent of the sweet nectar drifts upstairs and I take a deep breath, the heavenly scent enticing enough to get me moving.
I head downstairs and chug a cup of strong coffee. I then tug on a pair of simple black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and sneakers. My hair is thrown up in a loose bun with pieces of escaped auburn tresses loose around my face.
I pass the old wooden cross hanging on the kitchen wall above the small dining table, scoffing.
A loud knock sounds from the front door as I shrug on my jacket.
I swing it open to reveal a small elderly woman holding a baking dish covered in aluminum foil, a young girl beside her who looks about twelve.
“Hello?” I ask, unsure of who these people are.
The elderly woman’s face creases into a warm smile.
“Summer. I’m Barbara Hartley—I attended St. Michael’s with your father.
” She gestures to the young girl. “This is my granddaughter, Lola.” She lifts the dish toward me.
“We wanted to bring something over on behalf of the congregation. Tuna casserole. We’re so sorry for your loss, dear. ”
Sorry for your loss.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t want their condolences. But years of PR training has me smiling as I say, “That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” and accept the dish.
Lola stares at me, her mouth slightly open.
“Lola.” Barbara nudges her.
Nothing.
“Lola, say hello.”
“You’re really Summer Hayes,” Lola whispers.
“I am.” I smile.
“The Summer Hayes.”
“Last time I checked.” I chuckle.
“Oh. My. God—”
“Lola!” Barbara admonishes.
“Gran, that’s Summer Hayes.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I gathered that,” Barbara says mildly.
“I have all your albums,” Lola says. “Every single one. My mom thinks I’m obsessed.” Her cheeks turn red. “I have a poster of you above my desk and everything! Sorry—that’s probably weird.”
“That’s not weird at all.” I mean it. “Thank you so much for listening. That means everything.”
“Could I maybe …” She looks at her shoes, then back up. “Would you mind a photo?”
“Of course not,” I say, turning to set the casserole down on the hallway table.
She hands her cell to Barbara, who snaps a quick picture. Lola stares at the screen. “Everyone at school is going to lose their minds!”
I laugh. “It was lovely meeting you both. And thank you for the casserole.”
“Again, we’re so sorry for your loss.” Barbara reaches for my hand. My shoulders lock instinctively, but I breathe through it and let her take it. “Doug was such a holy man. The congregation thought the world of him.”
Doug was about as holy as a fleshlight, Barbara.
“Mmm.” I keep my smile in place.
“Well, we’ll leave you to your mourning.”
They turn to go.
“Wait!” I stop them. “Would you mind not mentioning I’m staying here? If that’s okay.”
Lola nods so vigorously I worry for her neck. “I won’t tell a single soul. I promise.”
I wink at her and she looks like she might combust. Then they disappear down the footpath.
I dash back to the kitchen, sliding the casserole into the refrigerator before pulling out my cell and opening the Uber app, but the sight of Mom’s keys in the entryway gives me pause.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I contemplate a short moment before relenting, snatching them up and jogging down the porch steps.
Gripping the blue tarp, I peel it back to reveal the Beetle.
She’s dusty and neglected after more than a decade of sitting idle. Cobwebs cover the side mirrors and wheels, but underneath all that neglect, she’s still her.
As I run my fingers through the dust on the hood, leaving a trail, I remember Saturday mornings spent with Mom singing along to whatever was on the radio.
“Sing with me, baby.”
“But I don’t know the words.”
“So? Make them up. That’s the best part!”
She might have been a weapon on the piano, but her voice was always horribly off-key. We’d belt out made-up lyrics and laugh until our stomachs hurt.
I choke down the lump in my throat.
Apparently, Rhonda’s colleague came by while I was out on a walk yesterday to check the battery and fluid. He said she should run fine for short trips.
I slide into the driver’s seat. The cabin smells of dust and aged leather mixed with jasmine and vanilla—her perfume.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I blink against the burn.
I slip the key into the ignition and turn.
The engine sputters and coughs before falling silent.
I try again.
She groans again but then—
Vroom.
She rumbles to life.
“Yes!” I slap the steering wheel. “That’s my beautiful, stubborn girl.”
I adjust the rearview mirror before shifting into reverse and backing out of the driveway, tearing down the street toward town center.
The law offices occupy a small space sandwiched between Allen’s Coffee Shop and the Ocean Grove Post Office.
I park the Beetle out front and head inside, trying to steady my pulse.
You can do this. It’s just a few signatures.
The receptionist is young and polished. She shoots to her feet and rounds the polished wood desk to greet me.
“H-hi, Ms. Hayes. It’s s-so nice to meet y-you.” She dips her chin, her cheeks flushing an adorable pink hue. “I’m a really b-big fan.”
I try to give her my friendliest grin and offer her a hand in greeting, which she shakily accepts. “Please, call me Summer. It’s lovely to meet you.”
She rolls her lips before leading me down a narrow hallway to the corner office—the biggest one.
The man behind the desk rises when I enter, smoothing down his outdated maroon suit. His hair is thick, gelled back, and mostly gray.
“Ms. Hayes. A pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand. “I’m Craig Mitchell. Thank you for coming in. Please.” He gestures to the plush chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat.”
I oblige, clutching my bag.
“Can I offer you a refreshment? Perhaps water or coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
He nods. “I know this must be a difficult time.” He settles back. “I’ll try to make this as straightforward as possible.”
“I appreciate that.”
He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick folder, sliding a handful of documents toward me.
“As you well know, your father named you as the primary beneficiary of his estate. This includes the property at 21 Juniper Terrace, all contents therein, and the 1972 Volkswagen Beetle registered under your mother’s name. ”
My eyebrows slant together. “What happened to his car?”
“His brother took ownership of the Ford Ranger.”
I nod. “I see.”
Good. At least I don’t have to deal with it.
“So, that’s everything? Their money?” I ask.
He steeples his fingers. “Mr. Philip Hayes was bequeathed their entire savings account, totaling seven thousand dollars, along with a few personal effects. Photographs, your grandfather’s pocket watch, and some fishing equipment.”
“Did he contest anything?”
He shakes his head. “No. He was very agreeable. He was notified last week and accepted the terms without dispute.”
That’s one less battle to fight. I exhale.
“And the property … what are my options?”
His eyes soften. “It’s yours to do with as you wish.
Live in it, sell it, rent it—the choice is yours.
If you plan on selling the property, I believe Ocean Grove’s market is quite favorable at the moment.
Homes like yours are on the market an average of six to eight weeks before they’re snapped up.
I’d be happy to recommend several reputable Realtors. ”
Homes like yours.
I resist the urge to scoff. It hasn’t been my home in a long time.
“Yes, please,” I reply. “I’m doing some work on the property and would ideally like it listed as soon as possible.”
“Excellent.”
We spend the next hour going through the details and I nod along, half listening, half distracted by the mess I need to organize and deal with when I get back.
By the time I sign the last document, I’m hollowed out.
I drag myself next door and order a latte, conscious of the many eyes drilling into my back. I even hear the click of someone’s cell phone camera.
I release a sigh, take my coffee, and hop into the Beetle, which thankfully starts on the first try.
“Good girl,” I murmur, patting the dash.
I pull onto Highway 1 with the window down, letting the salt air seep into my lungs and whip my hair.
The coastline is stunning as green cliffs drop into churning blue and wildflowers cling to rocky outcrops. On the few occasions I dreamed of Ocean Grove, thankfully this was what I’d dreamed about—the view. The smell.
Anytime I felt suffocated by the bright lights or my penthouse apartment in New York, I’d close my eyes and imagine being by the ocean, curling my toes in the damp sand and collecting seashells.
I think it’s the only thing I really missed about this place: the water.
The ocean is boundless. It’s free. An unending blue infinity. As a child, I’d always wondered what that freedom would feel like. I’d throw open my window each morning and listen to the cawing gulls flying overhead, watching as the sky painted everything molten gold as it rose.
Suddenly, the engine begins to bluster and fumble, protesting.
“No. No, no, no. Don’t do this, not now!”
The car jerks and a small light flickers to life next to the gas meter.
I pull over on the side of the road, and she gives one last shuddering groan, rolling to a stop.
I turn the key and nothing happens. “Shit.” I try again, but she refuses to respond.
Pulling out my cell, I dial Addie’s contact. She answers on the fourth ring.
“What do you want?” She yawns.
“The Beetle died.”
She groans, the sound of sheets rustling around her. “The car?”
“Yes. Are you asleep? It’s past ten!”
“How else am I supposed to stay this beautiful?”
I roll my eyes. “Can you help?”
“Say please.”
“Addie—”
“Ugh. Fine. Send me your location.”
“Done. Now what?”