Once a Marine. Loree Lough
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CHAPTER SEVEN
SINCE HER PARENTS’ ARRIVAL, Summer had spent half of her daylight hours picking up things her dad left strewn about, and the other half looking for things her mom had put away. She glanced at the calendar, where her dad had used a fat red marker—it had bled through to the next page—to circle the twenty-first, the date they’d fly to Baltimore then drive to the annual Chesapeake Film Festival in historic Easton, Maryland. Summer loved them like crazy, and because she knew they meant well, she employed an assortment of coping strategies.
When the basket for her dad’s keys, reading glasses and sunglasses, neatly folded handkerchiefs and breath mints overflowed, she added another one. As she rediscovered everyday items hidden by her mom, Summer simply returned them to their proper places. Her best idea yet had been the dartboard on the back of her bedroom door, the one and only room her parents never entered. After printing each irksome peculiarity on Post-it notes, she stuck them to the board. Then, after getting ready for bed each night, Summer would fire a feathered missile at the pastel squares.
Tonight, the dart zeroed in on pancake griddle on top of fridge. Since it had chosen that same note two days earlier, Summer lobbed it again. This time, it landed on wet tea bag in dishwasher, inspiring a burst of quiet laughter.
“Are you okay in there?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Are you sure? I thought I heard thumping, and thought maybe you’d fallen.”
It was all she could do to stifle more giggles. “No, I’m fine. Must have been my dresser drawers. Sorry. I’ll close them more quietly from now on.”
Silence, and then a dubious, “All right, then. Good night, honey.”
“Sweet dreams,” she called back, “and thanks for checking on me.”
“Oh. Speaking of dreams, I met your dreamy friend in town today.”
“Who, Justin?”
“No, of course not. I’ve known Justin for years! It was that nice young man who owns Marshall Law. You know, the self-defense studio that’s right next door to the Cascade Café?”
Summer leaped out of bed and threw open her bedroom door.
“I’ve been saving some citrus-lavender tea,” she said, taking her mother’s hand. Leading her down the hall, she whispered, “Let’s have a cup while you tell me all about it. No sense waking Dad.”
After filling the kettle and turning the burner on high, she sat beside her mom at the bar counter. “Now, then. Start at the beginning,” Summer said, “and don’t leave out a single detail.”
“Well, Dad and I were sitting there at the café, looking at the itinerary for our trip, when this handsome man walks up and says ‘Excuse me, I hate to intrude, but aren’t you Mr. and Mrs. Lane?’” Susannah laughed. “Your father thought he wanted an autograph, so he grabbed a napkin and his pen and said, ‘How would you like me to make it out?’”
Summer grinned, picturing the scene.
“So the man gets all tongue-tied and he says, ‘Oh, no. Thank you, but I recognized you from a picture in your daughter’s foyer, and I just wanted to introduce myself.’ You should have seen the disappointed look on Dad’s face! I asked him to join us, and after he sat down, I said to him, ‘So, how do you know our girl?’ And he says to me, ‘I don’t really know her. We only just met, through the boy who lives next door to her.’ And I said, ‘Alex? He’s just the sweetest boy!’ And he says—”
Maybe it had been a mistake to ask her not to leave out any of the details. At this rate, they’d be here till dawn. What Summer really wanted to know was if Zach had sweet-talked her parents into revealing details about her past. And if so, how many secrets had they shared?
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