The Forever Summer
Jamie Brenner
For my grandmother Frances Rubin Carver.
I miss you.
Provincetown, Massachusetts
Spring
The annual opening of the Beach Rose Inn marked the unofficial start of summer. It was part of the rhythm of life in Provincetown, like the ferry service from Boston, the whale-watching tour schedule, and the route of the Fourth of July parade. Amelia understood this, and it was something she had weighed carefully in making her decision to close it.
The old house had been in her family for five generations, and every spring required pre–beach season maintenance that she had long managed like clockwork. There was reshingling, repainting, flower-bed upkeep, cable and Internet upgrades, and of course a multitude of unpredictable repairs depending on how harsh the New England winter they’d just endured had been. And then, once the summer got into full swing, the work really began. For fifteen straight weeks, from May until early September, her home was filled with guests. Some were new, some were old (more like friends than guests, really), but all of them kept Amelia and her partner, Kelly, on their toes all season long.
And she loved it. At age seventy-five, she had been running the inn for so long, she couldn’t imagine a summer without it. But things changed, and it was time to slow down.
But then, the phone call. Out of nowhere.
Amelia was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, when the call came in. She had been looking out the window at the long wooden table that stretched the length of the backyard to the tip of the sand that framed Cape Cod Bay. Her guests always took their breakfast at the table, dining communally, making new friends, relationships that she had heard often lasted well beyond their vacation week.
“May I speak to Amelia Cabral?” The young woman’s voice shook.
“Speaking,” said Amelia, prepared to tell her the inn would be closed that summer—perhaps closed indefinitely. After months of such conversations, they had not gotten any easier.
“Hi, um—I’m sorry to bother you.” A long pause.
“Yes, dear. How can I help you?” Amelia prompted gently.
“Mrs. Cabral, my name is Rachel. I live in LA. And I’m pretty sure you’re my…grandmother.”
The word hung in the ether between them, heavy and weightless at the same time.
Amelia had thought that at her age, the days of surprises—good and bad—were long behind her. She had been standing in that very spot when a call had come in nearly three decades earlier, news so devastating all she could do was grip the countertop as if it were the only thing tethering her to the earth. And as the young woman told her story, that’s exactly what Amelia did once again.
When she finally hung up the phone, she had to hug herself to stop the shaking.
Funny, Amelia thought, how we greet both extremely bad news and extremely good news in the same way: disbelief.
In a daze, Amelia walked out the back door of the house into the early-spring sunshine. Her first thought was that she had to tell Kelly, stalwart Kelly, who had helped her keep the inn afloat all these years and had only reluctantly supported her decision to close it for the season. What would Kelly make of this?
What did she make of it? All Amelia knew was that she’d spent the last thirty years filling the house with strangers. But in a few weeks, she would have family under her roof.
After all this time, her family.
Chapter One
New York City
The restaurant was opulent, trendy, and loud. Her fiancé had chosen it for her birthday dinner. Her fiancé, who was not at the table.
Marin stood and waved when she spotted her parents walking into the room. They had driven up from Philadelphia for the night to celebrate with her. Her mother pulled her into a hug as soon as she reached the table.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart! Thirty. I can’t believe it,” she said. She was dressed in a classically cut pale blue suit. Very Main Line. Very Mom. Marin felt a pang of sadness. Her mother didn’t know it, but she was about to become very upset.
“Marin, you’re looking well,” her father said. “All the long hours at the firm must agree with you.”
Marin beamed. She lived for her father’s pride in her career. At least one of her parents would be happy with her tonight.
Her mother looked around. “Where’s Greg? Is he running late?”
“No,” Marin said slowly. “He’s not running late.”
The three of them sat down and the waiter handed them menus. The restaurant was prix fixe, offering very few options. Marin had no appetite.
“What’s going on?” her mother asked. “Is he sick?”
“He’s fine, Mom. But we broke up.”
“What?” Her mother looked like Marin had slapped her across the face. “Why on earth? Did you have an argument?”
Her father summoned the waiter and ordered a martini. Marin asked for a glass of chardonnay.
“No. Not an argument. I just wasn’t happy,” Marin said. It was the partial truth.
“You’re spending too much time at work. Relationships need to be nurtured, Marin. You can’t just go on autopilot because you have a ring on your finger,” said her mother, her voice going up an octave.
“Blythe, please. She’s entitled to a career. Don’t blame it on that,” said Kip. “And Greg’s Wall Street hours are no doubt longer than hers.”
“Mom, it’s all right. It’s for the best. I’m sorry to disappoint you but—”
Blythe shook her head. “You’re not disappointing me. I just want you to be happy. Why didn’t you talk to me? When did all of this happen?”
Marin did feel guilty for not confiding in her—the first time that she had frozen her mother out of her personal life. But it was temporary, and necessary, and one day her mother would understand. At least, she hoped she would. It was hard to explain something messy like this to a woman who had been happily married for thirty-two years.
“Last night. I just realized it wasn’t the right thing for me. I’m not ready to get married. Or maybe I don’t want to marry him. I don’t know. Either way, I had to be honest—with him and with myself…”
The waiter brought their drinks, and her father raised his glass. “It’s not easy to admit what you want when it means making an unpopular decision. I’m proud of you.”
Her mother glared at him.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Did you give back the ring?” Kip asked.
“That’s what you have to say about this?” said Blythe.
“In New York State it’s considered a conditional gift. There’s a contractual obligation to return the ring.”
“Who cares about the damn ring!” said Blythe.
“Yes, Dad—I returned the ring. And Mom, breakups happen. It’s going to be fine.”
Her mother nodded glumly, unconvinced.