Summer Girl Read online

  Crap. I really didn’t want to get arrested in front of her. It was the first time I’d ever cared whether or not those cuffs were slapped on my wrists. Heather was responsible for a lot of firsts.

  “Hey,” Heather protested. “That guy that he got in a fight with? He grabbed my butt. Slade was just sticking up for me.”

  “There’s sticking up for you, and there’s knocking a guy out cold,” Sheriff Blackstone said. “Slade has a way of taking things just a little too far every time.”

  “Whatever.” I shrugged, letting a mask of cold indifference slide across my face because inside, my stomach was starting to churn and I was struggling to quell feelings of panic about the fact that Heather had no-one to look out for her now. Nobody but Dottie, all five foot two and hundred ten pounds of her.

  Sheriff Blackstone was right. I could have frog-marched that jackass out of there in front of all his friends, humiliating him and getting him 86ed from the only bar in town, but that wasn’t enough for me. It never was.

  Heather shot Sheriff Blackstone an angry look. “I want to file assault charges against Troy Bradwell, then. And tell him I’ll be mailing a copy of the police report to his football couch, his dean, and his school newspaper.” Ahh, that’s my girl. A fighter. I liked that.

  Except she wasn’t my girl, of course.

  “Fine,” he nodded. “I’ll leave Deputy Peters here to take your report.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to Heather. “If you ever get in a jam, call me.” He tossed me a glance and I could tell what he was thinking: if she’s staying with you, idiot, then she’s probably going to need help sooner rather than later.

  “Oh. Thank you,” Heather said, surprised.

  Sheriff Blackstone can occasionally be less than an asshole, I guess. As long as it’s not me he’s dealing with.

  “No problem.”

  I turned around and put my wrists behind my back, and felt the familiar bite of cold steel on my wrists.

  “You comfortable?” Blackstone snapped as we walked out. Heather walked with us, face pinched with worry, and I would have given anything to be able to put my arms around her, to pull her up against me and tell her everything would be all right.

  But I couldn’t, so I fell back on the familiar: sarcastic douche mode. “Feels like old times, man,” I said to Blackstone. “Did you miss me?”

  He made a disgusted sound and paused when we stopped outside the cruiser.

  “You know, half the time I’m arresting you it’s because you feel like you need to ride in like a white knight every time a guy gets a little bit handsy with some damsel in distress.” Uh oh. I know where he was going, and that was not a safe place for anyone to go. “Jumping in and beating up some drunk douchebag isn’t going to change what happened-“

  How dare he? How dare he?

  As if I didn’t know that better than anyone?

  “Shut the fuck up! You fucking asshole! Don’t you fucking even think of going there, or I’ll take you and your cruiser and your whole god-damned station apart!” My voice cracked across the parking lot like a rifle shot, and everyone froze, staring at me. Even with my hands cuffed behind my back, I’m nothing to mess with.

  “Get in the cruiser.” Blackstone’s voice dripped with anger. I threw myself into the cruiser, and he slammed the door shut.

  I didn’t look behind me as we pulled away, because I didn’t want to see the expression on Heather’s face.

  The next morning, Sheriff Blackstone unlocked the door to my cell and handed me a wrinkled paper bag with my wallet, shoelaces, belt and cell phone. “You’re in luck. Troy sobered up and decided not to press charges as long as your girlfriend doesn’t press charges.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him about Heather’s status, just took the paper bag that he handed me. “I’m going to start charging you for those,” he said.

  “Or I could drop off my own supply. A couple dozen should get me through the year, am I right?”

  Sheriff Blackstone shook his head in disgust. “You won’t always be this lucky, Slade.”

  Don’t I know it, I thought. And you can’t wait for the day that my luck runs out.

  Heather

  I stood in front of my family’s house for the first time in years.

  It was a massive structure, three stories high with decks overlooking the ocean on every level, and banks of windows winking in the sun. The house was tan and brown, the construction what’s called “stick built”, like most of the houses on the beach here. Custom built right on the lot, to my late grandparents exact specifications. We had our own private wooden walkway leading down to the beach, and our own boat dock.

  A dull sorrow washed over me. I’d never spend another summer here, I’d never again look out of my window to watch the sun sinking into the horizon in a glorious riot of color.

  Being in the same town, sleeping two miles away from this house but feeling as if I were a million miles away from it, made it even more painful.

  None of us had been back here since my 16th summer, but I was the one that had been packed off to summer camp and boarding school. My brother Nicholas, one year older than me, never got booted out of the nest.

  Why? I’d have to assume that it was because that summer I’d found out our family secret, and he hadn’t. So I was filthy and tainted and he was still clean.

  Such a mundane secret it was, too, so ordinary and dull. And yet unearthing it had sent shock waves through our perfect life, blown us all apart into little broken pieces that were to this day hurtling farther and farther away from each other.

  My mother had been to rehab three times since that day three summers ago. Oh, it had been hushed up, and it always happened while I was away, but word does get around.

  Nicholas had a secret too, one which had caused him to pull away from our parents emotionally while remaining present physically. To me it was nothing, to my parents it probably would have been the end of the world. Nicholas only liked boys. He’d chosen a college in California, and barely spoke to my parents these days, but when he came around on holidays he still played the game. He’d even bring girls back with him as a cover – girls that made me secretly smile because they were so obviously lesbians, and my parents were so deliberately oblivious.

  I’d thought about calling him to talk to him about what had happened, but we’d drifted apart long ago. He played the part of dutiful son on holidays and never questioned anything, and they rewarded him by throwing wads of cash at him and getting him a high powered banking job in San Francisco, and never asking too many questions.

  So I was here completely on my own. I hadn’t even told Slade what I was doing.

  Dottie and I had spent the night on his couch, watching movies on the VCR and eating popcorn, while my stomach roiled with worry. He’d walked in the door the next morning, to my huge relief.

  He’d told me that his uncle wasn’t feeling well so he was going over to his house to do some yard work, and I was frustrated and at my wit’s end trying to find anyone who knew anything about Consuelo, so I asked him to drop me off in the center of town. I didn’t want him to drive me to my family’s house, because then I’d have to explain why.

  And talking about things makes them real.

  My house was only a half mile walk from the town center, but it felt like thousands of miles.

  So there I was, standing in front of the house for what was very likely the last time. I didn’t even know specifically what I was looking for. I had a vague idea that maybe if I went through my father’s study I’d find something. I could break into his file cabinet and see if he had a file under “M” for “Mistress” or “B” for “Bastard Child”. Although probably not.

  I still had the keys, which I planned to throw away after I searched through the house today.

  I opened the door, punched in the alarm code, and rushed inside before I lost my nerve. I climbed up the steps, my stomach squeezing itself in knots. Tears burned my eyes as I saw the
framed portraits of our family still artfully arranged on our walls. They were beautiful portraits; my family hired the best photographers, and makeup artists and stylists came in and teased and moussed and blushed us to perfection before the photographer’s finger landed on the shutter button.

  There was no dust anywhere, so I imagined that my parents were still paying for a maid to come to the house once a month to clean, even though nobody used the house any more.

  Standing outside my father’s office, I could hear the ghosts of my parents’ voices echoing down the hall. “I saw your whore and her daughter today!” My mother’s voice was raw with rage and grief.

  And then a crash, and screaming, which is why I’d run into the room. I’d thought somebody was getting murdered, but it turned out that my mother had just thrown a lamp at the wall.

  The look on my parents faces when they saw me in the doorway…when they knew that I knew…my stomach tightened and a wave of queasiness swept over me.

  I shook my head, forcing myself back to the present. I went to the garage to fetch a tool box, and then hurried back to my father’s office. It was locked, so I jimmied open the door and then started in on the file cabinet.

  I pawed through all the files in every drawer, but nothing jumped out at me. What was I looking for? Some proof of his indiscretion. Something that might give me a clue on how to find my half-sister Consuelo.

  Whatever it was, my father probably wouldn’t keep it here in his office. Too easy for my mom to find it. He’d have it in a safety deposit box, or at his office back in Raleigh.

  Suddenly I realized that I was no longer alone in the house. In my distraction I hadn’t paid attention…and now there were feet pounding up the stairs. Heavy feet. It definitely sounded like a man.

  My heart leaped to my throat, and I scrabbled frantically in my purse for my cell phone, pulled it out…and the service had been turned off.

  Thanks, dad.

  I backed away, with nowhere to go. We were on the third floor. Panic choked me and I struggled to breathe. Was I going to be murdered? How long would it take for anyone to find my body? Would Slade miss me?

  I grabbed a screwdriver from the tool kit that I’d bought with me and held it in front of me, like I’d really be able to stab a burglar/serial killer with it, and the door flew open, and I jumped back and screamed.

  And so did the sheriff’s deputy who’d just rushed through the door. He screamed like a girl. In fact I’m pretty sure his scream was more high pitched than mine.

  “Why are you screaming?” I shrieked.

  “You screamed first! You startled me!” he gasped.

  “What are you even doing here?”

  “We got a call from the alarm company. You set off the alarm.” I peered at the name on his name tag. Deputy Wolinski. Heavyset, young, prematurely balding blond hair. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “I live here,” I said irritably, as my heartbeat slowly returned to normal. “This is my family’s house. And I didn’t hear any alarm go off.”

  “It must have been a silent alarm.”

  So my family had changed the alarm code. Nice.

  The deputy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, I recognize you. You’re one of the Tremaines, right? I’ll just let the alarm company know that everything’s all right.” He glanced at the tools and the pried open drawers.

  “What exactly are you doing here?”

  “Oh, my family needed me to find some paperwork, and I couldn’t get the drawer open.” I waved my hand vaguely.

  He nodded, but his expression was skeptical. As he left, I glanced around the file folders scattered around on the floor, and considered putting everything back where it belonged.

  The heck with it, I thought, heading down the stairs. Let them clean up their own mess.

  When I got outside, the look on the deputy’s face was on his radio. He turned to look at me, and the expression on his face told me he was about to deliver some bad news.

  “Heather Tremaine, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m really sorry about this, but the alarm company contacted your family and your father said that you were not actually allowed to be on the premises. They said that they specifically requested that you not enter the house.”

  Anger flared through me. “No, they didn’t,” I snapped. They’d told me I couldn’t stay at the house, but they hadn’t said I wasn’t even allowed to set foot there.

  “I’m sorry, all I can do is report back what the alarm company told me.”

  “Okay, fine. I will not set foot in this house again.” I’d already known that when I walked in the door. This was my last goodbye.

  “Well, it’s worse than that.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “Your father says he’s going to press charges on you for breaking and entering. And trespassing. And burglary.”

  I was stunned. My father really was playing hardball.

  “What? Breaking and entering? I used a key!”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to take you in to the station.”

  “Seriously? You’re arresting me?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Oh, my God. I had to work that afternoon. And I couldn’t call Dottie because my cell phone had been turned off. And I doubted that it would be a great idea to ask the deputy who was about to arrest me if I could borrow his cell phone.

  The motel…my cell phone…and now this. It was incredible how effectively my parents were managing to destroy my life from hundreds of miles away.

  “Fine,” I said bitterly. I turned around and put my wrists together behind my back.

  Heather Tremaine, being hauled off to the hoosegaw. Who ever would have thought?

  “Oh, no, I don’t have to handcuff you!” He waved his hands in horror.

  “Uh…okay.”

  “You can ride in the front seat if you want.” He clearly felt awful about this. “People will just think you’re doing a ridealong.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ll ride in the back. Thank you anyway.”

  I sure was getting different treatment than Slade had last night. Then again, Slade had been drunk, raging mad, and had just decked a football player the size of Shrek, and laid him out flat. And had a well-known reputation for starting fights. And had screamed obscenities at the sheriff.

  I climbed in the back seat of the deputy’s patrol car, more fascinated than scared. You know what? The hell with my parents. The more they tried to screw me over, the more determined that I was to keep marching forward.

  The seat in the back of the car was rock hard, and I sat on it gingerly and tried not to think about the petri dish of diseases that must be swarming on my butt. My butt was resting on the butt prints of criminals! I was such a badass.

  There was a wire partition separating me from the front seat, and there were no door handles on the inside of the door. I guess I wouldn’t be tucking and rolling my way out of this one.

  As we rode down Main Street, I prayed that someone I knew would see me, and sure enough, there on the sidewalk was Bitsy Biltmore, and her mother, Bunny. I am not making those names up. They had just walked out of a Lily Pulitzer store with armloads of shopping bags.

  They glanced at the patrol car curiously, and I waved madly, with a big grin on my face.

  Bitsy’s mouth dropped open, and she and her mother stared openly.

  Ha.

  Word would get back to my parents. Word would spread all over Raleigh in no time. I could not wait for the biddies to come knocking on my parent’s door wanting to know what was up.

  Put THAT on the society pages! I thought gleefully. Heather Tremaine, not such a nice girl after all.

  Once we got to the station, though, my mood dampened.

  They actually took a mug shot picture of me. I made sure to flash a cheery beauty queen smile, because I was pissed. This was ridiculous.

  Then the police officer let me make a phone call, so I tried to
call Slade, but it went to voicemail. I left him a message. “You’re not going to believe where I am. Jail, actually. My parents busted me for trespassing at my own house. Long story…uh, anyway…see you when I see you.”

  I looked at the cop. “I guess that was my one phone call, huh?”

  He shrugged. “You want to make another one? Go ahead.”

  “Really?” I was shocked. In all the movies and TV shows that I’d ever seen, you get one phone call. Just one. And then the person you’re trying to call never answers, so you’re screwed.

  “This isn’t the movies,” he informed me.

  “Oh,” I said.

  So I called Dottie to tell her why I wouldn’t be at work this afternoon.

  “Am I fired? I am so sorry about this. I swear this will never happen again.”

  “Hell no, you’re not fired. You’ve gained official entry to the cool kids club. Hey, when you’re in the cell, look at the graffiti on the right side of the wall, by the floor. Towards the back of the room. You should find my name and the date I got busted for skinny-dipping in the town square fountain. Winter, 2011. I just about froze my tits off.”

  I was still laughing as he put me in the cell.

  About an hour later, Dottie walked through the door, with a pretty, plump older woman with dyed flaming red-hair and cat-eye glasses. The woman looked a lot like Dottie.

  The deputy sitting behind the desk glanced up. “Hello, Aurora.”

  “Hello, Sam. I am Miss Tremaine’s attorney,” she informed him.

  She walked over to the bars, thrust her hand through the bars, and we shook hands.

  “I’m Dottie’s aunt, Aurora Godwin.”

  I looked at her, puzzled. “I could swear I saw your name written on the wall next to Dottie’s. In the jail cell.”

  She beamed with pride. “Oh, yes! That jail cell is a family tradition. A rite of passage. That was my very first case. Public defacement of property for allegedly graffiti-ing town hall. I represented myself, and got myself off scott-free.”

  “One of the first of a long line of criminals who enjoyed that distinction.” Sheriff Blackstone walked through the door.

  “Well, if it isn’t the fascist oppressor of the underclass,” she said, folding her arms across her ample bosom. I saw his gaze flick there briefly, than it snapped back to her face.