43

The Book of Summer

Philip E. Young

August 31, 1942

Cliff House, Sconset, Nantucket

I never expected to write in this book.

It was Sarah’s from the start and it feels like an intrusion, though she would not mind at all.

But really it was my dear Sarah who shaped our family. We wouldn’t have Cliff House, the lookout from America’s edge, if not for her insistence. I’m so glad she pried the money from my miserly hands. She will live forever in this book and in this home.

I’m not much of a writer. Or a reader. But I’ve enjoyed going through this Book of Summer. Sam’s story about the golf match had me laughing for the first time in a while. My greatest wish is that my bright and sparkling Ruby will likewise find some cheer in a not so distant future. I should take her on a spin through our summertime history as memorialized in this book. We’ve had a dang great time. A shame, I’ve only just realized.

My petal is crushed by her mother’s sudden passing, which is what I feared and expected both. I can’t help but feel at fault, though Sarah would smack me at the thought. My lovely wife had breast cancer, discovered only a few months ago. That’s what happens when your mind’s on something else, like a sickly husband. You don’t have time to worry about yourself. And here I sit, alive and hacking. It’s not a bit fair, not that life ever is.

Sarah hadn’t wanted to bother Ruby with the bad news so early in her pregnancy and the doctors said sweet, strong Sarah wouldn’t leave us soon. We planned to tell the family after summer’s end. My lovely bride couldn’t fathom ruining the magic of Cliff House with news like this. Then, last Sunday, Sarah took to bed feeling poorly. She never again stepped foot on the floor.

Good-bye, dear Sarah, you will be missed more than this old scientist could rightly describe. Thank you for what you’ve built—a life, a family, and a house that will keep after the last of us is gone.

Signed,

Philip Young,

Husband of Sarah,

Also known as Dad