The Book of Summer
Evan Mayhew
August 15, 2008
Cliff House, on Elisabeth Codman’s Wedding Day
Dear Bess,
It’s 6:30 a.m. Dad and I are here, helping Cissy set up the stuff she doesn’t trust to others. You’re getting married today.
Way back a hundred years ago, I heard a rumor that you’d gone to Boston College to be near me. It only made sense because you’d been accepted at Yale and Dartmouth and a bunch of other schools besides. I hoped what they said was true. Until I realized that’s not what I wanted at all.
I knew you’d break my heart. A Nantucketer might be okay on-island, hardy and handy and such, but as my dad said, you’d acquire a new taste going to school in “America.”
So to save you from yourself, I went to Costa Rica, my education not in degrees but in building homes. I knew I’d fare okay in a remote outpost, having grown up in one myself. In Costa Rica I fell in love with a country and a girl. She was a great woman, one I picked because she resembled you in appearance but acted the opposite in fact. Turns out temperamental is not so fun. I like things calmer, a bit more low-key. It did not work out. Not that I ever thought it would.
The Costa Rican adventure wasn’t a total waste. I became a good surfer, a decent chef, and a reputable builder of houses for wealthy Texans and Californians and people on the lam. It was all enough, for a while. But eventually the pull of Nantucket was too strong.
The night I returned, I had dinner with Dad and Cissy at the Summer House. Over Caesar salad, Cissy told me that you had a serious beau, a techie type with an MBA. A good American, just like Dad predicted.
“Sounds about right,” I said nonchalantly.
According to my dad, I was not at all nonchalant and instead acted like a “pouty brat” for the rest of the meal. Meanwhile, Cissy chattered on about this or that, filling the silence as she loves to do. Whenever you’re in town, I miss having her at our table. For a guy whose own mother went island-crazy and bailed before he could walk, Cissy’s as close to a mom as I’m ever gonna get. A decade of Cis. Not a bad second prize.
Anyway, back to the MBA. You’re marrying him.Today. And as sure as the fog will roll into Sconset, you are settling for this guy. I’ve met him once, though have seen him snaking around more times than that. As far as I can tell, he’s a Grade-A douche. I’ve known a lot of douchebags, was one myself for a time, so I have some expertise. I’m sure he has a sweet résumé and a killer paycheck and those teeth could not be whiter or straighter. But like his teeth it’s all veneers, whereas you’re the real deal.
It kills me because the whole reason I went to a foreign land was to make sure you didn’t settle for a chump like me. If I’d known this was going to happen I would’ve stayed. I would’ve loved to have been the person you settled for.
I tried to talk to you last night at the rehearsal dinner. Listen, I planned to say, scrap all this. Your friends won’t care. Cissy won’t care, though you might have to help break down the “set,” as she calls it.
But how do you say that to someone who looks so beautiful, eyes shining with hope? How do you tell her that she’s not seeing things clearly?
Hell, maybe I’m the one who has it wrong. Maybe the douche wasn’t really leering at the cocktail waitress. It’s conceivable he didn’t yell at her later, calling her a “fucking idiot” for some minor infraction. And Lala could’ve been overreacting when she pulled me aside and said he “totally creeped her out.” You’ve always insisted she doesn’t understand how real people work.
Well, it’s safe to say this entry isn’t staying in the book. I’ll help Cissy with what she needs then become invisible. At the wedding I’ll try not to watch. I won’t say a word to you.
I’m wishing you a lifetime of happy, Bess. And the ability to recognize if you’re not. Remember, you came to Cliff House before, when you needed to start over. It’s not just for summers. It stands in the bad weather, too.
Always,
Evan Mayhew