61

The Book of Summer

Evan Mayhew

May 27, 2013

The Last Day of Cliff House

Dear Bess,

I’ve come to Cliff House to supervise the movers and pack up the last of your things. Cissy is here, too. She seems to be preparing for departure, but since she loves to keep people guessing, I’ll believe it when she’s physically out of the house.

I write this from my car, parked on the white-shelled drive of the great, grand Cliff House. This will be the last entry in the Book of Summer. I won’t rip it out, even though it’s no less embarrassing than the first.

Do my words look strange? Stilted? Wobbly? Your mom commented that my hands were shaky. She’s right, though I had to play it off. It seems a little callous to admit excitement on such a sad day. I can hardly take the hours between right now and tonight, when I get to escort you to Felicia’s wedding.

A little birdie called last night. She claims you need a chaperone. You’re supposed to “take it easy” and there’s a better shot at following doctor’s orders if someone else is keeping guard. But this babysitting bunk is not the favor she is trying to do us both.

Tonight is tonight but at this very moment my guys are guiding a piano through your front door. Behind them stand empty rooms, the ocean in the distance. It’s damn near choking me up. I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t been in Sconset much this century. These past few days will be tough enough to shake. Deep down, I hope you stay on-island, just like we talked about in our fake Nantucket novel. But I understand why you can’t, and therefore why you won’t. I can only ask that one day you come home.

Well, Lizzy C., until next time, because there will be one.

Always,

Evan Mayhew