Cecelia,” I call upstairs. “We’re leaving!”
“Coming,” she yells back down.
She smiles at me as she comes down the stairs, looking cute in a pale blue sundress that makes her tan skin glow. Her hair is down. It looks like she straightened it and did a little braid with a red ribbon woven through it down one side.
“You’re dressed awfully nice for a barbecue,” I say.
“It’s the Fourth of July—and it’s just a dress.” There’s a defensive edge to her voice, and I’m about to explain that I meant it as a compliment when she tosses a zinger toward me. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put a little more effort in.”
I don’t have to look in the mirror to know she isn’t wrong. Dark circles have taken up permanent residence under my eyes, my hair is in its natural half-wavy state, and I haven’t put an ounce of makeup on other than the day Monica was here and ruined everything.
“You’re right,” I say.
CeCe looks confused. “I’m what?”
“You’re right. Go keep your dad company in the car, I’m going to freshen up.”
“He’s in the car? We’re just going around the corner.”
“We’re driving tonight,” I say, hoping she lets it go. I don’t want to explain how even that short distance is too far a walk for her dad. Just making it up the stairs has become such a struggle that we talked last night about setting up a bed down in the living room. But I don’t want to bring that up and risk ruining what has the potential to be a lovely night.
“Whatever,” she says with a shrug, heading toward the door.
“Tell him I’ll just be a few minutes.”
She gives a half salute in response, and I rush upstairs. I plug in my hair straightener for the second time all summer and let it heat up while I find something better to wear.
I grab the first thing I see that will work, a long, dark blue sundress with white and beige flowers. It has two out of the three patriotic colors and a flattering cut. I slip my feet into a pair of tan sandals and go back to the bathroom.
The horn honks, but I ignore it, digging through my makeup drawer for an eye shadow palette Becky gave me. I pick a pale shade of gray and sweep it over my eyes, then add a quick stroke of blush, thankful my skin is tan enough that I don’t need foundation. A swipe of mascara and another of lip gloss and I’m almost ready.
I run the straightener quickly through my hair—not the way it’s supposed to be done, according to CeCe. She saw me once and cringed, taking the straightener from my hands and showing me the “right” way to do it, slowly, in small chunks.
The horn honks again and I yell, “I’m coming!” even though I know they can’t hear me. I look in the mirror and shrug; it’s as good as it’s going to get tonight.
“Wow,” Tommy says as I open the driver’s door.
In the backseat, CeCe rolls her eyes.
“I feel underdressed,” Tommy says, looking down at his light blue button-down shirt and the khaki shorts that used to be a little tight on him. Now they hang on his shrinking frame.
“Not at all.” I pat his hand reassuringly. “CeCe just reminded me that I should put a little more effort in.”
“I think your beauty is effortless,” he says.
“You have to say that,” CeCe pipes in.
“Seatbelt on,” I say, ignoring her jab.
“We’re going, like, ten feet. I could probably beat you there if I walked.”
“Be my guest.” I wait to back up, but she stays put and reluctantly fastens her seatbelt. She’s right that we’re practically crawling distance from Jill’s house, but sometimes it feels good to assert my parental power.
“Seatbelt,” she parrots and I fasten mine as well, deciding this one is pretty much a draw.
THE DRIVE OVER to Jill’s house is shorter than the chorus of a song on the radio. CeCe is out the door before the next verse starts and I shake my head, watching her run through the picket fence and inside without knocking.
“She’s your daughter,” I tell Tommy.
“She’s a mini version of you.” He hands me the bottle of rosé he was smart enough to grab from the fridge and slings the portable oxygen concentrator over his shoulder. “It’s no wonder you drive each other crazy.”
I furrow my brow. “I liked it better when you said it was just a stage.”
Tommy turns to let himself out of the car and I try to ignore the fact that even his smallest movements look like they take a great amount of effort. This is all happening too fast.
“And just so you know, I was an angel compared to her,” I say, walking around to join him.
“Don’t forget I knew you when you were just about her age.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Always,” he says, taking my hand in his.
I open the door and we let ourselves in. The house smells even more amazing than usual.
“Hello?” I call out, but there’s no reply.
“They’re probably out back,” Tommy says.
We walk through the kitchen, where the oven is on and the island is filled with a medley of salads and various delicacies. Jill outdid herself like she always does.
The back door opens and Jill and Lou walk in. “You’re just in time, we’re about to fire up the grill.”
I hold up the bottle of wine. “We brought this.”
“Thank you,” Jill says. “And about the other day . . .”
“It’s fine.” I stop her. “It’s bad for business if you aren’t polite to the customers—even the heart-crushing, devil-incarnate ones, right?”
“Right,” she says, relief clear on her face. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
I smile and walk around the island to the drawer where I know she keeps her fancy corkscrew and grab four glasses from the cabinet above the sink. I love that I feel just as comfortable in Jill’s house as my own.
I’m pouring the third glass when Abigail walks in, her sketchpad in hand. Her eyes go straight to the wine bottle.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jill says, following her eyes.
“I didn’t say anything,” Abigail says, not so innocently. “You look nice, Aunt Lexie.”
Jill turns around and looks at me purposefully. “You do, I’m sorry I didn’t notice. It’s like I don’t really see you anymore. No offense.”
“None taken. I think?”
We laugh and clink glasses before taking a sip of the crisp wine that tastes like summer.
Outside, CeCe and Beau are sitting around the centerpiece of Jill’s backyard, a beautiful table made of reclaimed wood. The sky is just starting to darken, and the lantern lights hanging around the fence make it look like a scene from a home and garden magazine.
Beau gets up from his seat and holds the chair out at the head of the table for Tommy, who gratefully sits down.
“Can I help?” CeCe asks, standing up as well.
“Be my guest,” Jill says, handing over the tongs.
One by one, CeCe takes the chicken breasts from the container where they were marinating and lays them on the hot grill. The sizzle is music to my taste buds and my mouth waters in anticipation.
If CeCe learns how to grill, maybe we can become one of those families who barbecues instead of one of those families who relies on getting invited to other people’s barbecues.
“These are pretty thick,” CeCe says. “About six minutes per side?”
“That sounds right,” Jill says. “Want to set your timer?”
CeCe pulls her phone out of her pocket to set the timer. “I’ll go wash the tongs off since they touched raw chicken.”
“I’ll help,” Beau says, following CeCe inside.
Jill sits back down and takes a long sip of her wine, clearly happy to have a helper who shares her passion for cooking. “We’re going to miss having CeCe at the café once she has to start on the Seasiders set.”
“That didn’t work out,” Tommy says. His voice is low and serious, and he gives Jill and me a conversation-ending look. Not that I want to get into it all again, either.
“I’ll tell you later,” I tell Jill under my breath.
Last night was the first real fight we’ve had all summer thanks to this mess. I didn’t think it was possible to hate Monica any more than I did for what she did to Tommy, but it’s even more despicable to break a little girl’s heart. She never should have promised CeCe a role in the show before she knew if it was actually possible.
This was exactly why I didn’t want CeCe to get her heart set on acting—being a teenager is hard enough without all the rejection and scrutiny of your appearance. Of course, not getting the part had nothing to do with her talent or her looks. Tommy said the daughter of the executive producer’s neighbor had already claimed the role. But still.
I made Tommy tell her since it was his fault we were in this mess in the first place. She took it surprisingly well. Tommy thinks it’s because she’s more mature than I give her credit for, but I think there’s something else going on that’s captured her interest. Maybe she’s realizing she likes cooking even more than acting?
The alarm on CeCe’s phone goes off, startling Abigail, who’s had her head buried in her sketchbook since we sat down. CeCe comes back out with the clean tongs; her face looks a little flushed as she steps back in front of the grill.
She lifts the lid and turns each chicken breast over before resetting the timer. I’m impressed by the way she moves with such confidence; she really knows what she’s doing.
“Mom, do you want all this stuff outside?” Beau asks through the screen door.
“That would be great. Ab, will you get the plates and silverware?”
“Fine,” Abigail says, clearly not happy that she has to stop drawing to help her brother.
“I can get it,” Lou says, starting to stand up.
“Absolutely not.” Jill puts her hand on Lou’s shoulder, gently pushing her back down. “You’re off the clock tonight.”
Lou looks embarrassed but stays seated.
“Beau?” Jill calls out as if she’s suddenly remembering something. “Will you get the potatoes out of the oven and put them in the MacKenzie-Childs bowl? And the pita needs to be warmed up—never mind, I’m coming.”
I reach over and take Tommy’s hand in mine, startling him a bit. “Everything okay?” I ask, a little nervous to hear the answer.
“Never better,” he says. “Except for this whole cancer thing.”
I open my mouth to say something about how we talked about taking it easy on the jokes, but I stop myself. I don’t want to make Lou any more uncomfortable than she already seems, and I’m trying to understand that if this is the way Tommy needs to deal with his cancer, I have to try to let him.
Abigail is back outside before I can think of something pithy and light to say in response, so I force a smile and take a big sip of my wine.
“Who’s hungry?” Jill asks as she sets a black-and-white-checkered bowl filled with roasted potatoes on the table. I reach over to grab one, ignoring her warning that it’s too hot.
CeCe’s timer sounds again just as the last dish is being set on the table, and I watch as she transfers the grilled chicken to a clean tray that matches the potato bowl, only pausing once to push up her glasses, which have fogged up from the hot air.
“How do I turn it off?” she asks.
“I’ve got it.” Beau is out of his chair before Jill can say anything. In an exaggerated, heroic move, he pushes the giant off button on the grill. CeCe rolls her eyes.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Beau might have a little crush on my girl. But according to all the photos on his Instagram feed, he prefers girls with beach-blond hair and bodies to match, just like his dad did. Thank goodness CeCe is still hung up on Liam—I have enough things to worry about this summer without adding a junior Adam to the list.
Adam was always girl-crazy, even when we were kids and “dating” meant holding hands and sharing a sno-cone on the beach. The local girls didn’t take him seriously, but he had a way of charming the vacation girls. The rest of us made a joke of it, tracking the different girls he was with every week, using it as a way to mark the passing of time.
“We haven’t been to the Donut Hole since Krissie!” or “Remember the movie we watched during the Libby weekend? Or was that D.J.?”
It was funny at the time, not so much looking back. I would have no sooner thought Jill and Adam would get together than I would’ve imagined a world where I’d end up with Tommy.
Tommy.
I look over at him and take a mental picture of this moment. He looks proud as he spears a chicken breast from the plate Jill is holding out for him. He sets the breast on my plate before getting one for himself.
The smile he gives me when he catches me staring makes my heart swell. I know I should be grateful to have experienced the kind of love they write fairy tales about, but I want more. He coughs and slips the oxygen cannula back in place, a reminder that we won’t be getting our happily ever after.