Two Summers Read online

“Isn’t he always?” Mom snorts. Then she’s silent. I hold my breath, praying she won’t dig any deeper and hit upon a nugget of truth. “And—how are you?” she asks after a moment, her voice halting. “I mean, how is—you know, everything there?”

  “It’s really pretty here,” I reply. “The food is good.” All non-lies so far.

  “Good,” Mom echoes. She gives a small cough. “But is there any—” She pauses, as if cutting herself off. “I mean, have you m—”

  The familiar roar of our blender drowns out the rest of Mom’s words. Then I hear a familiar voice in the background saying something about blueberries.

  “Aunt Lydia’s over?” I ask Mom, eager to change the subject. “What are you guys doing?” My aunt, like my mom, is a professor at Hudsonville College, only she teaches photography, not philosophy. Actually, the two of them are both teaching courses on campus this summer. “Why aren’t you at work?” I add. I fear that Mom canceled her class because she was so worried about me.

  Mom lets out a sputtering sound. “Seriously? It’s the Fourth of July.”

  I feel dizzy with the rush of realization. “Oh—that’s right,” I stammer. Hello. My brief time in a foreign country has apparently made me forget my favorite holiday. I peer out the window, half expecting to see kids running down the street waving sparklers and miniature American flags. But Rue du Pain is quiet, of course.

  “We’re making red, white, and blueberry smoothies,” Mom says, talking loudly over the blender. “To drink later while we watch the fireworks.”

  I wonder if she is trying to make me wistful and nostalgic, because it’s sort of working. There’s a tightness in my chest, and in my throat. Suddenly, I want to spill everything to Mom: Dad not being at the airport; my learning his whereabouts from a random houseguest; the other, obnoxious houseguest; all the cigarette smoking … If I stay on the phone for one more second, I might not be able to dam up my confession.

  “Um, I should go,” I blurt. I push the chair back as if I’m really about to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks, sounding suspicious.

  “I—” I think fast, remembering Vivienne’s suggestion from hours ago. “I made a friend here.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a real lie. “I’m supposed to meet her, and, um, some of her friends at a café.” Thank you, Eloise.

  “A friend? That’s nice,” Mom says. But her voice is tensing up again, coiling like a snake. “How did you—I mean who—”

  “Let Summer be!” I hear Aunt Lydia shout in the background. I wish there were a way to give a transatlantic hug.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Mom,” I say hastily. “Say hi to Aunt Lydia. Happy Fourth!”

  “Will you have your father call me, please?” Mom asks, but it’s too late; I’m hanging up and returning the phone to its base.

  I exhale and lean forward on the desk, shaky with uncertainty. My elbow bumps the computer mouse, and the screen lights up. In the upper right corner, where the time should be, are the numbers 21:14. I don’t know what those mean. I don’t know anything.

  No. That’s not quite right. I do know that I need to get in touch with Dad, to tell him that Mom thinks that he’s with me in Les Deux Chemins. That’s why lies are complicated; they beget more lying.

  Dad’s number is buried in my tote bag upstairs, and I’m not sure I can endure another parental phone call anyway. So I position my fingers on the odd-looking keyboard—the letters are in a different order here—and log in to my email.

  To my surprise, there’s already an email from Dad waiting for me: a hasty message saying he called the house earlier but I was sleeping and he also tried to reach me before I left for France. He is so sorry to not be around, but I should make myself at home and he will be back in hopefully two weeks, and he loves me, and ciao, sweetheart.

  Two weeks? I think, dejected. I’d thought it would be just one. And did Dad really try to reach me before I left? Something is ringing in my mind like a faint bell but I can’t grasp it. Slowly, clumsily, I type my reply, filling Dad in on the Mom lie, and asking him if I should start organizing his barn studio.

  I log off, then instantly wish I had emailed Ruby, too. I need her guidance on a whole host of issues now. I could call her; I know her number by heart. But first I’ll see what she’s up to on Instagram. That’s our preferred method of being in touch, anyway, second to texting. We love leaving each other comments and private jokes under our respective photos.

  I log in to my account. My page is all shots of Ruby and me making funny faces, or of my cat, Ro, dozing in weird positions. I consider posting the pictures I took from the cab today, though I’d need a phone to do that. Besides, I doubt any of them came out well.

  I scroll through my feed, past various classmates’ pictures of burgers on grills and pink watermelon slices on paper plates. Then I come to a picture that makes my stomach lurch.

  It’s Ruby’s most recent photo, uploaded today. She and our friend Alice Johansen are grinning, their cheeks pressed together. Ruby’s arm is extended to snap the picture, and Alice is applying lipstick. They’re in Ruby’s room; I recognize the purple lacquer dresser behind them, its surface cluttered with makeup and jewelry. But it’s the caption that gets me: Primping for party! #independencedayrealness #radwhiteandblue

  What party? Every Fourth of July, Ruby and I, and whichever satellite friends are in town, go watch the fireworks in Pine Park. We eat hot dogs and ice-cream cones, and it’s perfect. I know that some other kids from school—like Skye Oliveira, the Eloise of Hudsonville—host lavish barbecues. But Ruby and I never cared for such parties.

  At least, I thought Ruby never cared. Sourness fills my mouth. Is she hosting a party? Going to someone else’s? Why didn’t she mention anything to me? She had plenty of time on our drive to the airport yesterday.

  I study the picture. Ruby’s eyes are sparkling with excitement. I’ll admit it: I had kind of hoped that my best friend would be morose without me. That she’d go through the motions of her summer, counting the days until my return, while I was off having rich, juicy experiences. The evidence, though, is as clear as a picture: Ruby is still the one having experiences, and I’m here, slumped at a desk in an empty house.

  A swell of jealousy rises in me. It seems that everyone in Hudsonville is moving forward in their lives, making smoothies and primping for parties, even though they are many hours behind me. Which almost feels like a betrayal.

  Nice! I type furiously beneath Ruby’s photo—after it takes me a few tries to hit the right letters, that is. Arrived in France, and it’s AMAZING. All at once, I want her to believe I’m moving forward, too. Heading out now to meet some new friends at a café! Love you times 2!

  Before I can overthink it, I post the comment and log out. Then I hurriedly stand up, as if to distance myself from all my lies.

  I take a steadying breath. And I wonder: Does this lie even have to be a lie?

  I shake my head. What is wrong with me? Am I truly entertaining the idea of going out to meet Eloise and her friends? Don’t be stupid, Summer. Setting aside the guaranteed awfulness, I don’t have a clue as to how I’d even find them.

  Except …

  Where did Vivienne say they’d be? I glance around the living room, the memory inching forward in my brain. A café …

  My gaze lands on the painting on the wall. It depicts an elderly man standing between two rosebushes. It’s beautiful and vivid. All at once, I recognize that Dad painted it: I can even make out his swooping signature on the bottom. I smile, feeling a burst of pride. Now more than ever, I’m longing to see Dad’s painting of me in the gallery here. Dad is well known for painting people outside, in nature. In my portrait, I’m among poppies, and this old man is surrounded by roses …

  That’s it. That’s the café. Café des Roses. Vivienne’s words come back to me in one full string: Café des Roses on Boulevard du Temps.

  So it turns out I do have a clue. Now I just need to decide if I have the cour
age.

  Or the stupidity.

  I head back upstairs, figuring I’ll get ready to go out before making any firm choices. The bathroom proves to be a slight challenge; the toilet, weirdly, is tucked away behind a separate doorway. And the shower has no showerhead—only a handheld nozzle that keeps slipping from my soapy grasp.

  It seems many things in France are puzzlingly different.

  Back in my medieval chamber, I paw through my suitcase. I’d packed painstakingly, picking only outfits that I deemed sophisticated. But now, through new eyes, my skinny jeans and layered tank tops seem so ordinary. So … Hudsonville-y. I tell myself I shouldn’t care if some snobby French girls sneer at my clothes. Still, I select what seems like a safe bet—a white linen sundress that’s a hand-me-down from Ruby. It looked better on her, I realize as I comb out my wet, tangled hair in front of the cracked mirror. But it’ll do. I slide on my flip-flops, grab my tote bag, and shut off the overhead light.

  The door across from mine is ajar, and I peer inside the darkened room, feeling a bit like I’m trespassing. The floor is littered with lacy skirts, sandals, and thick fashion magazines, along with sketchbooks and charcoal pencils that spill out of a leather satchel. Eloise. She clearly dropped off her things after her art class and ransacked her fancy wardrobe before dashing off again. I wonder if she shares this guest room with Vivienne. How many other rooms are there in the house? I glance down the shadowy hallway and give a little shiver. I’ll explore another time, when it’s daylight out.

  I flip-flop down the stairs, still split between staying and going. By the front door, I spot the hook on the wall; only one key hangs there now. My guess is that it’s a spare that I can use to lock the door behind me when I leave. Or maybe not.

  If the key doesn’t work, I decide, it’s a sign. A sign that my mission is foolhardy and I should stay put. If it works, then—well, Café des Roses it is.

  Unfortunately, the key turns smoothly in the lock. So I draw in a big breath, square my shoulders, and step out into the warm, windy night.

  Ruby’s dress flutters around my knees as I walk past the other pastel-colored houses on Rue du Pain. Darkness is starting to settle, gently. While the air still smells of bread, there’s also a sweet, flowery scent; I think it might be jasmine.

  I’m pretty sure that when I round the corner, I’ll be on Boulevard du Temps, right by the cupid fountain where I saw the guy and girl kissing earlier today. I have a decent sense of direction—surprising, considering how uncertain and turned-around I usually feel. “You inherited that talent from your father,” Mom will say grudgingly, and it must be true, because Mom can get lost in our own house.

  Sure enough, I find myself on Boulevard du Temps. The quaint, cobblestoned avenue I saw from the taxi has become a vibrant, sparkling swath swarming with people. Everyone is chattering and cheek-kissing, smoking and strolling, entering and exiting the brightly lit shops and restaurants. Overwhelmed, I pause by the cupid fountain, feeling its spray on my cheek. Then I urge myself onward.

  A few steps from the fountain, there’s a tiny store with a diamond-shaped red sign that reads TABAC; it seems to sell newspapers and cigarettes, candy and lottery tickets. Next door, a chic-looking boutique has its doors flung open, blasting French hip-hop onto the street. There’s an aproned man standing at a cart on the corner, preparing fresh, hot crepes for a line of people.

  Most of all, though, there are cafés. Nearly identical sidewalk cafés, all with round white-clothed tables and wicker chairs, all full of patrons leisurely eating and drinking. I read the names on the colorful awnings as I pass: Café Cézanne, Café des Jumelles, Café de la Lavande … Anticipation and dread mingle in me, and I wonder if it doesn’t even exist, this—

  Café des Roses.

  There it is, spelled out in script on a red-and-white-striped awning.

  I stop so abruptly that I almost crash into the family walking in front of me. I try to gather myself together, smoothing down the front of Ruby’s dress, adjusting my tote bag on my shoulder. Meanwhile, my eyes anxiously scan the crowded tables.

  Girls flirt with guys over paper cones of French fries. Women in silky scarves sit across from scruffy-bearded men, reading newspapers they probably bought at the tabac. Waiters in white shirts and black neckties whisk wine glasses and bottles of Perrier from table to table. I stiffen when I spot a group of giggling, well-groomed girls—but Eloise is not among them. Eloise does not appear to be here at all.

  I turn around, gazing at the dolphin-shaped fountain across the street. I should be thrilled that I’ve missed Eloise and her friends. But at the same time, I don’t feel quite ready to return to Dad’s house. Maybe it’s the electric energy in the air, or the color of the pre-sunset sky: dark pink streaked with gold. I reach into my tote bag and remove my camera.

  “Bonsoir!” I hear a male voice say behind me. A hand touches my shoulder, and my heart jumps. “Pourquoi tu es ici si tard?”

  I spin around. In that millisecond, I process that the guy I’m facing is about my age, or a couple years older, and very good-looking, with dark-blue eyes, olive skin, tousled black hair, and sharp cheekbones. I also process that my camera, the precious Nikon DSLR, has fallen out of my hand.

  The guy swiftly reaches down and catches the camera before it hits the ground.

  I stare at him, confused.

  “Um—thank you—merci,” I finally manage to sputter. I feel my cheeks flame. What I really want to say is Who are you and why were you talking to me? but I don’t know how to ask that in French.

  “Excusez-moi.” The guy’s bewildered expression must mirror mine. “I am sorry that I startled you,” he tells me in charmingly accented English. “I thought that you were someone else.”

  “Well—I’m not,” I reply, giving a short laugh. Shut up, Summer. Stop now. The breeze blows my hair across my eyes. For no discernible reason, I keep talking. “I’m … me. Just … Summer. That’s my name.”

  Why do I allow myself to speak to boys?

  “Hello, Just Summer,” he says teasingly, his face breaking into a wolfish smile. “My name is Jacques Cassel. Here,” he adds, handing me my camera. When I accept it from him, our fingertips brush and my blush deepens. Without warning, Ruby’s prediction from yesterday pops in my head: You will find a gorgeous French boyfriend …

  I slip my camera back into my bag, chastising myself for jumping to absurd conclusions. This random French guy becoming my boyfriend is as likely as my crush back home, Hugh Tyson, asking me out, which is basically the stuff of science fiction. And Hugh is quiet and kind of dorky, not smoothly confident like this … Jacques.

  “Alors,” Jacques is saying. “You were waiting for a table?”

  “A—what?” I glance up from my bag.

  “A table,” he repeats, gesturing back toward the café.

  It is then that I take in the rest of him: He is wearing a white shirt, a black tie, and black pants, and, in the hand that didn’t rescue my camera, he is holding a menu. He’s a waiter. At Café des Roses. My brain slowly computes these facts. Cute. Waiter. Table.

  Part of me thinks it would be wise to say non and bolt before I can make a further fool of myself. But a bigger part of me realizes that I’m hungry, and I’m here. And if my mouth is full, then chances are slimmer that I’ll say something ridiculous.

  “Oui,” I reply at last, attempting some dignity. “Table for one.”

  Jacques looks amused as he turns and leads me over to a small round table. I drop into the wicker chair in a daze. I’ve never eaten alone at a restaurant before. Jacques hands me the menu and disappears, returning a few moments later with a short glass of water. It comes with no straw, and no ice. Different from what I’m used to, again.

  “You have decided?” he asks, taking a pen and pad of paper from his pocket.

  Of course I haven’t. I open the menu, skimming the items. Poulet rôti. Bouillabaisse. Salade niçoise. “It’s … all in French,” I say, sounding as lame as I fee
l.

  I look up at Jacques and see that his lips are twitching. He has a dimple in his right cheek. “You are in France,” he points out.

  For a second, I grasp just how far away I am from Hudsonville, from my house, from Hugh Tyson. Everything here—the spicy scents wafting over from other diners’ plates, Jacques with his French accent, the ice-less water, even the silver moon rising in the sky—is totally foreign to me. I feel anxiety flutter in my neck.

  “Could I have a burger?” I finally ask. I want something that will taste like home, something Fourth of July–ish.

  “Non,” Jacques tells me, his dark-blue eyes dancing.

  “Non?” I glance back down at the menu, certain I saw Hamburger somewhere, unless it was an English-word mirage.

  “You have just arrived in Provence, n’est-ce pas?” Jacques asks me, and I meet his mischievous gaze once more. I nod, frustrated that my own foreignness is so obvious. “That decides it,” Jacques says, flipping his pad shut. “My parents—they own this café, you see—they would kill me if I served an American girl a burger for her first meal here. I will bring you something better. Un moment.”

  Before I can explain to him that this isn’t technically my first meal, and before I can ask him not to bring me any snails, which I know some French people like to eat, he’s headed off. He strides past the tableful of pretty girls I spotted earlier, and they all look at him and nudge one another. Clearly, I’m not the only one who’s noticed that he is the youngest and handsomest of all the waiters.

  I watch the girls as they giggle and talk and clink their glasses of Perrier. I twist my woven bracelets around my wrist. I miss Ruby. Although if she were here, she’d order me to act like a normal person in front of Jacques. Or she would act normal in front of him, making me jealous. I take a sip of water, wondering what Ruby is doing right now. Are she and Alice at their party? I wish I had my phone on me. I’m not used to sitting alone without it.

  “Et voilà,” Jacques says, reappearing. He apparently has a gift for sneaking up on me and causing my heart to flip over.