The Summer of Us: A Romance Anthology Read online

  Shay walks me to the door of the first-floor condo. He whispers, “Meet me at Paddy’s for brunch? I’m helping Da out with a tour group in the morning, but I’ll be done at ten o’clock.”

  I agree, and he leans in to press a chaste kiss to my lips.

  It holds a promise of not “happily ever after,” but “happily for the next few days,” which is enough.

  For now.

  Chapter Two

  Shay

  I had a blast with the early morning parasailing group, a few families and one newlywed couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  I’m not comfortable with chitchat, but today was different. The endorphins from last night are still churning through my body, and my enthusiasm stems from the anticipation of spending time with Thea again.

  I stop at home for a quick shower, and then backtrack to Paddy’s, arriving early. My uncle’s inside prepping for the lunchtime opening, and he slaps me on the back as I approach.

  “Hey Paddy.” I scratch at my chin. “Can I, uh, fix something for me and a guest?”

  He snorts. “Don’t mind at all as long as the guest is the little blond lass from last night.”

  The bells attached to the door jingle and a warm breeze blows inside. Thea is prettier than last night. She’s pulled her curly hair back, showing off her long, pale neck.

  She wore a long skirt last night, but today she’s wearing dark shorts, showing off a pair of pale, graceful legs. Her white vintage concert shirt, despite a high neck, does nothing to hide her breasts.

  Even with the distraction, I wave and choke out, “Morning.”

  “Hey!” She sounds more energetic than I feel. I’m usually invigorated by the early morning fresh air and sunlight, but I’m dragging butt without my normal eight hours of sleep.

  Thea appears refreshed, like she got great sleep and had time for a relaxing bath before meeting me.

  The image of her naked and soapy and slippery in a bath makes me swallow. Hard.

  I put my hand on the small of her back, leading her to the bar, grinning when she relaxes into my touch. Her reaction signals that last night was not a liquor-induced fluke.

  She takes a seat and slings her oversized purse across the back of the stool. I go behind the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

  She shrugs. “A diet pop. Whatever kind.”

  I lay napkins on the bar for the frosty drink glasses. “Eggs, bacon, and toast? Unless you want something else.”

  Paddy doesn’t open until lunch, but he keeps enough of the makings—eggs for salads, bacon for burgers, and bread for sandwiches—to make a decent morning meal.

  “Mmmmmm, sounds terrific. I haven’t eaten a home-cooked breakfast in a while. Most of the time, it’s a Pop-Tart and coffee to go.”

  I head to the kitchen, and she follows, soda in hand. She leans on the window while I pull stuff from the fridge.

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Scrambled. With onions and peppers, if you got ‘em.”

  I wash my hands in scalding water and then hunt around in the fridge, finding and chopping the requested vegetables. “Cheese?”

  “Oh goodness, yes. I love cheese. Cheddar if you have it.”

  Even if Paddy didn’t keep cheddar in stock, I’d run to the store to get the cheese to make her happy.

  “As you wish.” I’m not sure why the line from one of Mom’s favorite romantic movies pops into my head, but it’s appropriate.

  The near-euphoria on Thea’s face makes me glad I learned my way around the kitchen from Mom since Da married her fifteen years ago. Yeah, she’s technically my step-mom, but she’s never treated Mac, Liam, or me like step-children. She’s been my mother longer than the woman who gave birth to me, Rose.

  And the woman I call Mom never tried to crash her car with me and my brothers inside, like Rose. I rub the thick scars on my arm incurred in the accident. My physical reminder of what can happen when mental illness goes untreated.

  My shoulders tighten the way they always do when thinking of birth mother.

  The accident happened so far in the past, though, and this moment … may not be my future, but it’s my now. I should enjoy each minute before I head to med school and am drowning in books and cadavers.

  I shake all thoughts of Rose from my head, thankful for my happy family, and elated by this gorgeous girl standing in front of me.

  I’m one of the lucky ones, I decide as I plate our breakfast.

  I hand Thea the plate, and she grins at the bounty of food.

  “And you cook.” She shakes her head, her voice quiet as though her words weren’t meant for my ears.

  “What?”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, wondering what you can’t do. Drive a boat, get into medical school, cook.”

  I laugh. “Not impressive unless I cooked it well.”

  We move back to the bar and Thea digs in, cutting off a piece of omelet dripping with gooey cheese. I hold my breath. She chews the egg, her delicate jaw moving.

  “Mmmmm. Mmmmm.” I expect her to spit the egg out into the napkin, but I breathe a sigh of relief when she cuts off another bite. “Wow. So good. A check in the ‘can cook’ column for you.”

  She grins, and another layer of my anxiety melts away. I’m off the rest of the day, and I’d love to spend it with her. She’s more than a random body, and I want more than meaningless sex. I like her, and she seems to like me too. “What’re you and your friends doing today?”

  She chews and swallows some buttered toast. “Oh, same as yesterday and most of the other days. Lie out at the pool, sip a fruity drink, and read a book. I’d love to visit a few attractions, but Bennie’s been here before and doesn’t want to be a ‘tourist.’ I’m not sure I can stand another day of lounging around the pool though.”

  There’s my in. “I’m off the rest of the day. I’d be happy to show you around.”

  She lays her delicate fingers on my arm, and the hairs there stand at attention. “Goodness, yes. Where do we start? Hemingway Home? The Lighthouse? The cemetery?”

  “Whoa, hold on. How much longer are you in town?”

  “Four more days.”

  My heart drops. Not enough time to spend with her.

  “We can visit so much in four days. Let’s make a plan.”

  She pulls out a stack of glossy brochures from her purse for the popular tourist attractions.

  “I want to go here for sure.” She hands me a brochure for the Hemingway Home.

  “We can do that. What brings you here? To Key West? Other than vacation, of course.”

  “Bennie, one of my friends from last night, her uncle lives here, but he’s out of town. I pulled money out of savings for the flight since the accommodations were cheap.” She grins.

  “What’s next?” I stack the dishes and pour us both another soda. “What are you doing for the rest of your life? When you head back to the real world?”

  She purses her lips. “I took last semester off for family matters, and this coming semester too. But I’m pursuing my teaching license.”

  Her voice catches, making me think I hit a sensitive spot.

  “Wow, awesome. What grade?” This isn’t small talk. I care. I want to know more about her. I want to know everything.

  It’s scary but exhilarating. Her smile leaves me as breathless as any extreme sports adventure.

  “Elementary school. No grade yet. I’ll take whatever grade I can find a job in once I graduate, but I adore the little kids, so I’m hoping kindergarten or first grade. Those first few years in school, they’re enthralled and eager to learn. Like they’ve discovered a new world. I can’t wait to be the one to show them all the new things.”

  Her enthusiasm is magnetic. A few outstanding teachers gave me encouragement in my early years when I struggled with Rose’s death and my injuries. Without them, I may not have reached my goals.

  “You will be an amazing teacher.” I don’t know her, but somehow believe this is true.
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  Her head falls to the side. “And you? Medical school. That is impressive.”

  “I’m impressed I survived undergrad to get there. Miami was tough.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Do you need to get anything before we head out?”

  She pats her giant lime-green bag. “Got everything I need right here. Camera, sunblock, lip balm, and water bottle.”

  “Terrific. Let me get this . . .” I pick up the dishes, and she follows me into the kitchen where Paddy and his head cook, Manny, are prepping for lunch.

  Paddy takes the plates and silverware. “I got this. Go enjoy yourselves.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up behind Thea’s back. What he suspects may happen won’t in the bright daylight of our outing, but that’s okay with me.

  Whatever happens, today will be, and I don’t use these words much, freaking awesome.

  Thea

  It’s not even noon, but it’s already an incredible day. We stroll down Whitehead Street. First on our list: The Hemingway Home and Museum. Dense foliage hangs across the fence, scenting the air with a blend of sweet and spicy tropical perfume. I love the old houses, painted in brilliant colors or whitewashed, and most decorated with ornate trim. A vast number of the houses are tiny. Shay explains how many of the smaller homes were cottages used by the workers who staffed the cigar manufacturing plants a hundred years ago.

  “How do people today live in such little houses?” The home I grew up in was modest, but nothing like these.

  “Most people spend their time outside since the weather’s fantastic year-round. If you look closely, the newer residents in these houses added on to the back or built an extra floor.” His hands warm my skin as he turns me to face the side of one of the homes. “My parents built a garage and put an apartment above it. I stay there when I’m home from school. We still live more compactly than people in other parts of the country though. Unless you’ve got serious cash, your house is around twelve hundred square feet, give or take.”

  He takes my hand again, the brush of his work-roughened hands sparking bolts of electricity through my body. We walk in comfortable silence on our way to the Hemingway Home. I stop and chuckle at a plaque attached to a stone wall in front of one of the houses.

  I read the plaque out loud. “Passion Pistol House. Established 1900. Outstanding.”

  His face flushes. “Yeah, people love to name their houses. This is one of the more, um, colorful ones.”

  I stop and take a picture, and he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of me pointing at the sign.

  “Oh, Daddy will be proud. Maybe I’ll leave this off the digital slide show I make for him.” While of course Daddy still wants to think of me as “sweet and innocent,” the innocence faded away in high school.

  Not just sexually, but I matured fast when Mama got sick. Daddy worked the swing shift as a police officer, and I would care for Mama when I got home from school. Then when she passed away, I took on many of the household chores she’d done, and watched as Daddy withdrew from the world. He tried, but was overwhelmed by sadness and was unreachable. He’s doing better, but I can see the strain in his face from trying to help Jen with her kids, Kyle and Josie.

  I don’t want to place the burden of care for me on anyone. Jen didn’t know about the mutation before her diagnosis. The surgery, PBM (or prophylactic bilateral mastectomy) is a radical step, but healing from the operation is easier than the months-long fallout from “no-guarantees” treatment.

  I’m an awful patient and don’t want to put anyone through the same shit I went through with Mama.

  And I do mean shit. Mama’s side effects to the treatment went beyond nausea and vomiting and hair loss.

  I shake off the negativity and stand by the choices I’ve made. I’m confident about the PBM, no matter what other people might say. A movie star in her thirties had the same procedure a few months ago, and while most applauded her decision, Twitter exploded with idiotic comments.

  I called to check in this morning, the same as every day since I came on vacation. Jen kept down dry toast, a monumental accomplishment.

  Like me, she loves to eat—especially traditional Southern cooking—but the chemo messed with her appetite.

  When she’s stronger, we’re headed to Mama Hattie’s restaurant for shrimp and grits.

  We reach the corner of Whitehead and Olivia. A six-foot red brick wall surrounds Hemingway Home, and like other gardens throughout Old Town, the scent of exotic tropical plants infuses the air.

  I’m giddy. I minored in English and loved my Modern American Lit class. We read stellar books, but I love A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway, who went by the nickname Papa, was a complex man, not likable much of the time, but a fascinating character and a hell of a writer.

  And I want to play with the cats.

  My childhood cat Candy had extra toes. The vet labeled Candy “polydactyl,” but my aunt called her a “Hemingway,” which I later found out was because Hemingway once owned a polydactyl. I read dozens of cats inhabit the property, some descended from Hemingway’s original cat, and sailors prized polydactyls for their ability to catch rodents.

  I pull out my wallet to buy a ticket. Shay shakes his head. “My treat. Two, please.”

  He pays and thanks the cashier.

  “Next tour starts in ten minutes if you want to wait in the living room,” she informs us.

  I beam at Shay, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Thank you!”

  We turn to the house, a rectangular building with a porch wrapping around the entire second level. The roof is flat and tall; arched windows highlighted by mustard shutters help create a striking piece of architecture.

  We enter the house, and it’s as hot as outside. No AC in here, so I fan myself and tug at my shirt where it’s sticking to my back. I open my bag and pull out a tissue, dabbing at my forehead and upper lip, happy I’d skipped the make-up. Shay hasn’t broken a sweat at all.

  I want to hate him for looking cool and gorgeous, but the way he touches me, whispering and pointing out things, makes me feel something different from hate.

  Desire. Churning in my stomach, swirling out to tickle my fingers and toes.

  For someone who was shy last night, he’s relaxed today. I’d like to think I put him at ease because I’m comfortable with him.

  The tour guide, Dan, comes in and directs our attention to paintings on the wall, then he describes the architectural history of the house.

  We move from the living room to the dining area. Shay’s hand burns into my shoulder. I could use some ice or something to cool me down.

  Pictures of Hemingway and his women line the walls of the dining room, solidifying Hemingway’s reputation as the King of Machismo, a womanizer with an abundance of nasty habits.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I glance at Shay as he grins at me. He points to a picture of Hemingway with a giant marlin. “Ever been fishing?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, but I never caught anything bigger than a foot long.”

  “Smaller than the marlin.” We both laugh, and it’s so normal, like we’ve known each other forever instead of twelve hours.

  He rests his chin on top of my head. I’m like one of those cartoon characters who gets hit in the head and sees birds and stars circling above.

  After my first boyfriend had broken my heart in middle school, calling me hideous when I got my first zit, Mama tried to comfort me. She asked in all sincerity if I saw stars when we were together. I didn’t, and Mama said it was because he wasn’t the one. She saw stars the first time she laid eyes on Daddy. The same thing would happen to me when I found the one.

  I’ve been seeing constellations, both literally and figuratively, since the moment I glimpsed Shay across the bar.

  Boy, I am in trouble. I squeeze my eyelids shut and take a deep breath, trying to calm my thudding heart. I’d never believed in love at first sight. Lust at first sight, yeah, but never love.

  This may be what it’s like to experience
both at the same time.

  Shay

  Dan leads us up a narrow set of squeaky stairs to the second floor. We pause at the landing at the top of the stairs to peruse the book collection housed behind a layer of Plexiglas. Overzealous tourists had likely damaged the old books before the museum owners installed the clear shield.

  Like the rest of the house, exotic furnishings and artwork fill the bedroom, but what Thea is most attracted to sprawls out on the wrap-around verandah: the cats.

  I’d heard the tour. Mom loves to visit, and a close friend of hers once worked here as a guide. Thea grins when our guide introduces us to the nearby cats: Marlene Dietrich, Rita Hayworth, and Greta Garbo, named after stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

  I keep a close eye on Thea, afraid she might try to smuggle out one of the smaller cats in her gigantic bag.

  Greta Garbo is smitten with Thea too. I can’t blame the little tuxedo cat. If Thea invited me to rest my head on her lap, I wouldn’t be able to resist.

  We’d make an interesting sight.

  Our group shuffles ahead, and I motion to Thea, the curls loosened from her ponytail bobbing as she says goodbye Greta.

  She slides beside me in the gallery and my fingers ease in between hers. My heart thumps against my sternum. A two-ton weight constricts my chest.

  The fragrance of gardenias and red ginger float from the gardens below, but they can’t compare to Thea. I could drown in the delicious fruitiness enveloping her.

  My head reels and my heart shifts.

  Is this love?

  The logical side of my brain tells me “no way, man!” You can’t love someone after one day. Can you?

  But it’s not simple lust.

  We’re at least wedged somewhere between the two.

  I’m not one for casual sex—I’ve had one girlfriend and dated some in college, but spent most of my time studying. Med school has been my top priority for a decade.

  Funny how I’d thought of school so little since last night.

  I stare at Thea while she examines the old photos.

  “What? Stop staring!”