Secrets in Summer(2)

“Come on, gang, grab a bag and let’s see what this old place is like on the inside.”

A man. Obviously the father. And something more, something impossible—it had been so long since Darcy had spoken with her ex-husband—surely it couldn’t be Boyz. But this particular male voice made her eyes snap open and the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

It couldn’t be Boyz. His family always went to Lake George for the summer. It was an unforgiveable sin not to go to Lake George for the summer.

“Willow, you can carry more than that. Take another bag of groceries.” The woman’s voice. The mother’s.

The woman Boyz had left her for had a daughter named Willow.

Could it be Boyz?

“Here, Willow, take the keys and unlock the front door. I’ll get the suitcases.”

The man’s voice had the same tone as Boyz’s, and Darcy was certain she heard just the slightest fake European accent all the Szwedas had. Their family had been American for generations, but they liked to claim an exiled Polish count as a relative, to explain their aristocratic (Darcy thought snotty) attitude.

The family headed toward the back door. Everyone talked at once. The voices receded as the group entered the house, but any minute now they’d be checking out the second floor, choosing bedrooms—looking out the window at the view.

She knew she could see all the adjoining backyards from her windows, which meant they could see her from their windows. She couldn’t lie here like a strip of undercooked bacon, yet she recoiled from the thought of running into the house like a frightened heroine from a Gothic romance.

But Darcy knew she wouldn’t be able to relax in the garden until she was certain that the man on the other side of the hedge was not Boyz Szweda. Even though it was impossible that it was Boyz, this was a pretty desperate case of seeing is believing.

She stood, picked up her book and her water bottle, and slowly, humming, she strolled through the garden to her house. Boyz wouldn’t recognize her from the back, after all, especially since she’d grown out her once-chic asymmetrically cut hair so long it fell in dark waves below her shoulders. She didn’t hurry. She even paused to check her Knock Out rosebush before climbing the steps to the back porch and stepping inside.

She shut the door gently, quietly. She put her gardening tools in their rack. She leaned against the door and drew in a few deep breaths.

This was ridiculous. This was so not her kind of behavior. She was no longer a divorced and lonely female sniveling herself to sleep at night. She held an important position in the town’s library. She had friends—she had a boyfriend, a carpenter, big and handsome and very good with his hands.

She should have Nash over for dinner tonight! She could throw something on the grill and they could open some beer and eat outdoors. She could change out of her gardening clothes and slip into a pretty sundress….

Really? Were these thoughts really coming from her own mind? Clearly, she wasn’t plotting to seduce Nash. All she had to do was open the front door to seduce Nash. Obviously, she wanted to show off for Boyz who might not even be there.

Maddening. Here she was, an accomplished woman thinking like a love-scorned teenager.

The important thing was that Darcy was only thinking that way. Not acting that way. Yet.

She needed a distraction. She needed to get out of the house and away from this mood buzzing around her like a swarm of wasps.

So: Where was her cellphone? On the kitchen counter. Good. She hit Jordan’s number. Darcy had known Jordan for only three years, but with some people a friendship fit perfectly and immediately, like the rare times when the first dress you tried on was instant magic. She had first met Jordan at the library—always a good omen. Darcy had taken her bag lunch out to the garden to eat on a bench by the crab apple trees, and she’d heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Expecting to find some inexperienced drunken teenager, she discovered a pretty blond woman on her knees near the tulips.

“Are you okay?” Darcy asked. “How can I help you?”

Without looking up, the woman croaked, “My tote’s over there. I’ve got some saltines in a plastic bag and a can of 7Up. If you could bring it to me…”

“Of course. And I’ll get you some wet paper towels from the bathroom, so you can wipe your hands and face.”

“Oh, thank you. But please don’t tell the librarians that I barfed in their garden.”

“We’ll shovel some dirt over it. No one will know.”

By the time Darcy returned with the paper towels, the other woman had managed to move to a bench, where she sat very slowly chewing a tiny corner of a saltine.