The Forever Summer Read online

  Candace Cavanaugh, the divorced daughter of one of Kip’s golfing buddies at the club. She was twenty-five years his junior. Who’d have thought Kip would turn into such a cliché?

  “It’s a delicate situation,” Kip had said to her. “If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t worry so much about appearances. But we need to do the right thing here…”

  In other words, sometimes people had flings and there was a lot of looking the other way, because marriage was marriage. But this time, there was no looking away. Other eyes were on the ball; specifically, eyes from the Philadelphia Racquet and Hunt Country Club. Kip would not be party to a scandalous situation. The divorce papers were being filed.

  For the first time since she was nineteen years old, Blythe would have to plan for a life without Kipton Bishop. Perhaps she was just lucky it had lasted as long as it did. After all, he’d arrived in her life when she needed a safety net.

  Blythe had moved from Michigan to Philadelphia to join the corps of her third-choice ballet company, the Pennsylvania Ballet. Both the ABT and Joffrey had rejected her.

  With each passing day, all she heard in the back of her mind was her parents’ plea—logical, maddening, and ultimately ignored—to go to college and keep one foot in ballet (so to speak) and then pursue a professional dancing career later if that was what she still wanted. But why should she put off what she knew she wanted? There was no if.

  The if became a what if.

  What if she failed? What if she wasn’t asked to return the following year?

  By the spring of that first year, her confidence was at an all-time low. The night she met Kip had been the Pennsylvania Ballet’s annual gala. The theme was Diamonds on Broad Street, an homage to the third act of Balanchine’s Jewels.

  Blythe remembered the dress she wore that night—a white silk sheath, size 0. She still had it in storage.

  Select dancers had been chosen to perform that evening, and Blythe was not among them. Instead, she stood among the crowd of wealthy dance benefactors—some of whom had paid ten thousand dollars a plate to be there—listening to the company’s artistic director introduce the evening’s theme.

  “‘Diamonds,’ brought to life by the music of Tchaikovsky, conjures the spirit of the Mariinsky Theater, where Balanchine trained. Mary Clarke and Clement Crisp have written: ‘If the entire imperial Russian inheritance of ballet were lost, “Diamonds” would still tell us of its essence.’”

  Blythe clapped politely, wanting to be anywhere else. She was an ornament, like the white calla lily centerpieces, the hundreds of shining silver candlesticks on loan from a Philadelphia socialite, and the ice sculpture in the center of the room evoking imperial Russia. The guests came for the food, the photo ops, the performances, but above all, they came to mingle with the dancers themselves.

  An older couple approached her, a man in a tux and a woman with silver-threaded blond hair wearing an elegant white-beaded gown. Even among the hundreds of other well-heeled dance patrons, they made an impression. Out of everyone she’d met that night, these two seemed the most excited to be there.

  The woman asked Blythe if she was one of the performers.

  “I’m a member of the company, but I’m not performing tonight,” she said. Then she added, “It’s my first year.” A lame excuse. But this couple didn’t know any better.

  “How lovely. Congratulations,” the woman said. She introduced herself as Nina Bishop. Her husband, Preston Bishop, told Blythe his wife had been attending the Pennsylvania Ballet since “before you were born.”

  “My grandmother brought me to The Nutcracker when I was four,” Nina said. “I don’t remember it, of course, but it somehow inspired a lifelong passion.”

  Something else was mentioned, something about the importance of supporting the arts, but Blythe barely heard. A man walked toward them, a young Robert Redford. It was clear he intended to join them, that he would be interrupting this talkative couple.

  “Kip! There you are. I thought you snuck out on us.” Nina pulled him into their little circle. The man, who Blythe guessed was five or six years older than her, said something about leaving soon, an early day at the office. When Blythe retold the story, she would remember that Kip had started to say he was leaving but then noticed Blythe and reconsidered. In reality, Nina had introduced her to him—“She’s a dancer!”—and insisted he stay and that Blythe join them at their table. And then, and this part was true, Kip had said to her, “No offense, but I don’t share my parents’ passion for the ballet. Maybe you can help me understand what I seem to be missing?”

  Her heart fluttered, the way it did when she was in the midst of a particularly difficult lift. Love at first sight? Not exactly. But there was something, a spark. Enough to help her imagine an alternative life to one lived on stage. Maybe a fulfilling life, one in which she might set herself up for success rather than failure.

  A year later, when she walked down the church aisle on her father’s arm, preparing to take her vows in front of two hundred people, she said one silently to herself first. I will be a good wife to Kipton Bishop. I will make him happy.

  And now, her husband was with another woman.

  Blythe heard a car crunch the gravel of the driveway. She stood up, brushed off her sweatpants, and walked around the side of the house. Marin’s Saab was an extravagance to keep in Manhattan, but it made visiting home a blessedly simple two-hour drive.

  “Hi, sweetheart! I’m in the garden. What do you have there?”

  Marin pulled a large plastic shopping bag out of the passenger seat.

  “I brought you bagels.” She looked like a walking Michael Kors ad, with her perfectly tailored navy pants, a pin-striped blouse, and half a dozen gold bangles clinking musically as she headed toward the yard. Her glossy dark hair was up in a high ponytail, her brown eyes hidden behind reflective aviator sunglasses. Blythe swelled with pride. Her baby.

  “Honey, you didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” Marin knew her parents couldn’t find decent bagels in suburban Philadelphia—at least, not like in New York. Oh, New York. Though Blythe had gone through a phase of resenting the city that had lured her daughter away, she had to admit it wasn’t all bad.

  They convened in the breakfast room, an addition to the house made ten years ago during renovations to the kitchen. It was an airy, open space with wide Spanish tiles and a skylight. It had a table for eight and a love seat in the corner that was Blythe’s favorite spot in the house for reading. French doors led to the garden.

  Blythe brought out a pitcher of fresh-brewed iced tea. Marin set her phone on the table and scrolled through her e-mails.

  “Sorry—I just need to check this quickly.”

  Blythe sat across from her and waited patiently for Marin to finish tapping away on her phone. When Marin finally looked up, the first thing she said was “So why did you leave New York before I had a chance to talk to you?”

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  “I guess I didn’t know what to tell you,” Blythe admitted. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to have the conversation, that your father would come to his senses. But that was before I knew the whole story.”

  “Candace Cavanaugh.” Marin’s lips pursed like she’d just bitten into a lemon.

  Blythe nodded glumly, then shook her head. “But it’s not just about that. At least, I can’t imagine it is. Marriages are complicated. I just thought we were past a lot of the more—” She waved her hand as if swatting a fly. “Still—it doesn’t change the important things. Your father and I are still your parents, and we are here for you. We’ll always be a family.” She tried to smile.

  Marin reached across the table and took her hand. “Thanks, Mom. I’m okay. Really. I’m just concerned about you. And look, I know we’ve always been able to be honest with each other. I’m sorry I’ve been…secretive about my breakup with Greg. I wanted to talk to you. I did. I mean, I do.”

  “You do?” Blythe perked up.

  “Of course.
Mom—you’re my best friend. But I’m trying to be discreet and I need you to be as well. The truth is, I met someone else.”

  Blythe gasped. This was the last thing she’d expected.

  “Who is it?”

  “You won’t tell Dad about this, you swear?”

  “Believe me, at this point, that is not an issue.”

  “Oh, Mom. Are you two not speaking?”

  “We are.” Barely. “Enough about that. Who is he?”

  “It’s someone at work.”

  Blythe tensed with alarm. “Oh, Marin. Please tell me he’s not married.”

  “No! No, it’s nothing like that. But he’s in a senior position, so it’s kind of an issue. We’re keeping it secret. I feel weird even telling you this much.”

  Blythe didn’t know what to say. There she was, assuming Marin had let her work obsession get in the way of her relationship when in actuality she’d started a new relationship—at work! Oh, she hoped Marin knew what she was doing.

  “Please don’t get mad at me for asking this, but are you sure you needed to break up with Greg? I hate to say it, but people do have flings and it’s not necessarily something to end an engagement over.” Or a marriage, for that matter.

  Marin shook her head quickly. “It was the only thing to do. Being with this new man…it made me realize what a mistake I was making by committing my life to Greg. I don’t love him, Mom. At least, not enough.” The unspoken words were loud and clear: Not the way I love this new guy.

  “And this man at the office—he feels the same about you?”

  Marin beamed. “I think so.”

  Blythe had never seen her look so happy about a man. Not ever. She was positively glowing. Marin’s reticence fell by the wayside, and she went on and on about this new man’s good looks, his long-lashed dark eyes, his faint British accent. The way his sharply analytical mind worked. His brilliance.

  “Okay, okay.” Blythe laughed. “I get it. I’m happy for you. Just be careful, please.”

  “I am. Don’t worry,” Marin said, checking her phone again. “Hey, Mom, can I ask you a kind of crazy question?”

  “Sure,” Blythe practically sang, so thrilled to be her daughter’s confidante once again. “Ask me anything.”

  “Is there any chance Dad is part Spanish or Italian or something?”

  Blythe felt the color drain from her face. She looked down at her shorts, suddenly focused on a smudge of dirt. “Not that I know of,” she said, trying to sound casual.

  “Portuguese? Anything like that? I know he likes to say his family is more British than the Crown, but I mean, what’s the real story there?”

  “Where is this coming from?” Blythe felt her body go cold with alarm.

  “It’s silly, really. But you know that new client I told you about at dinner last week? Their product is a home DNA-testing kit and since I’m part of the team, I sampled one. It came back that I’m fifty percent Southern European—Spain, Portugal, that region.”

  “Oh. Well, there must be some mistake. Or maybe I’m half Spanish.” Her forced laugh came out like a yelp.

  “You’d have to be a hundred percent Spanish.”

  “Well, then it’s a mistake.” The guilt—oh, the guilt. Like an anvil on her chest.

  Marin nodded. “I figured.”

  Blythe, hands shaking, stood up from the table. “Well, anyway. Come out back. I want to show you my Swiss chard.”

  Any excuse to get closer to the ground, on her hands and knees. Before she fainted.

  Marin had plenty of time to think while stuck in GW Bridge traffic heading back into the city. She never would have planned to drive into Manhattan on a Saturday night—she’d intended to stay over in Philly. But her mother practically shoved her out the door.

  “I have a lot going on here and I know you’re busy with work. We’ll have a longer visit next time,” she’d said.

  Strange. Usually her mother found any excuse to get her to stay longer. On the plus side, Marin would have more time with Julian. She drove straight to his town house.

  “This is a surprise,” he said, hugging her. “I thought you were staying in Philly the entire weekend.”

  Files were everywhere, and his laptop was on the glass coffee table. She had asked him once why he didn’t just use the house’s second-floor office, and he said he never meant to spend all night working in the living room—he’d start out opening his laptop to do just one little thing and the next thing he knew, three hours had passed. She was the same way.

  “Yeah. So did I. But my mother seemed to want some space.” Oddly.

  “How’s she taking the split?”

  Marin shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I think she’s putting up a brave front. But I know she’s not used to living alone. And this just seems out of nowhere.”

  “It might seem like that, but it never is. There’s always something.”

  “I just can’t imagine what.”

  “Of course not. There’s no marriage more mysterious than one’s own parents’.”

  She knew he was thinking of his parents’ divorce. It was the source of a lot of pain for him growing up. His father had left when Julian was nine, and Julian had never seen him again after his mother moved them back to New York. Growing up with a lonely, underemployed mother in the picturesque Rye suburbs, he always felt like an outsider. He made up for it by being the captain of every sports team and getting straight As and flawless test scores. He attended Harvard on a full scholarship.

  He told Marin that only recently had he and his father been back in contact. Julian suspected he just wanted money.

  She felt stupid complaining to him about her parents.

  He stood from the couch and reached for something in the drawer of one of the antique side tables. When he turned back to her, he was holding a small orange box wrapped in a brown bow.

  “We never got a chance to properly celebrate your birthday,” he said, smiling.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said nervously.

  Something about Julian spending money on her made her uncomfortable. Greg Harper had thrown money around like it meant nothing, and to him, it hadn’t. He’d been born with tons of it, and as a banker he earned even more. Julian had a huge salary at the firm, but because he had struggled growing up, he approached any purchases with great seriousness and care. He wasn’t cheap; he just thought about everything because every dollar meant something to him. It was almost as if how it was earned and how it was spent was a moral issue and not just a financial one.

  The box was from Hermès.

  “Open it,” he said, moving closer to her and rubbing her back.

  Hesitantly, she slipped off the bow and lifted the lid to find a delicate platinum key chain, her initials engraved in ornate cursive on the oblong oval base.

  She gently removed it from the box and looked at him.

  “Julian, it’s beautiful! Thank you. But you really didn’t have to…”

  He kissed her, holding her face, and she wrapped her arms around him. Her chest to his, she felt the rise and fall of his breathing. She wished she could stay like that forever.

  I love him, she thought. I’m completely in love with him.

  He pulled back, took her hand, and pressed something into her palm.

  A key.

  The Hermès chain suddenly took on much more meaning.

  “Julian…”

  “We have to be careful at the office, but I want to see you more. As often as you can come over here.”

  Her heart soared. This was happening. They were going to be together.

  “Oh, Julian. I’m sorry about the other day, barging into your office like that.”

  He kissed the bridge of her nose. “It’s okay. No harm done. I get it—you were upset. But you really can’t do it again. I don’t want to raise any red flags.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I am working on Genie. It’s not totally outrageous that I would have an issue to discuss.” />
  “You just wouldn’t necessarily burst into my office with it.”

  “True.” She tried to push the next thought away, but she couldn’t. “Julian, did you ever get your results from Genie?”

  “Sure. Didn’t you?”

  “Um, yeah. Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “I didn’t really think about it, to tell you the truth. No big revelations. Why?”

  “I was just wondering.” She glanced away. “What’s the probability of Genie results being wrong?”

  “Very low. There’s always a slight margin for human error, but to the knowledge of the executives at the company, that has not happened.”

  Her heart began to pound but she kept her tone casual. “I mean, this is serious stuff. People get emotionally invested.”

  “Like I said, the probability of an individual’s results being wrong is extremely low.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “Anything is possible. Why—did you get something surprising in your results?”

  Now was the time to tell him about the e-mail. But no, things were going so well. It was a magical day. Why spoil it?

  “No,” she lied. “Nothing at all. I was just thinking, you know—from a legal perspective. There could be lawsuits.”

  “Of course. But there haven’t been. I think even when people get surprising or questionable results, they can just retake the test and confirm, and that’s pretty much what’s happened in any cases of doubt. And the test comes back exactly the same.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder. She would forget about the e-mail.

  It was just a mistake.

  Chapter Seven

  Where are you off to?” Rachel’s mother asked, having finally arrived to reclaim her cat. She was trying, with limited success, to lure Hugo back into his carrying case.

  Rachel, halfway through packing her oversize duffel bag, debated whether or not to tell her mother the truth. She decided it would take more effort to be evasive. And why bother? Her mother wouldn’t care. She’d always been direct with her about her paternity. Very casual about it. Maddeningly so.