Last Summer
By Holly Chamberlin
Kensington Books
Copyright © 2012
Elise Smith
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-3508-4
Chapter One
Fourteen-year-old Rosie Patterson stood at the window in
the living room of her family's house on Pond View Road
in the town of Yorktide, Maine. She didn't know why the
road was called Pond View, as there was no pond anywhere
in sight. She guessed there must have been one years and
years ago. And maybe a developer had filled it in to build a
house or even two houses. It seemed that every year more
land that had been beautiful, wild woodland was being bull–dozed
or blown apart so that someone "from away" could
build a huge house with big white columns out front (like
anyone would really think it was historical!), a four–car
garage, and an in–ground pool.
The Patterson house had been built sometime in the
1930s. At least, that's what Rosie's dad had told her. It wasn't
a tiny house, in fact, it was the second-biggest house on the
road, but Mrs. Patterson had decorated it so that it felt cozy
and welcoming, even on the coldest day of the year. And in
Maine, even pretty far south where the Pattersons lived, close
to the New Hampshire border, that could easily mean temperatures below freezing.
On the first floor were the living room and a small den. In
the living room there was a big fireplace with a wide stone
mantel on which Mrs. Patterson displayed portraits of the
family, including those members long gone, and her small but
good collection of milk glass. Generally, the living room was
reserved for when guests came to visit, not that that was
often, especially not now. The den was the room where the
Pattersons watched television or read in the evenings, after
the dinner dishes were cleaned and homework was finished.
It was probably the most snug room in the house with a
thick, colorful rug, a bookcase that covered almost an entire
wall, and three big armchairs, one really big, another sort of
big, and the third, Rosie's, smallish. Just like the chairs for
the three bears from the Goldilocks fairy tale, Rosie had
noted when she was little. The comparison had often made
her smile.
The kitchen, also on the first floor, was Rosie's mother's
pride and joy. She loved to cook and had bought the best
pots and pans and knives she could afford. Jane Patterson
kept the kitchen spotless and the cupboards perfectly organized. Rosie had long ago memorized where every serving
fork and can of tomatoes and jar of wild rice belonged. Behind the kitchen and leading out to the small patio and large
backyard there was a small screened-in room where the Pat–tersons stored some of the spring gardening tools, as
well as shovels and bags of rock salt for winter use. (The snow–blower lived in the toolshed.) On the patio sat a
wrought iron table and chair set, Mike Patterson's charcoal–fueled
grill, and some of Mrs. Patterson's potted plants. In good
weather, the Pattersons often ate dinner on the patio, though
so far this summer no one had made the suggestion that they
emerge from the security of the kitchen. That wasn't surprising.
A staircase off the living room led to the second floor, on
which there were Rosie's bedroom, a bathroom in the hallway, and her parents' bedroom and private bath. Her mother
had decorated both bedrooms with good faux-antique furniture and a few small genuine pieces. The chairs were
upholstered in a cabbage rose print, and over each bed hung a
ruffled canopy in the same print. Rosie had added her own
small personal touches to her room, like a framed print of
one of her favorite paintings. It was a portrait of the
Princesse Albert de Broglie (whoever she was) painted by a
French painter named Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. Rosie
thought the shimmering blue of the princess's dress was magical. Rosie had no talent for art, she could hardly draw a
straight line, but she loved to study the paintings in her
mom's art and design books and thought she might be developing what her mom called "a pretty good eye."
The basement of the Patterson home housed Jane Patterson's sewing room and a dressing room for her clients (Rosie's
mom had a small tailoring business), Mike Patterson's at–home office where the family's computer was kept, and
the washing machine and dryer. The basement was also where
the boiler and all those other kinds of frightening "Dad machines" lived. Rosie had little if any idea of how any of
them worked or what, exactly, they did, and that was fine by her.
She was like her mother in that way. Stuff to do with gas and
electricity and plumbing was stuff that men dealt with.
Maybe that was a little old-fashioned, but that's the way it
was in the Patterson house.
Rosie touched the glass of the living room window with
one slender finger, as if that touch would bring her closer to
the beautiful June morning just outside. The strengthening
sun was drying what remained of the crystal–like dew. Two
robins were hopping around on the front lawn, and she
could hear the scolding cry of a blue jay somewhere not far
off. The crows were silent at the moment and Rosie was glad
for that. When she was little, their absurdly loud cawing had
terrorized her. She had been convinced the birds were
screaming in pain, not just going about the noisy business of
being crows. But then, she had been an ultrasensitive child.
Her mother often reminded her of that. And the past few
months had further proved that her mother's opinion was
correct. She was now an ultrasensitive young woman.
Though at this time of the day she couldn't see her reflection in the window in front of her, Rosie imagined that she
could. (Imagining came easy to Rosie.) At times she wondered if there was some real connection between how you
looked and your personality or character. It was a silly notion, and one that probably only found its truth in plays
and novels where the villains were all short, dark, and ugly and
the tragic heroines were all tall, pale, and beautiful. But what
if it really wasn't a silly notion? In that case, Rosie thought,
seeing herself in her mind's eye, her own appearance kind of
proved her ultrasensitive personality and, as her mother
often said, her "specialness."
First, there was her long, light blond hair that she usually
wore in a single braid down her back. When her hair was
loose, like when she had dried it after a shower, her father
said she looked like Rapunzel. Then there were her big eyes,
an unusual vibrant green surrounded by dark lashes. Since
she was little, people had been telling her how beautiful she
was. It had always made Rosie uncomfortable, strangers
coming up to her and her mother on the street and saying
things like, "Oh, my God, your daughter could be a model!"
Why did people feel the need to comment on other people's
appearance? Rosie thought it seemed kind of rude but was
too polite to say anything like, "Could you please keep your
comments about my body and my face to yourself? It embarrasses
me." Plus, her mother had never asked anyone not to
talk about her daughter's appearance—in fact, Rosie thought
her mom kind of enjoyed hearing those comments—and
Rosie wasn't the sort of girl to protest a parent's decisions.
She just wasn't.
She was tall, too, and that was another thing that people
often commented on. At her last checkup the doctor had estimated
she would grow to be about five feet nine inches,
which was a little taller than her mother but not as tall as her
father. And she was really slim, which lots of girls at school
had told her they envied. But Rosie had no interest in their
obsession with thinness. She was thin because she was thin.
So was her mother. It was no big deal, no better or worse
than having red hair or brown eyes. Sometimes, in fact, Rosie
wished she were totally average-looking or maybe even ugly
so that people would see only what mattered about her, like
the fact that she was smart and tried always to be good and
polite and kind.
Rosie's attention was pulled back from the land of imagination
and into the moment at hand as one of the neighbors,
a nice older woman named Mrs. Riillo, came walking down
the narrow sidewalk. Rosie began to raise her hand, intending
to wave, but quickly dropped it. She didn't want to call
attention to herself, standing alone at the window. Lately, she
had begun to feel too much like the heroine of a novel she
had read back in eighth grade. She had found the slim volume
on a shelf in the den, stuck in between two of her
father's fat mystery novels, almost as if it were hiding. In the
story, a young woman not much older than Rosie was
trapped in her home by her own fears and inhibitions. Her
bedroom window provided her some small access to the outside
world, while at the same time, with its heavy drapery
that she could pull securely shut, the window represented the
extreme isolation in which she chose to live.
It was a powerful story with no real ending, happy or otherwise,
and it still haunted Rosie. She had chosen to write about
it for an extra-credit assignment. Her English teacher had
been more than a bit surprised at her choice—most of the
other students had chosen to write about action and adventure stories—but she had given Rosie an A. Rosie almost
always got As on her tests and assignments.
Mrs. Riillo was gone now, out of Rosie's sight. A neighborhood cat, an enormous shaggy tom named Harvey, was slinking
across the front yard, his eyes riveted on the two robins.
Rosie shut her eyes and hunched her shoulders as he leapt
forward, intent on a kill. When she opened her eyes, slowly
and just a bit, she sighed with relief. The birds had flown to
safety and the cat was washing his face as if nothing had gone
awry. She knew that cats were predators and that Mother Nature was not always pretty. Still, any kind of violence made
Rosie feel queasy.
Satisfied that he was clean and presentable once more after
his failed attempt at breakfast, the cat trotted off. Rosie
sighed and for a moment felt a wave of restlessness overcome
her. The day ahead stretched out for what seemed like an impossibly long way, offering far too much time to fill. The
last term paper had been submitted and graded, and the last test
had been taken and passed. Now what?
The final weeks of ninth grade had been packed with activity, from writing those term papers to cleaning out lockers
that had accumulated all sorts of interesting and sometimes
slightly yucky tidbits. There had been the homeroom party
on the very last day of class, complete with cupcakes and
potato chips, and the trip up to Portland a few days before
that to visit the museum and have lunch at Flatbread, the
awesome organic pizza place with the huge brick oven. Judy
Smith, a pretty, smart girl who everyone liked, had had a
party in her backyard for most of the other freshman girls
and a few of the boys. Mr. Smith had grilled red hot dogs and
Mrs. Smith had made killer potato salad and brownies, and
though it was still too cold for swimming, a few kids had
brought their bathing suits just in case. In the end, Judy's
aboveground swimming pool remained empty of all but a
bobbing beach ball.
Well, Rosie had imagined all those details about the home–room party and the class trip to Portland and Judy's
party, because she hadn't gone to any of them. She could have participated in all three events. But she hadn't.
Here came Trudy Loren, a woman from the next road,
walking her yellow Lab. Rosie stepped back a bit from the
window, again reluctant to be seen watching the world go by.
But Trudy was chatting on her phone, oblivious to the tall,
thin girl behind the glass. In a moment, she was gone, heading in the direction of the park.
Rosie stepped forward and once again touched the glass
with her finger. If this summer was going to be at all like last
summer and the summer before that and even the one before
that, she would have a lot of fun to look forward to. Sure,
there was some reading to be done for school. Mr. Arcidia–cono, who was going to be their tenth-grade English
teacher, had given out a list of novels and nonfiction and instructed
everyone to choose two books from each category, read the
books through, and write a report on each one. For someone
like Rosie who loved to read and write, the assignment
would be enjoyable. And she would read way more books
than the four suggested by Mr. Arcidiacono, anyway. She had
always been a big reader, just like her parents.
But other than the reading assignment, the only responsibility facing Rosie this summer was to enjoy the warm and
sunny weather. It had been a particularly long winter; by
mid-May temperatures had barely reached fifty degrees.
Everyone, even kids, not just grumpy, arthritic adults like
their neighbor Mr. Newman, had been complaining about
the cold and gray for so long it really had seemed as if this
would be the year that spring never came.
Yes, if this summer was going to be like every other summer
past, there would be trips to the beach, and lazy afternoons
spent lying under the gingko tree in the backyard, daydreaming and planning an exciting, exotic future. There would be
the annual trip to Chauncey Creek where they would get lobster rolls, and there would be a blueberry-picking excursion,
after which they would make muffins and pancakes and pies
with all the berries they had collected. And there would be
trips to the green market and long bike rides and movies at
the Leavitt Theatre in Ogunquit and . . .
Rosie pressed her lips together tightly and reminded herself that this summer would not be like last summer or like
any of the summers before it. This summer would be a summer without Meg Giroux, Rosie's former best friend turned
traitor. It was a strong word, "traitor," but Rosie thought it
was the right one. Not that she would speak the word aloud,
not even to herself, not even to Dr. Lowe, her therapist. Dr.
Lowe wasn't supposed to judge her patient, but still, Rosie
was afraid to appear vindictive.
Rosie consciously fingered the few thin, lingering scars on
her left arm and then pulled the sleeve of her pink cotton
shirt down over her hand. At that moment, as if summoned
by Rosie's troubled thoughts, Meg, carrying a watering can,
came through the front door of her home next door. Rosie
quickly backed away from the window and turned toward
the sanctuary that was her own home.
Chapter Two
Jane rubbed the sponge in widening circles across the
counter she had already cleaned that morning. In the past
few weeks she had caught herself acting mindlessly, straightening
pillows that had already been straightened, adding to
the grocery list items she had already bought, even forgetting
the day of the week. This was unusual behavior for Jane Ella
Patterson. One of the things she prided herself on was her
highly developed sense of purpose and organization.
The counter beyond clean, Jane rinsed the sponge and
squeezed it until it was close to bone dry. The physical effort
caused a dull ache in her right hand. She sighed and flexed
her fingers. She wondered if she was developing arthritis. It
would seem likely, given all the years of working with her
hands. Well, if that was the case there was nothing much she
could do about it. Her mother had developed severe arthritis
in her fifties. Jane thought it might be an inherited condition.
Jane Patterson was about five feet seven inches on a good
day, which was getting harder to find; she often caught herself
slumping, and a muscle under her right shoulder seemed
to have permanently clenched itself into a throbbing ball.
Just after her forty-second birthday last summer, her normally
perfect eyesight had begun to fail and she now wore
prescription glasses for close work and reading. Wearing
glasses didn't bother her; it was the cost of the prescription
that was problematic. Both she and her husband were self–employed
and that meant outrageous insurance costs. They
weren't poor but they weren't rich, either, at least not by local
standards. All you had to do was drive through certain parts
of York County or the town of Ogunquit and you would find
massive mansions overlooking the ocean and estates that
went on for miles. But Jane loved her house on Pond View
Road and enjoyed making it a home. Some women might
balk at the term "homemaker," seeing it as old-fashioned and
somehow demeaning. But Jane thought otherwise.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Last Summer
by Holly Chamberlin
Copyright © 2012 by Elise Smith.
Excerpted by permission of Kensington Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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