This Summer Will Be Different(15)
7
Now
I approach Felix’s old bedroom with caution, afraid of the ghosts I’ll find inside. When I push the door open, I’m so surprised by what I see, I double check to make sure I haven’t entered the wrong room. Bridget told me that Christine had redecorated, but I can’t quite believe how different it is.
When Felix lived here, the room looked like a barely crashed-in crash pad, with Blu Tack smudges marring the taupe paint, memories of hockey posters long since ripped down. But now the walls are covered in cream-and-white-striped paper and framed watercolors of flower-filled vases. There’s a pink-and-white quilt on the bed, Bridget’s grandma’s handiwork no doubt. The windows still look onto the strip of grass that becomes sand that becomes sea, but the desk that used to sit under them is gone. The books, too.
Nothing is left of Felix’s room except for the bed, a handsome wooden antique with post and spindle head and footboards. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to sleep in its sheets. I can picture us there, that clueless couple, that endless night. I’ll see him in my dreams tonight. His fingers, unraveling the braid in my hair. His body, moving over mine.
Felix. More.
I cross the room to look out the windows, which are now topped with roman blinds in a cherry voile instead of plain white drapes.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
I turn around to find Bridget in the doorway, studying me.
“It’s hard to imagine your mom picking all this out,” I agree. “It’s more my taste.”
Bridget gives me a funny smile. “I thought so, too.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re a bit flushed.”
Bridget can usually read me like there are closed captions of my innermost thoughts displayed on my forehead. But she’s not herself right now, and I don’t think she suspects anything’s off.
“Just hot.” It’s a half-truth. The Clarks have a thing about air-conditioning—as in, they refuse to get it. I crank open the window.
“Do you want to unpack?” Bridget asks. “Or should we head out now?” We always used to begin our vacations the same way, with a long, slow walk by the water.
“Are you up for it?” She looks exhausted, but otherwise, she’s behaving as if that panicked phone call never happened, as if I didn’t just put my life on hold and hop on a plane to be with her. But I know Bridget, and I know I can’t push her to talk when she doesn’t want to. Unless I’m ready to fight, which I’m not. When we argue, it escalates fast, like we’re sisters with a lifetime of combat experience at our disposal.
Our last blowout was over her dieting. I’ve seen it countless times at In Bloom—brides who shrink themselves between our initial consultation and their wedding day. I didn’t think Bridget would be one of them. It was one of the rare occasions I won the argument.
I glance at the bed. “I’ll unpack later.” My suitcase is a disaster. I used to love planning my island vacation wardrobes. But there was no careful rolling and fretting over this skirt or that yesterday. There wasn’t any time. I poured myself a generous glass of wine, shoved everything in my bag, and ordered a take-out prosciutto and arugula sandwich, which even I could have prepared had I any food in my fridge. I remembered my nightgown only as I was zipping the suitcase up this morning.
“I should give Farah a call before we head out,” I say to Bridget now. This trip has put my work stress to an eye-twitching level.
“Don’t you dare. Farah can run that place in her sleep. She doesn’t need you.”
Farah’s precise words were: “You could go and never come back, and I’d be fine.” She wasn’t joking.
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
“You know what I mean. You haven’t taken a vacation in way too fucking long. I know I’ve said it before, but you’re doing too much, Bee.”
Bridget has been encouraging me for months to hire another staff member. She minored in finance, manages a meaty budget at work, and has been filing her own taxes since she was a teenager. When I took over from my aunt three and a half years ago, she helped me clean out Stacy’s office. It looked like a tipped-over newsstand, papers strewn about everywhere. Bridget was disturbed by the mess and possibly turned on by the prospect of corralling it. She’s been helping me with the administrative end of the business ever since.
I know Bridget’s right. I am doing too much, but it doesn’t cost me anything if I work long hours. I’m terrified of overspending, of making one bad decision and bankrupting the business, of my parents being right after all. The full weight of owning In Bloom didn’t settle on my shoulders until my aunt died last year.
“Bee,” Bridget says softly. “I’m worried about you. I know you can manage the same amount of work as three people combined, but you’re running yourself down. You’re going to burn out.”
“Bridget,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Did you orchestrate this vacation so you could stage an intervention?” I wouldn’t put it past her. As brazen-mouthed as she is, Bridget has a sly side.
“No. But you do need to take a breather.”
Maybe this trip can be an opportunity for Bridget and me to unwind like we used to. Gorge ourselves on oysters and vinho verde. Relax. Talk. Throw ourselves into rule number two and really leave the city behind.