The Forever Summer

The annual opening of the Beach Rose Inn marked the unofficial start of summer. It was part of the rhythm of life in Provincetown, like the ferry service from Boston, the whale-watching tour schedule, and the route of the Fourth of July parade. Amelia understood this, and it was something she had weighed carefully in making her decision to close it.

The old house had been in her family for five generations, and every spring required pre–beach season maintenance that she had long managed like clockwork. There was reshingling, repainting, flower-bed upkeep, cable and Internet upgrades, and of course a multitude of unpredictable repairs depending on how harsh the New England winter they’d just endured had been. And then, once the summer got into full swing, the work really began. For fifteen straight weeks, from May until early September, her home was filled with guests. Some were new, some were old (more like friends than guests, really), but all of them kept Amelia and her partner, Kelly, on their toes all season long.

And she loved it. At age seventy-five, she had been running the inn for so long, she couldn’t imagine a summer without it. But things changed, and it was time to slow down.

But then, the phone call. Out of nowhere.

Amelia was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, when the call came in. She had been looking out the window at the long wooden table that stretched the length of the backyard to the tip of the sand that framed Cape Cod Bay. Her guests always took their breakfast at the table, dining communally, making new friends, relationships that she had heard often lasted well beyond their vacation week.

“May I speak to Amelia Cabral?” The young woman’s voice shook.

“Speaking,” said Amelia, prepared to tell her the inn would be closed that summer—perhaps closed indefinitely. After months of such conversations, they had not gotten any easier.

“Hi, um—I’m sorry to bother you.” A long pause.

“Yes, dear. How can I help you?” Amelia prompted gently.

“Mrs. Cabral, my name is Rachel. I live in LA. And I’m pretty sure you’re my…grandmother.”

The word hung in the ether between them, heavy and weightless at the same time.

Amelia had thought that at her age, the days of surprises—good and bad—were long behind her. She had been standing in that very spot when a call had come in nearly three decades earlier, news so devastating all she could do was grip the countertop as if it were the only thing tethering her to the earth. And as the young woman told her story, that’s exactly what Amelia did once again.

When she finally hung up the phone, she had to hug herself to stop the shaking.

Funny, Amelia thought, how we greet both extremely bad news and extremely good news in the same way: disbelief.

In a daze, Amelia walked out the back door of the house into the early-spring sunshine. Her first thought was that she had to tell Kelly, stalwart Kelly, who had helped her keep the inn afloat all these years and had only reluctantly supported her decision to close it for the season. What would Kelly make of this?

What did she make of it? All Amelia knew was that she’d spent the last thirty years filling the house with strangers. But in a few weeks, she would have family under her roof.

After all this time, her family.

The restaurant was opulent, trendy, and loud. Her fiancé had chosen it for her birthday dinner. Her fiancé, who was not at the table.

Marin stood and waved when she spotted her parents walking into the room. They had driven up from Philadelphia for the night to celebrate with her. Her mother pulled her into a hug as soon as she reached the table.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart! Thirty. I can’t believe it,” she said. She was dressed in a classically cut pale blue suit. Very Main Line. Very Mom. Marin felt a pang of sadness. Her mother didn’t know it, but she was about to become very upset.

“Marin, you’re looking well,” her father said. “All the long hours at the firm must agree with you.”

Marin beamed. She lived for her father’s pride in her career. At least one of her parents would be happy with her tonight.

Her mother looked around. “Where’s Greg? Is he running late?”

“No,” Marin said slowly. “He’s not running late.”

The three of them sat down and the waiter handed them menus. The restaurant was prix fixe, offering very few options. Marin had no appetite.

“What’s going on?” her mother asked. “Is he sick?”

“He’s fine, Mom. But we broke up.”

“What?” Her mother looked like Marin had slapped her across the face. “Why on earth? Did you have an argument?”

Her father summoned the waiter and ordered a martini. Marin asked for a glass of chardonnay.

“No. Not an argument. I just wasn’t happy,” Marin said. It was the partial truth.

“You’re spending too much time at work. Relationships need to be nurtured, Marin. You can’t just go on autopilot because you have a ring on your finger,” said her mother, her voice going up an octave.

“Blythe, please. She’s entitled to a career. Don’t blame it on that,” said Kip. “And Greg’s Wall Street hours are no doubt longer than hers.”

“Mom, it’s all right. It’s for the best. I’m sorry to disappoint you but—”

Blythe shook her head. “You’re not disappointing me. I just want you to be happy. Why didn’t you talk to me? When did all of this happen?”

Marin did feel guilty for not confiding in her—the first time that she had frozen her mother out of her personal life. But it was temporary, and necessary, and one day her mother would understand. At least, she hoped she would. It was hard to explain something messy like this to a woman who had been happily married for thirty-two years.

“Last night. I just realized it wasn’t the right thing for me. I’m not ready to get married. Or maybe I don’t want to marry him. I don’t know. Either way, I had to be honest—with him and with myself…”

The waiter brought their drinks, and her father raised his glass. “It’s not easy to admit what you want when it means making an unpopular decision. I’m proud of you.”

Her mother glared at him.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Did you give back the ring?” Kip asked.

“That’s what you have to say about this?” said Blythe.

“In New York State it’s considered a conditional gift. There’s a contractual obligation to return the ring.”

“Who cares about the damn ring!” said Blythe.

“Yes, Dad—I returned the ring. And Mom, breakups happen. It’s going to be fine.”

Her mother nodded glumly, unconvinced.

“Of course it’s fine,” her father said, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Come on—isn’t there something else we can talk about? This is supposed to be a happy occasion,” Marin said, smiling, hoping to lighten the mood.

Her parents exchanged an odd glance. If she wasn’t mistaken, her mother shook her head at Marin’s father, ever so slightly.

“What’s going on?” Marin said.

“Absolutely nothing,” said her mom. Too quickly.

A silence settled over the table, mercifully broken when the waiter came to take their dinner orders. The atmosphere at the table finally turned positive when her father asked her about her law firm’s newest client, a high-profile personal-genetics company.

Marin beamed. “I can’t really say that much about the merger in the works but it’s a big step for me to be put on the case. I mean, I’m pretty low on the totem pole, but still…”

Kip nodded, gently shaking his glass so the ice clinked together. “You have to walk before you can run. Just keep your head down, work hard, play the game, and you’ll get there.”

They both knew what he meant by there. Partner at the most prestigious law firm in New York City. Or maybe the head of her own firm, like the one her father had founded in 1982 in Philadelphia, where Kipton Bishop was arguably the most powerful attorney in the city. And at the age of sixty, he showed no signs of slowing down. It was actually surprising that he’d made it to her birthday dinner. After a lifetime of seeing him work eighteen-hour days and travel the globe, she was used to it being just her mother and herself more often than not. Honestly, she didn’t know how her mother had done it all of those years, staying at home, tending to the house and her vegetable garden. Waiting for her father’s rare appearances. Marin shuddered. For as long as she could remember, she’d always been very aware of the fact that she never wanted to be the one left behind.

Throughout dinner, under the table, Marin checked her phone. She appreciated her parents driving up to Manhattan to celebrate with her, she really did. But the evening was dragging.

Finally, the text she’d been waiting for arrived.

Sure, come on over.

The waiter approached with a large cake covered with extravagant shavings of white chocolate. It was lit with a single candle.

Please don’t sing. But no, it wasn’t that type of place. The waiter placed the cake in front of her, and her mother reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She sounded so forlorn, it was as if her own engagement had been broken off.

Marin closed her eyes, blew out the candle, and thought of the person waiting for her on the other side of the city.

“To many more,” chimed in her father, finishing his drink.

The waiter sliced the cake and served them each a piece. “So what does Greg think of all this? He’s just accepted it?” her mother blurted out. Marin had to give her credit—she’d held out until dessert.

“Blythe, don’t push,” her father said, ignoring the plate in front of him while Marin ate half her slice in two big bites. With her mouth full, she couldn’t be expected to talk.

“It’s a natural question, Kip. I mean, two years, planning a life together…that doesn’t just evaporate.” Her mother patted her ash-blond hair as if the mere thought of such chaos had set it askew. “Are you sure about this? I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

Marin nodded. Yes, she was sure. You didn’t break up with a man like Greg Harper on a whim.

“Thanks so much for dinner. Really. I miss you guys,” Marin said, reflexively checking her phone again.

“You’re not running off, are you?” her mother said.

“Let her be, Blythe. Knowing Marin, she’s probably going home to burn the midnight oil.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Well, she needs to learn how to relax. Honestly, Marin. Your priorities—”

“Are exactly where they should be,” said her father.

“It’s just been a long week,” Marin said. “And I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”

Again, her parents exchanged that strange look.

Marin kissed them both good night.

Outside, she took in the warm spring air before hailing a cab. It felt like the first time she’d breathed all night.

Blythe Bishop shuddered in the freezing lobby of the Plaza Hotel.

Breakups happen. That’s all her daughter had to say on the topic? Oh, what was she thinking? Blythe wrapped her arms around herself, trying to take comfort in her elegant surroundings.

Yes, breakups did happen. But yesterday, Marin had had a three-carat diamond on her left ring finger, a deposit on a wedding venue, and plans to go dress shopping with her mother next week. Now what? All that was just…gone?

Marin was too career-obsessed. That was the problem.

Thirty and single. Oh, Blythe knew it was old-fashioned to see that as a bad thing. But most of Marin’s friends on the Main Line were already married, living in big, beautiful homes in Penn Valley, having their first babies, with the days of office hours and career stress long behind them. Was it so wrong to want that for her own daughter?

“You need to give Marin more credit,” said Kip. “She’s the captain of her own ship.”

“I just wish she’d open up more about what happened with Greg. Even though she’s the one who ended it, it still can’t be easy. They ordered the invitations.”

“It’s not really our business,” Kip said, walking briskly to the elevator. She followed him inside, and each pressed a button.

“Well, as we’re her parents, it actually is our business.” After thirty-two years, she still didn’t understand half the things that came out of that man’s mouth.

“Marin had the balls to end it because she knew it wasn’t right for her. She’s a tough cookie,” Like me, she knew he was thinking. Also, And unlike you.

“I’m afraid she’s going to end up alone,” said Blythe.

“Well, maybe that’s what she wants. It’s her life.”

The door slid open on eight, Kip’s floor.

“This is so strange,” she said, following him uninvited out of the elevator. “Kip, this doesn’t feel right.”

Standing in the quiet hallway, she blinked back tears.

Kip scratched his jaw with his room key card. He looked uncharacteristically tired.

“No more stalling, Blythe. We have to tell her.”

“This just isn’t the best time to—”

Kip held up his hand as if halting traffic. “Stop. I don’t want to hear it. This breakup with Greg doesn’t change anything. Tomorrow at breakfast, we’re telling her.”

With that, Kip summoned the elevator for her. Case closed.