The Summer List. Amy Mason Doan

made no move to get up, so I fumbled on. “And the house is still...”

      “Weird,” she finished.

      “I was going to say something like charming.”

      “Charming? Laura doesn’t say charming. Tell me Laura has not grown up into someone who says charming.”

      She wasn’t going to make this easy. I’d thought, from the cheerful humility of her invitation, that she’d at least try. When I didn’t answer, Casey swiveled her body to look back at the house, as if to evaluate it through fresh eyes the way she’d examined me.

      “We haven’t done much. That tiny addition on the east side. And I managed to put in a full bath upstairs finally. It’s yours this weekend, along with my old bedroom.”

      “I was going to say. I had to bring my dog. I thought it’d be crowded with all of us, Alex and your little girl and my dog. She’s kind of big, and she’s sweet with kids, but she could knock a little one down... I don’t know how old your girl is but...”

      Casey looked up at me but let me stumble on.

      “Anyway there wasn’t anybody renting our old place this weekend, so I’ll sleep there...”

      The truth was my place had been booked solid all summer, so I’d bumped out this weekend’s renters. Some sweet family that had reserved months ago. Other property owners kicked people out all the time when they wanted to use their houses instead, and my property manager grumbled about it, but I’d never done it before. I’d felt so guilty I’d spent hours finding them another place and paid the $230 difference.

      Bullshit, Casey’s eyes said.

      She knew the truth: I couldn’t bear staying with her. Tiptoeing around politely in the familiar rooms where we’d once been careless and easy as sisters. But I went on, elaborating on my story—the sure sign of a lie. “Of course I couldn’t put you out...”

      “‘Put you out,’” she said. “Grown-up Laura says ‘put you out’?”

      I didn’t understand it, the utter disconnect between her warm, silly, lovable letter, the Casey I’d first met, and the person who was sitting here next to me, making everything a hundred times harder than it had to be.

      Would the running commentary last all weekend? Laura eats with her fork and knife European-style, now. Grown-up Laura prefers red wine to white. Laura wears cuff bracelets now. Laura changed her perfume to L’eau D’Issey. Every little gesture picked over and mocked.

      It hit with awful certainty: I shouldn’t have come.

      Would it get better or worse when Alex joined us? I didn’t hate her anymore. Enough time had passed. She couldn’t help how she was.

      With Alex to fill the silences, and Casey’s daughter around as a buffer, and me sleeping at my place, I’d just make it through the weekend. Less than sixty hours if I left Sunday morning instead of Sunday night, blaming traffic and work.

      “Where’s your mom and your little girl? I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.”

      “Elle. Off on a trip together. Tahoe.”

      So much for the buffer.

      Casey nodded at my old house across the lake. “Now. That one has changed, I hear. Modern everything.”

      “Only the kitchen, really,” I said. “The rental company insisted. I’ve just seen pictures.” From across the shining water, I could make out the dark line of the dock, a flash of sunset on a window.

      I’d planned to drive there first. Drop off Jett, compose myself, drink a glass of wine (or three, or four) to loosen up for the big reunion. If I had I could have kayaked over to Casey’s instead of driving.

      And paddled away again the second I realized how she was going to be.

      “You haven’t gone inside?” she said. “Not once?”

      I shook my head. “I can do everything online. It’s crazy.”

      “I thought maybe you were sneaking back at night. Hiding out in the house, staying off the lake, calling your groceries in. To avoid seeing me.”

      “I wouldn’t do that.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t sell it, though.”

      The “why?” was there in her expression, daring me, but I didn’t have an answer. I’d always planned to sell the house. My mother didn’t care either way, and we got offers. Every year, I considered it. But I never went through with it.

      I met her stare for a minute before I had to look away. My eyes landed on a spot in the lake about ten yards from the edge of the dock. I didn’t mean to look there. Maybe there was a tiny ripple from a fish, or a point in the sunset’s reflection that was a more burnished gold than the surrounding water.

      She followed my gaze. And for the first time, her voice softened. “Strange to think it’s still there. After so long.”

      “It’s not. It’s crumbled into a million pieces or floated away.”

      Casey shook her head. “No. It’s still there.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I just do. I feel it in my bones.”

      “That sounds like something your mom would say. Used to say.”

      She tilted her head, thinking. “God. It does.”

      She pulled her knees close to her body and rested her right cheek on them, then looked up at me with a funny little lopsided smile.

      There was enough of the Casey I remembered in that smile that I returned it.

      I sat next to her, wrapping my coat tighter, my legs dangling off the edge of the dock. It felt strange, to sit like that with shoes and pants on. I should be in my old cargo shorts, dipping my bare feet in the water.

      For a minute we watched the quivering red-and-gold shapes on the lake. Then I felt the gentle weight of her hand on my shoulder.

      “Don’t mind my flails, grown-up Laura,” she said. “Grown-up Casey is doing her best. She’s missed you.”

      The words stuck in my throat, and when they finally came out, they were rough. My eyes on the auburn lake, I reached up to clutch her hand—one quick, fumbling squeeze.

      “I’ve missed you, too, Case.”

       2

       Ariel and Pocahontas

      June 1995

      Summer before freshman year

      The fourth day of summer started exactly like the first three.

      A second of dread when I woke up, followed by a rush of relief when I remembered it was vacation. Then the quick, glorious tally—no school for eighty-eight days. And finally the smell of vanilla floating down the hall. Yesterday it had been crumb cake, the day before it was muffins, so today was probably French toast. My favorite.

      I got dressed fast, changing from my nightgown into my summer uniform: a big T-shirt and cargo shorts.

      The last part of my routine was too important to be rushed. I transferred a small, silvery-gray object from under my pillow to the Ziploc I kept on my nightstand, made sure it was sealed to the last millimeter, then slipped it into my lower-right shorts pocket, the only one with a zipper. Where it always went.

      Then I had the entire day free to explore the lake. French toast, and no Pauline Knowland or Suzanne Farina asking me what my bra size was up to in honeyed tones, or calling me Sister Christian just within earshot, and the whole day free.