Summer Dance

by Nan Rossiter

Genres: Family Life; Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Winner of the 2018 PNWA Nancy Pearl Award New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Nan Rossiter brings together characters from her acclaimed novel Nantucket in a powerful, heartwarming love story that bridges past and present. When Liam Tate was seven years old, his uncle Cooper opened his heart and his Nantucket home to him. In the intervening decades, Liam has found both love and loss on the island, and since learning of his son Levi’s existence, a new kind of happiness. Yet one piece of his family history remains elusive—the long-ago romance between his uncle and Sally Adams. Now Sally has a revelation that sets the whole town abuzz: She’s publishing a book about what happened during the summer when she and Cooper first met, painting a picture so vivid it feels like yesterday . . . In 1969, Winston Ellis Cooper III lands on Nantucket with only a duffel bag and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He finds a sparsely furnished beach cottage, about as far from Vietnam as he can get. But even here, Cooper can’t withdraw from the world entirely. Especially once his eyes meet Sally’s in the flickering lights of a summer dance. The effects of that fiery affair can still be felt decades later. And as the story unfolds, there are new lessons for all to learn about life’s triumphs and heartaches, and about loving enough to let go. Praise for the novels of Nan Rossiter “Nan Rossiter is at the peak of her storytelling abilities with Under a Summer Sky, which is told with the kind of compassion, grace, and wisdom that is nearly unrivaled in contemporary fiction.” –Examiner.com “Eloquent and surprising...I love this story of faith, love, and the lasting bonds of family.” –Ann Leary, author of The Good House, on The Gin & Chowder Club “A gripping story of three sisters, of love lost and found and a family’s journey from grief to triumph. A sure winner.” –Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on More Than You Know

Release date: May 30, 2017

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 332

Sample

I am not Ishmael. I’m Sally, but like the banished biblical son of Abraham, I left the only home I knew, and like the famous narrator of the Herman Melville classic, Moby Dick, I sought refuge on the island of Nantucket. To have a true understanding, however, of the young woman who fled Medford, Massachusetts—the town where she’d grown up, attended school, fell in love (or so she thought), and married—I must start earlier—at the beginning, or at least, close to the beginning.

Every child who grows up in Medford knows a little bit of the town’s history. It’s impossible to get through elementary school—public or parochial—without learning there was a famous horseback ride through Medford, or that the Christmas song “Jingle Bells” was written by a local resident who witnessed a sleigh race from Medford to Malden, or that the song “Over the River and Through the Woods” was originally a poem written by a young girl who’d traveled across the river to visit her grandparents.

The Mystic River—the river over which James Pierpont witnessed two sleighs racing, and along which Paul Revere rode, and over which Lydia Maria Child crossed—is the slate-gray ribbon of water that runs through Medford. At one time, when the land was inhabited by Native Americans and early colonists, the river ran clear and cold and teemed with fish—everything from salmon and bass to herring and carp. But decades of drainage into the river’s watershed by industrial mills and homes built along the river’s banks resulted in high levels of bacteria and pollution, and gradually, the clear, cold river, teeming with fish, became a turbid, greasy estuary—from which fish should not be eaten.

When I think of Medford, I think of the river.

The first time I laid eyes on Lizzy McAllister, she was standing on our front stoop. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Adams,” her mother said solemnly, holding out a casserole. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

My father nodded, wiping his brow with his handkerchief in the steamy August heat. “Thank you, Mrs. McAllister,” he said, taking the dish.

She glanced down at me. “If Sally would like to come over and play with Lizzy sometime, she’d be more than welcome, and I’d be happy to watch her if you need to make the arrangements.”

From behind my father’s pant leg, I eyed the little girl standing next to her mother. She didn’t seem shy at all. She had bright blue eyes, dark curls, and a sprinkle of cinnamon freckles across her nose.

“I think she’d like that,” my father said, easing me in front of him and squeezing my shoulders.

“Will she be starting kindergarten next month?”

I looked up, saw my father nod, and frowned. What’s this?

“Will she be attending St. Clement?”

“I’m not sure,” my father answered. “My wife was Catholic, but I’m Protes—”

The woman frowned. “St. Clement is an excellent school,” she interrupted, as if there shouldn’t be any question. “It’s far better than the public school.”

My father nodded. “Her mother and I never had the chance to talk about it.”

“Well, if you decide on St. Clement—which you certainly can since your wife was Catholic—I’d be happy to help with rides.”

“Thank you. I’ll have to let you know.”

Mrs. McAllister nodded, reached for her daughter’s hand, and turned to go, but then stopped and looked back. “I know you’re overwhelmed right now, but registration is soon.”

My father nodded.

I looked up at him uncertainly and then watched them walk away. It was late in the summer of 1952 and I was more than a little bewildered by everything that had happened. Why had my mom lain in bed for days, crying out in pain, and then become eerily quiet? Why had my father allowed two men to come into our house, cover her beautiful, pale face with a sheet, and wheel her out into the summer rain on a narrow bed? And why, now, was there a parade of people knocking on our door, telling my father they were sorry, and giving us food? Why didn’t he tell them we didn’t need any more food? Our refrigerator was full and our counters were covered.

“Your mother died,” Lizzy said matter-of-factly, two days later, as she reached for a blue crayon.

“I know that,” I said indignantly. Does she think I don’t know anything?

“Well, why do you keep saying she’s coming back?”

I bit my lip, pressed down harder on the crayon I was using, and felt it snap. Lizzy looked up. “That’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t like Alizarin Crimson anyway.” And the way she said it made it sound like she was going to throw it away just because it was broken. I looked at the flower I was coloring—I loved the rich translucent red. How could she not like it?

“My father didn’t die,” she said. “He left.”

“Why?”

Lizzy shrugged. “I don’t know, but my mother says he’s going to rot in hell.”

I looked up in surprise, but Lizzy seemed unfazed by her mother’s words.

“Did your mother go to confession?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Did she love Jesus?”

“Yes,” I answered uncertainly.

“Then you don’t have to worry. She’s in heaven.”

“How long will she be there?”

“Once you’re in heaven, you’re there for good,” Lizzy said matter-of-factly. “You’re there for ternary.”

“What’s ternary?”

“Forever,” she said, reaching for a green crayon.

I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the crucifix hanging in the middle of the empty wall, and tried to wrap my mind around this idea.

“You’ll see her again, though,” she assured, “if you’re good.”

I frowned. “Will I see her soon?”

“Not till you die and only if you’re good.”

“Do I have to be good all the time?” I asked, suddenly regretting the butter rum Lifesaver I’d taken from my dad’s bureau that morning. I watched Lizzy coloring the trees in her picture. I could see the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she neatly applied the same even pressure with every stroke, never going outside the lines.

“All the time,” she confirmed, nodding. “But if you mess up, you just go to confession and tell the priest and he gives you pennies.”

“He pays you?”

“Mm-hmm.” Lizzy nodded as she concentrated on her drawing.

Well, obviously, my parents hadn’t done a very good job of explaining things to me. I’d never heard any of this before. We barely went to church, never mind confession. Thank goodness for Lizzy. She seemed to be an authority on the subject.

“You don’t have to worry, though,” she added, exchanging green for blue again.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t start till after you go to confession and have Communion. You have to be the age of reason—which is seven. Then you get firmed.”

I frowned. “What if you die before you’re firmed?”

“As long as you’re risen, you’re covered.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, considering the wise counsel offered to me by my new friend. It was a lot to absorb, but if she knew a way for me to see my mom again, I needed to stay close to her.

Lizzy reached for a yellow crayon and started to draw a circle in the upper right-hand corner of her picture. She neatly colored it in, drew an orange smiley face in the middle of it, and then drew alternating long and short lines all around it. She held it up for me to see and I nodded approvingly—it was perfect.

In the recesses of my mind, the day of my mom’s funeral has always been a confusing blur of gray clouds, damp earth, dark mahogany, and solemn, unfamiliar faces. The only things I remember with any clarity are crossing the river into Malden—where my grandparents were buried—and seeing tears stream down my father’s face. In my young life, I’d never seen my father cry, and the humbling realization that my tall, handsome protector could be reduced to tears was frightening.

He was standing at the kitchen window, wearing the black dress pants and once crisp—but now wilted—white shirt he’d been wearing all day. It had finally stopped raining and raindrops were glistening on every surface as the sun streamed through the wet leaves.

“Dad?” I ventured softly.

He turned and quickly wiped his eyes. “What is it?” he asked, moving his jacket to sit in a chair and pulling me onto his lap.

“Why are you crying?” I asked.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” I said, trying to see his face. “We’ll see Mom again,” I said matter-of-factly, “if we’re good.”

“Who told you that?”

“Lizzy,” I said, still trying to see him.

He wiped his eyes again. “Maybe.”

I played with the buttons on his cuff. Maybe? How could he not know this? “Don’t you think so?”

“I’m not sure,” he said in a tired voice. “I’m not sure of anything,” he added softly.

“Lizzy said if we mess up, we just go to confession and the priest will give us pennies.”

“Pennies?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, nodding.

“Interesting,” my dad mused.

“Was I risen?”

“Risen?”

“Lizzy says if you’re risen you’re covered till you’re firmed.”

“I think she means christened.”

I frowned uncertainly. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Were you firmed?”

“If you mean confirmed, then yes, but not in the Catholic Church.”

“Was Mom?”

“I imagine.”

“Did she go to confession?”

“Not often.”

“Because she was good?”

He sighed. “You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

“Was she?”

“Yes, your mom was a very good person.”

“Am I going to St. Clement?”

“I thought you didn’t want to go to school.”

“I want to go with Lizzy.”

“We’re not Catholic.”

“Mom was. I heard you say so.”

My father was quiet for a few minutes before he spoke again. “If you go to St. Clement, Sally, it’s because Mrs. McAllister said you can stay at her house until I get home from work. It’s not because we believe everything the Catholic Church teaches.”

“I know,” I said, nodding, even though I didn’t know but would’ve said anything to go to school with Lizzy.

“We’ll see,” he said, lifting me off his lap.

As I grew older, I realized that this was my dad’s new way of making decisions—he didn’t always consider what was best for me, but as a single parent, he determined what worked best logistically to keep our household running smoothly. That was why we never had a dog—although I begged, pleaded, and cajoled, he just shook his head. We were rarely home, he said, and it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. It was also why I never had a swing set or a bike—after all, why should he spend money on these things when I spent most of my time at Lizzy’s and she already had a swing set and an extra bike? It didn’t matter that the bike was old and rusty. It was also why I was never a Girl Scout. Every fall, I longed to join the Girl Scouts. The poster announcing registration showed girls doing all kinds of fun activities—everything from hiking and camping to making crafts and selling cookies. Not to mention, the neat uniforms they wore and the cool patches they earned. Unfortunately, Lizzy said it looked boring and silly, and because she wasn’t interested, I had no way of going to the meetings. Needless to say, I spent my childhood afternoons at the McAllister house, where the activities included a quick snack and a prompt ushering outside so Mrs. McAllister could watch her soaps on their TV—another luxury we didn’t have.

One afternoon, after we’d been sent out into the late October sunshine so she could watch The Guiding Light, Lizzy pulled a piece of chalk out of her pocket. “Potsie?”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly, and she knelt down and started to draw a hopscotch board on the sidewalk.

“I heard my mother tell Mrs. McGuiness that Mrs. Jones has cancer.”

“That’s what my mom had!” I said in surprise.

“I know,” Lizzy said, “so I kept listening and I heard her say cancer happens when your cells grow like crazy.”

“Why do they do that?”

“No one knows,” she said, stepping gingerly inside the board to draw the numbers, “but my mother thinks it’s punishment.”

“For what?” I asked, frowning.

“Something you’ve done that nobody knows about, not even the priest because it’s so bad you can’t tell him—she said Mrs. Jones must’ve done something bad.”

“My mom didn’t do anything bad,” I said, still frowning.

“Are you sure?” Lizzy asked without looking up. “Maybe she did something before you were born . . . or when you were a baby and you didn’t know it.”

“Like what?” I asked doubtfully.

“Maybe she took something that didn’t belong to her or kissed someone she shouldn’t have or thought bad thoughts.”

“You can catch cancer for thinking bad thoughts?” I asked incredulously. If that was true, I was in real trouble!

Lizzy shrugged. “No one knows what causes it.” She tossed the remaining stub of chalk into the bushes. “Wanna go first?”

“Okay,” I said, my head spinning with this new revelation. What bad thing could my mom have done that God punished her with cancer? My dad had said she didn’t go to confession very often—maybe that was because she did something she couldn’t tell the priest. And if you could get cancer for thinking bad thoughts, would I catch it too?

I tossed my marker—a crumble of brick I’d found next to the curb—into the “1” box and halfheartedly hopped around it. Then I turned around and started to hop back, but when I leaned down to pick it up, I lost my balance and the heel of my scuffed Mary Jane touched the line.

“My turn!” Lizzy announced happily, stepping up to throw a smooth, flat stone she’d found at the beach.

I sighed, knowing I had a long wait ahead of me. Lizzy, I’d learned, had no mercy when it came to competition—she’d already proven she could run faster, swing higher, and jump farther than me, and she was a perfectionist when it came to hopscotch.

I sat on the grass, watching her hop up and down the board, stopping each time to pick up her marker with the grace and agility of a gymnast, and all the time wondering what bad thing my mom had done. Finally, I leaned back and looked up at the blue October sky, hoping God would give me the answer. When I finally looked back at the game, Lizzy had tossed her stone into the “8” box and was getting ready to hop, but before she did, she glanced over to see if I was paying attention, and when she realized I was, she picked up her stone and said, “Your turn.”

I stood up, wondering if she would’ve kept going if I hadn’t noticed her stone was on the line. And then I wondered if she’d already cheated when I wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly, I felt oddly empowered by the realization that Lizzy wasn’t perfect, and with new confidence, I tossed my crumble of brick into the “2” box and kept right on going until I won.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered how my life would be different if Mrs. McAllister hadn’t brought a tuna casserole over on that Friday afternoon. Who would’ve stepped up and helped me muddle through life? Who would’ve been my best friend? Would that friend have wanted to go hiking and camping with the Girl Scouts? Would she have been by my side all through school, explaining the things my mom wasn’t there to explain? Lizzy had provided me with answers to so many of life’s puzzles and mysteries—queries my father avoided—and although some of Lizzy’s answers were a little misguided—because her source, her mother, was a little misguided—she always did her best.

Without Lizzy, I would’ve been scared silly the first time I saw a spot of blood on my underwear when I was twelve; without Lizzy, I would never have understood what the priest meant when he condemned masturbation. “Your hand does not fall off,” she assured me in a knowing whisper; and without Lizzy and Mrs. McAllister, I never would’ve taken so fully to heart the Catholic Church’s view of divorce—after all, Lizzy’s father might be spending his afterlife rotting in hell, but her mother—who refused to give him a divorce—had her lofty sights set on heaven, where I hoped my mom was spending eternity too.

When I look back now at my childhood and consider how my life unfolded—one choice triggering another—I can’t help but wonder how different it might have been if my first choice had been different. If I hadn’t met Lizzy, I wouldn’t have gone to St. Clement; and if I hadn’t gone to St. Clement, I wouldn’t have been so strongly influenced by the beliefs of Mrs. McAllister and the nuns; I wouldn’t have been so consumed by guilt and not sinning.

And I never would have met Drew McIntyre.

I was sixteen the first time Drew reached for my hand as we walked along the river, and I was barely seventeen the first time he lifted up my plaid uniform skirt and pressed against me, his cold hands slipping under my wool sweater, searching for more than warmth. Moments earlier, I’d been waiting for Lizzy, but then Drew had come out of the locker room, his hair wet from showering, and smiled as he pulled me outside into the darkness. He led me behind the building and I could feel the cold bricks penetrating the thin cotton of my underwear as he pulled the elastic waistband away from my stomach and slipped his hand inside.

“Not here, Drew,” I whispered.

“Why not?” he murmured, kissing my neck.

“Because I want it to be somewhere special.”

“This is special—behind ole St. Clement’s.”

“No, it’s not.”

“C’mon, Sal, I want you so much,” he murmured.

“Lizzy’s going to wonder where I am. I’m going to miss my ride.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” he whispered, pushing his boxers down just far enough so I could feel how swollen he was. “You keep telling me you’re going to, Sal, and then you never do. All the guys think I . . .”

“I don’t care what the guys think.”

Drew stopped and held my face in his hands and I breathed in. He smelled like soap and mint gum. “You know I love you, Sal,” he said, sounding hurt. “Don’t you love me?”

“Of course I . . .”

“Then show me . . .”

Through the blur of tears, I watched the last remnants of the fiery orange sun slip behind the black November horizon, and as Drew pushed himself deep and hard inside me, I felt the cold, rough bricks scraping my bare skin like sandpaper.

The first time I laid eyes on Drew McIntyre, I was sitting on the bleachers next to Lizzy, watching the boys’ basketball team run suicides. “Who’s that?” I asked.

Lizzy looked up from her biology textbook. “Where?”

“Over there,” I said, nodding to a tall boy leaning against the wall, catching his breath. He had short dark hair and his cheeks were a swirl of ruddy Irish pink from his jawline to his cheekbones.

“Oh. That’s Drew something . . . I can’t remember,” Lizzy said indifferently.

“Is he new?” I asked, frowning. “Because I haven’t seen him before.” In a school as small as St. Clement we all knew one another—after all, we’d been going to school together since we were in kindergarten.

Lizzy nodded. “He just moved here.” She frowned and then remembered I’d been out with a cold. “That’s what happens when you’re out sick—you miss all the excitement.”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t waste your time, Sal. The snobs already have their claws out.”

“That figures,” I said, knowing exactly to whom Lizzy was referring.

She looked at me. “Seriously, Sal,” she said, “you can do so much better.”

I shrugged. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a jock,” she said dismissively, as if athletic boys weren’t worth our time or consideration.

I rolled my eyes. If there was one thing Lizzy did that drove me crazy, it was label people. I don’t think she even knew she did it. Jocks, nerds, snobs, and preppies—no one was above judgment. One time, after she’d neatly pigeonholed everyone in our class, I’d asked her which category I fell in, and without skipping a beat, she grinned and said, friend. I laughed, relieved, but still worried—after all, when you have a friend who talks about other people, and you know you have some of the same traits as those people, you can’t help but wonder if your friend says stuff about you when you’re not around.

To this day, she still does it, although not as much. I like to think my years of reminding her “Judge not, that ye be not judged” have rubbed off. As we’ve grown older, the categories have changed too. Now, with a shake of her salt and pepper head, she tags people as conservative, liberal, lush, bitch, loser—or the ultimate condemnation—total loser. In spite of this flaw (and sin, I affectionately remind), I thank God every day for my sweet, annoying, fun-loving, philosophical, wise, solemn friend. I cannot remember a time when Lizzy wasn’t in my life. I. . .