Under a Summer Sky

by Nan Rossiter

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

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Nan Rossiter transports readers to Cape Cod with a warm, compelling story of family, new beginnings, and finding the courage to love honestly and well... The old Cape Cod house that Laney Coleman shares with her minister husband Noah and their five boys is usually brimming with cheerful chaos. There's nothing fancy about the ancient kitchen or the wooden floors scuffed by the constant parade of activity and the clicking claws of their two Labrador retrievers. It's a place to savor the sea breeze wafting through the windows, or sip coffee on the porch before another hectic day begins. This summer, life promises to be even busier than usual, because Noah's younger brother, Micah, wants to hold his upcoming wedding on their property. Though thrilled that Micah has found happiness after past heartache, Laney is apprehensive about having her home turned upside down. She has other concerns too--her youngest son is being bullied at school, and Noah's father is not the robust patriarch he once was, in mind or body. As the bride and groom's large, close-knit families gather, there will be joyful celebration but also unexpected sorrows and revelations, and a chance to store up a lifetime of memories during the fleeting, precious days of summer...

Release date: April 29, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 354

Sample

August 1983

Laney is an old soul—all her friends say so, but until recently, she wasn’t quite sure what they meant. She was a little girl when she first heard her gram say the same thing, and for a long time afterward, she wondered if a person is born an old soul or if having an old soul comes from one’s life experiences. She would never forget the first time she’d heard Gram describe her that way.

She’d been lying on top of her sheets in the little room off the kitchen, listening to her brother Lyle snoring softly and wishing she could fall asleep too, but the Georgia night was too hot, and the fiery orange sun was taking its sweet time sinking behind the rolling hills of her grandparents’ farm. She studied the familiar, tiny blue flowers on the sun-gilded wallpaper next to her bed, listened to the slow, steady whir of the ceiling fan in the kitchen, and without thinking, started to softly sing the song the local country station had been playing all summer—she’d even heard Gramp humming it earlier that evening, his eyes glistening with tears. Right then and there, she’d decided that the lonely tune about the Wichita lineman was the saddest song she’d ever heard, but that made her love it all the more. She heard the screen door squeak open and the familiar clunk of Gramp’s boot as he caught it with his foot so it wouldn’t bang. “If we don’t get some rain,” he said as the latch clicked, “those freestones are going to be as dry as my old bones.”

Laney could hear the beans she’d help pick that afternoon plinking into Gram’s metal colander. “The Lord’ll provide, Lon,” Gram replied. “He always does.” Laney could tell she was smiling.

“I know,” Gramp said with a tired sigh. “But it’d be nice if He’d provide a little sooner.”

The plinking stopped, and Laney surmised that Gramp’s strong, brown arms were wrapped around Gram’s waist.

“That little Laney is such an old soul,” Gram said softly, making Laney’s ears perk up.

“I know,” Gramp agreed with a quiet chuckle.

“She always . . .” But Gram’s words were suddenly drowned out by the tap squeaking open, followed by rushing water. Laney knew Gramp was holding his hand under the stream, waiting for it to get cold, so she sat up, trying to hear the rest of Gram’s words, but by the time the water was cold enough and Gramp’s glass was full, Gram was on to talking about how many jars of jam they’d put up that afternoon. “For six years old, she’s a good little helper” were the only words she heard. Laney flopped back down. What did Gram mean? Did she mean she was old—like Gram, for heaven’s sake? Or did being helpful make you old? Laney waited until Gram turned off the light and Gramp tugged the chain on the ceiling fan; then she slipped over to her brother’s bed—Lyle was eight—surely he’d know. “Ly,” she whispered. “Wake up.” Her brother groaned, and she nudged him. “Lyle, what’s an old soul?” she whispered urgently.

“Darned if I know,” he mumbled, his words muffled by his pillow.

“You must know—haven’t you ever heard of it?”

“For Pete’s sake, Lane, go back to sleep,” he said gruffly, rolling over to face the blue flowered wallpaper and promptly ending the conversation. Reluctantly, Laney shuffled back to her own bed, edged over to the open window, wrapped her arms around her nightgowned knees, and looked out at the last remnants of hot pink flame streaking across the horizon. She thought about Gram’s words—and all the other mysteries in her six-year-old world—and then she gazed up at the azure blue heavens, sparkling with diamonds, and quietly whispered the constellations’ names—just as Gramp had taught her.

August was by far the best month of the year. Not only did Laney’s birthday fall on its last day, but it was also the month she and Lyle spent every summer on their grandparents’ farm. Pacey’s Peaches and Pecans had been in the family for generations, and it would have been the natural order of things for Lon Jr.—her dad—to take over one day, but young Lonnie, much to his daughter’s dismay, had gone off to a small college in Maine and, as her grandfather put it, “fallen head over heels in love with a pretty, smart New England girl dressed in duck boots and a barn coat.” Gramp loved to recount the story. “That poor boy was blindsided—just a simple Georgia farm boy—he didn’t stand a chance.” Gramp always chuckled when he said this—which assured her that he’d forgiven her mom for stealing his son away. But Laney wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive her dad. “He should’ve come back here,” she said gloomily, sitting on Gramp’s lap in the rocking chair on the porch. She loved the farm more than anyplace else on earth, and she always wished her parents had settled under the endless Georgia sky so she could’ve grown up under the orchard’s gnarled umbrellas of pink blossoms and the shade of its lush green branches, heavy with summer’s sweetness. Instead, her parents had become teachers and settled in Maine near her mom’s side of the family.

“He should’ve been true to his family.”

“Then he probably wouldn’t’ve had you,” Gramp pointed out.

“Oh, yes, he would’ve,” Laney assured him with a long sigh. “And I would’ve helped him run the farm. After all, I know just about everythin’ there is to know—when the peaches are ready ’n ripe and just as sweet as summer . . . how to peel ’em so they don’t bruise, and how to . . .”

“And how to eat ’em,” Gramp teased, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a hug. “Boy, do you know how to eat ’em. In fact, you’d probably put us outta business cuz you’d eat the whole crop.”

Laney laughed, her mouth watering for a sweet, juicy Georgia peach. “Oh, Gramp, I would not.” Then her eyes lit up. “I know—I could run the farm for you.”

“I bet you could too,” Gramp agreed, patting her knee.

“I mean it,” she insisted.

“I know you do, but until you’re a little bit bigger, we’ll have to let your uncle Luke help too.”

“Okay, but I’m ready whenever you need me,” she said matter-of-factly, leaning back against his chest.

“And what happens if you go off to college and fall in love with some cute New England fella?” Gramp teased.

“I would never do that, Gramp,” she said matter-of-factly, looking into his summer-sky blue eyes, “because you’re my heart’s favorite love.”

Laney smiled wistfully, remembering her long-ago words as she knelt down to tighten her shoelaces near the starting line of the 1983 Falmouth Road Race. It was a cloudy August morning—the first August in her entire life that she hadn’t spent in Georgia. But when she’d called her grandparents to tell them about the summer internship she’d been offered, they’d assured her that although they’d miss her, they would manage. Then Gramp had told her how proud he was of his smart, beautiful granddaughter, and he’d insisted she could not miss out on such a wonderful opportunity.

Laney hadn’t been so sure. She worried about her grandparents—they were getting older and she couldn’t help wondering how many more years they had. After all, Gramp had just turned eighty that spring, and although the whole family had flown down for the celebration, it had only been for a weekend and that just wasn’t long enou—Laney’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by footsteps sounding much too close, and in the next moment, someone bumped into her, knocking her over.

“Whoa! I’m so sorry,” a male voice said. Laney looked up as a tall, slender boy with blond hair and a scruffy, reddish beard tried to regain his balance. “Are you okay?” he asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” she said. He reached out his hand, and she let him pull her up, and then she brushed the sand from her hands and calves.

“I truly am sorry,” he said again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She looked up, and he smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. He was handsome—in a roguish, carefree sort of way—and his eyes, which were the same startling, summer-sky blue as her grandfather’s, gazed at her with such sincerity she thought he might cry. She mustered a smile. “I’m fine—honest.”

“That’s good because it’s really my brother’s fault,” he said, motioning to a slighter, younger version of himself standing off to the side. “Micah was pointing to Joan Benoit, and I turned to look.”

His younger version realized he was being talked about and stepped closer. “I hope you’re not blaming me for your clumsiness.”

“Of course not,” the older one said with an impish grin.

Laney looked from one to the other and laughed. She guessed the older one must be in his early twenties and the younger one—whose cheeks were still smooth—might be fifteen. “You ran into me because you were looking at Joan Benoit?”

He nodded. “She is famous you know . . . in running circles.” He paused and shook his head. “I don’t mean she’s famous for running in circles—I mean in the running world. She won the women’s division last year, and she won the Boston Marathon last April, and I’ll probably never see her again, except from a distance . . . through the dust. At least she’ll leave Micah and me in the dust. I don’t know about you—maybe you’re a world-class runner too.” He paused again, eyeing her. “Are you?”

Laney shook her head, laughing. “No. I’m only running because a bunch of my friends from Woods Hole thought it would be fun. I’ll be lucky to finish.”

“Do you live in Woods Hole?”

“No, I’m—” But her words were interrupted by the announcer summoning everyone to the starting line.

A chorus of voices called, “C’mon, Laney—it’s going to start.” Laney looked over and waved to a group of college-age boys and girls.

“Be right there,” she called. Then she looked back at the brothers. “Well, have a good race—be careful—watch out for Joan!”

“We will . . . you too,” the older one said, captivated by her smile, her friendly eyes, her rosy cheeks, and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. He wanted to say more, but for the first time in his life, Noah Coleman was at a complete loss for words.

From the moment he pulled her up from the sandy pavement and looked into her light sea-green eyes, Noah felt his world shift, and as he watched her run over to join her friends, he murmured the name they’d called her: Laney. Suddenly, he felt like love-struck Tony in West Side Story—except this time the most beautiful sound was Laney.

His brother gave him a nudge and started to jog away. “You coming?”

“Huh?” Noah looked up, remembered where he was, and trotted after his brother. His heart pounded—as it always did before a race—and he looked around, hoping to see her again, but Laney—not from Woods Hole—had been swallowed up by the sea of people. “Damn!” he muttered, shaking his head.

Micah looked over. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know her last name.”

“Well, just run slow and maybe she’ll catch up. Then you’ll have an excuse for me beating you so bad. Or, if worse comes to worst, she was wearing a Bowdoin T-shirt—you could drive up to Maine and find her.” The gun sounded, and Micah took off. “See you at the finish,” he called.

“You little sh . . .” Noah said, laughing and chasing after him.

As he ran along the familiar course, Noah fell into an easy stride beside his brother, and his mind drifted back over all the summers he’d spent on Cape Cod—all except one. The summer he’d turned seven his world had been turned upside down, and instead of on the Cape, he’d spent it at a cabin his dad had built on the Contoocook River in New Hampshire. He still remembered looking out the window of the old Chevy pickup as they crossed the Sagamore Bridge and headed north.

The ride had seemed to take forever, and it hadn’t helped that the radio kept playing the same songs over and over. One song in particular had puzzled him, and to this day, whenever he heard it, he thought of that long-ago ride.

“Why did someone leave a cake out in the rain?” he’d asked.

His dad had shrugged. “I don’t know—it’s a silly thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Noah had replied. “I don’t understand why he couldn’t get the recipe.”

His dad had shaken his head. “I honestly don’t know, Noah, but you can change the station if you want.”

Noah had leaned over and fiddled with the knob until he found a country station that was playing a haunting song about a lonely lineman, and he leaned back to listen.

“Good choice,” Asa Coleman had said with a smile.

Eventually, Noah had grown to love New Hampshire almost as much as Cape Cod—especially hiking its mountains—but the Cape would always be where he went to find solace. The first time he’d seen the ocean in winter he was seventeen, struggling with college decisions and trying to discern what God had planned for his life. The frigid January morning had started out like any other: he’d gone outside to warm up the old pickup—that was now his to use—ran back inside, rubbing his hands together, wolfed down the bowl of lukewarm oatmeal his mom had left for him, grabbed his backpack and jacket, pulled on his hooded cross-country sweatshirt, and headed out the door. But for some reason, when he reached town, he hadn’t made the turn toward school; instead he’d just kept driving . . . and he hadn’t stopped until the gas gauge was hovering on E and he was looking up at Nauset Lighthouse. He’d climbed out of the truck, pulled his hood up, and stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking out at the rugged, weather-weary coastline. Buffeted by the howling wind, he’d watched the waves swell up from the gunmetal gray surf and crash down in angry white foam, relentlessly pounding the frozen bulwark of sand. At that moment, he’d been overwhelmed by the majesty and magnitude of God’s power, and he’d felt small and insignificant in comparison, but as he continued to watch and listen to the ocean’s fury, he was filled with a sense of peace . . . and he’d suddenly known with absolute certainty what he was meant to do with his life. After that day, whenever something troubled him, Noah went to the ocean—it was like visiting an old friend.

By the time Noah and Micah crested Nobska Light, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and six miles later, when Micah picked up the pace along Falmouth Heights Beach and they raced down Grand Avenue—delighting the crowd with their effort—the sun was high in a cloudless, summer-blue sky.

“Next year,” Micah said with a grin, trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Noah teased, reaching out to shake his brother’s hand, knowing all too well his victories were numbered. They walked around, cooling off, and Micah stopped to ask an official who’d won.

“Joseph Nzau,” the man answered.

“And for the women?” Noah pressed.

“Joanie Benoit.”

“I knew it!” Noah said with a grin.

They walked over to the water station, and Noah looked around, hoping to get a glimpse of Laney. “Want to go for a cooldown?” Micah asked, pouring a cup of water over his head.

“In a few minutes,” Noah answered, crushing his cup and tossing it in a garbage can.

“Think she came in yet?” Micah asked.

“Who?”

“You know—the girl from Bowdoin.”

“I dunno,” Noah answered casually, trying to make it sound like it didn’t matter. A moment later he said, “All right, let’s go,” and trotted away from the stream of runners coming in. After all, it was silly to think he’d see her again in this crowd; besides, she probably had a boyfriend. And on top of that, he was starting seminary school in a couple of weeks, and the last thing he needed was to get caught up in a relationship—especially if it was long-distance.

“Are you sure?” Micah called after him, surprised by his brother’s sudden departure and change of heart. He ran to catch up with him. “Maybe she doesn’t go to Bowdoin—maybe it’s not her shirt. Maybe she goes to Harvard or MIT.”

“It doesn’t mat—” Noah started to say, but then he caught a glimpse of the young, petite woman with the brunette ponytail walking across the field.

Micah followed his brother’s gaze and shook his head. “That’s all right. I wanted to get a banana anyway . . .”

Noah barely heard him.

“Hey!” he said, catching up.

Laney looked up in surprise. “Oh, hey . . . how’d it go?”

“Good . . . you?”

“Just finished.” She reached up to tuck some loose strands of damp hair behind her ear. “I only had to walk once,” she added with a grin.

“That’s great.”

“It’s a pretty run. I’d do it again.”

“I’ve been running it since I was sixteen.”

“Wow—that’s great!” She looked around. “Where’s Micah?”

Noah motioned toward the refreshment tent. “He went to get something to eat.”

“Did you beat him?”

“I did, but not by much,” he admitted with a grin.

She nodded, trying to think of something else to say. “And . . . did you see Joan?”

“No, but I heard she won again.”

“She’s amazing.”

Noah nodded. “Yeah.”

“She’s an alum of my school. She graduated in ’79—right before I started.”

“So you do go to Bowdoin,” he said, nodding at her shirt.

She glanced down to see what she’d pulled over her head that morning. “Yup.”

“What brings you to the Cape?”

“I’m finishing an internship at the oceanographic institution.”

“That’s a prestigious place.”

She nodded. “I’m majoring in marine biology, so it’s been a perfect fit.” She paused. “How ’bout you?”

“Me?” He hesitated, considering his answer and wondering how much she knew about the school from which he’d just graduated. . . or the one he was about to attend. Some folks were turned off by religion, but he didn’t have any idea what her feelings were, so he took a deep breath and threw caution to the wind. “I just graduated from Gordon, and I’m starting at Andover Newton in a couple of weeks.”

“You’re going to be a minister?” she asked in surprise.

He laughed. “Yup . . . crazy, huh?”

She searched his eyes and shook her head. “It’s not crazy,” she said softly. “I think it’s a wonderful profession.”

He nodded. “Well, that’s good. I mean . . . I’m glad you approve.”

Just then, her friends ran by. “Hey, Laney, we’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I’m coming . . . just a minute.” She turned back to him. “Well, I guess I better go.”

Noah nodded, and then realized he still hadn’t introduced himself. “I’m sorry . . . I should’ve . . . I mean . . .” Flustered, he shook his head at his inability to speak coherently and started over. “I’m Noah.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Noah—future man of the cloth.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Laney,” one of her friends called, “we’re heading back to the car. . . .”

Laney looked over and nodded. “Well, I guess I really should get going, or I’ll miss my ride.”

Noah suddenly realized he was going to miss his last opportunity. “Would you . . . I mean, you wouldn’t happen to . . .” He smiled and shook his head again. “What I’m trying to say is—are you hungry?”

She eyed him skeptically. “Hmmm . . . I usually don’t go off with someone I just met.”

“Well, it’s just that Micah and I are going to The Pancake Man—it’s a post-race tradition. Our dad usually goes too, but he’s home nursing a knee injury so he didn’t come. They have great pancakes, and . . . well, it’s not like you’d be going off alone with someone you just met. You’d be going off with someone who’s studying to be a minister . . . and his little brother.” He paused and then added, “And we can give you a ride back to Woods Hole after.”

She laughed. “Well, when you say it like that . . .”

“Have you ever been to Pancake Man?”

She shook her head.

“What?” he teased, feigning disbelief. “It’s a Cape Cod institution—you can’t say you’ve been to the Cape if you haven’t been to Pancake Man.”

“Well . . .” she said with a grin. “I guess I better go then.”

“Great!” he said, feeling his heart skipping like a stone across the waves. Then he hesitated uncertainly. “Wait—you meant with us, right?”

Laughing, she nodded, and her smile stole his heart.

Laney loved The Pancake Man. She and Noah sipped black coffee while they waited for their orders to come, and she told them about the peach hotcakes and peach French toast her gram made, adding that hotcakes—as they were called down south—were definitely the best comfort food on earth, especially when served for supper. Micah contended that scrambled eggs were right up there too, but he eventually conceded that pancakes were probably better—especially on a snowy winter night. Noah listened intently, swept up by Laney’s funny, outgoing personality—and decided, right then and there, that he’d love nothing more than having hot, buttery pancakes with her on a snowy winter night. When their orders came, Laney had no problem downing her entire stack of plate-size buttermilk pancakes. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” she said, swirling her last bite through a puddle of maple syrup, innocently unaware of how impressed they were as they struggled to finish their Pigs in a Blanket—a coronary-clogging dish that included several links of sausage wrapped up in pancakes.

When they got back to Woods Hole, Noah walked her to her door.

“That was fun,” she said.

“You made it fun. Thanks for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I’m glad I got to experience the famous Pancake Man.”

“You know,” he said, “there are several other Cape Cod institutions you should experience while you’re here.”

Frowning, she teased, “Well, where’ve you been all summer? My internship ends Friday and then I’m going to Georgia for a week.” She watched a gloomy shadow fall across his face and added, “But I might be able to do something one evening . . . and maybe Saturday if I stay an extra day.”

“That works for me,” Noah said, his boyish smile returning. “And my family is having a party on Saturday if you’d like to come.”

On Monday, wearing faded jeans, a blue Gordon College T-shirt, Nike running shoes, sunglasses, and still sporting a scruffy beard, Noah knocked hesitantly on Laney’s door.

“Hmm . . .” she teased, eyeing his casual attire. “You don’t look much like minister material.”

He smiled, taking in what little there was of her short denim cutoffs, smooth, tan legs, and snow-white tank top. “And you make me wonder if I am minister material.”

They stopped at an ice-cream shop in Woods Hole, and while Noah studied the menu, considering an indulgence called chocolate desire, Laney ordered a small cup of peach ice cream. “Are you sure that’s all you want?” he teased. “It can’t possibly be enough for a girl who can eat a whole stack of buttermilk pancakes.”

“Well, I didn’t just run seven miles.”

The waitress handed Laney her cup and then handed Noah a monstrous brownie sundae swimming in hot fudge and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. Laney shook her head as he licked his whipped cream. “You want some, don’t you?” he asked with a grin.

She laughed. “Well, maybe just a little whipped cream.” He plopped a large spoonful—including his cherry—on top of her ice cream, and she laughed. “Wow! Thanks.”

They walked along the waterfront, licking their spoons. “So,” she said, “how do you know so much about Cape Cod?”

Noah swallowed a bite of warm brownie. “We have a house in Eastham, and I’ve spent almost every summer out here. The rest of the time we live in New Hampshire. My dad’s an English teacher, and my mom works with special ed kids at the elementary school.”

“Really?”

“Yup, why?”

“My parents are both teachers too, although my dad was supposed to be a farmer.” Noah gave her a puzzled look, and she elaborated on her family’s farming history.

“Hence the peach ice cream?” he asked, nodding toward her cup.

“Yup—I love peach ice cream. My gram makes it for my birthday every summer.”

“So is that your calling—a peach farmer?”

She sighed. “Well, that’s the hard part. When I was little, I promised my grandfather I’d help him run the farm someday, but since then, I’ve come to love the ocean and aqu. . .