The Summer Seekers Read online

  “But what will you do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Send it to Liza. Keep it as a souvenir. We can talk about that later. Ready when you are. Go!”

  Since the girl didn’t seem about to take no for an answer, Kathleen dutifully struck her best presenting pose.

  “Look beyond the neon signs and restored gas stations, and what you find is history. In the 1920s—” She talked for about three minutes, repeating what she’d read in the guidebook and when she finished Martha gave her a strange look. “What? I had lipstick on my teeth?”

  “You were incredible. Such a pro.” Martha pressed something on her phone and held it out to Kathleen. “Watch.”

  Kathleen took the phone and removed her sunglasses. Was that really her? And did she really look that old?

  But underneath the self-consciousness was a certain pride. She might be slower and have an excess of wrinkles, but she hadn’t lost her abilities.

  “You filmed that with your phone?”

  “Yes. It was a gift from my grandmother and it has a great camera. I’m going to edit this later and we’ll post it online. It’s too good not to use it. I bet we’ll get a ton of views.” Martha pocketed it. “Better get going. Still have a way to go before we get to tonight’s stop.”

  They’d been driving for half an hour when Kathleen noticed Martha’s phone light up. “Someone called Steven is calling you. Would you like me to answer it?”

  “No!” Martha grabbed the phone and turned it over. “Leave it.”

  Interesting, Kathleen thought, that Steven was the only thing that had tempted Martha to release her grip on the wheel.

  The phone stopped ringing and then immediately started again.

  “He’s persistent.”

  “One of his many annoying traits.” Martha pushed her hair away from her face with a shaky hand. “Sorry.”

  “I have no objection to personal calls. If you want to pull over and call him back—”

  “I don’t.” But Martha swerved to the side of the road and stopped the car. Breathing deeply, she grabbed her phone and switched it off. “There. No more calls. At least he can’t turn up at the motel where we’re staying so I suppose I should be grateful for small things.”

  It had been a long time since Kathleen had witnessed the fallout of a bad romance, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten how it looked. “Was he a scoundrel?”

  “A sc—” Martha gave a choked laugh. “Yes. He was a real scoundrel, Kathleen. A megascoundrel. A superscoundrel.”

  “Scoundrel is an adequate descriptor. Hyperbole is unnecessary. I gather he broke your heart.”

  “Along with a few other things, including a teapot my grandma gave me which is something I’ll never forgive him for.”

  As a tea lover, Kathleen could understand the outrage. “Describe the teapot.”

  “It was white and covered in red cherries. It made me think of summer and smiling.” Martha sucked in another breath and steered the car back onto the road. “I refuse to let him intrude on my life, or this special trip.”

  “Was it serious?”

  “For me? Yes. For him—it turned out the answer was no. My mother took it as yet more evidence of my inability to make good choices.”

  “She clearly didn’t understand scoundrels. They’re charming and convincing and they seem like a good choice at the time.” She should know. “Is he the reason you took this job?”

  “What?” Martha braked sharply and Kathleen lurched forward, her seat belt locking.

  She should have waited until they’d arrived at the motel before asking the question.

  “I assumed you were running away from something. Or someone.”

  “You—what made you think that?”

  “That day you came to visit, you seemed a little—desperate. Keep your eyes on the road, dear.”

  Martha was gripping the wheel. “You noticed? And you gave me the job anyway?”

  “You were exactly what I needed. Someone young with enough energy to compensate for my occasional lack of it, and someone who had absolutely no reason to change their minds and go home in the middle of our trip.”

  “Kathleen—”

  “It was only a suspicion at first, but I’m sure now that nothing less than desperation would have persuaded you to take a job that involved driving when you clearly hate driving.”

  Martha wiped sweat off her forehead and mouthed an apology to the car behind who was now leaning on his horn. Fortunately, the sign for the motel flashed up ahead and she pulled in with visible relief and parked.

  “How do you know I hate driving?” She turned to Kathleen, stricken. “Am I scaring you? Am I doing something wrong?”

  Kathleen was beginning to wish she hadn’t said anything. Liza had wanted her to check Martha’s license, but what she really should have done was utilize some kind of psychological test that would have revealed that her prospective driver was a seething mass of emotions. “You’re not doing anything wrong, but you don’t seem comfortable. Every time a car approaches your jaw is clenched, you lean forward in your seat and you grip the wheel until you almost cut off the blood supply to your fingers. And I don’t understand why because you are an excellent driver.”

  Martha stared at her. “Excellent? You really think I’m excellent?”

  “Yes. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “I’m—not confident.”

  “I would describe you as careful. And given that you’re driving on the wrong side of the road and sitting on the wrong side of the car in a country unfamiliar to you, I have reason to be grateful for that. The last thing I would want is some cavalier individual who harbors a secret desire to become a racing driver. Do you want to tell me why you took a job driving, when you hate driving?”

  “I never said I hated driving.”

  “Martha—” Kathleen was gentle “—we are spending the next few weeks in extraordinarily close quarters. It would be exhausting to keep up an act. It’s important that I understand you.”

  She didn’t need, or want, Martha to understand her.

  Martha tipped her head back against the seat. “You’re right. I hate driving. I find it terrifying. And I failed my test five times although in my defense I have to tell you that the last time was not my fault. And if you’d asked me outright I would have told you—I’m not a liar—but you didn’t ask so I decided not to tell you. Because I needed the job. And you seemed like a nice person. And also, you’re right—I was desperate.” The words tumbled out and left her slumped and miserable. “Are you going to fire me?”

  “Why would I fire you? How would I then continue on Route 66? I can no longer drive, and my physical condition won’t allow me to push the car.”

  “You could find someone else.”

  “I want a driver exactly like you.”

  Martha’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Rubbish, you mean?”

  “There is no problem with your driving, my dear, only your confidence levels.”

  Martha rummaged in her bag for a tissue. “Confidence comes from achieving something, and I’ve never achieved much. I’m a bit of a disaster.”

  That emotional confession made Kathleen’s skin prickle.

  If her hips weren’t so painful she might have run from the car. She’d never been one of those people who knew exactly what to say when someone was upset, so she took the bracing approach. “Nonsense. Confidence comes from knowing your own worth. From liking who you are. You’re kind, funny, smart, warm and obviously loyal. On top of that you clearly had the sense to remove yourself from the path of a scoundrel, which also makes you a woman of good judgment.”

  Martha blew her nose hard. “I should have shown that judgment a lot sooner.”

  “Had you known him long?”

  “The scoundrel? Yes, we met at school. Dated on and off
. I should have paid more attention to the off parts instead of marrying him.” She mangled the tissue. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “You were hopeful. Optimistic. Both admirable traits.” She could have been describing herself. “It’s your husband who keeps calling?”

  “Ex-husband.” Martha nibbled the side of her nail. “Shocking, right? I’m twenty-five and I have no college degree, no place to live of my own and no job but I do have an ex-husband. My mother says the only thing I’m good at is giving up.”

  Kathleen’s opinion of her own parental performance was improving by the minute. “You do have a job. You have this job. For the foreseeable future you also have somewhere to live.” She might not be the best at emotional support, but she was excellent at delivering practical help. “I fail to see how a college degree or similar would aid you in your current situation. How long were you married?”

  Martha reached into the back of the car for her bag, tugging it between the seats so violently that she almost removed the strap. “Not long.”

  The girl was clearly raw and angry and Kathleen felt a rush of sympathy.

  “Are we talking months or years?”

  “I left him after four days, after I found him in bed with someone. I’m a terrible cliché.”

  The pain was unexpected. It tore through her, ripping at wounds that had taken decades to heal, opening up a part of her life she’d tried to forget.

  She had to remind herself that this was about poor Martha, not her.

  Martha glanced at her. “The divorce came through a few weeks ago.”

  Say something, Kathleen. Say something.

  “That must feel painful.”

  “I felt terrible when it happened, but it was months ago and now I’m mostly just steaming mad, which I actually prefer. It’s easier to be mad than sad.” Martha opened her bag and dropped her phone inside. “I’m mad with him. And with myself.”

  Kathleen’s mouth was dry. “Why with yourself?”

  Martha shrugged. “My mother has always said I’m not a good judge of character. I guess she was right about that.”

  “Why would you blame yourself for something that was patently not your fault?” Yes why, Kathleen? Why?

  “I should have been less trusting. And honestly I don’t get why he’s calling me. I mean he slept with someone else, so why would he want me back?” Martha’s voice rose and Kathleen could tell that although she might be mad, she was also deeply wounded.

  And no one understood that better than her.

  “I’m no psychologist but it’s probably something to do with the unobtainable.” Kathleen felt a little dizzy. Her mind had been swamped by a dark cloud and she could no longer see the sun.

  “Kathleen? Are you okay? Have I shocked you?”

  Kathleen made a supreme effort to pull herself together. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t her story. “One of the few advantages of being eighty, is that not much shocks you. Apart from one’s reflection in the mirror of course. That’s always startling, particularly first thing in the morning.” A joke. Well done, Kathleen. “Shall we go inside? I think I’m ready for a lie down and a nap before we sample the local delicacies, whatever they may be.”

  “Corn dogs,” Martha said absently.

  “You should delete his number of course.” She’d close her eyes for half an hour and try and pull herself together. Kathleen gathered up the guidebook, her glasses and her bag. “Sooner rather than later.”

  “I haven’t been able to do that, but I probably should. You’re a good listener. I was worried that if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t want me to drive you.”

  “I can’t imagine why you would have thought that. We women must stick together.”

  Martha slid her water bottle into her bag. “You probably think I’m a coward running away. I mean, you’re so bold. Fearless. You hit an intruder with a skillet when most people would have stood there frozen. And look at you now—eighty years old and crossing America. You’re not even daunted.” Martha gave a watery grin. “You’re incredibly brave, Kathleen.”

  “You’re doing it again, Martha. Hyperbole.”

  “Truth. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t expect you to understand how it feels to want to run away.”

  Kathleen clutched her bag and stared through the window. She was a fraud. A damn fraud.

  Martha frowned. “Kathleen?”

  She could make some vague remark and change the subject. That was what she did. She never talked about that time. Even Brian had known it was off-limits.

  So why, for once, did she feel like telling the truth? What was it about this young girl that made her want to pass on the lessons learned by her experience?

  “I’ve spent my life running away.” The words emerged without her permission. “It’s fair to say I’m something of an expert. You’re not the only one with a scoundrel in your past, you know.”

  Oh Kathleen. You foolish, foolish woman.

  Now there would be follow-up questions, none of which she intended to answer.

  “You?” Martha sounded incredulous. “But you have everything sorted. You’re incredible. No man would dare treat you badly.”

  Martha wasn’t a relative. There was no obligation on her to offer advice, or the benefit of her experience.

  She could leave the girl to her illusions.

  She glanced at her companion, intending to do exactly that and saw Martha’s swimming eyes.

  Kathleen felt something tug at her. She remembered feeling that same pain, and handling it all alone.

  “No one has everything ‘sorted’, Martha, whatever that means. I’m a coward.” There, she’d said it. “After my encounter with a scoundrel I made sure I protected myself from pain. It’s a human response of course.”

  Maybe age didn’t give you wisdom, but it gave you the benefit of hindsight.

  She couldn’t change how her life had played out. She couldn’t undo the decisions she’d made. But she could do her best to make sure Martha didn’t go down the same road.

  “I may not have been afraid of living, but I was afraid of loving.” Given that she’d never spoken the words before, they were remarkably easy to say. “I’d hate to see you make the same mistake.”

  10

  LIZA

  Liza woke to the sound of birdsong and the smell of fresh linen. Cool air drifted through the open window, bringing with it the scent of sea salt and honeysuckle. Her head was nestled deep in the softest pillow and for a few blissful seconds she basked in extreme comfort, and then life intruded.

  She was in Oakwood Cottage.

  She’d driven the whole way without stopping, with the music of her choice blaring through her speakers. She’d arrived in the dark and collapsed on top of the bed fully clothed, too drained by the whole emotional experience to do more than remove her shoes.

  Despite everything, she’d fallen asleep easily and slept deeply, which at least meant she was rested for the moment of reckoning.

  She sat up, braced to experience a pounding of difficult emotions.

  What had she done?

  She’d left her family. No, not left them. That sounded permanent, and this wasn’t permanent. But whichever way she framed it, family was everything to her and right now she should be feeling terrible. It came as a shock to discover that she wasn’t.

  Last night’s feeling of panic had faded, but the hurt and loneliness was still there.

  She wasn’t even sure why she’d walked out the way she had. It had been a culmination of emotional pressure that had built over the day until she’d thought she might burst. From Sean forgetting their anniversary to Caitlin demanding that she bring the cup to school in her lunch break, the whole day had been a stark reminder of all the things that were making her unhappy in her life.

  She hadn’t left t
o make a point. She’d left because it had been necessary for her sanity.

  She needed space and thinking time. Her brain wasn’t given sufficient respite from stress to figure out what she really wanted.

  Still, it felt unnatural being here on her own.

  She’d chosen to sleep in the bedroom she’d used as a child rather than the bigger guest room that she and Sean occupied on their visits. Why had she done that? Perhaps because it was a way of winding back time to the life she’d been living before this one. The person she’d been before the woman she was now.

  The oversize map of the world was still stuck to the wall, complete with the markings she’d made with her father. Gathering dust on the shelves were all her old books, favorites that she’d never part with. Usually they were held in place by the art award she’d won at school, but that seemed to be missing.

  Her mother must have stowed it away somewhere.

  Feeling ridiculously disappointed that her untidy mother would choose to tidy up that particular item, she walked to the window and gazed out over the fields to the sea. This had been her view every day when she was growing up.

  The sun blazed and she could feel the heat pumping into the room even though it was still early. It was going to be a scorcher.

  She undressed, put her clothes in the laundry hamper and took a long shower.

  Wrapped in a towel, she unzipped the bag she’d packed. She’d randomly pushed various things into the space without giving real thought to what she was going to wear.

  Why on earth had she packed that shirt? She hated it.

  Every item she pulled out of the bag reminded her of home and the life she wasn’t sure she liked that much. And there was nothing suitable for relaxed outdoor living during a heat wave.

  In the end she picked out a fitted white shirt with shell buttons, a pair of cropped linen trousers, and stuffed everything else back in the bag. She zipped it up and stowed it under the bed.

  It wasn’t only her life that needed an overhaul—her wardrobe did too.

  Maybe she’d pay a visit to the boutique in the village later.