Killer Summer by Lynda Curnyn (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

So with my wheelie firmly in one hand, the shopping bag in the other and my knapsack clamped to my back, I made my way slowly down the long path that would lead me to the beach and Maggie’s Dream, though I was sure that by now I was Maggie’s nightmare. I had discovered on opening weekend that Maggie didn’t tolerate tardiness in her dinner guests. Even more so, I imagined, from the houseguest bringing the key ingredients.

Good thing I had been to the house once before, because the streets—or I should say trails?—through the tall grasses and brush that covered most of Fire Island were pretty dark. I could barely even see some of the houses, which were set back a distance from the road. And there wasn’t a soul around. But that was Kismet for you. Since the nightlife wasn’t exactly on a par with your usual Manhattan scene, most people stayed home after dark, getting soused behind closed doors, judging by the lights I saw coming from the windows of houses set deep in tall grasses that rustled ominously in the soft breeze.

Creepy. Maybe it was the thought of what might be lurking in the underbrush that sent me hurrying along, despite the fact that my shoulders had begun to ache from my pack and that my wheelie was bumping none too easily across the cracked pavement.

The only disadvantage to an oceanfront share was that it was generally the farthest walk from the ferry. But since Fire Island was only about a quarter mile wide, it wasn’t usually an issue, unless, like me, you couldn’t leave Manhattan at home when you came to Fire Island. But I got to Maggie’s Dream eventually, though my right hand was raw from the handle of my heavy shopping bag, my wheelie was practically on its last wheel and I was on the verge of a permanent back disorder from my pack. Now I understood why Sage never brought more than a tote bag. But then, I guess if your clothes were as tiny as Sage’s and all your other entertainment needs would likely be met by most of the male population, you really didn’t need much.

I felt a shot of relief at the sight of the lights burning as I made my way up the walkway to the deck. But it was only momentary. I wasn’t sure what state everyone would be in at this point. Hungry and dissatisfied? Hopefully Maggie had been able to whip something together to soothe the hungry crowd. She was supposed to be some kind of culinary whiz anyway. Yeah, they were probably all drunk by now and yucking it up, I thought, remembering the well-stocked bar that Tom had opened up to us on Memorial Day weekend and we partook in until we were all practically prone on the carpet in the living room. At least Nick and Maggie were likely yucking it up, I thought, remembering how they had sat out on the deck last time I was here while the rest of us played Scrabble inside. I remembered glancing out at them, wondering at the way they leaned in close to talk to one another. Nick knew Maggie about as well as I did, which made me curious how they could possibly have so much to say to one another. Not that Tom seemed to mind, which was even weirder. He just sat there laying down letter tiles, teasing Sage mercilessly every time he racked up a triple word score.

When I finally made it to the screen door with all my baggage, I was surprised to discover that Tom was alone, except for Janis Joplin—the dog, that is—who let out the kind of howl that explained how she had gotten that name, and practically mowed me over in an attempt to get past me and out into greener—or in this case, sandier—pastures.

“Don’t let the dog out!” Tom yelled by way of greeting.

“Sorry,” I said, shutting the screen firmly behind me, which only caused Janis to start to whimper and paw at me, nearly unbalancing me. “Nice doggie,” I said, dropping my shopping bag and wheelie, and sliding my pack off my back. I assumed if I wasn’t supposed to offend the master of the house, I should be careful not to offend the master’s dog.

Not that Tom noticed. “So you finally made it,” he said. Since I wasn’t sure from his bland tone whether he was being sarcastic or not, I glanced up at him once I had successfully brushed off Janis’s advances. My eyes widened. Not only was Tom dressed in nothing more than a towel around his waist, his hair damp as if he had just come from the shower, but he was chopping garlic with what looked like a barely contained fury. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he was wielding that knife that weirded me out, or the strangeness of seeing Tom in nothing more than a towel, which looked in danger of slipping every time he brought the knife down on another clove of garlic. Somehow the sight of his damp chest, covered in gray hair and a bit saggy with age—he was, after all, nearing fifty—made me uneasy. Kinda the way you feel uneasy the first time you catch your father running from the bedroom to the bathroom in nothing more than his skivvies, which was one of the few memories I actually had of my father. But that was the other thing about Fire Island. Living in close quarters with strangers often brought you an up close and personal view of them, whether you wanted one or not.

I would have slid away to the bedroom, except it looked like Tom was in the midst of making that dinner I had heard so much about. And was none too happy about it. “Well, you didn’t miss much,” he said, peeling the skin away from a fresh garlic clove.