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Summer pressed her face to the window of the little, single-engine plane, watching the contours of Martha’s Vineyard take shape below. An almost perfect triangle, with the Atlantic Ocean at its base and the Nantucket and Vineyard sounds along the other two sides, it looked so peaceful and unchanging. As the plane began its descent, she could make out the familiar white clapboard homes, dotted like dollhouses around the island. Swimming pools glinted blue, like tiny square-cut sapphires in the emerald-green yards. Everything was ordered and manicured and unthreatening, mocking the turmoil that Summer felt inside.
As a child, she used to relish these short plane rides from Boston. The first glimpse of the island was always magical and exciting, marking the beginning of a summer of adventures. Summer had been cripplingly shy in those days: overweight, tongue-tied, socially awkward. But her mom had made sure that her childhood was idyllic, despite those disadvantages. Always there to defend her, to hold her hand, comfort her, boost her confidence, Lucy Meyer was the mother that every other kid wanted.
For the hundredth time on her long journey from London, Summer’s eyes welled with tears.
How could she? How could she?
When Summer first realized that the woman on Drake Motors’ CCTV footage was her own mother, her natural response was disbelief. Yes, the walk was Lucy’s, and the body language and the way she moved her arms. (It was that, more than anything, that had triggered Summer’s memory. Picturing her mother handing that birthday present to Alexia, the Chanel jacket.) But the idea that her own mother had had an affair with Michael? That simply didn’t compute. It was like being told the world was square, or the sky green. However many pictures someone showed you, you wouldn’t believe it. Lucy being Michael De Vere’s “sugar mommy” defied all laws of nature, of probability, of reality as Summer knew it.
Unable to trust her own judgment, or even believe her own eyes, Summer had done what every good journalist would do. She’d looked for corroborating evidence. Karen Davies at Drake Motors had given her the details of the anonymous offshore bank account used to pay for Michael’s Ducati. At the time they’d meant nothing to Summer. They were just a string of random numbers: IBAN and SWIFT and routing codes. But when she checked them against the spreadsheet Arnie had made for her years ago, detailing all the Meyer family’s bank holdings, they were a perfect mat
ch.
Lucy bought the bike.
Lucy was Michael’s mistress.
Had Lucy tried to kill him too? Had she tampered with the Panigale deliberately?
A sharp bump dragged Summer back to the present.
We’ve landed.
Unfastening her seat belt, she wiped away her tears and tried to focus on her anger, wrapping it around her like a protective cloak. How had her mother dared do this to her? How had Michael! What had they been thinking? Michael’s betrayal hurt Summer deeply, but her mother’s was worse. Didn’t Lucy realize that Summer had now lost everything? Not just Michael, and her hopes for a new family, but her old family as well. All her memories, her childhood happiness, all of it had been tainted, poisoned, destroyed. It would have been less painful if Lucy had cut off her arms or thrown acid in her face. And all the while she’d made herself out to be this perfect mother! That was the worst of it.
Summer thought back to what Roxie had said to her at Fairmont House.
“You have no idea how lucky you are to have Lucy for a mother.
“You can’t imagine what it’s like, realizing that everything you thought you knew about yourself and your family was just smoke and mirrors!”
Summer could imagine it now.
She’d already decided what she was going to do. First, she would tell her father. She would show Arnie the footage, show him the bank transfer, let him know that his wife, the saintly Lucy Meyer, was a liar and an adulteress and a fraud and . . . a killer?
It was at this point that everything started to unravel. Even now, knowing what she knew, Summer couldn’t bring herself to believe that Lucy would have tried to kill Michael by deliberately sabotaging his bike. For one thing, she had no reason to want to hurt him. Apart from everything else, he was her best friend’s son. Lucy had known Michael since boyhood. Besides, the mechanics at the St. Martin’s garage weren’t certain that anyone had tampered with the Ducati’s brakes. It could have been an accident. Summer didn’t know what to believe anymore. The only person who knew the truth was her mother, but did Summer have the strength to confront her? What did one say in these circumstances? She’d had the last twelve hours to think about it, but still had no idea how to begin.
Mom, I know you were fucking my boyfriend.
Mom, did you try to murder Michael?
It was all too surreal.
Summer walked across the tarmac in a daze, retrieving her luggage and bracing herself for the arrivals terminal. She did her best to compose herself before the electric double doors whooshed open and she found herself standing in a sea of smiling faces. Everyone was wearing the Vineyard uniform of khaki shorts and button-down shirts, waiting for their friends and relatives to arrive as if this were a normal day, as if the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Summer scanned the crowd. She couldn’t see her dad. Annoyance mixed with relief—at least she wouldn’t have to break the news to him yet. But as she walked out to the taxi stand, there was Arnie, panting as he ran toward the terminal. Catching sight of Summer, he slowed down, walking up to her and pulling her into a bear hug.
“Sorry, baby.”
He smelled of aftershave and coffee and cigars—the dad smell. Despite her best efforts, Summer started tearing up again.
“So good to have you back,” said Arnie, mopping the sweat from his brow. “Do me a favor. Promise not to tell your mother I was late.”
And in that instant Summer realized: I can’t tell him. At least not until I’ve talked to Mom. Not until I know the truth for sure. It’ll totally destroy him.
“Hi, Dad. It’s good to see you too.” She tried to hold them back but it was impossible. There, in her father’s arms, the tears began to flow uncontrollably.
Arnie looked horrified. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Everything.
