Page 137 of The Book of Summer

“All of those gave something. But I gave everything I had.”

“God,” Bess says.

Cissy gave it all she had indeed.

“I do havesomemoney,” she says. “I’m not a complete moron and I like to eat and buy clothes on occasion.”

This last part is news, Bess thinks wryly. As far as she can tell, Cissy’s been wearing the same uniform for half a century. Maybe Red Sox baseball caps have a quicker replacement cycle than one might expect.

“All that aside, I definitely can’t afford to buy on Nantucket,” Cissy says. “When did everyone get so rich?”

“Wow. You are a local after all,” Evan murmurs.

“Cissy! Stop acting so cavalier!”

“Don’t panic, Bess. You won’t have to take care of me in my old age. I have enough to last me until I’m dead. It’s not so far away.”

“That’s not what I’m panicked about,” Bess says. “What about Dad? His firm seems to be doing, like, grossly well. His partner’s wife bought a house in Vail without asking. I’m sure Dad has plenty of cash lying around, too.”

“I’d never ask that of your father. I put my money where my heart is. It’s not his fault.”

“I get that. And I respect it, too. But you’re entitled to half of the Boston house! That could easily buy you a nice place here.”

“No, Bess.” Cissy sighs. “I’m not going to make your father sell his home.”

“He wouldn’t even need to sell it! I’m sure he has fifty percent of its value in ‘liquid assets’ somewhere. Isn’t that what people like him call cash?”

“No, Bess,” Cissy says again. “I’m not taking money from your dad.”

“Fine.”

Bess is pretending to agree but knows exactly what she’ll demand from old Dudley Codman the minute she sees him at the airport. Their marriage might be strained, or nonexistent, but he’ll give his whatever-wife something fair. Dudley-do-right or Dudley-do-the-bare-minimum. He’s not the warmest man but neither is he a bastard.

“Well, I can chip in,” Bess suggests.

“Didn’t that gigolo you married take all your money?”

“I suppose he did,” she says with a bitter laugh. “What about Clay? He makes, like, embezzler-level cash.”

“I’m not taking my son’s money, either. No, Bessie. This is where we leave it. The last home I’ll ever own. And as for Cliff House”—she takes another sip of her drink—“I’m going down with the ship.”

“What?!”

A blood vessel pops somewhere near Bess’s right temple.

“I’m not leaving this house,” Cissy says, “until they drag my dead, crinkled ass out of it.”

“You’re acting like a lunatic,” Bess says, jumping up and down, literally hopping mad. “What do you meanthey?”

So it isn’t iced tea in her glass after all. Bess glances at Evan, whose eyes are wide like windows.

“The coroners,” Cissy says. “Or the geologists if they have to pick me out of the rocks and rubble.”

“Jesus Christ! Cissy!” She turns to Evan. “Can you believe this?”

“I cannot…”

“So you’re going to what?” Bess says. “Sit on this patio and wait to die? That’s a spectacular plan for an otherwise healthy woman. Physically healthy, that is.”