Page 2 of The Book of Summer

Bess leans in for a second hug. The first one came at her so fast she didn’t have a chance to hold on.

“It’s great to see you,” she says. “I’m glad a few things never change.”

Bess pulls back.

“I love that you think you can drive the entire world on those scrawny legs of yours,” she says. “But, seriously, we need to explore other options.”

“Who raised such a princess?” Cissy asks with a grin. “Sheesh. Too much time in California. I can’t even tell you’re from New England anymore.”

She latches on to Bess’s suitcase and tromps out toward the street—guiding the luggage with one hand, her bike with the other.

“I can carry that!” Bess calls.

Cissy quickens her pace, the curly, salty blond ponytail bobbing through the hole of her hat. Bess flattens her dark, straight bangs, as if in response.

“I’m not sure why you’re here,” Cissy calls over her shoulder, “so far in advance of your cousin’s wedding. Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to see you. But aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Yes. Working. That’s exactly what she should be doing. It’s the same argument Bess made when her father called.

“Well, Dad says…” Bess starts.

“Oh please.” Cissy makes a snort-puff sound. “Your father exaggerates as a rule. He probably did his best to raise your hackles, to make the situation seem irreparably dire.”

Bess shakes her head. “Dire” is one word. “Catastrophic” is another.

“Elisabeth, you have to drag your mother out of that house,” he’d implored only seventy-two hours before.

“Why can’t you do it?” Bess had asked. “She’s your wife.”

“Please. She stopped listening to me years ago. You’re the only one who can help.”

Though it sounded suspiciously like a compliment, it wasn’t one at all. No, Dudley doesn’t believe his middle child capable of swaying one very stubborn and immovable matriarch. His faith in Bess is more practical, rooted in his daughter’s ability to show up on short notice, at least compared to her siblings. She’s no Clay, the big brother, who works a gajillion hours a week at their dad’s hedge fund and has two young kids and a demanding, nine-months-pregnant wife who makes a full-time job of issuing summonses and demands.

Neither is Bess like last-born Julia, known almost exclusively as “Lala” owing to a multiyear inability to pronounce her own name. Sweet Lala is in the Sudan helping refugees, because baby sisters with Harvard degrees and privileged upbringings can do that sort of thing. In sum: Lala has nothing to prove.

“I can’t fly cross-country right now,” Bess told her dad. “I have to work. To get all of my shifts covered would inconvenience multiple people.”

Not to mention that her personal life is in a state of bedlam, though Bess did not disclose that to him.

“I’d love to help,” she lied. “But it’s not feasible. Have you tried Clay or Lala?”

“Absolutely not. I’d never ask either one.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Aren’t you going to be on-island at the end of the month anyway?” he asked. “For Felicia’s wedding? Leave earlier.”

“Dad, I’m a physician. I can’t just bail.”

“Don’t you work, like, three days a week?”

“Threeshifts,” she said. “Which are longer than an average workday.”

“You work in the ER.”

“The ED. It’s really more of adepartmentthan a room.”

“Whatever.”