Page 59 of The Book of Summer

Sure. After the vote. Pinky swear.

Alas, they’re no closer to moving than when Bess arrived on the scene. Ninety-nine years of stuff, with only about six months of it packed. What is kept or what goes into the green Dumpster her dad ordered should be Cissy’s call, not Bess’s. To speak nothing of the sheer manpower needed. It’d taken Bess two full days to haul her crap out of the San Francisco place and she’d lived there five years, with one other person, and most of it she left behind.

Cliff House, on the other hand, is a veritable museum of all things Young-Packard-Codman. This “house of women” is stocked to the gills with artwork and jewelry and old clothes. There are papers and books and crystal bottles of amber-colored perfume. One drawer reveals an old camera and scrapbooks filled with articles written by a Harriet Rutter. The name is familiar. It’s sprinkled throughout the book, though not in any meaningful way.

“Oh, Cis,” Bess grumbles, stacking dozens of musty magazines. “You’re a pill even when you’re not around.”

As if on cue, the front door clicks open. Bess peers around the corner to see her mother hard-charging through the foyer.

“Caroline Codman!” Bess snaps. “You stop right there. Where have you been? I was worried out of my mind.”

Not exactly true, but it sounds better than “I want to strangle you with one of the twelve jump ropes I found in your closet.”

“Goodness, Bess!” Cissy almost leaps out of her Keds. “You scared me. What are you doing creeping around?”

“I’mthe one creeping around? Mother, where have you been all day? We’re supposed to be packing and it’s pretty crappy to make me do all the work.”

“Here we go again. What a fussbudget.”

Cissy tugs on her ponytail and then breezes right past Bess and on into the kitchen.

“Uh, hello?” Bess says, pattering after her.

She enters the room just as Cissy plunks a brown burlap sack onto the counter.

“What have you been doing today?” Cissy asks as she pulls groceries from the bag.

Eggs. Milk. Yogurt and cheese. Bess’s stomach nosedives.

“Cissy!” she barks. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Unloading groceries. And you really shouldn’t talk to your mother that way.”

Cissy opens the fridge and places five large peaches inside.

Peaches!

“Please explain,” Bess says, “why you’ve bought a sackful of perishables when we’re supposed tomove?”

Speaking of perishables, Bess thinks and glances out the window. Down on the shore, the waves break with intensity.

“We should be clearing out,” Bess says. “Not adding on. The movers are coming first thing tomorrow. There are rooms for us at Tea Time.”

“Oh gosh, Polly is so sweet,” Cissy says, and sniffs a half-used carton of OJ. With a satisfied nod, she slides it back into the fridge. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“We can’t stay,” Bess says, trying not to get all shrieky and indignant.

It’s maddening and aggravating, and now Bess wants to strangle Cissy for real. But none of this should come as a shock. Cissy is many things, but never hard to read. A smart person would’ve seen this coming a mile away, even in the Nantucket fog.

“You promised!” Bess says. “You said after the vote you’d move. I love you, Cis. And I love your fire. But, good God, we have to leave.”

“Look, dear, I do hate breaking promises.”

“Do you, though?”

“But there’s no time for moving or packing right now. I’ve called for an emergency town meeting later this week and I need to prepare. After that we can talk about my temporary relocation.”

“Jesus,” Bess groans. “Another meeting?”