Page 5 of The Dead of Summer

Willy turns off Main Street. Thank god. I want to eavesdrop more, but Gracie is determined to get me talking.

Dutifully, I drift into my smiling autopilot and do my best to give Sam all the fun facts about town.

We’re in the historic district now, where all the houses have names.

Here is the Admiral’s House, with the haunted widow’s walk!

And there’s Bunter House, named for the owner’s beloved dog, now deceased yet taxidermied somewhere inside, or at least that’s the legend.

And that is Maison Voiles, a pretentious little inn Gracie always sticks her tongue out at because they copied our sea-glass stained windows.

Oh, and who could forget the little bookshop called the Mermaid’s Tale, locked into a decades-old feud with the piano bar right next to it, called the Mermaid’s Tail ?

The barstools are shaped like glittering fishtails.

And then, quite suddenly, my tide of fun facts has crashed us onto the shores of Singing House. The car slows out of respect.

The bed-and-breakfast hasn’t changed in any obvious way—it’s the same grand wraparound porch and double doors with sea-glass windows, the same soft pink Victorian facade trimmed with pearly-white gingerbread work, the same jagged roofline of gables, dormers, and turrets that always seemed to fit, like a key, against the beveled clouds of the bay.

The garden is still a soft mutiny of hydrangeas, and the wisteria has made progress in its annual consumption of the parlor’s bay windows, but the overgrowth just adds to the house’s feral dreaminess.

If anything, Singing House looks even more like itself, like a vision from my childhood.

Yet there is something terrible about it, too, though I can’t place exactly what until Willy kills the Jeep’s engine.

It’s too quiet.

There’s no creak from the rocking chairs on the porch as a trio of white-haired lesbians play cards.

No squealing front door as matching muscular men stroll out for the night, cackling into their to-go cocktail cups.

No one leaning out the upstairs windows, calling down to an old friend they haven’t seen in years who just happened to be strolling by, drawn into the house’s whimsy.

No laughter, no chatter, no piano music tinting the breeze, inviting you in.

We ease around back, to the patio connecting Singing House to several smaller (though just as charming) boardinghouses. They’re in far poorer shape, showing signs of storm damage worsened by the lush rot of summer. A few windows are boarded up, making it all feel abandoned.

While we unpack the Jeep, Willy goes through a list of damages he’s been meaning to get to. Gracie may or may not be listening. She floats around the patio like a lost dandelion puff.

I reach for her. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed up in no time. Aside from the cottages, it doesn’t look so bad.”

Like clockwork, Gracie’s face clicks into a smile, and she takes her hand away. “ Bad? Let’s hold off on the nitpicking, okay? There’s so much to be grateful for, isn’t there? Let’s try to focus on that!”

I wasn’t nitpicking, was I? How does she expect to fix any of this if she won’t even acknowledge what’s wrong? Her positivity feels impossible in moments like this, but I can’t say that. I can’t say anything, apparently.

The back door opens with a loud slap and out rushes a woman with her cell phone raised, filming like she’s at a concert. Aunt Maddie, forever in clay-stained jeans, button-ups, and year-round tactical sandals she sometimes—right now included—wears over socks.

“Well, if it isn’t our very own living proof! Welcome home, you rugged bitch!” Maddie circles Gracie like she’s paparazzi, capturing the moment. Fresh hellos and hugs are exchanged, and of course Maddie casts an impressed look between Sam and me.

“Caught yourself a cute one, didn’t ya, Orlando?”

“You guys are gonna scare him off,” I whine, but it’s clear Sam is having the time of his life getting a backstage pass to the most dysfunctional family on Anchor’s Mercy.

I’m amazed at his durability but aware we’ve got to let him go home at some point.

I cut into the jabber. “Rain’s coming. Willy, can I use the Jeep to run Sam the rest of the way to his aunt’s? ”

Take it , I think. This is your chance to run! But Sam hesitates a moment too long, and the adults are on him again, screaming.

“Nonsense!”

“Come in, come in!”

“Ollie, don't be rude to our guest.”

“I’d actually love to see inside,” Sam says. “My aunt always said these old houses had a lot of character.”

Characters is more like it , I think, but I can’t deny it’s a little fun showing Sam around.

Plus, the longer he’s here, the longer I have a human shield from all the questioning I know Willy and Aunt Maddie have been saving up.

Questions about school this past year, and college applications, and auditions.

Questions I absolutely do not want to answer.

The adults race ahead as Sam and I drag the suitcases up the back porch. He notices my silence and, before we go in, he offers an understanding glance.

“My family can be a lot, too. I get it.”

God, that feels nice to hear. I let out a long breath. “Yeah, you’re being a great sport about all this. I can drive you home at any time. Really, just say the word and we’ll sneak away from the circus. They won’t even notice.”

“Are you kidding me? Today has been like one long, private tour. I’m loving it.”

“Don’t you want to see the fun stuff? Like the beaches and the whales and the drag shows?”

“We’ve got all summer. How about we just start with your house?”

I’m not used to someone being so plainly interested in me.

It’s exciting and scary and the timing could not be worse, but since when do I get what I want?

I know I should say more—to somehow warn Sam off so he can go on exploring the dream of Anchor’s Mercy without the heaviness of my drama—but selfishly, I don’t want him to go.

The bravest thing I can do right now is let him in, and that’s exactly what I do. He pauses in the doorway, and our chests are just inches apart.

“Oh, and by the way, the piece you played on the boat? It was Tchaikovsky, obviously. Piano Concerto Number One.”

I’m holding my breath. He’s right.

“In B-flat minor.” He boops me on the nose. “Show-off. I like that,” he says, and then he whistles his way into Singing House.