A Hundred Summers: The ultimate romantic escapist beach read. Beatriz Williams

an old dock. There might be boards loose …”

      Budgie waved her hand. “It’s fine. I went down there myself last night. You’re a sensible girl, aren’t you, Kiki?”

      “Yes, Mrs. Greenwald.”

      Kiki stood there innocently, her hands folded behind her back, her hair still tidy in its white bow. “Very well,” I said. “But be careful. Stay where we can see you.”

      “She’s a lovely child,” said Budgie, watching her saunter across the patchy remains of what had once been a lawn. “How lucky you are.”

      Kiki walked toward the dock with unaccustomed docility, aware of our watchful eyes. I’d dressed her in her best, or nearly so: a white sailor dress with a navy collar tied about her neck and shiny black Mary Jane shoes over white cuffed socks. Her dark hair tumbled down her back from its ribbon. She looked the picture of flawless girlhood.

      “I know.” My thumb drew circles in the condensation on my glass of tricked-up lemonade. I thought about telling Budgie more, about how we had dreaded Kiki’s arrival, about how unlucky we had felt that she should burst into our lives so inconveniently, without a father to raise her. About how she instead had saved us, had rescued me from a slough of despair so deep and profound I’d thought I should never rise again. How I could not now imagine a life without Kiki; how she had become the sun to my cold and desolate earth.

      But I said none of these things. Instead I waited for Budgie to speak. Budgie hated nothing so much as silence.

      Right on cue, she said: “It almost makes me think I should like to have one of my own.”

      “Well, you’re married now. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

      “Who knows? Maybe not long at all.” She put her hand on her abdomen. “Imagine that, Lily Dane. Imagine me, a mother.” She laughed and wriggled her toes again.

      “You’ll be a wonderful one, I’m sure.”

      “Just think. Your Kiki can help watch the baby.” She snapped her fingers. “Babysitter, that’s the word, isn’t it? All the girls are doing it for pocket money these days.”

      My Kiki had reached the dock by now. She stood at the edge for a moment, staring down at the water, and sat down and took off her shoes and socks. She turned to me and waved, and though she was a hundred yards away, I could see her wide smile.

      “I should call her back,” I said. “We should be going. Mrs. Hubert”—I thought quickly—“Mrs. Hubert wants to meet about the Fourth of July this afternoon. We still haven’t agreed on a theme.”

      Budgie took a drink of lemonade and reached for the pack of Parliaments. “Isn’t the theme self-evident? Smoke?”

      I took the cigarette from her and lit it. “We like to feature different aspects of the patriotic spirit. Last year was ‘America the Beautiful,’ which came off very well, everyone hanging pictures from all over the country, and once we did ‘Stars and Stripes Forever,’ more straightforward, as you can imagine, and …”

      “Lily.” Budgie blew out a long stream of smoke. “Listen to yourself.”

      I reached over the glass for the lemonade pitcher. It was nearly empty, and the ice had melted. I poured the remains into my glass anyway, just to avoid Budgie’s gaze. This time, when she leaned over with the gin, I covered the opening with my palm.

      She shrugged. “You’ve buried yourself. I always knew you would, if left to yourself, without someone to pull you along.”

      “That’s not true. I haven’t buried myself at all.”

      “You have. What a mess we made of things that winter. I shouldn’t have abandoned you like that; I’ve never forgiven myself.”

      “You couldn’t help it. You had your own tragedies, didn’t you.” I knocked the ash from my cigarette. A single ham sandwich remained on the platter. I reached forward and took it. The ham was delicate, thinly sliced, and the bread thickly buttered.

      Buried yourself. I thought of my desk at home in New York and the locked drawer at the bottom, in which a thick bundle of letters lay at the back, bound together with a rubber band, all of them addressed in efficient typescript to a post office box on Seventy-third Street. Dear Miss Dane, Thank you for your submission of three months ago. While we read the pages with some interest, we regret that the Phalarope Press cannot accept your manuscript at this time … Dear Miss Dane, While your writing shows considerable promise, The Metropolitan finds this story unsuitable for publication in our magazine …

      Budgie leaned forward and covered my hand. “I’m going to make it up to you this summer. I’m going to show you the best time. I’m going to invite down housefuls of bachelors for you. I’m sure Nick can think of a prospect or two.”

      “No, please. I’d rather not.” My eyes dropped irresistibly to the glittering rocks on the hand atop mine. Up close, they seemed even larger, like Chiclets, sharp-edged and modern, dominating the delicate long bones of Budgie’s fingers. The middle one was the largest, I could now tell, but not by much.