Cure for the Common Breakup Read online

  She turned on the car radio and scanned through the static until she found a local station, which was playing an old Pet Shop Boys song she remembered from middle school. She turned up the music and forced herself to sing along.

  The car rounded a curve and she saw a weathered white wooden sign embellished with the outline of a black Labrador: WELCOME TO BLACK DOG BAY. Summer followed the arrows and turned off the highway onto a narrow asphalt road.

  She rolled down the windows of the car to let in the damp, tangy ocean breeze. She couldn’t see the water yet, but she could literally taste sea salt in the air.

  Now what?

  She hadn’t actually planned out this trip past the drive to the shore. After years of last-minute schedule changes and twelve-hour layovers, she didn’t worry about researching tourist attractions or making hotel reservations in advance. She just charged ahead, armed with bravado and a few spare pairs of underpants, and so far, it’d always worked out. This morning, she’d been so desperate to get on the road, to physically distance herself from all her injuries. To escape.

  And now she’d arrived at her destination, and her entire being still hurt. Her head still ached. Her ribs protested with every breath.

  At least her heart had stopped breaking. Now she felt numb, which was a decided improvement.

  The foliage thinned as the bay came into view. The ocean looked dark and cold, in stark contrast to the pristine, pale sand dunes. One side of the road was lined with quaint little brick shops, the other with stately, gray shingled houses. Across the white-capped waves, she could see the yellow triangle of a sailboat and a tiny seaplane towing a banner.

  Traffic was light, but the sidewalks were crowded with vacationers who had clearly come straight from the beach. Lots of flip-flops, khaki shorts, and straw hats.

  Her grip on the steering wheel loosened and the muscles in her shoulders relaxed as she rolled past a shop window painted with a black dog eating an ice-cream cone. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding on to until she let some of it go.

  This was why she’d come. To recharge. To heal. To figure out what the hell she was supposed to do next.

  She reminded herself of the cardinal rule of travel: When in need of a mood adjustment, try snacking, showering, and sleeping.

  Hoping to find an inn, she turned left at the next stoplight and continued on a newly paved road that narrowed as the houses on either side grew ever bigger and grander. This was not hotel territory. This was million-dollar summer home territory. She sped up a bit as she drove around the bend, looking for a driveway she could use to turn around.

  That’s when the Taylor Swift song came on.

  The mournful lyrics and dulcet vocals hit her like a sack of oranges to the stomach. The clouds dissipated, and as the afternoon sun blazed down, all the tears she hadn’t been able to shed in the hospital gushed out, blurring her vision and shocking her with their force.

  She raised her arm to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her short-sleeve shirt. Then Taylor launched into the chorus, and Summer started sobbing, gasping for breath. Her whole face was soaked. Her entire body shook.

  And when she glanced back at the road, a tiny green turtle had meandered in front of her car.

  She slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel, missing the turtle by inches.

  She did not, however, miss the white trellis bordering the lawn of one of the beach houses. Even though she was driving slowly, the Mercedes was built like a tank, and the wood gave way with a splintering crunch as the convertible plowed through the rosebushes and onto a white gravel driveway.

  “Shit.” She stomped on the gas and backed up, launching chunks of dirt and a spray of gravel across the road. Once the car’s tires were back on the asphalt, she cut the engine and jumped out to assess the damage.

  A screen door slammed and a male voice called: “Are you all right?”

  Summer shaded her eyes and peered up at the porch of the house. Although situated on prime beachfront property, this home was relatively modest compared with the multistory architectural behemoths on either side. Two stories of weathered brown cedar siding and white-trimmed windows, surrounded by a low-slung porch. The yard left room for a larger garage or a guest cottage, but instead, the owner had devoted the space to rows and rows of what appeared to be rosebushes.

  Rosebushes upon which she had perpetrated vehicular manslaughter. “I’m fine. I just . . . Sorry! I’m sorry.”

  She heard the thud of footfalls on wooden steps as the homeowner approached her. Despite the humidity, he wore faded jeans, mud-spattered work boots, and a long-sleeved navy T-shirt that set off gray eyes and a chiseled jawline. The combination of rugged and sensual features was startling—Captain America at a Milan photo shoot. He was tall and lean, with a hint of windburn on his cheeks and thick brown hair sun streaked with bronze.

  Rustic outdoorsmen weren’t Summer’s type, but something about him . . . He looked like he could ravish you so right and then stride off to chop a cord of wood.

  “You ran over my roses.” His tone was both accusatory and incredulous.

  “It was an accident. There was a turtle.” She swiped at her eyes and struggled to regain her composure. “Came out of nowhere.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’ve never been to Delaware before.” Summer drew in a ragged breath. “I didn’t realize. About the turtles.”

  He crossed his arms, his gaze intensifying. “Are you drunk?”

  “No!”

  He stepped closer. “Yes, you are.”

  “I am not. I’m completely sober.” To prove her point, she got right in his face and blew out a huge lungful of air. “See? Diet Coke. No rum!”

  He didn’t back down. “I don’t see a turtle.”

  “It’s right here!” She jabbed her index finger at the patch of asphalt where she’d seen the tiny green desperado, but realized the road was empty. “It was moving surprisingly fast.”

  “Uh-huh.” The guy pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket. She noticed half-moons of fresh dirt under his fingernails. “I’m calling the cops.”

  She put her hand on the sleeve of his cotton shirt. “I swear to you, I’m stone-cold sober.”

  He looked down at her fingers, then back up to her face. “Your eyes are red and bloodshot and you’re babbling about a turtle that doesn’t exist.”

  “It exists! I’m just a bad driver, okay? Why is that so hard to believe?”

  He paused mid-dial. She took her hand off his forearm.

  “You’re just a bad driver?” he repeated. “Running over fences and ripping out rosebushes is your standard operating procedure?”

  “No. There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  She clenched her fists and stared down at the muddy tire tracks. “I was lost and I was crying at a Taylor Swift song on the radio, okay? Are you happy now?”

  “No.” His voice was so flat that she couldn’t gauge any emotion, so she glanced back at his face. His expression remained impassive, but she thought she caught a little flicker of amusement in those gray eyes.

  “Did you, uh, did you plant all these roses yourself?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry again. Look, this place is breakup central, right?” The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face, and she pushed it back with one hand. “You must have Taylor Swift–induced car wrecks all the time. Am I right?”

  He shifted his weight. “You’re sure you’re not drunk?”

  “Believe me, I’d love to be able to blame this on alcohol. But no. Anyway, I’ll fix your lawn. And your roses. And this . . . fence thing . . . whatever you call it. I’ll fix that, too.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”

  “Give me twenty-
four hours,” Summer said. “It’ll be like this whole thing never happened. Trust me; I’m very efficient.”

  He shook his head. “All I ask is that you turn off the radio. The roads will be safer for turtles and trellises everywhere.” He dusted off his hands, clearly dismissing her. “Drive carefully.”

  Over his shoulder, beyond the porch railings, she could glimpse the blue of the ocean. “The view from the front of your house must be amazing.”

  “It is.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, she tried, “Do you live here year-round?”

  She wasn’t sure why she was trying to keep this conversation going. The guy was covered in dirt and Irish Spring–scented sweat, he was annoyed about his yard, and he no doubt wanted to perform triage on the half-dead roses and grieve in his manly, wood-chopping way for the all-dead ones. He was telling her, not so subtly, to get gone.

  And yet she held her ground, surrounded by plant carnage and listening to the ocean and watching his gray eyes darken in the sunlight.

  He watched her watching him. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You said you were lost. What are you trying to find?”

  She had to force herself to break eye contact. “Somewhere to stay. A decent hotel.”

  “Go to the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast.” He pointed in the direction she’d come from. “Back to that main road, turn left at the intersection, then take your second right.”

  Summer laughed. “Shut up. It’s not really called the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  His eyebrows rose just a fraction of an inch. “Business name is registered with the town.”

  “Really? That’s awesome. Do you think they’ll have any rooms available?”

  “They’ll work something out.” He started back toward the house.

  “I promise you, I’m coming back to fix your landscaping situation.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I’m trying to be nice.” She called after him as he started up the porch steps. “I’m Summer, by the way. And you are . . . ?”

  He lifted his hand in a wave and didn’t look back.

  chapter 5

  Summer arrived in downtown Black Dog Bay approximately three minutes later. As she drove through the main drag (two lanes of traffic, one dotted yellow line, speed limit twenty-five), she had to smile at the business names: the Retail Therapy boutique, the Jilted Café, the Rebound Salon. This must be the section of the community that catered to the breakup crowd. She noticed a woman strolling down the cobblestone sidewalk wearing baggy green yoga pants and carrying a handbag Summer had eyed covetously in the window of the Chanel boutique in Paris. This town was half kitschy tourist trap, half gentrified old money.

  The street dead-ended in a quaint little town square consisting of white park benches, a wooden gazebo, and a large bronze statue of what appeared to be a big, shaggy dog. Beyond the town square, the beach and boardwalk beckoned. The bay created a semicircular inlet, and Summer could see rows of sleek, modern beach houses featuring walls of plate glass windows . . . plus one huge mansion painted violet. The house, sprawled across at least an acre of prime beachfront property, was the color of a fresh bruise.

  Summer started speculating about what kind of homeowner had enough wealth to buy such an estate and the chutzpah to paint it purple. Then she spotted a sign hanging from an iron lamppost, BETTER OFF BED-AND-BREAKFAST, and followed the arrows to a large, saltbox-style house with white clapboard sides and green shutters. An orange striped cat sat on the front step, twitching its tail and basking in the sun.

  The parking lot was packed with a diverse assortment of cars: soccer mom SUVs, sporty coupes, vintage hippie vans, and even a shiny mint green Vespa scooter. Summer managed to maneuver Scarlett into a space (well, okay, it wasn’t technically a space, but it would have been if everyone else had parked properly) between a silver BMW sedan and a rusty pickup truck with a visible gun rack.

  After she turned off the car, she settled back into the driver’s seat and tried to muster the energy to collect her bags and go inside. She knew there were basic tasks she had to attend to—eating and showering came to mind—but the mere idea of those activities overwhelmed her. So she made a deal with herself: If she could force herself to go inside and navigate the check-in process, she could stay in bed for the rest of the day. For the rest of the week.

  Moving at a glacial pace, she stepped out of the car and started up the flagstone path to the entryway. While the bed-and-breakfast’s exterior harkened back to a bygone era, the interior had obviously been recently remodeled. The lobby was airy and full of sunlight, with ice blue walls and windows facing the ocean. The back door stood open, beckoning visitors to a deck lined with wicker sofas and Adirondack chairs.

  A stout, pink-cheeked redhead bustled in to greet Summer. “Welcome to the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast. You must be Summer?”

  “I am.” Summer glanced around. “And you must be psychic.”

  “No, no, I’m Marla.” When the redhead smiled, she looked so warm and maternal she might as well be wearing an apron and rolling out pie dough. “But I’ve been expecting a tall, beautiful blonde. Dutch called and gave me a heads-up.”

  “Dutch,” Summer repeated. “Is that the guy whose fence I ran over?”

  “That’s right. Dutch Jansen.” Marla regarded her with a hint of reproach. “He works so hard on those roses. It’s a crying shame.”

  “It was an accident, and it wasn’t even my fault! I blame the turtles and Taylor Swift.”

  “Of course, honey.” Marla nodded as if this made perfect sense. “How long do you think you’ll be staying with us?”

  But Summer wasn’t finished with their first talking point. “Hang on. So this Dutch guy. He said I was a tall, beautiful blonde?”

  Marla’s eyes widened as she picked up a coffee cup from a side table. “He said . . . Well, I guess I inferred . . . Do me a favor and don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

  “Absolutely. I’m just surprised, because he was not having any of my tall, beautiful blondeness at the scene of the crime. He couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

  “Well, as I said, he puts blood, sweat, and tears into those rosebushes.”

  “Dutch Jansen.” Summer filed this name away for future investigation. “So he grows roses and he knows the owner of the local B and B.”

  “Oh, Dutch knows everybody. He’s the mayor.”

  Summer froze. “He is?”

  “Mm-hmm. Didn’t really have much of a choice; it’s Jansen family tradition. His grandfather was the mayor, and then his father—until he died. Dutch took over as soon as he was old enough to run for office.”

  Summer patted her windblown, unwashed hair. “I ran over the mayor’s landscaping.”

  “Sure did!” Marla hummed a happy tune as she rearranged the wildflowers in a blue milk vase. “Now, let me get you settled in before the dinner rush starts. How long do you think you’ll be our guest?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. I know it’s the height of tourist season. What’s your availability like?”

  “Well, we don’t technically have any vacancy, but I’ll squeeze you in somewhere. Though I’m afraid all our ocean-view rooms are taken.”

  “That’s fine,” Summer said. “I just need someplace quiet to crash.” She winced as the word left her mouth, her mind flashing back to the near disaster in the plane.

  “Here.” Marla patted a sofa piled with embroidered throw pillows. “Have a seat while I ask my husband if we can put you up in the attic room.”

  “Wait. You run this place with your husband?”

  “Mm-hmm. Theo—that’s him out there.” Marla pointed out the window at a burly, bearded man sanding a bit of peeled paint from the porch railing. “Isn’t he a cutie?�
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  “I guess, but what about the whole better-off-breakup theme? Shouldn’t you be single?”

  Marla chuckled. “Oh, why, bless your heart, honey, that’s the guests. Not the locals. There are three types of people in Black Dog Bay: year-round residents who have jobs and families and bills to pay, the rich summer people from Baltimore and D.C., and the heartbreak tourists.”

  “Heartbreak tourists,” Summer repeated.

  “That’s what we call them. Mostly women, although we do get the occasional man. Two years ago, I rented a room to a groom who was left at the altar. He stayed in our best suite for a week, smoking cigars and heaven knows what else. The place smelled like a humidor by the time he checked out. We had to rip out the carpets and replace the drapes.” Marla shook her head at the memory.

  “Don’t the rich summer people object to the heartbreak tourists?”

  “Not really. Most of them figure we’re better off with weepy women than rowdy college kids. Besides, this town was founded by a filthy-rich socialite. Lavinia Leighton. Her name’s on the plaque by the dog statue down at the town square. Her husband left her, ran off with some floozy actress. She lost her lifestyle in New York, all her fancy friends, and she came down here to start fresh.” Marla plucked a book from the shelf beneath the window seat and showed Summer the title: The History of Black Dog Bay. “You can read all about it if—” She broke off midsentence as a lanky woman wearing a woven black sun hat and oversize sunglasses strode in. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

  “Take your time.” Summer collapsed onto the sofa.

  Marla rolled up the sleeves of her pale pink shirtdress and hurried over to intercept the newcomer, who was tugging at a locked drawer in the front hall table.

  “Celeste, honey, no.” Marla wedged herself between the woman and the table. “Step away from the cell phones.”

  “Where’s the key?” The woman ripped off her hat and ran her fingers through long, tangled hair. “Forget everything I said yesterday. Just give me my phone.”

  “Absolutely not.” Marla adopted the demeanor of a stern finishing school headmistress. “This is for your own good.”