Summer of Salt.pdf

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5589694/1/

Bella

It's sweltering, even by the lake. No breeze; just sunshine and sweat and baking

skin. I glance over at Rosalie. She stripped her top off and is lying face down on a

bright red, striped beach towel. When we were 15 she told me that she thought

tan lines were pedestrian. I agreed, even though I didn't know what she meant.

That summer we got caught sunbathing topless and Charlie had a really

embarrassing meltdown. The subsequent lecture was wildly uncomfortable for us

all, and we haven't tried it since.

I smile at the memory and prop myself up on my elbows.

It's a Tuesday in June and the lake is dead. The weekend crowd is gone and there

are just a few boats out, reflecting flashes of silver as the fishermen cast their

lines into the deep green water. I wonder what they're hoping to catch. Charlie

taught me that the best fishing happens at dusk and dawn. I know about the

importance of the barometric pressure, and depth finders, and the careful

selection of a lure. I go with him sometimes when he's here, loving the quiet and

ritual. We don't talk much, but Charlie always lets me have a can of his

Wisconsin-brewed beer, and in my earlier years I acted each time like it was my

first sip. He doesn't need to know my first beer was an Old English 40oz when I

was 14. Jasper stole them from the corner store down off the main road during

his gangsta rap phase; one for me, one for him, and one for Rosalie.

They are my cousins and my best friends, but most of the year we're in different

states. Our vacation cabins are in northern California, but I'm from Washington

State and they live in Los Angeles. Charlie and Carlisle, Rosalie and Jasper's dad,

inherited the property from our grandparents, and it's the best place to be in the

summer. The heat soars, and the water is so clear you can submerge yourself

neck deep and still see your toes.

The cabins are less cabins and more houses, built with local logs. They are

peaked, with lofts and windows that extend floor to ceiling. Wide porches wrap

around and are supported by giant beams, as the cabins were on a steep incline.

They each have a staircase that zigzags down the hill, which is great for the

booty, but hell after a night of drinking on the beach.

We arrive every June and stay through August, Charlie and Carlisle flying in and

out as their schedules allow. We have staff that comes to clean weekly, stock us

with groceries and provide us with anything else we need. We are undoubtedly

spoiled, but unlike some members of our family, we aren't complete assholes.

You'd think that we'd get bored sitting around in the middle of nowhere with no

other friends, but we're content. We eat, tell stories and laugh; swim, sing loud

and badly along to Jasper's guitar at the bonfire, get drunk and lounge in the hot

tub. We are 19, and looking forward to our sophomore year of college this fall.

Jasper is heavy into music, Rosalie into cooking and I write a lot, but unlike them

I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I write down all of our stories for

posterity. Someday our kids will know this place, and read about this summer.

I think of my mom and how much she loved it here. She died when I was 10. I

push the thought out of my head, though, not wanting to dwell on it today. At 9

a.m. the heat is already shimmering off the sand.

"Looks like someone bought the Newton place."

I follow Jasper's gaze and see a group of men and one short, slim woman

standing hand on hip with what looks like blueprints. They study the papers,

watching her gesture, and nodding in agreement.

"Hope they're cool. We've already got one Mrs. Mallory." We all glance at her

cabin, which is on the opposite side of the bay from the Stanley house. She is

peering at us through binoculars on her deck. We all wave in unison with big

smiles. She stomps back in, slamming the screen door behind her.

"That woman needs to chill the fuck out," Jasper laughs.

She watches us disapprovingly all summer long, but I think she secretly harbors

feelings for J. He flirts with her at the corner store and though she glares and

sputters at his advances she is probably smitten. Most women are.

I look back to the Stanley house. I'm curious, but not overly so, guessing it's

probably just an old couple living out their retirement in the woods, or a family

with little kids.

Rose is definitely not thinking about kids. "Some of those construction guys look

hot, Bella." She lifts her sunglasses and squints at them across the distance.

Jasper and I groan.

"Keep it in your pants, ladies. That's all I ask." He shakes his head.

Rose rolls her eyes almost audibly, lowering her sunglasses and adjusting her

bikini top for maximum cleavage.

Without many people our age around, none of us are enjoying a summer

romance. It's the one downfall of our relative isolation. Occasionally we can

convince Jasper to watch a stupid, fluffy girl movie with us. Rose and I swoon,

and he lets out exasperated sighs, hating every second of it. I lie in bed those

nights and miss kissing, and the anticipation of a crush. I miss butterflies in my

stomach and the flush resulting from a boy's stare. The rest of the time I try not

to think about it.

Rose and I spend the rest of the day sipping cocktails, watching the construction

crew. They certainly watch us. Rose is a knockout, and makes a show of applying

oil to her long, tan, dancer's legs. Jasper works on his latest project, rebuilding a

boat motor from the 70's. He comes in and out of the boathouse, grease on his

hands, back shiny with sweat. He sings along to the Black Keys and tinkers,

sipping a sweating Corona.

Rose fans herself uselessly in the heat.

"Jesus Christ. I feel like I'm getting heat stroke or some shit," she bitches.

"Cannonball?" I ask, already getting up.

She follows and we stand in front of the dock, poised for the game we've been

playing ever since I can remember.

We look at each other, and nod, running together toward the water and throwing

ourselves off the end of the dock. We surface, laughing, and look to Jasper for his

critique.

"I'd give it 6.8."

"Bitch, please. That was at least an 8," Rose argues, splashing him as she walks

out of the water.

They continue the debate; he's analyzing the synchronicity of the dual jumps and

the tightness of our cannonballs for point deduction. This could go on for a while.

They don't hear my phone ring.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey, Bells." I can hear that his voice is strained.

"What's up? Is something wrong?" My throat feels tight. Rose and Jasper stop

bickering and look over, brows furrowed.

"Well," I can almost see him rubbing the back of his neck, "we have a bit of a

situation."

My cousins move closer, sitting across from me, together on Rose's lounge chair.

The three of us stare at each other. We're waiting for the bad news. We'd all had

our fair share of it. Not long after my mom died, their mother, Charlie's sister

Jane, committed suicide. Jasper and Rose found her. They spent years heavily

medicated, which is ironic in a way, because she OD'd on pills. They look anxious

and my stomach knots and unknots.

"Dad? You're kinda freaking me out."

"Oh God, sorry, kid. It's not that serious, don't worry."

I release a breath and relax my shoulders, shaking my head slightly at the

cousins. They both slouch down on the chair, relieved and rolling their eyes.

"You remember Alice Brandon?"

His business partner has a daughter our age. She and I get along well, but her

family runs the east coast branch of their fishing tackle empire.

Yes, that's right. Fishing tackle empire. It's funny, but lucrative.

After all of the board meetings and boring paperwork, our dads were just two

nerds who love to fish.

He told me while ago that Alice was living in Manhattan.

"Of course," I reply, reaching for my drink. Now that I know it's not life or death I

sit back and sip at it, listening.

"Her parents want her to get out of the city for a while. Some crazy ex-boyfriend

has been harassing her. Broke into her apartment last week. He comes from a

wealthy family. The Kings?"

I raise my eyebrows at that, knowing the name from the gossip rags. They are oil

tycoons whose son has a laundry list of vapid celebrity hookups and drug arrests.

He continues, "His father has a lot of pull in New York, and they don't want to

involve the media so they're having trouble getting legal help."

"Wait, Alice dated Royce King?" Rose's face lights up. He responds in the

affirmative, not knowing the significance of the name.

"So, she'll be there tonight. Sorry to spring this on you but I figured you wouldn't

mind. You can put her in Pine," referring to the third, vacant cabin.

He sounds distracted now, and I can hear that he's already onto the next task, so

I assure him that I'll take care of it and hang up.

I explain the situation to Rose and Jasper, and we gossip about Royce King, and

wonder how he got hooked up with Alice.

"She hot?" Jasper interjects.

"Shut up, moron!" Ro slaps his chest.

"Oh come on! It's a totally valid question!" he shoots back, grinning.

"She's really pretty. But dude, she just got out of some traumatic relationship, so

don't get all grabby when she gets here," I warn. Jasper smirks.

"Fresh meat, yo." He leans back, nodding and smug.

Rose smacks him again, this time on the back of the head.

We spend the rest of the day in the water. Rose and I float; Jasper brings us

cocktails and talks shit from the dock, working on the motor. We listen to

southern rock, which goes with the heat. As the sun's rays starts to weaken, Rose

gets out of the water, shaking her hips to "Sweet Home Alabama" as Jasper air-

guitars the riff.

Twins. They often fight, but it isn't hostile, and they have that creepy twin-sixth-

sense about one another. When we were 12, Jasper broke his arm at baseball

camp. At the exact same moment, Rose burst into tears at the breakfast table

here at the cabin.

Jasper is closing up the boathouse for the night. "What should we watch tonight,

ladies?"

I look across the lake at the horizon, noting the dark clouds rolling in. Not a night

for a bonfire.

"Thelma and Louise?"

"Veto!" Jasper yells from inside the boathouse.

We each get one veto per night when it comes to movie selection.

"Okay, so do we want drama, comedy or horror?" I ask, starting the trek up the

stairs, arms full of towels, glasses and books, knowing a storm is on its way.

I look back. "Horror," we all say together.

I love a good horror movie, and nothing is creepier than 70's cinema. We decide

on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and then spend about an hour debating the

dinner menu.

We usually customize our meals according to the movie of the night, but nothing

about a chainsaw massacre is appetizing, so we just go with the Texas theme.

Each cabin has an impressive kitchen in the lofty main room. We end up hanging

out in Rose's kitchen most of the time. J and I sit on stools at the counter, lazily

sipping beers as Rosalie moves around the kitchen, looking through the

cupboards and fridge, finding what she needs for fried chicken. If Rose didn't feed

us I would exist on frozen pizza and Pringles. In fact, most of the year I do.

We smoke a joint on the porch before dinner, telling stories about when we were

kids. The air is hot and electric and the sky is greenish.

My dad calls again around 6 to let me know that Alice will be arriving at 8, so we

make enough food for four and settle in to watch the movie. About halfway

through, thunder rumbles in from the east.

The storms up here are stellar. Lightning, booming thunder and sheets of rain.

Through the massive windows we can see every lightning strike through the sky,

illuminating the whole loft. Rose and I share the couch, squealing together at the

nasty parts of the movie, which is most of it, and J sits in the recliner, pretending

to be irritated at our girliness and trying to hide his own cringing at the gore.

Mostly we laugh.

The movie ends and we head back into the kitchen. Rose starts popcorn and I sit

on the counter, swinging my legs. Jasper leans up against the counter next to

me, impersonating our squealing during the movie while mixing drinks. We

pretend to speak in southern twangs and I toss pieces of popcorn at his head.

The knock on the back door startles us all.

It's silent, except for the corn popping and Rose's eyes grow wide before she

remembers that Alice was due to arrive about an hour ago. I hop off the counter,

heading towards the door to let her in.

"Alice?"

She's drenched, and looks small in the doorway. Lightning flashes, illuminating

her silhouette, as she hunches against the rain pouring down on her head.

"Come in, come in." I reach out to guide her and she lets me, but flinches a little

at the contact.

I grab her bags from the doorway and drop them into the tiled entryway.

Everything is sopping wet.

"Hey Bella," she says quietly as she peels off her jacket.

Remembering her flinch, I resist the urge to pull her into a hug and instead take

her coat to hang on a hook.

"How are you?" I ask.

She looks up and smiles a sad smile. "I'm okay. Glad to get out of the city."

"Well, welcome. Mi casa ... you know."

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