Summer After Summer

by Ann DeFee

• ISBN13: 9780373654185
• ISBN10: 0373654189
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2007-09-01
• Publisher: Harlequin

Summary

In the summer of '73, Jasmine and Charlie share a secret place by the river. Somewhere to laugh and dream on hot Texas nights. A place for making memories. For getting close... Then Jazzy's girlfriend Bunny drops a bombshell that brings an end to teenage innocence-- and the beginning of life without Charlie. It's the summer of '93 and Jazzy's got a rock on her finger and a successful architectural practice in California. Yet something's missing. She bumps into Charlie at their high school reunion, and their feelings and shared memories are as powerful as ever. But before they can do anything about it, an urgent plea calls Jazzy away once more. This summer... Her marriage over, Jaz heads for home again. For Texas. And for Charlie... This time, she knows it's forever.

Excerpts

"Jasmine Boudreaux! You girls watch out for snakes now, ya hear?" Mama's honeyed drawl drifted over the languid green river to the wooden raft where I was sunbathing with my three best friends--Bunny Bennett, Mary Alice Cunningham and Misty Stewart. Although we were as different as the four points of the compass, we'd been best buddies since our first day in kindergarten. Mary Alice was thoughtful, sensitive and more than a little religious. Bunny, the wild child, was on the opposite end of the spectrum. And Misty was our version of intelligentsia, bouncing back and forth between arcane ideologies. One day you'd find her quoting Ayn Rand; the next she'd be reading Karl Marx. And speaking of dichotomies--I was a walking, talking Gemini. Although I was the most pragmatic member of our group, I was naive enough to fall for every practical joke in the universe. I was fairly sure Mary Alice and I were the only two virgins in our senior class. I say that tentatively because virginity, or lack of it, was one of the few things we didn't discuss. "Bucky said he saw at least half-a-dozen moccasins in the river last night, and you know how those nasty things like to get up on that old dock to sun." "Yes, Mama, we'll be careful," I replied, although I didn't bother to open my eyes. Through some strange quirk of fate, Bucky was my brother. He was a junior at the University of Texas and he was absolutely positive he was the grand pooh-bah of the Western world. Truth be told, he was a pain in the rear. Bunny sat up and engaged Mama in conversation--an exceptionally bad idea since my mother loved to talk. "Miz Boudreaux, did my mom call?" Bunny could put on the thickest Texas accent you ever heard. And this was one of those occasions. "No, honey, she hasn't. What do you want me to tell her if she does?" Mama had to yell in order to be heard. "Just remind her I'm spending the night here, if you would. Not that she really cares where I am." That last sentence was meant strictly for our ears. "Sure thing, honey," Mama agreed. "Jazzy, we're eating at the country club so you girls go to the Pink Pig for supper. I'll leave some money on the kitchen table." In Meadow Lake, Texas, population 8,631, the Pink Pig Burger Emporium was the "happening" place. "Happening," that is, if you were into junk food, teenagers and the occasional redneck--"happening," of course, being a relative term. Growing up in a small south Texas town when your daddy's the police chief presented some challenges. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, thought it was their job to report my every move. Swear to goodness, if I'd been audacious enough to utter the f-word, Mama would've known about it before I closed my mouth. Every weekend, the kids had this ritual where we all circled the Pink Pig, cruised to the park on the other side of town, came back around to check out the movie theater, swung by Garcia's Pizzeria and then completed the circuit with a trip back to the PP. Round and round we went in a relentless circle of teenage hormones. I was so busy thinking about life in the high-school zone that I almost missed the fact that Mama was still dispensing advice from the shore. "Misty, you watch out and don't get sunburned. With your red hair, you could blister right up." Mama was well into her drill-sergeant routine. "Yes, ma'am," the redhead in question yelled as she rolled over and smeared more baby oil on her exposed stomach. "Maybe if I get my freckles to run together I'll be able to tan. What do ya think?" she asked, even though we all knew it was a rhetorical question. Misty had been trying to tan since the fourth grade and she'd never progressed beyond the burn, peel and freckle stage. I, on the other hand, had the skin of my Cajun ancestors and by the end of the summer I was as brown as a berry. It was one of those things that made her crazy. One of the