The Perfect Summer

The Perfect Summer

by Luanne Rice

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reissue)

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780553584042
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 07/29/2003
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 464
Sales rank: 527,784
Product dimensions: 4.18(w) x 6.87(h) x 1.21(d)

About the Author

Luanne Rice is the author of twenty-one novels, including Sandcastles, Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, and Dance With Me. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

Date of Birth:

September 25, 1955

Place of Birth:

New Britain, CT

Read an Excerpt


It was a perfect summer day.

That was Bay McCabe's thought as she stood in her backyard, a basket of just-washed clothes at her feet, a late-afternoon sea breeze blowing off the Sound. The garden was spectacular this year: Old roses, hollyhocks, delphinium, day lilies, and Rosa rugosa were in bloom. Birds dipped into the water pooled in a rock cleft, and thick green stonecrop softened the contours of granite ledge.

Bay felt almost shocked with the beauty of it all, and she forced herself to put down the clothespins and pay attention. Life is made up of golden moments: She had learned that at her grandmother's knee.

Annie and Billy were at the beach with friends, and Peg was at Little League practice. It was a rare thing for Bay to have the house and yard to herself during the summer, and she intended to take advantage of every minute. She had called Sean at the bank, to remind him of his promise to pick up Peg from practice. Bay had met her best friend, Tara O'Toole, at the beach for a swim, and now she was going to hang the wash on the line and wait for everyone to come home for dinner.

Sunlight streamed down on her red hair and freckled arms. She wore shorts and a sleeveless white shirt, and she worked quickly, from years of watching her grandmother. Mary O'Neill had shown her how it was done: one wooden clothespin in her mouth, the other clipping sheets to the line. Sean teased that the neighbors would judge them, think he wasn't making enough money if his wife had to hang laundry out to dry.

He even wanted to hire a gardener. Never mind that digging in the dirt was one of her favorite things, that trying to outdo Tara in the competition--the only real one between them: to grow the tallest sunflowers and hollyhocks and most beautiful roses and prettiest pots of lemon-drop marigolds--gave her reason to get up at dawn every morning.

Every morning, she went out to water the garden during the quiet hour before anyone else woke up, waving at Tara doing the same thing in her garden across the creek, then returning inside to make breakfast. All through the day, while her kids were out and about, she would return to the garden to nurture her plants--pruning, watering, feeding the roots. How could Sean not understand how important that was to her? How could he really think that Mary O'Neill's granddaughter would ever let her garden be cared for by a stranger?

Bay just laughed and kissed Sean, said he was too good to worry about what people thought about a little dirt under her fingernails or a few sheets flapping on the line. Her granny was from the old country, and Bay was a banker's wife, but she had learned the simple pleasures as a child and never forgotten them. When she had finished hanging the laundry, the bright clothes looked sharp against the blue sky: signal flags in a painting.

"Mom," Billy called, tearing around the corner of the white-shingled house. He had wet hair, sandy feet, and a wild look in his blue eyes that revealed his worry that something in life might happen without him. "What are we doing tonight? Are we going miniature golfing after dinner, like Dad said? Because if we are, can I ask Russell to come with us?"

"Sure, honey," Bay said, smiling at her eleven-year-old son. He had his father's golden coloring; even with sunblock, his skin turned honey brown and, to his sisters' chagrin, didn't freckle. "Where's Annie?"

"Right behind me," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I think she's going to ask if she can invite someone, too. It's okay with me if she does."

"It is, is it?" Bay asked, suppressing a smile. She had noticed her son growing up this summer. He had grown two inches since last year. He would be tall, blond, and handsome, just like his dad. And his attitude toward his sister's friends had taken a radical shift from the teasing and tormenting of summers past.

Just then the phone rang inside the house, a high trill. Bay turned toward the door, but Billy was faster. "I'll get it," he called, again making her smile. Just last week Tara had said, "This is the summer your son gets socially activated. He's got an 'on' button that's going to be the bane of your existence. He's got his mother's eyes, and his father's personality . . . the girls had better watch out."

Annie must have entered the house through the front door, and answered the phone before her brother. She stood on the back steps in her blue tank suit--for once not covered by a towel or an oversized T-shirt, straight hair wet and drying reddish-gold in the sun, holding the portable phone out to her mother.

Bay gazed at her twelve-year-old daughter, knowing she felt awkward and stocky, feeling a flood of love in the same instant her attention was captured by the gutter overhead: just over the back porch, dangling by one bracket, damaged in an early spring nor'easter. Tonight, again, Bay would remind Sean to fix it or--of course--hire someone to do it. The thoughts passed in an instant. Bay blinked, and Annie was still there, holding the phone.

"Who's calling?" Bay asked.

"It's Peg," Annie said, frowning. "She's still at the field. Daddy didn't pick her up."

Bay took the phone. "Peg?" she said.

"Mommy, I thought you said Daddy was coming. I waited and waited, but he's not here. Did I do the wrong thing? Was I supposed to get a ride from Mrs. Jensen?"

"No, Peggy," Bay said, feeling a wave of frustration at Sean--how could he have forgotten their nine-year-old? "You didn't do anything wrong. Is someone with you? You're not alone at the park, are you?"

"Mr. Brown is here. He let me use his phone," Peg said, her voice starting to quiver. "He said he'd give me a ride, but I didn't want to leave in case Daddy came."

"Stay there, honey," Bay said, already reaching for her bag. "I'll come get you right now."

The drive to the little league field, along shore Road and past the golf course, took nearly fifteen minutes. With late June came summer people, vacationing from all over, and the beach traffic was heavy. Bay looked at her watch and tried not to worry--although she didn't know Peg's coach very well, Sean seemed to like him. Wylie Brown owned a bait-and-tackle shop on the inlet, and Sean often stopped in to provision his boat for the fishing trips he took to Block Island and the canyon.

But where was Sean? How could he have forgotten? Bay had spoken with him herself; she had called the bank just three hours ago to remind him. He had had a loan committee meeting that afternoon, and he'd told her he would be finished in time to head down to the ball field to pick up their youngest. Bay had asked him to try to make time to pitch to her . . . Sean had sounded busy, distracted, but Bay knew how happy Peg would be, just as Bay used to be thrilled to play ball with her father.

Pulling into the dirt parking lot, Bay saw Peg and a sandy-haired man playing catch under a maple tree. At the sight of her mother's Volvo, Peg threw the ball to him and ran to the parking lot. She was small for her age, and streaked with dirt as if she'd slid into the plate.

"He's still not here," Peg said, green eyes glittering with disappointment. "He said he would be."

"Something must have come up at work," Bay said, feeling a pinch in her heart, the first in a long time. Was it starting again? Back during the troubles last winter, Tara had told her to quit making excuses for him. Bay hadn't taken the advice; she didn't want her kids to see their dad in a bad light.

"He said he'd pitch to me," Peg said, worry lines between her eyebrows as Bay motioned for her to climb into the back seat.

"I know, Peggy," Bay said, glancing back. "He was looking forward to it. Maybe you two can hit a few before dinner, when he gets home." Peg's coach started toward the car, but Bay felt too off balance to talk. So she just waved, calling "Thank you!" Then, quickly, she drove out of the lot, away from the shady field.

Sean didn't come home for dinner, and he didn't call. They lived in an old farmhouse just off Shore Road, down a long driveway that took them through the marsh that marked the eastern edge of Hubbard's Point. Just across Eight Mile River--more of a tidal creek, really, a tributary of the Gill River--the Point was one of Black Hall's beach areas. Sean and Bay and Tara had been childhood friends there, and Tara had inherited her grandmother's small cottage. Bay could see it now, gleaming white across the golden marsh, the garden an impressionistic blur, spilling over with flowers of pink, peach, rose, violet, yellow, and bright blue.

Bay stood outside, cooking burgers on the grill. Billy had stepped in to pitch to Peg, and all three kids seemed happily oblivious. Their main concern was that Sean come home in time to take them to Pirate's Cove. Across the river, on a hillside that until last year had been covered with tall grass and meadow flowers, a new complex had been built: ice-cream stand, driving range, go-cart track, and an extravagant miniature golf course. Pirate flags, treasure chests, shark jaws, and wrecked galleons adorned the holes. Bay preferred the unspoiled landscape, but her kids loved the development.

Setting the picnic table, Bay called the kids to dinner. While they scrambled to fix their own burgers with pickles and ketchup, she went inside to use the phone. Sean's office answering machine picked up, and she decided against leaving another message. She dialed his cell phone, hearing his recorded voice for the fourth time in an hour: "Hi, this is Sean McCabe. I'm either at the bank or on the boat. Either way, I'll call you back as soon as I can."

"Sean, it's me," Bay said. "Don't you have your phone turned on?" She took a deep breath and held back what she really wanted to say: Hey, buddy--what's the point of having a cell phone if you're not going to answer it? One of the kids could have an emergency. . . .

Sean was a vice president at Shoreline Bank and Trust and had a huge clientele. Bay knew how busy he was. A small-town banker, he handled everything: commercial transactions, home equity loans, mortgages. Five years ago, during the stock market boom, he had pioneered a private banking division, catering specifically to the wealthiest residents of the area. The result had been a gold mine for Shoreline, and Sean had received huge bonuses based on the assets under his management.

He lived life with passion--a quality Bay had loved about him. She used to say there weren't enough hours in the day for Sean to do all the things he enjoyed. As much as Bay adored gardening, Sean loved fishing, the Red Sox, going to the Eagle Feather casino with his friends.

In recent years that passion had extended to other women. Even now, it shocked her--that she could know it and still stay with him. As a young woman, judging other marriages, she would have considered infidelity completely unforgivable: One strike and you're out. But marriage had turned out to be more complicated than that.

Some people belong to a landscape as much as the rocks and trees; Bay felt that way about Hubbard's Point. The salt water was in her blood; the beach roses and day lilies were in her heart. She felt as if she had sprung from the rocky soil, and that she had to be here, in order to exist. She had always known that she would marry a boy from the beach.

She and Sean had grown up at the beach together; they had the same memories and histories. While they hadn't been each other's first loves, they had turned out to be each other's true loves--hadn't they? They were so different--but they'd seemed to complement each other perfectly. Their love had seemed so right.

But Bay had learned that marriage wasn't easy questions about background and history. It was Sean needing more independence than she could understand, working later with every promotion, traveling more on business; it was Bay wondering why he was so late every night, calling his office and getting his voice mail, hearing his excuses and trying to believe them.

Bay had discovered in herself a huge capacity for compromise--and, to her growing distress, a realization that she had lied to herself for a long time. Sean's lies hurt--but the lies she had told herself had hurt much, much more. If staying together was good for the kids, she'd forgive him and stay together. But she had started admitting to herself that she had stopped loving him the way she once had.

Bay's own denial had ended the day her daughter began asking questions.

Last fall Annie had overheard a phone call her father made--picked up the receiver and heard him whispering to Lindsey Beale about a trip they had taken to Chicago. Lindsey was a young loan officer at the bank--very beautiful and glamorous, from a wealthy New England family, with an impressive education; Bay and the kids had met her at company picnics. They had had her for dinner to the house. Annie had thought they should fix her up with her math teacher.

The phone call had devastated Bay's daughter.

"It was a business trip, honey," Bay had said, holding her, trying to keep it together for Annie's sake. "You know Daddy has to travel for the bank, and sometimes Lindsey goes with him. They work together."

"This was different," Annie had wept. "They were whispering."

Bay had felt the adrenaline, the fear, a funny feeling in her stomach. But she couldn't let Annie know, so she had just hugged her tighter. "Don't worry, Annie. I'm sure there's some explanation."

"Mommy, I don't want to tell you. Because you'll be mad at him . . . but I have to tell you. They were saying romantic things . . . Daddy wanted to kiss her again and again . . ."

"Oh, Annie," Bay had said, holding back her own anguish and rage at Sean--for betraying her, for leaving her no way to defend him to their daughter.

Annie had been heartbroken by what she'd overheard, but the other kids--younger, but with thicker skin--had been outraged when their sister told them. "Daddy, why do you talk to another woman in the night?" Pegeen had asked with steely eyes and an angry voice. "If you can't sleep, why don't you drink milk? Or read a book?"


The Perfect Summer

I have always loved summer. As soon as school was out in June, our family would load up the station wagon and head to the beach. Two parents, three sisters, our grandmother, a Scottie, two yellow cats, and bags and bags of books. Our home library had an end-of-school special, where we could take books out for a whole month, and we did.

Summer begins with the longest day of the year. It doesn't get dark till late, and we'd fill every moment of daylight with fun and adventure: swimming to the raft, crabbing at the end of the beach, fishing off the rocks, long days of reading our library books, getting lost in stories. We'd kick our shoes off and go barefoot till Labor Day.

At night we'd watch the moon rise out of the sea. The Milky Way was bright overhead, a path of stars into the darkest part of the sky. On Sunday and Thursday nights, there would be movies on the beach-we'd dig pits in the sand, lie down on our blankets, and watch the movie with our friends.

Our summer friends were our best friends; there was something about the heat, the beach, the salt water, the intensity of knowing we had just two months together before school would tear us apart, that made it a season of extreme closeness. We would see each other year after year, and despite the cold months away from each other, we'd always reconnect at the beach as if no time had passed at all.

That continues to this day. The children I grew up with now have children of their own who love the beach. I know my friends' parents, as they knew mine. The circle of friendship is a wide one, and through my life I've been blessed with great friends from all over-not just the beach.

I've drawn on a lifetime of love and friendship to write about Bay and Tara. They are best friends, as close as sisters. They know each other's hopes, dreams, and secrets. They know all the old jokes and all the darkest worries. When Bay needs to talk, she calls Tara. When Tara feels lonely, she just walks barefoot through the yards to find Bay. They put sunscreen on each other's backs. They know each other well enough to tell the whole truth. And if someone decides to mess with one, he'd better know he's taking on the other.

See, I have friends like that.

The friend I call in the middle of the night, when I feel afraid of the dark. The one who made me a pillow of exotic silk filled with buckwheat hulls. The friend who invited me to a sleepover with her sister and children. My friend who gives me flowers to plant in my yard and looks after my cats when I'm away. Her daughter, who writes songs and comes over to play them on her guitar. My friend who sends me poems by Mary Oliver and Eavan Boland, who has held my hand through the most terrifying times. My writer friend who went to Paris and was forever changed, yet somehow more himself than ever. And my other writer friend who tells me shark stories because it's okay to be scared while you're standing on dry land.

My friends were there for me all through the endless, dark winter, and they kept me believing that the longest day of the year would come around again, that the path of stars leads out of the darkness, as well as into it. Who could ask for better friends than that?

Of course I was so inspired, I had to write about it. THE PERFECT SUMMER was a gift, written very fast, during the snowiest month in recent years. While the blizzard of 2003 buried New York City under twenty inches of snow, I was deep into my writing. On breaks I'd go out to walk in the storm, and I'd see rare yellow cabs skidding into snow banks, people skiing down the middle of the streets.

I'd walk uptown through Central Park. I'd stop by the trees on Cedar Hill, to look for the long-ear owls roosting there. Once at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to be reminded of summer, I'd visit the Winslow Homers in the New American Wing. I would remember how much my mother loved his moonlight on the water, his breaking waves. My mother was an artist, and her work is filled with the inspiration of Homer's breaking waves, Constable's clouds.

On my long walks through the snow in winter 2003, I thought a lot about my mother, nature, and inspiration. All three are great blessings in my life.

Back inside with my three cats, I'd "check in" with my best friends, get the support and nurturing I needed, and then-at my desk facing the snowy street, usually with one or more cats flanking my quill pen-resume writing about summer at the beach. A friend gave me a book by Camus, and in it I found the quote that became the epigraph for my novel: "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

From seemingly insurmountable difficulty can arise insight, understanding, and-when you have friends like mine-great love. My characters in "The Perfect Summer" learn that the hard way, during the course of one shocking summer. Bay and Tara are my way of thanking my friends, letting them know what they mean to me.

My summer wish, for all my readers, is that they have friends like mine.

And that they look deep within their own hearts for the invincible summer that is always there.

Luanne Rice

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Perfect Summer 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 21 reviews.
Aimee_Leon More than 1 year ago
This was a wonderful love story and so sweet. With it's suspense and romance. The book is a real page turner. I enjoyed it alot. The story is about a new widow Bay, who is trying to get her life and the childrens lives together from their tragedy of losing her husband and their father. But not that tragic since he was not such a perfect husband to Bay. She already knew that she had to face her reality, and begin her life as the head of her family and maintainin the household. But in the middle Bay finds an old friend and soon resparks old feelings for eachother. All of these details details reveal a beautiful, couragous and unforgettable story. Luanne Rice writes wonderfully. This is the first novel of hers that I've read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This novel was so sweet, suspensful & romantic. It's a real page turner. The story is about a widow whose trying to get her and the childrens life together thru a tragedy. So beyound all that she still finds the ability to love & trust again. I'd recommend anyone to read it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book, among others by Ms Rice, is very touching and emotional. It talks about life and what could happen in a flash of a second. I could not put it down once I began reading it because I wanted to know what will happen next. I cheered and I cried (well, got a bit chocked up) for the characters and how Ms. Rice can bring them together to a happy ending.
Amy_Atwell on LibraryThing 11 months ago
Bay McCabe, over 40 mother of 3, feels her life is stalled, but that¿s nothing compared to the havoc she wrestles through when her husband is accused of embezzling funds and is then found murdered. Bay must hold everything together for her children despite her own anger and hurt, and shes does so with the help of her lifelong best friend, an old flame, and her new employer.Dan Connolly thought he¿d somehow failed his wife and daughter, until the investigation uncovers the truth--his wife was cheating on him with Bay¿s husband. But it¿s even worse to learn that his daughter, traumatized by her own mother¿s death a year before, is now the target of the murderous bank embezzlers.Good crime mystery, wonderful coastal CT locale, rich characters. A little too much description and backstory, but Rice milks the emotions from this book.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I liked the story. I liked that it dealt with some of the real life problems with divorce and children caught between. It was good at the end.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I liked this book, it had some mystery and romance to it....very nice read.
harstan More than 1 year ago
For twenty-five years Bay and Sean McCabe have been married and lived in Hubbard¿s Point, Connecticut. They have three preadolescent children. The couple has had their ups and downs especially caused by Sean¿s womanizing. However, ever since last year when their oldest child Annie overheard her father speaking romantically to another woman shaking up Sean, the relationship seems honest and solid.

The youngest child calls from the little league field to inform her mom that her dad failed to pick her up as previously arranged. Falling into routine, Bay rationalizes that Sean must be running late at the bank where he is a vice president and drives over to bring Peg home. When an employee of Sean calls asking for him and why he missed a key meeting, Bay begins to worry. Annie rides her bike to the family boat with Bay and a close friend Tara following. They find blood and call the police. Bay learns the FBI is involved because of embezzlement shenanigans at the bank. With her only lead being Dan Connolly, someone she had a puppy crush on before she married, Bay makes inquiries into what happened to her spouse.

Luanne Rice¿s latest thriller is THE PERFECT SUMMER novel for fans of police procedural romances. The action is loaded and the tension shrewdly elevated especially as Bay begins to realize that her spouse is not coming home and as she, Tara, and Annie begin to unravel the truth. Though the interrelationships are explained, they still seem stretched until the dichotomously plausible final note to Annie is found and explains all to readers who will find this an entertaining romantic suspense tale.

Harriet Klausner