The Summer List Read online

  Laura and Casey were once inseperable...

  Coming of age in California, Laura felt connected to her best friend in every way: as they floated on their backs in the sunlit lake, as they dreamed about the future under starry skies, and as they teamed up for the wild scavenger hunts in their small lakeside town. Until one summer night, when a shocking betrayal sent Laura running through the pines, down the dock, and into a new life, leaving Casey and a first love in her wake.

  But the past is impossible to escape, and now, after seventeen years away, Laura is pulled home and into a reunion with Casey she can’t resist—one last scavenger hunt. With a twist: this time, the list of clues leads to the settings of their most cherished summer memories. From glistening Jade Cove to the vintage skating rink, each step they take becomes a bittersweet reminder of the friendship they once shared. But just as the game brings Laura and Casey back together, the clues unravel a stunning secret that threatens to tear them apart...

  Mesmerizing and unforgettable, Amy Mason Doan’s The Summer List is about losing and recapturing the person who understands you best—and the unbreakable bonds of girlhood.

  THE SUMMER LIST

  Amy Mason Doan

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Mike and Miranda

  Contents

  Preface

  1 Mermaid in the Mailbox

  2 Ariel and Pocahontas

  3 Alexandra the Great

  4 The Machine

  5 Bartles & Jaymes

  6 Messy

  7 The Boy Behind the Counter

  8

  9 Raptor Rock

  10 Critical and Confusing

  11 Yes, No, Wow

  12 Things That Don’t Belong

  13

  14 Velocity

  15 Stepping Stones

  16 Dreaming Shepherd Books

  17 Vanity

  18 Sorry

  19

  20 More than Fun

  21 Honor System

  22 June Names That Tune

  23 Band-Aids

  24 Liquid Hiding Place

  25 Gamemaster

  26

  27 Women’s Retreat

  28 Whistle While You Work

  29 The Moon and Stars

  30 Doctor Mona’s Hot Springs and Holistic Spa

  31

  32 Another Tiny Surprise

  33 Biggest Little City in the World

  34 Rainbow of Glass

  35

  36 Sacred Institutions

  37 Counting Down

  38 Lost and Found

  39 Again

  40

  41 A Pirate

  42

  43 Eighteen

  44 Skipping Stones

  45 Extreme

  46

  47 Fog

  48

  49 Weathr-All

  50

  51 Treasure

  52 The Visitor

  53 The Prize

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  Discussion Questions

  California

  July

  27th day of camp

  The others were mad at her again.

  They clustered behind her on the sand, watching as she stepped onto the wet ledge of rocks.

  “What is she doing?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Ignoring them, she picked her way across tide pools, careful not to hurt the creatures underfoot—quivering purple anemones that retracted under her shadow, barnacles like blisters of stone.

  All she wanted was a few minutes away from them. A few minutes alone to breathe in the cold wind off the ocean before the van delivered them back to the airless cabins, the dark chapel.

  There were only ten minutes left in the game, and it would take her almost that long to make her way back across the slippery outcropping. If they didn’t return in time it’d be another mark against her.

  She spotted something tangled in kelp, lodged between two flat rocks near the drop-off. So close to the surf. As if it had been carried across the ocean and snugged there, at the jagged edge of the world, just for her.

  Stepping closer, she crouched, then flattened herself onto her belly. Her shirt and jeans drenched, her elbow scraped, she reached out but got only a rubbery handful of kelp.

  She shut her eyes. If she looked down at the sea she would fall in like the doomed man on the keep-off sign behind her, a stick figure tumbling into scalloped waves.

  Salt spray stinging her face, she fumbled through the squelching mass of kelp. Until her fingers found what they wanted and it gave, escaping its wet nest with a gentle sucking sound.

  She knelt on the wet rocks as she examined her prize, brushing away green muck. The driftwood was longer than her hand, curved into a C. One end was pointier than the other, and in the center the wood splintered and cracked. But imperfect as it was, the resemblance was unmistakable, miraculous: a crescent moon.

  Cur-di-lune, he’d said. I grew up in a town called Curdilune.

  A strange, pretty name.

  He’d drawn it for her in the dusty ground behind the craft cabin that morning. His calloused finger had sketched rectangles for the buildings. Houses and a church, shops and a park, nestled together against the inner curve of a crescent-shaped lake.

  Curdilune. Cur is heart in French, he’d explained. Lune is moon. So it means Heart of the Moon. Then, with a light touch on her wrist—You miss home, too?

  The others had walked by then, before she could answer, and he’d erased his little map, swirling his palm over the shapes in the dirt so quickly she knew it was their secret.

  If she ran back to her team now, her find might help them win—a piece of driftwood was Item 7 on the list stuffed into her back pocket.

  She glanced over at them and slid the wet treasure down her pocket, untucking her shirt to hide it. She’d give it to him instead.

  It was a thank-you, an offering, an invitation. A cry for help after the long, bewildering summer.

  1

  Mermaid in the Mailbox

  June 2016

  The invitation came on a Saturday.

  I was taking Jett for a walk, and she was frantic with anticipation, nails skittering on the lobby’s tile floor, black fur spiking up so she looked more like a little dragon than a Lab.

  “If you calm down I can do this faster, lady,” I said as I high-stepped to free myself from the leash she’d wrapped around my ankles. “Off.”

  She retreated, settling under the bank of mailboxes. But right when I got my letters out, she sprang up and butted my wrist with her head. Perfect aim, perfect timing.

  “Leave it, Joan Jett. Devious girl.” I tried to maintain the stern voice we learned in Practical Skills Training but couldn’t help laughing as I collected my mail from the floor. A typical assortment. White, business-sized bills. A Sushi Express menu. A slender donation form for Goodwill.

  Then—not typical—a hot-pink envelope.

  It had fallen facedown, revealing a sticker centered over the triangular flap: a mermaid. In pearls and sunglasses. Holding a sign saying You’re Invited!

  I assumed it was for the tween girl who lived in #1. I was #7, so there were sometimes mix-ups. I was halfway down the hall to her family’s unit when I flipped the envelope over, preparing to slide it under their door.

  It was for me.

  Ms. Laura Christie, 7 Pacific View, San Francisco, CA 94115.


  No return address.

  But I knew who it was from.

  I knew because of the mermaid sticker, which now made sense, and from the surge of something close to happiness in my chest.

  I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a photo of two grinning 1950s girls in pajamas. Over their rollered heads, in black ballpoint, she had printed Coeur-de-Lune. My hometown.

  Then dates—Thurs. June 23–Sun. June 26. Less than three weeks away.

  Below that it said:

  Scavenger hunt!

  Crank calls!

  Manicures!

  Trio of cookie dough!

  But seriously, please come. We’re supposed to be older and wiser. (35—how did it happen?) I promise it will be ok.

  No RSVP necessary.

  Casey

  Casey Katherine Shepherd. I hadn’t seen her since we were eighteen.

  When I ran into people from Coeur-de-Lune they inevitably asked me about Casey, and I always said, “We drifted.” They would nod, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. People drifted.

  In my case it’d be more accurate to say I’d swum away. As fast as I could, trying my hardest not to look back.

  I slid the card into its torn pink envelope and turned it over again, my thumb smoothing the top edge of the sticker, where it had curled up slightly.

  I promise it will be ok, she’d written.

  (35—how did it happen?)

  I held the invitation over the recycling basket, pausing a second before letting it flutter into the mess of junk mail. I waited for the soft rustle it made on landing before I let Jett tug me to the door.

  * * *

  It was cool and sunny, a rare reprieve from San Francisco’s usual June Gloom.

  Jett headed right on the sidewalk out of habit. Saturdays we always strolled to Lafayette Park, hitting up her favorite leisurely sniff stops on the way. But today I pulled gently on the leash, and she turned, surprised, as I led her to a crosswalk in the opposite direction, charging uphill toward Lyon Street. I needed the steep climb, something to clear my head.

  Why now, Casey? After seventeen years?

  My childhood home in Coeur-de-Lune was now a vacation rental, managed by efficient strangers. I’d never gone back. But my mother kept a buzzing gossip line into her church women from town, and gave me sporadic updates on Casey’s life.

  She always brought Casey up when I was lulled into complacency. When we’d had a surprisingly peaceful afternoon together. When we were outside on her balcony, or sharing a piece of her peach pie like other mothers and daughters did.

  Only then would she jab, a master fencer going for the unprotected sliver of my heart.

  The first update, when I was twenty—Casey Shepherd dropped out of college. Back living with that mother in town.

  That must be nice for them, I’d said, not meeting her eyes.

  A few years later—Casey Shepherd bought the bookstore. Moronic. Might as well have thrown her money in the lake.

  I was in her kitchen that morning, unloading groceries into her retirement-sized pantry. Macaroni, crackers, mushroom soup. Hands moving smoothly from bag to shelf, making sure the labels faced out.

  That’ll be interesting, I’d said. My eyes were trained on my mother’s well-organized shelves, but they saw Casey’s bookcase, crammed with her beloved trashy paperbacks. Fat, dog-eared copies of Lace and Queenie and Princess Daisy.

  After the bookstore news I didn’t hear anything about Casey for a long time. I had men in my life, a few friends I met for glasses of wine. I was fine. Settled. Lucky. And able to keep my face blank when my mother said, three years ago:

  Casey Shepherd has a child. A girl. Adopted, foster child, something. Hmph. Surprised anyone would let a child into that house. That mother’s still there, you know.

  I was thirty-two then, and after nearly a decade of blessed silence on the topic of the Shepherds, I could meet my mother’s eyes and say evenly, Casey always liked kids.

  It was the first time I’d said her name out loud since high school.

  * * *

  I began to run, an easy jog.

  Was it because of our ages? Was thirty-five the number at which a goofy card could fix everything?

  (35—How did it happen?), she’d written, in that familiar, nearly illegible penmanship. Her cursive had always been sloppy, with big capitals.

  Casey’s mother, Alex, had gotten into handwriting analysis one summer. According to Alex’s book, Casey was energetic and loyal, I was creative and romantic, and Alex was an aesthete with a passionate nature. If there had been something in how we looped our Ls or curved our Cs that hinted at what was to come, at less flattering traits, we’d overlooked it.

  Alex would be there, if I went. Spinning around as if everything was the same, raving about her latest obsession. Celtic runes or cooking with grandfather grains. Whatever she happened to be into that week.

  I sped up, though the grade was now more than forty-five degrees. One of those legendary San Francisco hills, perilous to skateboarders and parallel-parkers. Jett’s leash was slack, not its usual taut water-skiing line dragging me forward. But she pushed on loyally at my side, the plastic bags tied to her leash flapping and whistling.

  Why, Casey?

  Wind-sprint pace now, sloppier with each stride.

  Maybe she was bored and wanted to see what I’d do if she dared me to visit.

  At the top of the hill I bent over, hands on my knees. Jett panted, her black coat shiny as obsidian.

  Below, the wide grid of streets and houses swept down toward the Marina, to the bright blue bay flecked with white sails, all the way to the hills of Tiburon rising from the opposite shore. To my left, I could just make out the graceful, ruddy lines of the Golden Gate holding it all in, because without it such aching beauty would escape to sea.

  The dark little crescent lake where I’d grown up was nothing compared to this.

  The Bay could hold thousands of Coeur-de-Lunes.

  I headed slowly back downhill toward my building. My back was soaked, my chest tight. I was lucky I hadn’t rolled an ankle.

  And I hadn’t managed to cardio the invite from my head. Casey’s words were still in there, burrowing deeper. I could hear her voice now. The voice of an eighteen-year-old girl, plaintive beneath her irony.

  But seriously, please come.

  * * *

  I was sure the mermaid would be safely buried by the time we got back.

  But when I passed the mailboxes, there she was, staring up at me. Her tail was covered by a Restoration Hardware catalog, the top edge perfectly horizontal across her waistline. Or finline. Whatever it was called, it looked as if someone had tucked her in for the night, careful to leave her face uncovered so she could breathe.

  I reached down and, in one quick gesture, plucked the pink envelope from the basket.

  I couldn’t go.

  But I also couldn’t leave her like that, all alone.

  Coeur-de-Lune

  Thursday, June 23

  That was nineteen days ago. And now I was in Casey’s driveway, trapped. Too nervous to get out of my car, too embarrassed to leave.

  I blamed the mermaid.

  Once she’d escaped the recycling bin, the pushy little thing had managed to secure a beachhead on my fridge.

  For days, she’d perched there, peering over a black-and-white photo of a young 1970s surf god conquering an impossible wave: one of the magnets I’d designed for Sam, my favorite client and owner of Goofy Foot Surf & Coffee Shack out by Ocean Beach.

  As the date grew closer, the mermaid started migrating around my apartment. She kept me company in the bathroom when I flossed in the morning, and as I ate lunch at my small kitchen table. When I couldn’t sleep at night and passed the time brushing the frilled edges of the envelope back
and forth under my chin, rereading Casey’s words. Trying to figure out why she’d written them now, after so long.

  I still didn’t understand.

  The invitation had said No RSVP necessary, and I’d taken her up on that, so she didn’t know I was coming. Until today, I hadn’t been sure myself.

  But here I was.

  I tunneled my hands into the opposite sleeves of my coat, hugging myself. I’d rolled down my window a few inches, and chilly mountain air was starting to seep in. Jett was in her sheepskin bed in the back, curled into a black ball like a giant roly-poly. I was stalling. Rereading the invite as if I hadn’t memorized it weeks before.

  I leaned over the steering wheel and stared up at the house as if it could provide answers. From the front it resembled one of those skinny birdhouses kids made in camp out of hollow tree branches standing on end: a wooden rectangle with a crude, A-shaped cap.

  But from the water it looked more like a boat, with rows of small, high windows—so much like portholes—and a long, skinny dock—pirate’s gangplank—to complete the effect. When the place started falling apart in the ’70s, some grumbly neighbor called it The Shipwreck, and the name had stuck.

  It was a love-it-or-hate-it house, and the Shepherd women had loved it.

  So had I. I’d once felt easier here, more myself, than in my own home. The Shipwreck hadn’t changed, but today it offered me no welcome.

  There was a silver Camry ahead of me in the driveway, so someone was probably home. They could be watching, counting how many minutes I sat inside my car. Trying to gather my courage, and failing. I didn’t feel any more courageous than I had when the invitation first arrived.

  “Wish me luck,” I whispered toward Jett’s snores as I got out. I shut the door a little harder than necessary, hoping the plunk would draw Casey and Alex outside. Then they’d have to say something to hurdle us over the awkwardness. “You made it!” Or “Come in, it’s getting cold!”

  But the front door didn’t budge.

  I walked slowly toward the house, past the Camry. The section of lake I could see beyond the house was at its most stunning, framed in pines, streaked with red and pink from the sunset. It was so ridiculously beautiful it seemed almost a rebuke, a point made and underlined twice. This is how a sunset is done.