Summer's Crucible- Chapter Three: Our Fiends Among Family

Despite her best efforts to sleep in that Saturday morning, Summer's internal clock remained stubbornly committed to waking before sunrise.

The clumsy sounds of Landon stumbling through the house weren't helping.

She lay still, listening to the unmistakable racket of someone who had spent the night drinking and had only just remembered that other people might be asleep.

Landon was home.

Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.

Summer recognized Henri's voice immediately. His thick vocal fry carried through the hallway as he rummaged around the den, loudly complaining that he couldn't find a lighter for his dab.

Neither brother seemed particularly concerned about waking her.

The master bedroom was separated from the hallway by a thin wall of frosted glass, which offered privacy from view but did remarkably little to muffle sound.

Summer kept her eyes closed.

She had no intention of greeting either man.

For Landon and Henri, it was the end of a long night of clubbing, and they were still drunk enough to consider the morning an extension of the festivities.

For Summer, it was the beginning of another perfectly sober day.

“Hey, keep it down,” Landon muttered. “If she hears you, she'll bitch all day.”

Summer's eyes opened.

Henri gave a dismissive snort.

“Bro, just dump her. She's been a wet blanket since day one.”

Summer stared at the ceiling.

She knew precisely what Henri meant.

He had never forgiven her for insisting that Landon's house stop functioning as an unofficial after-hours club.

When she first moved in, Summer had tried not to interfere with Landon's bachelor habits.

She understood that he enjoyed entertaining friends, and she had no desire to become the sort of girlfriend who dictated whom he could invite into his own home.

That consideration had ended the morning one of his drunken acquaintances wandered into their bedroom and vomited beside her while she slept.

Summer had been due at work only a few hours later.

After that, she insisted that the parties stop.

Landon eventually agreed, though Summer suspected his compliance had less to do with respecting her wishes than with protecting his expensive possessions from the collection of fair-weather friends who appeared whenever free alcohol was available.

Henri, naturally, considered the restriction an unforgivable intrusion.

Summer listened as Landon answered him.

“Oh, right. Like Charlene's so great.”

Henri groaned at the mention of his wife.

“Yeah? Fuck you.”

The conversation dissolved into the sounds of coughing as the brothers took turns inhaling from their dab rig.

Within minutes, the unmistakable smell of cannabis concentrate drifted through the house.

Summer pulled the blanket over her face.

Apparently, the rules against partying indoors had become optional again.

Summer had met Charlene several years earlier, when Henri and his wife were already married.

It had been at a sporting event in the Oettinger family's private skybox.

Charlene was heavily pregnant at the time, though that hadn't prevented her from carrying a cocktail large enough to qualify as a decorative centerpiece.

When Landon introduced them, Charlene shifted the fishbowl-sized glass into her other hand to offer Summer a handshake.

Summer must have looked surprised.

“Oh, it's fine,” Charlene said with a giggle, resting a hand on her belly. “My doctor says I can have a drink a day. It's not like this is my first kid.”

She gestured vaguely toward her toddler daughter, Nina, who was sitting alone near an exit, surrounded by empty cocktail glasses that the attendants hadn't yet cleared away.

The little girl was painfully thin and appeared entirely forgotten by the adults around her.

Summer had been alarmed.

Nevertheless, she smiled politely and said nothing.

It was one of the first occasions on which she learned that expressing concern about

Landon's family was generally more trouble than it was worth.

Over time, Summer discovered that Charlene's casual attitude toward drinking was hardly her only vice.

Whenever Henri annoyed her, Charlene had a habit of helping herself to his stash of narcotics, even during her pregnancies.

Her justification was always some variation of the same complaint.

Can you believe what that bastard did now?

As far as Summer could tell, Henri and Charlene were perfectly suited to one another.

Both were superficial, self-absorbed, and perpetually aggrieved by the inconvenience of other people's needs.

They shared an extraordinary ability to interpret their own bad behavior as a reasonable response to someone else's shortcomings.

When their second child, Greyson, arrived, parenthood did little to improve either of them.

If anything, they became more exaggerated versions of the people they had always been.

Nina, meanwhile, grew increasingly preoccupied with clothes, possessions, and social standing, adopting many of her mother's mannerisms long before she was old enough to understand them.

Summer found it difficult to blame the girl.

Children could hardly be expected to develop values they had never seen demonstrated.

Another round of coughing erupted from the den.

Summer had heard enough.

She climbed out of bed and went to shower, confident that neither brother was sober enough to notice whether she was awake.

By the time she finished dressing, the smell of smoke had spread throughout the house.

She made her way toward the garage and discovered Landon and Henri attempting to prepare something in the kitchen.

Neither appeared particularly capable of operating the stove.

Summer considered warning them.

Then she imagined one of them burning a finger on a hot pan and felt a small, admittedly uncharitable flicker of satisfaction.

She left them to their culinary ambitions.

For once, she had no intention of babysitting two grown men who were perfectly capable of making their own poor decisions.

The thought put a smile on her face as she hurried toward the garage.

Unfortunately, her foot failed to clear the raised lip of the doorway.

Her ankle twisted sharply beneath her.

“Oh, damn it!”

Summer caught herself against the doorframe before she fell.

Pain shot through her ankle, forcing her to stand still for several seconds.

She tested her weight on the injured foot.

It hurt, but she could still walk.

She would probably need ice later.

For now, however, the prospect of remaining in the house with Landon and Henri was even less appealing than the discomfort.

She limped to her car.

Once inside, Summer considered her options.

She had no particular destination in mind. She simply wanted to be somewhere else.

Mimsy lived on the opposite side of the county, in a working-class neighborhood populated largely by retired divorcees and people who seemed to spend their days monitoring one another's gardening habits.

Summer knew her mother wouldn't object to an unexpected visit, provided she arrived

bearing some sort of gift.

That reminded her of the Pottery Barn gift card.

It was worth several thousand dollars, the result of one of Landon's more theatrical shopping tantrums the previous autumn.

He had ordered an expensive custom sectional, only to decide after its arrival that it no longer suited his preferred aesthetic.

When the store explained that the specialty order could only be returned for store credit, Landon reacted as though the employees had personally conspired to rob him.

He argued with the manager, demanded exceptions, and finally threw the gift card onto the floor before storming out.

Summer had followed behind him, apologizing profusely to the staff.

She retrieved the discarded card, worried that someone might call the police if Landon's behavior escalated further.

Unlike Landon, she couldn't afford the luxury of treating public disturbances as harmless entertainment.

His family's connections had already helped him escape serious consequences for several drunk-driving offenses during his fraternity years.

Summer had no reason to believe anyone would extend her the same courtesy.

The memory made her wince.

She was becoming increasingly tired of apologizing for a man who rarely apologized for himself.

The gift card, however, remained in her possession.

Perhaps she could use it to buy Mimsy something and spend the afternoon away from the house.

Summer started the car.

Her ankle throbbed as she worked the pedals, and she engaged the cruise control once she reached the highway, though even that did little to make the drive comfortable.

Halfway across the county, she reconsidered.

Mimsy didn't particularly need anything from Pottery Barn.

Her house was already filled with furniture, much of it acquired during marriages that had ended years earlier.

Heather, on the other hand, was perpetually broke and usually living in some half-furnished apartment.

She could probably make better use of the gift card.

Besides, Mimsy was likely preparing for some Red Hat Society outing or another.

Summer pulled into a parking lot, entered Heather's address into the GPS, and changed course toward downtown.

Heather lived on the fourteenth floor of an aging apartment building.

Before heading upstairs, Summer stopped at a nearby delicatessen and ordered breakfast through its curbside service.

She knew Heather would be considerably more receptive to an unexpected visitor bearing a

Nova lox bagel with avocado instead of cream cheese and extra capers.

A cinnamon latte wouldn't hurt, either.

Summer collected the food and made her way upstairs, moving carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her ankle.

At Heather's door, she entered the access code without knocking.

She knew it by heart.

Heather had used the same password for nearly everything since middle school: the birthday of her beloved pug, Mr. Puggy.

The dog had been dead for years, but Heather's devotion to his memory remained absolute.

She was convinced Mimsy had deliberately fed him to death because he had a habit of nipping at her heavily treated face whenever she attempted to pet him.

Summer doubted Mimsy had intentionally killed the dog, though she could easily imagine her overfeeding him out of spite or indifference.

Animals had never seemed particularly fond of Mimsy.

Summer suspected the combination of strong perfumes, cosmetic treatments, and unpredictable behavior made her an unsettling presence.

She opened the apartment door.

Immediately, she regretted it.

There was something distinctly Mimsy-like about entering another person's home without permission.

For a moment, Summer considered leaving before Heather noticed.

Too late.

Heather emerged from the bedroom wearing the same rumpled clothes she had apparently slept in the night before.

“I thought you were Mimsy,” she yawned.

She didn't seem remotely surprised to find Summer standing in her entryway.

That, somehow, made Summer feel worse.

Heather took the delicatessen bag from her hand and climbed onto a stool beside the kitchen island.

“Is that coffee or tea in the big cup?”

“Coffee. Cinnamon latte.”

Heather reached for it immediately.

She took a long drink, then grimaced.

“Ew. It's cold.”

Summer looked at her.

“You're welcome.”

Heather had already begun unwrapping her bagel.

Summer limped toward a beanbag chair in the living room and lowered herself into it.

The chair was leaking stuffing onto the floor, but it was soft enough to let her rest her injured ankle.

The apartment smelled like a cross between a pet store and a locker room.

Summer suspected the turtle tank in the corner was largely responsible.

Its habitat sat on a wooden pallet, and the water looked as though it hadn't been changed recently.

“Why did you come to the door before I said it was me?” Summer asked. “I could've been a burglar.”

Heather looked up from her breakfast.

“You let yourself in.”

“That's not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“You should be more careful.”

Heather rolled her eyes.

“Calm down. I knew it was either you or Mimsy.”

“How?”

“Because you're the only two people I know who can sound judgmental while standing silently in a doorway.”

Summer frowned.

“How does someone sound judgmental without talking?”

“It's a gift. You both have it.”

Heather took another bite of her bagel.

“Besides, I doubt a burglar would come all the way up to the fourteenth floor to rob me. It's not like I have anything worth stealing.”

Both women glanced toward the turtle tank.

It was probably the most expensive possession in the apartment.

Summer considered the observation.

“Well, I'm not going to argue with you there.”

Heather snorted.

For a moment, they were both amused.

It was an unusual pleasure, being able to laugh with someone without worrying whether the conversation would turn into an argument.

Summer explained the gift card and offered to take Heather shopping.

Heather's interest was immediate.

She had very little furniture worth keeping, and the prospect of replacing some of it without spending her own money was too appealing to refuse.

While Heather finished eating and got dressed, Summer remained in the beanbag chair, resting her ankle.

She rarely visited Heather.

Part of the reason was that Heather moved so frequently that Summer sometimes had difficulty remembering where she lived.

Another was the age difference between them.

Now in her thirties, Summer had reached a stage of life in which she preferred predictability, comfort, and some degree of permanence.

Heather still seemed content to move from one temporary arrangement to another, abandoning possessions and relationships whenever something more appealing came along.

Summer had begun taking stock of the people she had known growing up.

There weren't many she felt particularly close to.

In fact, her childhood had been populated by a revolving assortment of stepparents, stepsiblings, and foster children, most of whom disappeared from her life as abruptly as they had entered it.

Mimsy's second husband, Clay, had three children from a previous marriage.

They lived with their mother in another Southern state and visited during alternating holidays.

Summer had been very young at the time, barely old enough for Little League, but she remembered them vividly.

They played rough, knocked her down, and seemed to take considerable pleasure in making her cry.

Whenever they visited, her dolls lost their heads, her toys disappeared, and everything in the house somehow became sticky and smelled of dirty feet.

Summer had dreaded the alternating Christmases and Fourth of July holidays when they appeared.

Years later, some of them attempted to reconnect.

She never responded.

Whatever affection they might have expected from a former stepsister had been exhausted long before she reached adulthood.

Clay eventually remarried and had more children.

Mimsy referred to his new wife as “another ugly bumpkin,” an assessment Summer suspected had more to do with resentment than appearance.

She had little interest in learning whether Clay's new family was any more agreeable than the old one.

After Clay came Jean, a pastor at a local church whose particular brand of Christianity seemed to involve a great deal of condemnation and remarkably little charity.

During that marriage, Mimsy briefly reinvented herself as a devoted foster mother.

The arrangement suited her public image.

She enjoyed being praised for opening her home to disadvantaged children.

Unfortunately, she was considerably less enthusiastic about the actual experience of having children living in it.

They were noisy, energetic, untidy, and frequently in need of attention.

Mimsy had little patience for any of those qualities.

Once the novelty of being admired for her generosity wore off, she lost interest.

The foster children were returned to the system, and Jean was soon shown the door as well.

Summer had learned early that Mimsy's affection often depended on whether a person continued to serve some useful purpose.

The foster children had occasionally attempted to contact Summer as adults.

The encounters were rarely pleasant.

Lachelle, who preferred to be called Bux, once approached her asking for financial help with what she claimed was a teenage pregnancy.

Summer later discovered that the money had been intended for a large tattoo of an older man's name across Lachelle's chest.

Then there was Hugo, better known as Jay.

He contacted Summer seeking a character witness after being arrested for stealing from elderly residents at a long-term care facility where he worked as a janitor.

Mimsy attended every day of his trial.

She had never been one to miss an opportunity to witness someone else's humiliation.

According to Mimsy's enthusiastic retelling, Hugo would arrive at work in ordinary clothes and leave carrying enough stolen jewelry to resemble a walking pawnshop.

Summer remembered him for a different reason.

When they were children, Hugo regularly stole lunch money from her schoolbag on the bus.

She had been too frightened to tell Mimsy.

When her mother eventually discovered what was happening, she punished Summer for keeping quiet, then arranged for Hugo to be returned to the group home.

The experience had taught Summer two contradictory lessons.

She was expected to report mistreatment immediately.

She could also expect to be punished for having endured it.

It was the sort of logic that had characterized much of her upbringing.

Of all the temporary family members who had passed through Summer's life, Heather was probably the most tolerable.

That wasn't an especially glowing endorsement, but it meant something.

Heather had never made Summer feel inferior for being adopted.

Mimsy, on the other hand, had never been discreet about the subject.

She mentioned Summer's adoption so frequently that it sometimes seemed to be the first fact she wanted strangers to know about her daughter.

The disclosure inevitably invited questions.

Some were merely intrusive.

Others were openly ignorant or insulting.

Summer had spent much of her childhood explaining circumstances she barely understood herself to people who had no legitimate reason to ask.

Clay's children had been particularly cruel.

At family dinners, they sometimes amused themselves by debating the ways they were supposedly superior to Summer because they were related to their father by blood.

They liked to remind her that she didn't know “her people.”

Summer had been too young to defend herself effectively.

Mimsy dismissed the behavior as childish teasing.

Years later, she claimed Heather's more considerate attitude was simply evidence of better manners.

Summer suspected the difference was more fundamental.

Heather had never needed to make someone else feel illegitimate in order to feel secure in her own place in the family.

Clay's children, by contrast, seemed delighted to find someone they could look down upon.

Summer had never forgotten it.

The irony was that she did, eventually, learn who her biological relatives were.

The knowledge brought her very little comfort.

Summer's biological mother was a Baltic woman who had been deported after becoming involved in fraudulent check writing.

Her biological father was a married highway patrol officer whose career ended prematurely after allegations that he had falsified criminal reports to enhance his professional reputation.

Their affair had resulted in Summer's birth.

For years, her father denied her existence to his family.

When Summer eventually attempted to contact her paternal grandparents, they refused to acknowledge her.

Shortly after finishing high school, she obtained access to what portions of her adoption records the state would release.

Mimsy, to her credit, hired an experienced private investigator to help fill in the gaps.

It was one of the few occasions on which Summer felt her mother had made a genuine effort to help her without expecting something in return.

The investigation eventually led to a meeting with her biological father.

Summer had imagined that meeting many times.

She had wondered whether he would recognize something of himself in her face, whether he would ask about her childhood, or whether he might express regret for the years they had lost.

Instead, he spent most of their conversation begging her not to contact his wife or children.

He was terrified that the existence of his adult daughter would become known.

At one point, he even offered her money to disappear from his life permanently.

Summer had stared at him in disbelief.

She hadn't come looking for financial support.

She had wanted to know where she came from.

Yet the man seemed incapable of understanding that distinction.

She ended the meeting and never sought him out again.

For years afterward, she remembered the humiliation of sitting across from someone who treated her existence as a threat to his comfort.

She had gone looking for a father.

She had found a coward.

Her biological mother proved little better.

They exchanged a handful of letters over the years, and Summer received several photographs of the woman and children who were supposedly her half-siblings.

Unfortunately, the details of her mother's life were difficult to verify.

Her accounts of past events changed frequently, and the information gathered by the private investigator suggested a long history of deception.

Mimsy eventually retained an international attorney to facilitate their correspondence, concerned that Summer might become entangled in one of her biological mother's

schemes.

Summer initially thought the precaution excessive.

After noticing several glaring contradictions in her mother's letters, she began to appreciate the wisdom of keeping the relationship at a distance.

The photographs remained in her possession, though she rarely looked at them.

She had never told Landon much about any of it.

He had never asked.

Sometimes that indifference hurt more than she cared to admit.

Summer didn't particularly want to recount the humiliating details of her biological parents' lives, but she had occasionally wished Landon would show enough interest to ask how she felt about them.

He seemed perfectly content to know nothing.

Mimsy, meanwhile, took considerable pride in reminding Summer that she had been the most respectable adult involved in her upbringing.

Given the alternatives, the claim was difficult to dispute.

Unfortunately, Mimsy treated that distinction as proof that Summer owed her lifelong gratitude.

Summer often felt that her mother regarded adoption less as an act of parenthood than as a favor that could never be fully repaid.

The circumstances of Summer's adoption were complicated enough to make her wonder whether anyone involved had originally considered what was best for her.

Mimsy had been married to her first husband, Teofilatto Benedict, a mid-ranking enlisted

Marine stationed in Southern California.

He generally went by Teo.

Mimsy, whose given name was Maisie-Yvette, had undergone a total hysterectomy in her late twenties after being diagnosed with endometriosis.

By the time she met Teo, she knew she could not conceive children.

She neglected to mention that fact.

Teo was a family-oriented Catholic who wanted children, and Mimsy had assured him during the early, romantic stage of their relationship that she wanted the same.

For several years, she maintained the appearance of trying to become pregnant.

Eventually, as Teo grew frustrated, Mimsy suggested adoption.

A mutual acquaintance helped arrange a private adoption involving Summer's biological father.

The arrangement went through, and Summer became their daughter.

For a brief period, the family appeared complete.

Then someone revealed Mimsy's secret.

Summer never learned precisely how Teo discovered that his wife had known all along she was unable to conceive.

Whatever the circumstances, the revelation destroyed the marriage.

Teo arranged a transfer to Florida.

Mimsy was not invited to accompany him.

Eventually, he served her with divorce papers.

By then, he had become involved with a stripper who was expecting his child. Once the baby was born and his paternity was established, he moved forward with plans to marry her.

Summer was left behind with Mimsy.

Teo made no attempt to maintain contact with the little girl he had once agreed to adopt.

All Summer knew of him came from old photographs Mimsy had kept tucked away.

In them, Teo held her as an infant, sometimes smiling at the camera, sometimes looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quite interpret.

She had studied those pictures more than once.

It was strange to see evidence that someone had once held her with such familiarity and then vanished from her life entirely.

Mimsy later claimed that Teo had grown enormously overweight after leaving the Marines, divorced again, developed a serious drinking problem, and eventually died of a heart attack.

Summer assumed at least some of it was true.

Her mother made a point of keeping tabs on former husbands, particularly when questions of alimony, retirement benefits, or financial settlements might arise.

Not that Mimsy was poor.

She had retired early after a lucrative career in real estate and appeared to have managed her finances quite comfortably.

Heather sometimes joked that Mimsy must have embezzled money from her clients to afford her lifestyle.

Summer doubted it.

For all her extravagance in later life, Mimsy had spent many years living with surprising frugality.

She was perfectly capable of saving money.

Especially when she could persuade someone else to pay for things.

Summer smiled faintly at the thought.

Whatever else could be said about Mimsy, she had always possessed an impressive instinct for self-preservation.

By the time Heather was ready to leave, Summer's ankle had begun to swell.

She could still walk, but the pain was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

At Pottery Barn, she parked near the entrance and handed Heather the gift card.

“Go ahead and look around,” she said. “I think I'm going to stay here.”

Heather frowned.

“You're not coming in?”

“My ankle's killing me. I don't want to make it worse.”

Heather looked disappointed.

“Well, how am I supposed to know what to get?”

“Whatever you need. Just remember how much space you have.”

Heather glanced toward the store.

“It's not like I can fit much in my apartment.”

“Exactly.”

Summer gave her a small smile.

“Try to get something you'll actually keep this time.”

Heather rolled her eyes but accepted the card.

She knew better than to complain too much.

Summer could easily have given it to someone else.

This wasn't the first time Summer had helped furnish one of Heather's homes.

When she moved in with Landon, she had given Heather nearly all the furniture from her old

apartment rather than paying to store it.

Mimsy had contributed furniture over the years as well, as had Rusty.

Unfortunately, Heather had a habit of moving without taking her possessions along.

Every new apartment seemed to require another collection of household necessities.

Summer watched her disappear into the store.

Then she adjusted her seat and carefully elevated her injured foot as much as the car allowed.

She opened her phone and searched for a medical appointment.

The earliest available visit was the following day.

She booked it.

If her ankle remained painful, she would need to take time away from work.

Willa would undoubtedly be furious.

Summer could already imagine the emails, the manufactured emergencies, and the accusations that she was neglecting her responsibilities by failing to appear in person.

Ordinarily, the prospect would have made her anxious.

Today, it merely irritated her.

She was tired of arranging her entire life around Willa's moods.

She had accrued paid time off, and although her savings were far from ideal, she had enough to cover a few months of expenses if she lost her position.

It wasn't a comfortable safety net.

But it was something.

For the first time in a long while, Summer allowed herself to consider leaving Xylloughby without immediately dismissing the idea as impossible.

She could find another job.

Perhaps not immediately, and perhaps not one that paid as well, but she was educated, experienced, and capable.

She had spent years allowing the scandal at the doctor's office to define her professional worth.

Maybe it was time to stop.

Summer glanced at the entrance to the furniture store.

Heather was somewhere inside, probably deciding between things she needed and things she merely wanted.

Summer hoped she would choose wisely.

Then she thought about the expensive SUV she was sitting in, the house she didn't own, and the man she was increasingly uncertain she even liked.

She had spent a remarkable amount of money trying to look successful.

And an even greater amount of energy trying to feel secure.

Perhaps the two had never been the same thing.

She leaned back against the seat.

Leaving Xylloughby would be difficult, but the thought no longer frightened her quite as much as it once had.

Landon was another matter.

She still hoped he would be understanding if she eventually left the firm.

It was a reasonable thing to hope for from a partner of six years.

Unfortunately, Summer knew from experience that Landon was rarely interested in being reasonable when someone else's needs inconvenienced him.

She looked down at her swollen ankle.

For once, she had a problem that couldn't be solved by dressing better, smiling politely, or pretending nothing was wrong.

She would have to take care of it whether anyone approved or not.

It was a small decision.

But as she sat waiting for Heather, Summer began to suspect that making more decisions for her own benefit, however inconvenient they might be to others, was something she should have started doing a long time ago.