Cynthia Platt - Postcards from Summer

Postcards from Summer

Cynthia Platt

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text 2022 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Jacket illustration 2022 by Dawn Cooper

Jacket design by Laura Eckes 2022 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Interior design by Hilary Zarycky

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Platt, Cynthia, author.

Title: Postcards from summer / Cynthia Platt.

Description: First edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, [2022] | Audience: Ages 12 up. | Audience: Grades 79. |

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Lexi travels to her late mothers majestic summertime home to learn of the romanceand the tragedythat changed her life forever.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022002382 | ISBN 9781534474406 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534474420 (ebook)

Subjects: CYAC: MothersFiction. | SecretsFiction. | LoveFiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.P7124 Po 2022 | DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022002382

To Mike, who asked for this dedication (and whom I love more than I can say)

T he night air is so humid I can practically touch it. Air isnt something that youre supposed to think about. Its just there. Thats the way it should be anywayjust something that you take for granted as you breathe it in and out. Not something you have to actively ponder. But tonight, the airs so hot and dense that it feels as if its pressing up against me, holding me back from where I really want to be.

I love the summer, but I hate this night.

My hair plasters itself to the back of my neck, and when I bend my elbow to tie it back up again, the skin on my upper arm sticks to my forearm. Blisters chafe themselves into painful bubbles under the straps of both my shoes. Nothing works the way its supposed to right now.

Even the hotel feels off tonight. The lawn is usually crawling with guests playing games under the lights or laughing as more and more alcohol seeps into their systems. But as I trip across the grass, no ones doing what they should be. Instead, they wilt on the verandah as elegantly as they possibly can. Not that elegance is easy to maintain in this heat. But theyve paid through the nose for a vacation from a bygone era, as the brochures promise, and theyre all determined to have one no matter what.

Through the open ballroom doors, a waltz by Strauss streams out into the night air. I should be in there right at this very moment, swirling around the dance floor in that dizzy haze that only a waltz can provide.

Im going to be in such enormous trouble when I get back.

I still have to get out of here.

This whole night seems to be conspiring against me. It even isnt just the heat and the humidity and the sweat. Its the way the air hangs with the aroma of orange day lilies that burst to life this morning and then shriveled up and died by nightfall. Hovering on top of that is the smell of freshly cut grass and smoke from the bonfire by the lake.

Sounds from guests who are scattered around the lawn and by the pool mix with the buzz of cicadas. The chirping of crickets. The off-key songs of the frogs at the edge of the little fishpond.

Its all too much. Too close. My brain cant process this kind of sensory overload right now.

And I know its not the islands fault, or even the hotels, that Im feeling this way. I know its just circumstances beyond my control.

I slip into the rose garden, then run down the darker, more secluded part of the lawn. I cant handle any more polite small talk tonight.

Honestly, Im not sure what I can handle anymore. So many people expect so many things from me that the line between where their expectations end and I begin is starting to blur.

I make my way to the greenhouse, but its long shadows and the whistling sound of the hot wind through one of the boarded-up windows push me back out the door again. So I run. Around the grounds, through the playground, the pool area, even the rose garden again. A small pit of despair starts to form in my stomach.

The lake. All I need is a little quiet time by the water and everything will be okay. Just as I get to the end of the path there I hear it: a low voice singing my favorite old Gershwin song, Embraceable You.

Relief, fear, worry, and something that feels like a pure burst of joy take hold of me all at once. I had no idea up till now that I could feel all those emotions at the same time, and Im not sure the discovery is doing anything to make me feel better.

As soon as I turn the corner, I see him. Even with all the other emotions jumbled inside me, something else entirely takes hold in my chest.

He sits where the sand meets the trees. The half-moon shines in his hair and casts him in a silver light. For a second, its like looking at a ghost, as if he could evaporate into thin air and slip through my fingers forever.

Whatre you doing here? he asks.

I take a deep breath. How did you know its me?

I always know when its you.

He always knows when its me. What am I supposed to do with that?

What are you doing here? I ask, throwing his question back to him.

He doesnt say a word, so I walk over and sit down in the sand next to him. Its pretty clear that Im the one whos going to have to keep the conversation alive.

I had to escape, I tell him.

Me too.

Your dad?

He picks up a stone and tosses it into the water. Yours?

A pathetic little laugh escapes from me. How did you guess? I ask. Too many expectations.

Too many demands, he adds.

Too many ways Im supposed to live my life.

Too many ways Im not supposed to live mine.

We turn at the same time and look at each other, and he gives me a sad smile.

So whatre we going to do about it? he says.

Theres no easy answer to that one, though. As much as I hate all of my parents expectations for me, I also hate the thought of letting them down. Im all they have, after all. I know what that means. Its just that theyve gone from telling me what they wish Id do and moved right into demanding that I do what they want me to do.

If I think about it too much, I start to feel sick. I need to moveto run or to swim or to make something.

After raking my hands over the pine needles on the ground, I finally pick up a handful. Theyre still the soft, pliable texture of newly fallen needles. I wrap one around my pinkie and then tie it into a knot, warping tiny pine needles into the spaces I make between the needles.