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That Certain Summer

a novel By Mary Verdick

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Mary Verdick
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-4744-7

Chapter One

"Well, hul-lo," Diane Fenwick said in her throaty voice. "So you made it. Praise be!"

Did she think for a moment she wouldn't make it? Sally wondered. Together they walked to the baggage area in the airport and twenty minutes later were seated in a plum-colored Jaguar, gunning down the highway.

"Pretty country," Sally said, staring out the car window at the green fields, the gently rolling hills passing by.

"Yes, New England, Connecticut especially is kinda nice," Diane said, turning tawny eyes in Sally's direction for a moment. "Maybe that's why I've stayed in Patchem's Head. The house isn't much, but it has a great view of the water—and it's completely private."

"Sounds like an ideal place to write."

Diane sighed. "Well, it is and it isn't. It's quiet as the grave when the kids are in bed, but they're not in bed too much, the little rascals. And I can't chloroform them, unfortunately."

She laughed to show she was joking, but Sally was surprised. "You have children?"

"Yep, seven-year-old twins, Meagan and Alec. Funny, I thought, I could have sworn—" a tiny frown creased the perfect brow for a moment. "Didn't I mention them during our talk last month?"

Sally shook her head. "I don't think so. Although maybe, I don't know—" It was hard to remember everything that the famous actress had said when she'd gone to New York to meet her. She could still see her standing there in that beautiful suite at the St. Regis, looking absolutely smashing in designer jeans, knee-high boots, and a bright red cashmere sweater, with those masses of ash blond hair tumbling sensuously to her shoulders, mentioning, almost in passing, at least four husbands and a slew of prominent lovers.

She had told of her delight at seeing her name up in lights on Broadway, the excitement of playing at the Old Vic in London, the thrill of meeting Queen Elizabeth. She had spoken of dinners at the White House, conversing with world leaders. But had she said anything about children? Sally didn't think so.

Yet how could she be sure the way her poor head had been spinning? Actually the thing she remembered most about that day was how she kept wanting to pinch herself, for she simply couldn't believe that it was she, Sally Grimes of Winner, Iowa, population five-thousand, being interviewed by the internationally known stage and screen star Diane Fenwick, for an assignment to write her life story. It was fantasy, the stuff dreams are made of, and what made it doubly sweet was how unhappy she'd been just two weeks before when the paper where she worked, the Winner Leader, was sold.

For four years she had edited the Town Topics page of her hometown paper, and written an advice column, "Ask Sally," that had been very favorably received. But then, with shocking suddenness, she was unceremoniously dumped when the new owners of the Leader, part of a chain, decided to upscale and run "Ask Amy" instead.

As the new managing editor told her, "It's nothing personal, kid. You write good stuff, right on the button. But we're condensing Town Topics and we don't need two advice columns. Amy's a bigger draw."

She couldn't argue with that, but she hated having to change jobs before she was ready. And then, completely unexpected, really out of the blue, didn't her dear Aunt Hallie stop in Winner on her way home to California. Aunt Hallie had been in New York to attend a wedding of some member of her late husband's prominent family, and while there had met the glamorous actress, Diane Fenwick, a fellow guest.

"What's she like?" Sally had asked at dinner at her mother's house, where she'd gone to see Aunt Hallie. "I've seen several of her old movies on TV, and I think she's fabulous. Is she as beautiful in person as she is on the screen?"

Aunt Hallie smiled. "More beautiful, in my opinion. But, even more important, she's nice. And surprisingly modest, when you consider the life she's led."

"She must have been fascinating to talk to."

"Believe me she was. Why, the very first thing I told her was that she ought to write her life story. And you know what she said? She got this real funny look on her face, and she said she'd been talking to a publisher about that very thing. Seems she's been searching for months for a collaborator, without any luck. And Sally," Aunt Hallie's eyes sparkled, "that's where you come in."

"Me?" Sally said puzzled.

"You!" Aunt Hallie nodded. "You're a wonderful writer, and you're at loose ends right now, what with your job simply evaporating right out from under you and all. So I want you to gather up a batch of your very best columns, and I'll send them to Diane PDQ. Then, if she likes them, and why wouldn't she? I'll call and arrange an appointment for you two to meet."

"Oh, Aunt Hallie, I don't know ..."

"Well, I do! Trust me," Aunt Hallie said.

And that's how it happened, two weeks later, that Sally was sitting in a posh New York hotel suite, being interviewed for the job of getting Diane Fenwick's life story down on paper. To her surprise and delight Diane was not only beautiful, but, as Aunt Hallie had promised, warm and friendly, too, and the two of them hit it off immediately.

"Your work has a nice touch," she told Sally, "light and amusing, but serious, too, which is just the tone I want in the book. I don't think we should avoid the pits altogether, but, on the other hand," she shrugged, "we don't have to accent the negative, either; know what I mean?"

"Right," Sally said, not really sure of what she was agreeing to, but willing to go along with just about anything at that point.

Diane smiled and said if it was all right with Sally then, and since they understood one another so perfectly, she'd have her lawyer draw up a contract. The contract specified she was to get sixty percent and Sally forty of any profits they made on the book. Sally's byline would appear beneath Diane's name, and in slightly smaller print, but her byline nevertheless. She would also receive a thousand dollars a week, plus room and board, for the three summer months, and if the book wasn't finished by fall they'd renegotiate the contract.

It seemed an eminently fair and generous arrangement to Sally, who was so awestruck she would have worked for considerably less, and she was practically flying by the time she got back to Iowa. She packed, closed her apartment, said good-bye to her folks and Nat, the veterinarian boyfriend she'd been going with on and off since college, and one week later here she was in Connecticut, gunning down the highway in a Jaguar. And hearing for the first time about Diane's twins and what a chore they were at times— "Although I have a full-time housekeeper," she added, "and also a mother's helper, one of the local girls. It's hard to keep decent help today."

"Hmm-mm," Sally murmured.

They continued down the highway for another half-hour or so, then Diane turned into a smaller road. Soon Sally noticed a sign announcing the approach of Patchem's Head. She also noticed that the houses they passed seemed to be getting bigger and more imposing, as through the trees she caught intriguing glimpses of rolling green lawns leading down to the sea. It looked like a real Great Gatsby type of place, she thought smiling, recalling one of her favorite novels.

She was sure of it a few minutes later when Diane pulled off the road...