A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke

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СКАЧАТЬ sounds promising. Before I can reply, Barney comes bounding over. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst.’ He presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. Harry moves a blue cocktail over, and Barney takes a huge gulp.

      ***

      The next day, the cookout starts at six, and Harry and Barney have refused my offer of help – despite getting all frazzled when discussing the planning – so I’ve decided to rent a car for the day and explore a little. They recommend a ‘car rental guy’ just off the main street. When I arrive, I see a few different types of cars on the small forecourt, but it’s the shiny red soft-top Jeep on the road outside that catches my eye.

      I go inside and ring the bell on the counter as instructed by a little pink sticky note beside it. The small office smells of oil and rubber, and a sports car calendar hangs on the grubby wall behind the desk.

      ‘Hello there, what can I do you for?’ a cheerful older man asks as he comes in from a side room marked ‘Private’.

      ‘I’d like to rent a car for a few hours, please.’

      ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ He laughs and then coughs with the dryness of it.

      I choose one of the very cool Wrangler Jeeps and ask for the top off. I can’t wait to go beach-hopping. While we’re sorting out paperwork, the old man calls out ‘Son!’ to someone in the back and asks them to prepare the car. I get a little rush of excitement at the thought of driving down some beautiful American roads with my hair blowing in the wind like Thelma or Louise.

      ‘You—’ a male voice travels from the entrance behind me ‘—are all set.’

      ‘Fantast—’

      ‘You have got to be kidding me.’ As I turn, the recognition hits us both at the same time.

      ‘Is there a problem?’ The kindly man’s tone has become much more formal.

      ‘No!’ Ethan and I say in unison.

      ‘Good,’ says the older man, but his single, raised eyebrow suggests he’s humouring us. ‘Then Ethan can show you the controls,’ he says before heading into the private room.

      ‘Why are you everywhere?’ I whisper bitterly as we walk outside.

      ‘Why are you everywhere?’ he repeats childishly. ‘I thought you worked in Boston.’

      ‘You were in Boston when I first met you, so what does that matter?’

      ‘I was there for the day. You’re here all the time.’

      ‘It’s my second weekend here. That’s not all the time.’ I realise I’m pouting, but I keep it going because I’m committed to it now. ‘Anyway, I thought you were the bike guy, not the car hire guy.’

      ‘I am the bike guy. My father owns most of the rental places in Provincetown, and occasionally I move around when we’re short-staffed. Your turn – why are you here?’

      ‘Barney and Harry invited me to the beach later for the cookout, so I have today free to explore.’

      Ethan groans. ‘So you’ll be there too?’

      ‘Yes, but apparently everyone from the town is invited, so I’m sure we can keep our distance.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘Yes. Brilliant,’ I huff. ‘So, are you going to show me the controls so I can leave or what?’

      He explains how it all works, which is pretty much how any car works, but I do listen carefully to how to put the hood on, just in case. I adjust the seat and get ready to drive off. ‘So, is there anywhere else I should avoid if I don’t want to see you?’

      ‘I wouldn’t rent a kayak,’ he says. ‘And I go over to Boston Harbor once a month to take our promotional fliers to the tourist information booth.’

      ‘Noted,’ I say.

      ‘Would you like any maps or anything?’ he asks.

      ‘Yes, please.’

      ‘Here you go.’ He hands me a thick pile of folded maps.

      ‘Why are you being so civil all of a sudden?’ I ask, taking them. It’s unnerving, like dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde.

      ‘It’s my job,’ he says dryly. ‘And I’d like you to try and find your way back before closing time.’

      ‘Oh.’ I should have known.

      Once I’m on the open road, I forget all about Ethan and enjoy driving down the beachfront road. It’s not like the beachfront drives in the UK, all built up and busy with fried doughnut stalls and amusement arcades; it’s largely natural and unspoilt. There are some clapboard beach houses and small motels dotted around, but mostly it’s sand and grassy dunes stretching out into blue water and salty air. I find myself in North Truro, looking up at the tall white Highland Light lighthouse and park up. A few summer tourists have already begun to gather in a queue, and with nothing better to do, I join them.

      I climb the winding steps of the red brick cylinder until I reach the top. It’s not as high as I imagined, but the view still reaches far across the grasslands and ocean. I walk around the large bulb in the centre, moving aside so that a couple can pass me. Then I rest my hands on the rusted sills and just gaze, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

      The reality of where I am hits me, and I pinch myself discreetly, making sure the couple don’t see. I’m in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and no amount of arrogant men will take that away from me.

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