Goddess of Summer Love: a Cursed Luck novella Read online

  I have spent my life aching to be seen as a person—forget “goddess,” and certainly forget “goddess of sex and beauty.” When I am with young people, particularly with Marius at my side, I get a glimpse of normalcy.

  The problem with such a large party is . . . Well, perhaps I’m worrying too much on another’s behalf. It is entirely possible that I am wrong. I hope I am.

  We’ve settled in, post-introductions. Marius has a beer in hand, and I have a plastic cup of spiked lemonade. We’re at the back of the large yard, shaded by two sycamores that must be over a hundred years old. We have lawn chairs—someone made sure of that right away, given our advanced age.

  Hope sits on the grass before us, with a couple of her young friends, who are truly adorable in their youth and enthusiasm, as they chatter about college and summer plans. They include us in the discussion, because they are at that age. Young adults past their teen years, who chat with us partly to be polite and partly because they’re coming to realize that not everyone their parents’ age is an utter bore.

  I catch sight of Ani every now and then, striding about in full organizing mode. She shares her sisters’ dark hair and olive skin. Hope is considered the prettiest of the three, but it’s a marginal difference only signifying that she has more regular features. She’s the tallest, with a lithe, model-thin figure. Kennedy has the most athletic build, and Ani is the full-figured one.

  As the oldest sister, Ani is the head of the family and takes that responsibility very seriously. Too seriously, if you ask me, so focused on her sisters and the business that she forgets to look after herself. Jonathan is here, too. He’s the local librarian and physically smashes every preconception of that stereotype. Tall, handsome and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and dark hair cut to his scalp.

  Jonathan is refilling ice, bringing out snacks and unobtrusively helping Ani because otherwise, she’d do it all herself. Ani and Jonathan will, of course, end up together. Just as soon as they both slow down enough to realize what they have. Or, I suspect, they already realize it—they just don’t believe the other feels the same. Terribly frustrating for everyone looking on.

  My gaze shifts to Kennedy, zipping about like a butterfly. If Ani is the party planner, Kennedy is the hostess, making sure everyone is greeted and introduced and no one is left awkwardly on their own. Barefoot, she’s wearing the cutest floral sundress with a crinolined skirt that bounces along with her dark ponytail. The only makeup I can discern is a bit of pink lipstick. She doesn’t need anything with her youth and flawless olive skin. As she flits about, her gaze keeps sneaking to the gate, and while she might just be making sure she doesn’t miss any new arrivals, I suspect she’s waiting for one in particular.

  “Kennedy’s looking for Aiden,” Hope says, as if reading my mind.

  “Who’s Aiden?” one of her friends asks.

  “A guy.”

  Her friend rolls dark eyes. “Obviously. But who is he?”

  “He’s from Boston.” Hope puts on an exaggerated accent. “Went to Hah-vahd. Runs his own company. Comes from money. Old money. ‘Debutantes and daiquiris at the country club’ kind of money.”

  “Is he hot?”

  Hope wrinkles her nose. “If you like gingers.”

  “Oh,” both friends say in disappointed unison.

  “Fortunately, Kennedy loves gingers,” Hope says. “She thinks he’s totally hot.”

  I give her a warning look, but she only grins. If Ani takes her role as big sister too seriously, Hope is just as devoted to her role as exasperating and embarrassing little sister.

  I lean back in my chair, my leg brushing Marius’s. He shifts his closer and reaches one hand to rest on my thigh as one of the girls asks him a question.

  I find myself staring at his hand, at the strong familiarity of it, the warmth of it on my leg. It’s a casual gesture of equally casual intimacy, but I still notice. I always notice, and in the last couple of weeks, I’ve done more than notice. He puts his hand on my thigh, and heat licks through me. The heat of lust and of longing.

  We’ve separated many times in our lives. Sometimes, frankly, we just get on each other’s nerves. There’s no shame in that. Even when we’re a couple, we’ve come to realize that separate residences help, a place to retreat to and be alone, making our days and nights together so much sweeter.

  Other times, a fight drives us apart. An issue pushes us to the breaking point, and we retreat to our corners, unable to reconcile the issue without doing further damage. That’s what happened this time.

  Marius and I have children. Many children, some mortal and long gone, some immortal and still with us. Most are our children together. Some aren’t. It doesn’t matter. Whether or not we’re both their biological parents, we are a family. With one exception. A daughter of his who cast me in the role of evil stepmother and will not let me out of it. To call her difficult undersells the matter. She lives up to her name: Havoc, goddess of discord. She is hateful and dangerous, and she only listens to Marius. To control her, he decided he had to keep her close, and that drove me away. Two years ago, he gently shooed her from the nest, but the damage had been done. I’d been beyond frustrated at him giving so much of himself to someone who didn’t deserve it, and he’d been beyond frustrated by my inability to understand his sense of responsibility.

  Now that Havoc is out of his life, we should be back together, yes? It never works that way. Once the crisis has passed, we grow closer in friendship as we circle the possibility of more with infinite care. Too much care, in my opinion, which correctly suggests that I’m not the one holding out. I want him back. Have for a long time now. And he circles, testing the water, making sure he will not get burned again. I understand, and I have to grant him that, as much as I burn myself watching his hand on my thigh.

  Enough of that. This weekend isn’t about repairing an old and fractured love. It’s about cultivating young and new ones. And as soon as I think that, the backyard gate opens, and Aiden walks in, and it only takes a split second for me to acknowledge that I was not wrong earlier.

  When I’d seen this party, that prickle of anxiety hadn’t been for myself. It’d been for Aiden. I’ve known him much longer than I’ve known Kennedy, and I took one look at this backyard bash and foresaw disaster. Now he has arrived, and I was not wrong. Not wrong at all.

  I teased Marius about looking very corporate. The inside joke is that he is corporate. Over the millennia, he’s been a soldier, a mercenary, a spy, and just about every other job possible for his particular skillset. In the modern world, hiring himself out as a mercenary would be a very different thing, no longer the honorable calling as it once was. He’s now in the business of war, or at least the technology required by the modern theater of war. CEO of a small but very successful corporation. So yes, the twenty-first-century god of war is a corporate man. He does not, however, really look the part today. More like a middle-aged guy who might be up for a round of golf or a match of squash, and either way, will kick your ass.

  Aiden is different. Aiden looks like . . . Well, Hope joked about country clubs, and that’s where he seems as if he’s headed. To an intimate soirée at a club so exclusive you can’t get a membership unless your great-grandfather had one.

  He is impeccably dressed, because he is Aiden, who has an enviable sense of style. Every color complements his fair skin and red-blond hair and green eyes. Every fabric drapes just right on his slender, athletic form. Every fashion choice is both timely and timeless.

  All of that is lost on Kennedy, who wouldn’t set foot in a Fifth Avenue shop even if she had a gift card. She’d sell the card—or donate it—and shop at the mall instead. That’s the world she comes from, and it’s the world inhabited by everyone else at this party, all the other young men in jeans and shorts, T-shirts and tank tops and in some cases, no shirt at all. This is a backyard party, where you drink your beer out of the can and the spiked lemonade out of plastic cups, and Aiden just showed up carrying a triple-figure b
ottle of white wine, while wearing a crisp white linen shirt with tailored gray pants rolled at the hems to show off blue espadrilles.

  He opens the gate and freezes, eyes widening, and in that moment, he looks exactly like poor Kennedy when we’d taken her to a black-tie charity event. She’d frozen up, ready to flee, feeling out of her league.

  I start to rise, in case Aiden beats a hasty retreat. He is a man of pride, and he is embarrassed by his mistake. He sees a yard full of strangers and realizes this is not his sort of party, not at all.

  Before I can get to my feet, Kennedy is there. After all, she has been watching for him. She darts over to greet him, bestowing a smile so bright and genuine that he has no choice but to step through the gate. He nods at the party and says something with a quick wave at his clothing, and I swear I can hear their conversation.

  “I think I’m overdressed.”

  “No, no, you look great. Come in. Please. Come in.”

  I smile as Kennedy ushers him through, deftly closing the gate to keep him from fleeing. Then Ani is there, taking the bottle, and Ani and Kennedy are laughing, probably joking about putting it away to enjoy themselves.

  Crisis averted. I exhale and settle back into my seat to enjoy the party.

  * * *

  It seems I did not misunderstand the party invitation as much as I thought. Yes, there’s a backyard bash, complete with beer and burgers, but the food isn’t long gone before Kennedy is thanking everyone for coming and herding them on their way, with promises to see them at the town festivities. Then it is just us: Marius and myself, the three sisters, Aiden and Jonathan, and the party slows to more of what I had originally envisioned.

  We sit in the yard as twilight falls. We break out Aiden’s wine and Marius produces a bottle of lemony-sweet kitro from his overnight bag, and we talk. We just talk, the conversations made so much more enjoyable by the fact that the party is reduced to those who know exactly who Marius and I are. It is a relief not to play a role.

  As twilight turns to full dark, Jonathan lights a bonfire, and we gather around, the wine and liqueur replaced by beer and sodas, the lawn chairs abandoned as we stretch on the grass, under the stars and around the fire.

  “Are we telling ghost stories?” I begin.

  “Do you have any?” Kennedy asks as she plays with her black cat, teasing her with a strand of grass.

  “Not exactly,” I say as I rearrange my legs. “But I did stumble across a fascinating mystery associated with your little town.”

  Marius throws up one hand, just enough for me to get the message. Yes, I am pursuing this, and he knows better than to try to stop me.

  “Lots of mysteries around here,” Jonathan says. “Which one did you find?”

  “The tale of the disappearing teen,” I say. “Lisa Lake. 1969.”

  “Ooh,” Kennedy rocks forward. “Yes! It’s the fiftieth anniversary.”

  “Is it?” I frown, as if calculating. “Imagine that. Seems like a perfect time to reopen the case.”

  If Marius rolls his eyes any harder, he’ll rupture something.

  “I believe someone is giving a tour on it this weekend,” Jonathan says. “They asked us to put up flyers in the library.”

  Ani frowns. “Who?”

  He waves. “No one from Unstable. The anniversary did come up at a town council meeting—should we recognize it for extra publicity?—but the general feeling was that it would be in . . .”

  “In poor taste,” Ani says. “A teenager disappeared.”

  “Well, yes, but also, do we really want to call attention to the fact that a teen disappeared at the same weekend celebrations, even if it was fifty years ago? They decided to allow the tour, which is being run by a historian from Columbia University. Unsolved mystery and all that.”

  “Odd that it’s still unsolved,” I say. “One would think that someone would have dived back in by now. It really is a fascinating story.”

  “This Lisa Lake is the one who disappeared, I’m guessing?” Aiden says.

  “She did,” Kennedy says. “Under the most mysterious circumstances. Does anyone want to hear the story?”

  Ani groans.

  “I take that as a yes,” Kennedy says. “Refill your drinks and gather round for the tragic tale of Lisa Lake.”

  Chapter Three

  Everyone gets more food and drinks, and Jonathan stokes the fire. Then Kennedy begins.

  “Memorial Day weekend. 1969. The summer of love.”

  Jonathan clears his throat. “The summer of love was sixty-seven. Also, Memorial Day didn’t become an official holiday until seventy-one.”

  She glares at him. “Artistic license. Everyone knows what I mean. It was a late May weekend way back when.”

  “Ancient history,” I murmur.

  “Exactly. It was the sixties, when the summer of love came every year, and this one was no different. Unstable was having a massive celebration that brought people from across New England. Every campground and motel for fifty miles was booked. They say Old Man Cooper made more that summer letting out his fields for parking than he ever did planting crops. Bishop Street was so packed the fire marshal got involved and had to put up roadblocks, letting people in only as others came out.”

  “It was busy,” Hope says. “Got it.”

  “I’m setting the scene.”

  Aiden nods. “Because the fact it was so busy allowed this girl to disappear unnoticed.”

  “No,” she says. “The fact it was so busy makes it even stranger that she could disappear unnoticed. It suggests . . .” She waggles her brows. “Paranormal forces at work.”

  Ani groans. Kennedy cheerfully flips her the finger and continues.

  “Seventeen-year-old Lisa Lake came to Unstable with her parents and younger sister. There was some trouble the night they arrived, which is why people here remembered them after the incident. It seems the Lakes were strict church-goers. Plenty of those around Unstable, where no one sees anything wrong with being spiritual and believing in spirits. The Lakes were different. It seemed Mrs. Lake had seen a flyer for the festivities that mentioned spiritualism, and she thought that meant it was a festival for God-fearing folks. One that wouldn’t expose their girls to that free-love hippie nonsense. Imagine her horror when she discovered it exposed them to something far worse—the dealings of the devil.”

  “Dum-dum-dum,” Hope intones ominously.

  “Indeed,” Kennedy says. “Now, Mrs. Lake, being very organized—if not good with a dictionary—had booked a bed-and-breakfast right in town. Prime pickings. When she complained to the owner, they quite happily offered to cancel the reservation. Not as if they couldn’t fill it within the hour, probably at double the rate. But no, the Lakes had planned to spend the weekend in Unstable, and they were going to spend it there, whatever the cost to their eternal souls. That did not, however, mean they were going to do so quietly. Both Mr. and Mrs. Lake complained to every person they could. How could such a town exist in the modern, enlightened world?”

  “Uh, because it is modern and enlightened?” Hope says. “Because it’s not 1692 Salem?”

  “People tried to tell them that. You know Unstable. Live and let live. Consideration and co-existence. Etcetera, etcetera. We might not have been flying the hippie flag, but only because those ideals weren’t anything new here. So when the Lakes complained to locals, the locals calmly explained the roots of spiritualism and how it related to Christianity. They also assured the Lakes that they didn’t need to believe in any of it to enjoy their weekend. It didn’t help.”

  “Never does,” Hope muttered. “Closed minds are closed.”

  “Closed minds, and open mouths. Afterward, despite how busy the town was, people remembered them. The very angry couple and their very embarrassed teenage daughters.”

  “Poor kids,” Marius says. “Are we sure Lisa didn’t disappear by sheer willpower? Praying the sidewalk would open and swallow her whole?”

  “Oh, that’s been a theory. It didn�
��t happen on the sidewalk, though.”

  “Tell us, Kennedy, how did it happen?” Jonathan says.

  She grins at him. “So glad you asked. Well, it was Saturday night, and the Lakes were enjoying a history tour. Although one might say ‘enjoying’ was an exaggeration. You see, while it was billed as a history tour, this is Unstable. Every tour includes ghosts, because that’s what people want. This one started off very historical. When the first ghost appeared—figuratively—Mr. Lake complained, but his younger daughter begged to stay, which made others join in on the girl’s side. Harmless fun, and all that. Just a ghost or two with their history lesson. Nothing wrong with that. Mr. Lake relented and on went the tour. Soon it reached the old theater.”

  Kennedy turns to Aiden, Marius and me. “You haven’t seen it. We’ll pop by tomorrow.”

  “Or maybe we could take that tour,” I say. “The one for the anniversary.”

  “Ooh, yes. That’d be cool. I’d love to figure out what happened.”

  I try not to smile smugly at Marius.

  Kennedy continues, “The theater is at the other end of Bishop Street. It’s the oldest building in Unstable. Or the bones of it are, at least. It was one of the first houses here, and the owners sold it to the town shortly after Unstable became Unstable. It started life as the town hall, with the stables and the barn being renovated into a museum and a small theater. When Unstable established itself as spiritualism-friendly, the need for performance space grew. The town hall was relocated, along with the museum. Today it’s a full-blown performing arts center. There’s a restaurant and patio and gift shop in the house, a large theater in the former barn and a smaller one in the former stables. Tours usually end in the house.”

  “The ride exits at the gift shop,” Hope says.

  “The gift shop and the charming patio where you can enjoy a hot spiked coffee and a delicious slice of homemade pie. The town staggers tours so they don’t all hit the theater at once. This particular tour reached it at about nine-thirty, just as dusk fell, when the real ghost tours are just starting up. They proceed around the house—after chatting up the charms of the patio—and into the smaller theater. At this point, the younger daughter complains of cramps. Her mortified mother shushed her, but the poor kid meant stomach cramps. She’d eaten a candy apple at the carnival and it didn’t agree with her. Yet even when she clarified, her mother still shut her down.”