When August Ends

It impressed me that out of everything on the site, she’d taken notice of that piece. The photos weren’t easy to look at, but they were real with a powerful message. Those particular shots were all in black and white.

“It was an assignment for a newspaper five years ago. You could say it chose me. I was working freelance at the time and traveled there with a reporter for a feature on the current state of Cuba and its people. It was one of my longest times away from home, actually. Only the photos are on my site, not the accompanying story.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it. The photos tell the story even without the full explanation, which proves your talent. I’m not just saying that. Believe me, I’m a terrible liar. Your work is really amazing.”

I was never good at accepting compliments, especially about my work. But I tried.

“Thank you.”

“Will you tell me more about it?”

“The Cuba trip specifically?”

She leaned in, her eyes full of wonder. “Yeah.”

For some reason, I felt like obliging.

“I don’t know if you noticed the shots of the teenagers with tattoos. There’s this underground punk culture of young people there. Many of them were high on amphetamines when we were taking those photos.”

“Have you ever heard of Los Frikis?” she asked.

I nodded, surprised. “Yeah. Actually, I learned about them when I was there.”

“Those kids reminded me of a modern-day version of that. Hopefully things are better for the people you photographed than they were for their predecessors. I remember reading about Los Frikis and being totally blown away that some of them intentionally injected themselves with HIV to escape their own government. Imagine being forced to do manual labor or imprisoned just because you look different? So you make yourself sick to escape danger by being put in a quarantined sanitarium? That tells you how bad things had to be. It breaks my heart.”

I knew my eyes were wide. “Where did you learn about that?”

“I read an article about it some time ago. Some things you just never forget.”

“You’re right.”

“What about the photos of the little kids?”

“That was an orphanage.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

I stared down into my plate, thinking back to one kid in particular who still had a little piece of my heart.

“There was this one little boy. His name was Daniel. He was only five. He had mitochondrial disease.”

“I’ve heard of that. What is it exactly?”

“It’s an inherited condition that affects various parts of the body, like the cells of the brain, nerves, muscles, kidneys, heart. His speech was impaired, and he was confined to a wheelchair. For some reason, he really took to me, kept reaching for me during the week we were there. The first time I met him, I was snacking on a clementine. He grabbed it from me and started eating it. The woman at the orphanage said he never did stuff like that, never interacted so easily with someone. My connection to him was strange but profound. I ended up bringing him clementines every day. I really wished I could have done something more for him.”

“Like taken him home?”

“It crossed my mind, believe it or not. I never stopped thinking about him—to the point that I contacted the orphanage a year later.”

“What happened?”

It was hard to talk about. “They had closed down. I have no idea where any of those kids are now. It haunts me to this day.”

“Oh no. What were you planning to do…when you called them?”

“I don’t know. I honestly can’t tell you. I just wanted to make sure he was okay—maybe find out how I could help him financially. I made some calls, but no one could tell me what happened to the kids who were there.”

“That’s scary, but you know, the fact that you were still thinking about him after you left and wanted to help speaks to your character.”

It had been a long time since anyone looked at me with admiration in their eyes. If only I deserved it.

Over the next half-hour, Heather listened as I told her more stories from my travels. She was more interested in the people I’d met along the way than the places I’d visited, which I found to be telling about the kind of person she was.

As a cool summer breeze came in from the lake, Heather’s mother appeared at the sliding door.

Heather took notice and said, “Mom, come join us.”

“No. I just came out to take my pill. I’m going back to my room.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chadwick,” I said.

“Call me Alice.”

I got up and extended my hand. “Noah Cavallari.”

She took it. “I guess this is my opportunity to thank you for your help.”

As I sat back down, I said, “No thanks needed. Like I told Heather, I actually enjoy physical labor.”

“My daughter insists that you have no ulterior motive, but I’m not entirely sure I believe that.”

Great. Fuck.

“I can assure you I don’t.”

“How old are you, sir?”

Shit.

I hadn’t wanted to divulge my age, mainly because I knew Heather was so damn intent on knowing it. But I couldn’t lie.

“Thirty-four.”

Heather looked at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking: that thirty-four wasn’t that old. I’d told her I was old enough to be her father because a part of me wanted her to believe I was older than I am, so she wouldn’t get any ideas.

“Well, that’s too old for Heather, but she seems quite smitten with you.”

Heather looked mortified. “Mom…please.”

But Alice kept going. “The last thing she needs is to be taken for a ride and used by a man passing through town. She’s vulnerable and wears her heart on her sleeve. Unless you plan to stay here in Lake Winnipesaukee, which I highly doubt, I suggest you proceed with caution.”

Heather gritted her teeth. “Stop.”

I needed to nip this in the bud. “I don’t know how many ways I can say it, Mrs. Chadwick—Alice—but I don’t have any romantic intentions toward your daughter. She’s far too young for me. I didn’t come here to make my life more complicated, just the opposite. So your worries are futile.”

She looked at me skeptically for a few seconds. “Well, that’s good, then.”

I needed to get out of here now. Not only was this woman making me completely uncomfortable, but Heather looked ready to cry or explode. The longer I stayed, the worse this situation would get.

“On that note, I want to thank you, Heather, for a very nice dinner. I’m going to take my plate inside to the kitchen and let myself out.”

Uncharacteristically, Heather didn’t protest. In fact, she didn’t say a word. That told me how upset she really was.

As I exited the kitchen and headed toward the door to put my shoes on, I noticed one of them was missing.

What the hell?

From the corner of my eye, I felt Fathead staring at me. Not only that, my shoe was in his mouth.

“Buddy, I need that.”

He growled as I approached. When I held out my hand, he booked it upstairs.

Are you kidding me?

I wasn’t going to chase him, so I decided to leave with one damn shoe on.

As I walked down the driveway, a strange feeling followed me back to the boathouse. And it wasn’t my foot in a muddy, wet sock, either.

It was anger.

I was mad that Heather lived as a virtual prisoner to her mother’s needs. She deserved to live her life, go to college, travel, and do whatever she damn well pleased. This had been going on for a while—since she was a teenager. But more than that, I was mad at myself. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I’d enjoyed sitting outside and talking to her more than I’d enjoyed anything in a really long time.

And that wasn’t part of the freaking plan.

CHAPTER FIVE

* * *

HEATHER

“How could you do that to me?” I scolded.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” my mother said.

“By embarrassing the living hell out of me? That man has been nothing but respectful. First, you bail on dinner. Then you scare him away with bullshit.”

“Every word that came out of my mouth is the truth. What does he want with you if he’s leaving at the end of the summer?”

Now I was screaming. “He wants nothing! I already told you he isn’t interested in me that way. Why can’t you understand that? He hasn’t tried a damn thing, and you just made a fool of yourself and me. You’re acting as though I’m a child. I am almost twenty-one years old—an adult. I don’t understand what part of that you don’t get.” I took my plate. “I can’t do this. I need to go to my room.”

“Heather…I’m sorry. I was just—”

“I can’t!” I yelled as I walked away.

My mother was a lot to handle, but I loved her and knew she meant well. She truly believed she was somehow protecting me. But I still couldn’t stand to look at her for the rest of the night.

After I took a shower to calm down, I texted Noah.

Heather: I’m sorry. I’m totally mortified.

A few seconds later, he responded.