Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

“You won’t use my name?”

“Of course not. Not unless you want me to.”

“I was about your age.” She points to me. “My boyfriend and I were on our way back from Myrtle Beach. It was late summer and our friends liked to meet down at The Pavilion. Charlie had this old clunker, an Oldsmobile, and it got a flat tire. Back then there was hardly anything on the road between Myrtle and Cherry Grove, even though they weren’t really that far apart.”

“I remember,” my mother murmurs. “There’s nothing as dark as a deserted road in the middle of the country.”

“Oh, you were down here, then? Then you do know how the roads were pitch black and rough, hardly the main roads they are now. While Charlie changed the flat, I waited in the car.”

My mother has been taking notes but stops abruptly and leans forward to listen. I, too, am enraptured by Martha’s tale. Her voice has the smooth southern accent actors attempt to copy for movies but can never quite master. It’s different from Anita’s or Justin’s.

“A car zipped past us, but I saw the taillights brake and then the headlights bounce when it turned around. I was glad someone cared enough to stop. Charlie was struggling a bit, it was the first flat he had changed on his own, plus it was really dark out. The lights from the other car would be helpful.”

She pauses and takes a sip of her drink. “When the man got out of the car, I don’t think he noticed me at first. He walked right over to Charlie and asked him if he needed help. They talked for a minute, assessing the damage and then he saw me in the car. The moment we made eye contact, I knew we were in trouble. His eyes were mean. Wicked.” She shudders. “I don’t know how, but if you’ve ever encountered evil, you know the feeling. It’s like ice settles in your veins. That man was pure evil.”

“In the second between the two of us making eye contact and Charlie saying something to him, the man pushed Charlie out of the way and grabbed a tool out of his hand. He hit him across the head with a crack.” Martha stops and takes a breath; her hands shake in her lap.

My mother, who has been completely silent up to this point, asks, “Are you okay? Do you need to take a break?”

Martha shakes her head. “No, I can do it. I knew Charlie was hurt, if not worse. I lunged to get to the door lock, but he beat me. That bastard already had the door open and dragged me across the seat and out of the car, before I could even think properly. He pushed me into the dirt and I had on this skirt and sandals that made it impossible to run—but even so, where would I go?”

“You always think you’d fight, but when the moment came I was paralyzed. He tore at my skirt, ripping the fabric. I remember thinking how mad that made me—I’d spent hours sewing it earlier in the week. I could see the car from where he dragged me, and I could see the lights from where he left the door open and I looked there instead of in his mean, dark eyes.”

I felt the nausea build in my stomach and rise in my throat. My mother also appears pale and I wonder if she feels sick, too. Her eyes are set on Martha and I’m not sure when she last took a breath.

“He didn’t rape me. He didn’t get the chance. Another car drove up and by the grace of God, they stopped. Gaskins must have known he couldn’t take on a group and bolted, leaving me on the side of the road in my torn, dirty clothing. The people that stopped piled us into their car and rushed us both to the hospital. Charlie had a concussion and I had some scrapes and bruises, but it could have been much worse.”

My mother regained her composure. “I’m so sorry.”

Martha gives us a tight smile. “I’m alive. Married, and have wonderful children. Donald Gaskins got out of the car that night with intentions of killing whoever he came across. Male or female. The fact Charlie and I survived is a miracle. Not only that, something good came from that night.” She stands and walks over to a framed photo and holds it up. It’s a wedding portrait. “He was in the car that stopped. I call my husband, Henry, my guardian angel. He said when they saw the two cars on the side of the road they almost passed, but Henry noticed something and forced them to stop.”

“What was it?” I ask, speaking for the first time. Goosebumps prickled across my arms and neck.

“He saw a glimmer coming from the field behind the car. It’s how they knew to look for me there. I’m not sure but I’ve always suspected it was the reflection of his knife from the lights.” She tugs at the front of her blouse and reveals a jagged scar. An uneasy sense of familiarity washes over me.

“Thank goodness they saw it. If they hadn’t, they would have driven by and Charlie and I would both be another in the long list of kills by Donald Gaskins.”

What happens next is strange. My mother puts down her notes and gives Martha a hug. They cry together over the story and the past. Then, like magic, the mood lifts and my mother and Martha begin talking about their childhoods and possible familiar friends from the area. The horrible déjà vu moment is gone and the next thing I know, I’m watching two women hover over a kitchen counter making chicken salad sandwiches because my mom and I have been invited for lu

nch.

* * *

“Truth,” my mother says to me the instant the car door closes behind us and we wave goodbye to Martha.

It’s only one word, but it’s kind of a code between us. When you pull the truth card out and lay it on the table the other person has no choice but to comply. We made up this game when I was nine and my mother found a crumpled-up note from my teacher about a bad grade buried under the bed. We made a deal then. Tell the truth and there would be no judgments. We would just figure out the best way to handle the situation.

“He was my teacher,” I say.

“Summer!”

“An assistant, really,” I rush to add, as though it makes it better. It doesn’t. Neither does the next part. “We started dating last fall and I found out before graduation he has a girlfriend—a fiancé. Or did. I don’t really know if he’s telling the truth. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

She says nothing but I see her hands clench around the steering wheel. She knows if she’s quiet enough, I’ll spill; I’m uncomfortable with the quiet. “He helped in my AP Lit class, and when I struggled with one of my papers he got me through it. Then later, I ran into him a couple times at football games and once at the movies…and it just went from there.”

“What does that mean? It just went from there? He’s your teacher! He should have known better.”

“I know. I just got caught up in it. Him. His girlfriend—fiancé—found us…” I look at my hands, unable to face her. “Found us together and everything imploded.”