The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(25)

I’m trying to find a way to hold onto him because I don’t know if he’ll ever be back, and he’s looking at me in exactly the same way. I suspect he’s done it before—I was just too busy assuming his reasons were nefarious to see it clearly.

“See ya, Juliet,” he says quietly.

“Bye, Luke,” I whisper, and it’s only then, of the whole morning, that I burst into tears.





11

NOW

T he reporter from The New York Times suggests meeting at the house, but I can’t imagine answering her questions with Luke somewhere in the background, listening. I also don’t need this reporter saying, “Wait a minute…you and Luke Taylor are both sleeping here?” The tabloids would love to make that into something it’s not.

“Let’s go to the new place in town instead,” I counter. “I’ll text you the name.”

What was once the diner is now The Tavern, with hunting lodge décor and a menu featuring artisanal cheeses and osso buco.

Every head in the restaurant turns when I enter, but none of them are familiar. They’re simply watching me the way I get watched everywhere now, and as much as I dislike it, that’s better than heads turning because they remember who I once was.

I’m led to the reporter. She’s older and a little dowdy, unlikely to be a fan. If I’m lucky, this means she’ll focus on Danny’s House and the good work it’ll do. If I’m unlucky, this means she’ll look at everything carefully, attempting to turn over stones best left unturned.

We make small talk until the waitress appears, asking for our drink orders. The reporter gestures for me to go first and it feels like a test: Is Juliet Cantrell a heavy drinker? The kind of princess who demands a plate of sliced lemons for her diet soda? I order a glass of pinot and she says she’ll have the same. I guess if it was a test, I passed.

While we wait for our wine, she proceeds with her first few questions. Most of this is information anyone could have told her, which means she’s throwing softballs. Reporters are always friendly at first—I doubt it’ll last.

She asks what I’m doing to help with the opening just as the wine arrives. I take a polite sip and tell her about planting trees and realizing I’m not as fit as I thought, how I’m hoping Donna isn’t really planning to make me hang drywall. I don’t mention Luke’s name once.

“Now, it’s my understanding that Donna initially wanted to open something like Danny’s House in Nicaragua, but there was some controversy about it?”

I hitch a shoulder. “It was a long time ago but yeah, the church agreed to her proposal and

someone objected. Someone will always object, even when you’re trying to help.”

“You sound deeply tired of public opinion.”

I force a smile. “Nope. Just tired of assholes who’d want to keep a woman from opening an orphanage in a foreign country.”

“You lived with the Allens for most of high school, yes?”

I freeze. There is no mention of me living with the Allens anywhere in the press I have done up to this point. As far as the world knows, I was simply a mediocre student who sang in a church choir and sent out home recordings until she found someone willing to give her a shot.

“Who told you that?” I ask. “Was it Hilary? Because I told her that wasn’t something I wanted to discuss.”

Her head tilts, and I feel like I’m being analyzed, not interviewed. “I heard it from several people, actually. I got here a few days ago to do some background.”

Fuck. Rhodes is a small town, and if she’s discussed Danny’s House with pretty much anyone, they might have mentioned it. I was just hoping they’d forgotten, and it was a really stupid thing to hope for.

“I understand your reluctance,” she continues, “but I mean…look at you now. Think about how inspiring your story would be to kids in foster care.”

My nails tap against my wine glass. “No offense, but I’m not sure a whole lot of kids in foster care read The New York Times.”

She shrugs. “True. But—”

“Next question.”

She sits up a little straighter, agitated, and clicks her pen unnecessarily as she looks over her notes. There’s something wary in her eyes when she glances up again, and I brace myself for questions about Cash.

“I’ve heard various theories suggested about Danny’s death,” she begins.

I stiffen. It’s not about Cash—it’s worse.

“Some people think what he did was too out of character to have been an accident. It sounds like he had a lot to live for and was in a good place. What do you think?”

My teeth grind. “He was really excited for the future. That’s all I want to say about it. And I’m not having anything to do with this if you’re planning some deep dive into what happened to him and implying it was suicide. That would kill his mother, and she’s already suffered enough.”

She gives a quiet laugh. “Juliet, you realize I do need to write about something. And if you’re here to draw attention to Danny’s House, there’s no better way to do that than by discussing your experience there. Your story could draw the kind of attention and funding that sees this program replicated around the country.”