Serial Summer Read online

  by Angel Lawson

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publication.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental

  and is not intended by the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-In-Process

  Lawson, Angel

  Serial Summer Volume 1/Angel Lawson – 1st Ed.

  ISBN:

  1. Romance

  2. Contemporary

  Book Cover Photography – Denise Varandoe

  Formatting – Samantha Marrs

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  Nineteen.

  That’s my age. It’s also the number of days since I dropped creative writing, which un-coincidentally (is that a word?) happened to be the day my boyfriend and I broke up. Or blew up. Regardless, in those nineteen days, I’ve left everything behind and followed my mother halfway across the southern states trying to forget that everything about my future is up in the air.

  Right now though, I’m counting the number of times a car rolls over the smushed, dead buzzard laying the middle of the dusty, hot road. Of course, the last car logged in at number nineteen, because that’s the kind of luck I’m having.

  The whine of the door distracts me from the buzzard and numbers and poor life choices. I look up and see my mother standing on the metal steps of our home. “The tow-truck should be here soon,” she announces.

  “You said that an hour ago.” I roll my eyes, but it’s behind my shades so she doesn’t see. Annoyed, I toss a pebble at the buzzard in the road.

  “Paige.” She wrinkles her nose. “Leave that bird alone.”

  “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t feel anything.” For a moment, I’m jealous. Feeling nothing has to be preferable to the mixed bag of emotions I’ve been carrying around for the last couple of months. I pick up another pebble and toss it at the front tire of our broken-down car, before glancing down the road. I spot the wavy heat surrounding an oncoming vehicle.

  “Let’s see if this can get us to twenty,” I say. My mother gives me a wary look and walks back into the RV. Yes, an RV. That’s why we’re stranded on the side of this boiling-hot, middle-of-nowhere road. Our SUV, hauling a Super-Deluxe-Retro-Chrome-Airstream dream, is as dead as the buzzard in the road. Thank God she managed to roll the beast into the shade before the engine conked out. Not just to stay out of the heat, but the glare off that thing is like a disco ball on Saturday night.

  I’m aware that the excitement I feel at the oncoming car is pathetic, but we’ve been out here for an hour, waiting for some small-town, red-neck to show up and tow our camper to our new home. Right. We‘re moving to a trailer park. Not moving, moving, I guess. More like taking a vacation while my mother writes her next book. Some serial killer cut a swath through this area in the 70s which means Julia Barnes has a story to tell. The advance paid for the Airstream. Apparently, she needs it to provide ‘inspiration’. Maybe the killer had one, too.

  I’ve got my eye level with the front tire of the Jeep coming our way and it seems on target. I hold my breath when it slows and rolls to a stop, flattening the bird on the street.

  Twenty.

  I smile at my success but have no time to relish the balance of odd number cosmic forces because the Jeep idles in front of me and I hear the faint strains of country music coming from the radio. A guy with a camouflaged baseball cap and sunglasses leans out and says, “Need any help?”

  “No thanks,” I say, hoping he’s not a modern day version of that serial killer. At first glance he’s handsome like Ted Bundy, so luring girls wouldn’t be too hard. My mother wrote a book about him, too. “We called the tow-truck. Ocean Beach Towing? My dad said they should be here any minute.” I lean to look into his Jeep. “They know we’re out here. Waiting and stuff.”

  Under the brim of his hat I see his eyebrows furrow and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking of ways to stash me in the back of his Jeep, and with that beard I’d never be able to pick him out of a line-up. I think we both know it will be a miracle on par with the parting of the Red Sea if my old-man is in that camper. I take a minute to try and memorize the tattoo on his bicep while I plot my escape, but it’s some design I can’t figure out. Do I run through the woods or lock myself in the camper? Neither matter because he says, “Alright,” touches the brim of his hat and drives away.

  “Thanks,” I call to the departing jeep. Dirt and rocks kick up and I can see a huge orange paw print covering the back of the tire case. When I turn back around I come face to face with the tow-truck veering directly toward me. Not only did he miss the buzzard, but the driver rolled to a stop inches from my feet.

  “Perfect,” I say, but I’m not in the mood to deal with red-neck number two, so I open the door to the RV. “Mom, the tow guy is here.” I skirt past her and flop on the couch/bed, rolling over to my side. Once I hear her talking outside, I reach between the wall and the cushion and pull out the leather-bound journal I’d hidden the night before. The photo and ticket slide out before I even have to search for it. Another sign I should just destroy the stupid thing. Even if I wasn’t thinking about it—him, everything came back around to the travesty I’d made of my life. “No,” I say to the empty cabin. “I’m done with this. Nineteen is past. He is past and this summer is my chance to change everything.” My words hang in the air without support. How do I change everything I am in three months, living in a one bed trailer with my mother, in a seaside trailer park?

  ~*~

  “Paige, the truck is loaded and ready. Jimmy is going to let us ride in the cab of his truck.” she says this like this entire situation is normal. Like us traveling miles away to live like hippies or hobos or something is a typical Barnes family activity. Trust me, it isn’t. My skepticism must have been obvious because she says, “Come on! It’s an adventure! Exactly what we came here for!”

  I groan but get off the bed and follow her out of the camper, avoiding contact with the driver. Even so, I study them from the corner of my eye. They’re a contrast in appearance. My mother, dressed in trendy capris, three-inch heeled sandals with tiny gold hoops in her ears, stands by the driver—a large, grimy looking man in coveralls with the name Jimmy stitched in cursive over the pocket.

  Our SUV is jacked up on the tow lever and Jimmy jerks his thumb to the cab of his truck. “Go ahead and get in.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I say to my mother, letting her slide in the middle so she’ll be between Jimmy and me. Out of earshot I whisper, “With as many books as you’ve written about this kind of thing I can’t believe you’re letting us go with a stranger.”

  She turns her light blue eyes on me, a match for my own, and says, “Jimmy isn’t a stranger. Well, not really. He’s my cousin twice removed.”

  “What?” I ask. No one has ever told me about some distant cousin named Jimmy that lives in the middle of nowhere South Carolina.

  “I told you my family had people here. Why are you so surprised?”

  “You to
ld me you spent summers here as a child with your grandmother and cousins. You never said they lived here.”

  “Well, I guess you learn something new every day, right? You should know that, being a college junior.”

  I bite back my response, because Cousin Jimmy opens the cab door, hauling his middle-aged, out-of-shape body behind the wheel. The tight space instantly fills with the smell of grease and sweat and salty sea muck and I hang my head out the window, until he cranks the truck and warm summer air fills the cab.

  “I’ll admit, Julia, I never thought I’d see you here again. After you wrote all those books I thought you’d be living in a big house or in New York City or something.”

  My mother laughs while I snort and I feel her bony elbow in my rib. “I could never leave the South, you know that. I stayed in Tennessee, but I thought I’d take the summer off to work on my next novel and spend some time with Paige.”

  Jimmy gives me a long look from across the cab. “You’re the spitting image of your mother at her age, you know that? She was all legs and arms and wild as the rest of us. ”

  I look into the side mirror and try to reconcile his words. Her blonde hair is darker than mine and shorter, but our eyes and nose are the same. I have my father’s chin and lanky build. At least that’s what the pictures tell me. I squash the jealousy over missing the genes that carried my mother’s tiny body, hands and feet.

  “You get in as much trouble as she did?” he asks. I shoot my mom a questioning look.

  “Jimmy,” my mother warns, with a wink. “Those files are sealed.”

  “Ha!” he laughs. “Good one. How come you didn’t tell anyone you were coming?”

  “I thought we would settle in first and then find everyone.”

  I stare out the window, bewildered by the exchange. I knew we had family floating around, but like me, my mother is an only child and these mysterious cousins of her youth seemed like a tall tale. I wondered if she really did plan on seeing them while we were here or if she only contacted Jimmy because she needed him. That certainly would not have been out of character.

  I sigh and breathe in the salty air. Like mother—like daughter, the tangled webs we weave.

  ~*~

  As much as Jimmy came as a surprise he turns out to be a godsend. Not only does he tow us into the Ocean Beach Family Campground, but he hooks us up to water and electricity, which I see as a bonus, since the other option is my mother flirting with some camp ground manager/resident to do it for us. Julia Barnes, in her mid-fifties, is a looker, but she doesn’t need to work it so we can have the camper sewer drain hooked up.

  “Thanks, honey,” my mother says to Jimmy. Her southern accent has increased ever since we passed the state line.

  He wipes his hands on his coveralls. “Car should be working okay, too. Bring it by the shop though so I can double check the battery.”

  “I will.”

  “You should call Sugar,” he says, hopefully. “She would love to hear from you.”

  I note the tight smile when he says this and she says, “I will. Once I get settled.”

  Sugar?

  “Who the heck is Sugar?” I ask the minute he leaves. We’re standing outside the trailer on our little patch of ‘Summer Heaven’, as my mother calls it. We have a waterfront slot, lined up next to dozens of other campers and trailers. Some, I notice, have been here for a while; judging by the front porch and trellis additions. The one next door has an entire garden of rose bushes. I try not to look longingly across the inland waterway at the island beach houses and condos.

  An adventure. That’s what we wanted and that’s what we would get.

  “Sugar is Jimmy’s sister,” Mom says. “We were inseparable as kids.”

  My mother has a weird look on her face and is clearly caught up in a memory of her cousin. I can’t tell if this makes her happy or sad. Wistful may be the right word. I don’t have time to ask since our arrival has brought a trickle of curious residents to our little corner of the Family Campground. At least four of five people wander around, checking on plants or investigating the exterior of their trailers. All I want to do is unpack the back of the SUV and find the beach. “Can we go inside for a minute?” I ask, hoping we can get away before the onslaught of neighbors begins.

  She follows me in and I let the door close behind me with a sharp bang, effectively shutting the nosy neighbors out. We’re now in the tiny living area of our camper, face to face. “What’s really going on here? Why this campground? And this beach? Is there even a book? Did you plan on seeing all these relatives?”

  My mother appears offended. “Of course there’s a book! And this beach is where I spent a majority of my childhood. Mama and Daddy sent me down here from Tennessee each summer to spend time with my grandparents. I have wonderful memories of being here and thought it may be a nice place to relax. I know I didn’t tell you all of that but it’s not like I knew you were planning on making this trip with me.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling ashamed.

  She points her finger at me. “Don’t you dare suggest I’m the one hiding something, Paige.”

  I guess I had that one coming, since I showed up on her doorstep two days before she left, with a suitcase, a bad attitude, and an incomplete in my creative writing class.

  “Honey, let’s have a good time. I need to get this book written, and you,” she steps closer, smoothing my hair out of my face, “need to rest. Get some sun and sleep. Get ready for next year. You’ll be a junior and have to finally settle on a major. It won’t be easy.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “I can do that. But next time we’re related to someone will you let me know?”

  “Of course.” There’s a rap at the door. My mother asks, “Ready to meet the neighbors?”

  I shake my head, unsure of what we’ve gotten into. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter Two

  After our new neighbors load us down with freshly picked tomatoes, a campground newsletter, and a bit of gossip (beware of lot #16 unless you’re not afraid of snakes) we finished unpacking. Neither of us brought much (I left most of my belongings in my apartment in a blaze of scandal. Along with my dignity and my sacrificed room deposit). We manage to stuff everything in the cabinets over and under the bed. The bathroom is tiny, though it’s nicer than I expected. In fact, the whole trailer is nicer than I first expected. When my mother decided on this project and trip, she got the crazy idea to purchase an Airstream to live and work in. Some guy she knows (of course) hooked her up with this monster--beautiful, but a monster all the same. Carl or Earl or whatever his name is, renovates the campers and happily sold one to my mother. I’m afraid she wasn’t lying when she said she spent her entire advance on this tin can. Money isn’t her strong suit.

  “You need anything else?” She asks, fumbling with her purse.

  She’s on her way to the store for some basics. “Fruit?” I suggest. “Oh, and granola bars.”

  My mother leans over the counter and scribbles on a scrap of paper. I peer over her shoulder and see the word, “Candy.”

  “Please just get some real food too, okay?” I say.

  “I will. Promise.” She blows me a kiss in the air and like that, she drives off.

  I’m alone at last, standing in the middle of the trailer. Our entire living area is eight feet in both directions. Bed, tiny bathroom, kitchen, sitting/dining/foldout. She’s giving me the bed, while she’s claiming the couch/kitchen, which she will also use as her office.

  With nothing else to do I decide to try the shower. I pull the window curtains and strip, realizing the one good thing about living with roommates is I’m used to the cramped space and sharing a bathroom with three other girls. That’s about the only good thing, I think, stepping into the tiny stall and turning on the water. I try to avoid looking in the mirror directly across from the shower but it’s almost impossible unless I close my eyes. Blind, I bang my elbow into the wall while washing my hair, and drop the soap.

&nb
sp; “Crap,” I grumble. I use my foot to shimmy the soap halfway up the wall so I can reach it. With two fingers I attempt to pick it up but the shower water is in my eyes and my butt is pressed against the wall. I’m in my own personal version of shower Twister. Then the water stops.

  Completely.

  “Mom?” I yell, hoping this is just some case of you can’t use the sink and the shower at the same time. “Mom!”

  I drop the bar to the floor with a thud before pushing the soapy hair out of my face and stick my head out of the shower. Nothing. The camper is quiet. I do hear talking outside. After grabbing a towel, I run over to look out a window. Two people stand over my water hookup. “Hell no,” I mutter and wrap my hair in a towel and my body in a robe and storm outside.

  “What did you do?” I ask, running up to them. They are an odd pair. An older woman and younger man. She stands over him in a terry cloth dress while he unhooks the pipe I watched Jimmy attach two hours ago. Shampoo suds drip down the back of my neck and I wipe them with my towel.

  “You stole my water!” the woman shouted. She’s older, in her seventies at least, and her finger is in my face. Over her shoulder is a newly parked camper. She must have just pulled in.

  “No I didn’t! We just hooked up where they told us.”

  “Young lady, I’ve had this lot every summer since 1984. I know which hook up is mine.” She pointed to my now unattached pipe. “That one is mine. Yours is the other one.”

  “Does it even matter?” I glance at the man who so far has said nothing. I’d like to say he’s following the conversation but he’s staring at my chest. I look down and see my robe has slipped. “Nice,” I say. I cinch the belt.

  “Dorothy is right,” he says. “You’re hooked to the wrong spot, but it’s no big deal. Let me reattach.”

  “No big deal? You could have knocked first or something.”

  He looks at me with a pair of amused blue eyes. “I knocked. No one answered.”

  “I was in the shower.”