An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach), Mariah Stewart [best classic novels TXT] 📗

your car with the windows down, singing along at the top of your lungs? Or dancing till you dropped? Or snuggled up with the one you loved? Ah, yeah, those high school days were special, weren’t they? Makes me nostalgic for you. And to bring back all those special moments, here’s your class president, Francie Peterson.”

From the podium, Francie motioned with both hands for the applause to die down. She looked very authoritative in a high-necked, sparkly green dress that fit just a little snugly around the hips and black-rimmed glasses, her frosted brown hair tucked behind her ears. In her hand she held a sheaf of papers.

“Thanks, everyone. What DJ Steve was saying about the music of our times is so, so true,” Francie continued. “Seventies music was magical, am I right? So let’s relive a little of that high school magic, shall we?” As the crowd cheered, Francie nodded to someone near the doorway, and the lights dimmed. “Your attention, please, to the screen being lowered at the front of the room.”

Maggie flinched. The first slide was . . .

“First, we have to pay homage to our state champion football team, right? Three years in a row!” A picture of the entire team flashed onto the screen. Maggie closed her eyes. “Were they awesome or what?” Francie led the crowd in enthusiastic applause. On cue, the DJ began to play Queen’s “We Will Rock You / We Are the Champions.”

Wild hoots rang out from every corner, and someone on the opposite side of the room yelled, “Yeah! Three-peat!” Lest she appear to lack that old high school spirit, Maggie smiled and applauded along with the others at her table while avoiding looking at the picture on the screen. She knew exactly where Brett stood: back row, in the center, as if anchoring the team’s defense. Which, inarguably, he’d done. She of all people did not need Francie’s reminder of his accomplishments. All-state three years. Second team all-American his junior and senior years. A full ride to Ohio State. Drafted by the Seattle Seahawks in the second round. Eight years playing pro.

“I understand many members of that team are here tonight. Stand up, please, so we can show our appreciation,” Francie urged as the DJ played Springsteen’s “Glory Days.”

The appreciation was loud and long. Maggie averted her eyes even as she half-heartedly cheered.

The cheers finally faded, the football team sat, and the screen changed to display other teams. Maggie was recognized as the captain of the field hockey and lacrosse teams, and when her name was called—“I know Maggie Lloyd—Maggie Flynn—is here because I saw her. Maggie, stand up so . . . oh, there she is”—Maggie stood with her heart in her mouth. Never one to be comfortable in the spotlight, tonight she felt she was carrying her teenage self on her back. She gave a half-hearted wave, then sat before the applause died out as Francie moved on to after-school activities. The chess, journalism, art, photography, and pep clubs. Theater. Chorus. By the time she got to the school orchestra, the applause was beginning to sound tired and forced after twenty solid minutes.

It was all in fun, celebrating good times, until the DJ started to play the Trammps’s “Disco Inferno”—the theme of their senior prom—and Maggie’s stomach went into a knot. The first few photos on screen were group shots not focused on any one particular person. And then suddenly there it was: the crowning of the prom king and queen. Maggie in her blue gown, her hair piled atop her head, loose tendrils drifting down almost to her shoulders, Brett in his rented white tux, the two of them standing like royalty, holding hands, and beaming at each other. The next picture—and Maggie prayed the last—was the couple leading off the dancing, lost in their own beautiful world of love and glory. Maggie held her breath and waited for the buzzing in her head to stop. All she needed now was for the DJ to start playing their song.

And then Francie was saying, “For the first time in forty years, if you can believe that, we have both our king and our queen back with us. So Brett—Maggie—start off the dancing for us.”

Oh . . . no. Just . . . no.

But there was no easy way to decline in front of the entire group, all of whom seemed to be applauding as Brett, still golden, still the best-looking guy in the class, walked across the room in her direction—Damn him, why hasn’t he aged a little more?—his smile only slightly less forced than hers. One hand held out to her, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

“Of course.” She smiled for the benefit of the crowd even as she tried unsuccessfully to avoid making eye contact. They walked to the middle of the floor, her heart beating rapidly. His hand was a light presence on the small of her back when the music began to swell around them, and Maggie had to force herself to remember to breathe. She hadn’t been this close to him since she’d walked out on him thirty-four years ago.

Annoyingly, his arms around her felt the same.

His right arm wrapped around her, and his left hand held hers, as Ambrosia began to sing “Biggest Part of Me.” The song they’d danced to at the prom, and later that night, on the beach at the end of Cottage Street. Their song.

God, how she hated that song.

“Did you know Francie was going to . . . ?” she asked between clenched teeth even as she tried to ignore that it all felt so familiar. Hauntingly so.

And she wished that at some point in his life he’d changed his damned aftershave.

“No,” he replied. “But thanks for being such a good sport. For a moment, when I first looked at your face, I thought you were going to bolt for the door.”

“If I’d had time, I just might have.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault, Brett. Just dance. The song’s not all that long.”

“You can count the minutes if it