The Summer Cottage by Susan Kietzman Page B

yes, mean, Helen.”
    “So if life can be so crappy, why do you need to add to that pile of crap with threats and ultimatums? Is that how you like to be treated?”
    “I was treated like that my entire swim career.”
    “And my question remains: Did you like it?”
    “Whether or not I liked it is immaterial. It’s effective, Helen. It works.”
    “I’m not so sure.”
    “How else are we going to get them to the cottage, Helen? Pammy will come, moaning and groaning about her latest drama, but Charlotte won’t, and Thomas won’t either. I’m running out of time here, Helen.” Helen said nothing. “I can’t pussyfoot around.”
    “Since when have you ever pussyfooted around anything?”
    Claire smiled at her daughter. “Work with me, Helen. You don’t have to like it; you just have to communicate it. You can blame the whole thing on me. I suspect they’ll do that anyway.”
    So Helen had dutifully called Pammy, Charlotte, and Thomas, and relayed the loaded invitation from their mother. Pammy, who said she was deeply hurt, told Helen she would come, whether or not she was included in the will. Charlotte, who laughed, said she wouldn’t miss this final throwdown for all the money in the will. And Thomas said he would see if he could fit it in. When Helen reported back to her mother, with the information that Pammy and Charlotte were definite yeses and that Thomas was a maybe, Claire had clapped her hands. “I love a good competition,” she said, grinning.
    And here it was; July Fourth was almost upon them, and Pammy, good to her word, had already shown up. Helen gently laid her hand on her mother’s cheek. Claire responded by opening one eye. Not looking at Helen she asked, “Who are you?”
    Helen bent down so her face was at the same height as her mother’s. She looked into Claire’s dark brown eyes, the very color and shape of her eyes. “Three guesses, two don’t count.”
    “Ah,” said Claire through a two-second smile. “I recognize that voice. Hello, Helen.”
    “Did you sleep well?”
    “I did,” said Claire. “Have I been out long?”
    Helen again looked at her watch. “About two hours.”
    “Good Lord.” Claire sat up and reached for her glasses. “Where’s your sister?”
    “In the kitchen.”
    “Get me my walker,” said Claire. “Let’s join her.” Ten minutes later, they had righted Claire, stood her up, positioned her in front of her walking device, and taken a few deep breaths. Claire watched as Helen folded the blanket that had been covering her. “Fifty years ago, I would have completed my warm-up in the pool in the time it took me to get out of the chair and ready to walk with this stupid thing.” Claire, a scowl on her face, rattled the aluminum walker.
    “Oh yeah?” Helen said. “Well, fifty years ago, I wasn’t even born yet.”
    “Ha-ha!” Claire laughed. “That’s funny, Helen.”
    They made their way through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. When they walked in, Pammy didn’t see them right away. She was standing at the stove, her back to them, with the radio turned up—big band tunes. Claire started to sway with the beat. “Tommy Dorsey!” she cried out. “I bet you a hundred dollars this is Tommy Dorsey!”
    Pammy wheeled around. “It is Tommy Dorsey!”
    “Since when have you listened to Tommy Dorsey?” Claire’s hips were still moving.
    “Whenever I feel like it,” said Pammy, shrugging one shoulder.
    “Lord, he’s good,” said Claire. “I saw him once—did I ever tell you that?”
    Pammy raised her eyebrows at Helen. “I think you did,” Helen started. But there was no stopping Claire.
    “At the Rainbow Room in New York. It was a wonderful evening. Your father, of course, was there. We went with one of his patients and her husband. Your father had saved her child’s life, you see, and her husband, who was in the entertainment business, was able to get us a prime table.” Pammy knew what was coming next. “Do