They say in every
guy’s life there’s a girl he’ll never forget and
a summer where it all began. Well, for me, 1999 is that summer, and Brooke
Sommerfield is that girl. But that was nearly nine years ago. And what they
don’t tell ya is that you’ll blink, and both the summer and
the girl will be
gone.
I have no idea
where Brooke ended up. She disappeared that same summer I met her. And kind of
like when you move something on a wall after it’s been there for a
long time and everything around it is faded, that’s how I feel about
Brooke. She wasn’t there very long, but when she left, everything
around her memory sort of dimmed. That is until a letter postmarked the year
she left mysteriously resurfaces. And call me crazy—everyone else
has—but I have to find her. I have to know what became of the
green-and-gray-eyed girl who stole my last perfect summer. I have to know if
she believes in second chances—because I do—even if they do
come with good-byes.
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Prologue
They say in every
guy’s life, there’s a girl he’ll never forget and
a summer where it all began. Well, 1999 is that summer, and Brooke Sommerfield
is that girl. I’m convinced she was an angel. My grandma always used
to say that angels come in blinks. Brooke was just like that. She flew into my
life and then flew right back out again—almost as if she were never
there at all. But she was definitely there. And I’ve got her
invisible memory to remind me of it. But anyway, that was years ago and
yesterday when she flew in by way of accident. At thirteen years old on that
hot June day, I only had three things on my mind: Cooling off, girls...and
girls. So, I’d have to say that June 22, 1999, was also the best day
of my life.
See, there was a
creek that ran through the back of our property when I was growing up. It
stretched the entire length and then jutted north and disappeared behind old
man Brandt’s land. I had followed it one day when I was bored.
There’s not too much more to do in Detmold, Missouri. They say the
town, or what’s left of it, is named after some big city in Germany
somewhere. I’ve never been, but I hear they’ve got old
castles and big museums over there. And while we don’t have old
castles or big museums, we do have an old building with weeds growin’
in it that used to be a post office...and big fields. We’ve got lots
of big fields.
But anyway, after
old man Brandt’s property, that winding, narrow stream crawled past a
turn-of-the-century white farm house owned by a little old lady named Samantha
Catcher. She doesn’t live there anymore. I guess that house
eventually just got too big for her because not too long after Mr. Catcher
passed, she moved to a tiny one-bedroom in the next township over. And now, she
rents the old farm house out to people who are just passing through our little
town. They stay a little while, and then soon enough, they’re on
their way again. When I was young, kids would tell stories about why Mrs.
Catcher kept the old place. Some said it was because it was haunted by her late
husband. Some said she needed the money because Mr. Catcher gambled their life
savings away before he died. But I know that Mr. Catcher wasn’t a gambler—well,
beyond being a farmer—and I was pretty sure he wasn’t a
ghost either. See, I was convinced that Mrs. Catcher kept that old place
because it made her happy. I’d catch her in between renters
plantin’ flowers in front of its porch or hangin’ a new
welcome sign on the front door. She’d always be smilin’
then. See, Grandma also told me once that memories are invisible to everyone
but the beholder. So I just assumed that Mrs. Catcher was looking at all her
memories that nobody else could see when I would catch her smilin’ at
that old house.
But all the same,
that creek kept crawlin’. It kept on goin’ for miles after
Mrs. Catcher’s place, but I didn’t. It was
gettin’ close to supper time by then, and I was gettin’
awful hungry, so I turned around that day, and I walked back home. But the
point here is that I knew that creek like the back of my hand, and I knew
everyone who lived anywhere near it too. So that’s why June 22, 1999,
was different. It started off normal. I baled hay. I got hot. I went to the
creek. Believe it or not, I was on my summer vacation—right here at
home, helpin’ my grandpa out around the farm. To me, it
wasn’t much of a vacation, but my parents thought spendin’
some more time with Grandpa would do him and me some good. So, there I was on a
Tuesday evening gettin’ ready to jump into that creek when I spotted
somethin’—somethin’ that would stick with me for
a really long time. And that day in the summer of ’99, I walked home
with the best souvenir I ever got from a summer vacation—an invisible
memory—of a shiny, little thing that would change my life
forever.
But again, that was
years ago. And now, I’m just left here smilin’ at this old
creek just like Mrs. Catcher used to do at that old farm house. My mind just
keeps replaying the little time I held Brooke Sommerfield. That beautiful girl
is gone now, but I can still hear her in the wind. If I listen real hard, I can
hear her laughter over the whip-poor-will, and I can hear her
whisperin’ softly about the sky and its secrets and dreams and being
happy. I close my eyes and breathe her in. She smells like daisies and fresh
creek water—and summer. And all of a sudden, I hear a soft sigh
rustlin’ through the trees, and I force my eyes open just in time to
see a flock of geese—wings wide, toes spread—landing on the
water.
“Life
passes you by when your eyes are closed,” I whisper back to the wind.
And then I smile wide, and I sit back against the grassy creek bank, and I
watch my invisible memories play out just as if she had never left
me.
That summer came
slow, but it went so fast. Turns out, those endless days were never meant for
the two of us. I never seemed to get enough time with her. Maybe it was because
she taught me how to live. Maybe it was because she taught me how to love. Or
maybe it was just simply because I loved
her.
I sit back further
into that grass, and I watch those geese float down the creek. All around me,
the tree frogs are startin’ to call, singin’ back and forth
about whatever it is frogs sing back and forth about. And I just sit there, and
I think about that beautiful girl.
“I’ll
find my way back to you, Brooke Sommerfield. As sure as the sun is gonna rise
in the mornin’, I’ll find you,” I whisper to the
wind. I tell it what I wish I could say to her. I tell it what I told her once
before in a letter—a letter she would never receive until years
later. See, that’s the funny thing about fate; it works around us,
despite us, in spite of us, even. And it’s near impossible to figure
out, until all the pages are in place. But all the same, that doesn’t
stop me from prayin’. Every day, I pray that this wild ride
fate’s got me on ends with her. I pray that you, Brooke Sommerfield,
are on my last page. And I pray that page is a happy one. But whether it is or
it isn’t, either way, I have to know what became of you. I have to
know what became of the girl who stole my last perfect summer. And I have to
know if she believes in second chances—because I do, even if they do
come with good-byes.
But until then,
Brooke Sommerfield, my summer angel, you and I will be what my grandpa always
liked to call...unfinished
business.
LAURA MILLER is the
national bestselling author of the contemporary romance novels: BUTTERFLY
WEEDS, MY BUTTERFLY, FOR ALL YOU HAVE LEFT and BY WAY OF
ACCIDENT.
She was born on a
farm in small town, Missouri and attended the University of Missouri-Columbia
(Mizzou). She later graduated from Mizzou with a degree in newsprint journalism
and was a newspaper reporter in her former
life.
Laura spent some
time in San Diego, Calif., and Charleston, S.C., before moving back to the Midwest
in 2011. She now lives in Kansas City, Mo., with her husband, a TV
meteorologist.
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