"Seasons Change"
By Sister Rose
Rated R
The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.
Chapter Eight
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Summer left the icy domain of her office and walked into the heated parking lot where she had left her car.
She grimaced as her heels sunk into warm asphalt. Great. An evening spent in a bubble bath had just turned into an evening spent scrubbing heels. She tiptoed across the parking lot to where her car was waiting. She grimaced again, anticipating the heat inside, and rooted in her Prada bag for her keys.
"Ms. Stevens?" a woman said.
Summer turned.
"Yes?" she said.
"I'm Theresa Martinez of Martinez Landscaping," the woman said forcefully, "and we lost our best employee today. I want to know what you said to Ryan Atwood that made him quit."
"What?"
"He turned in his resignation this morning, after talking to you Saturday," Ms. Martinez said. "What did you say?"
"What are you talking about?" Summer said, becoming a little angry herself. Atwood would never quit a job. This woman must have made a mistake.
"I'm talking about a man who has taken four vacation days in the last four years," Ms. Martinez said. "He doesn't show up late, let alone not show up. Today he walked in the office two hours late with a note saying goodbye. No notice, no nothing. What's going on?"
"Why don't you ask Atwood?" Summer said.
"What did you say to him?" Ms. Martinez said.
"What business is that of yours?" Summer said defensively. "He works for you; you don't own him."
"He's not just my employee; he's my oldest friend," Ms. Martinez said. "We were kids together. He lived with my mom when he came back to Chino."
"Wait a minute. Are you … Arturo's sister?" Summer said.
"Yes," Ms. Martinez said, suspiciously. "How do you know Arturo?"
Summer blew a sweaty strand of hair out of her eyes.
"Can we get out of the heat?" she said, pointing. "There's a coffee shop a block that direction. I'll meet you there and we'll talk."
Summer waited for Ms. Martinez's nod and then turned on her heel – which stuck a little, spoiling the sharp turn she had intended – and walked away. She didn't really care whether Ms. Martinez joined her or not. She was having an iced mocha.
Her short skirt was ooching up her itching, sweaty legs. She smoothed it down around her hips. Hmm. Possible bulge alert. Make that a skim iced mocha.
Maybe the ice would cool her down enough that she wouldn't deck Ms. Martinez. Wow. Just one night with Atwood, and already he was rubbing off on her. That wasn't counting, of course, all the other ways he had rubbed her. And the ways she had rubbed him. Summer smiled as she walked, even in the heat. Atwood was back. Even if she was about to have to wallop his irritating boss.
At the coffee shop counter, Summer placed her order in the refreshing air conditioning and turned to find an empty, isolated table. She liked to think she had become more considerate in the past few years, and she didn't want innocent bystanders getting caught in the cross-fire. It wouldn't be thoughtful.
Summer selected a table and placed her paper cup on the thickly tiled surface. She dusted the top of her drink with nutmeg. Um. Atwood's smell. She arranged her bag at her feet and wondered whether she needed to hit the restroom for a makeup touchup. Then she decided to let it go. Ms. Martinez wasn't worth the primping.
But she was at the counter. So evidently she had decided to show up for the fight. Summer took a sip of liquid heaven and thought calm, relaxing thoughts. She went mentally shoe shopping – it was better than Xanax.
Ms. Martinez sat down.
"OK," she said belligerently. "Let's talk."
"Could you just drink a little relaxing caffeine first?" Summer said.
Ms. Martinez glared at her. Then took a long chug of … what was that smell?
"What are you drinking?" Summer said.
"Triple espresso with shots of banana and almond."
"Couldn't you just throw some sugar in gasoline?" Summer said, gaping in horror.
"I like it," Ms. Martinez said, protectively clutching her cup with bright red talons. "It makes me less inclined to commit mayhem."
"Suits me," Summer said, dropping any thought of directing the woman's attention to a more healthful caffeine alternative. "My name is Summer. What's yours?"
"Theresa," the woman said reluctantly.
"There," Summer said. "Now we're all friends and can discuss Atwood sensibly."
"Just tell me what happened," Theresa said.
"OK, this starts a couple of years ago," Summer said. Now that she was telling this story, she didn't really know how to phrase it. "I knew Atwood when he lived in Newport before. We dated some. Then he left Newport. He said something about 'Arturo's mom.' Would that be your mother, too?"
"Yeah," Theresa said. "What does that have to do with what happened today?"
"I don't know, exactly," Summer said. "Atwood was with the crew working at my house Saturday. We talked a little bit, and he came over to my house for dinner last night. When he left, he didn't say anything about quitting."
There. That was a nicely expurgated version of events. She thought of one more thing.
"Oh, yeah," Summer said. "Saturday he said you wanted his resignation, but I told him I didn't want him to quit. Why are you complaining about him quitting now if you wanted him to do it Saturday?"
"What!" Theresa exclaimed. "I told him to talk to you and to see whether you wanted him off your crew, that we would talk about it today."
"That sounds like Atwood," Summer said. "Never take the sensible route when the dramatic approach will work worse."
"Huh," Theresa said. She took a contemplative slug from her cup of sludge. "You're the one."
"What?"
"You're the one," Theresa said. "You're the one he left in Newport. You're the one he moped over for a year."
"A year?"
"Maybe more," Theresa said. She looked at Summer, and Summer had the feeling she was being weighed and found wanting. Summer had never liked being on the scales, and she didn't like being under this woman's eyes, either.
"What," she said belligerently.
"You didn't just 'date some'" Theresa said, making air quotes with her fingers. "You two were hooking up regular. Then you dumped him."
"I did WHAT?" Summer shrieked. Then she looked around. Apparently, the barrista had nothing better to do than to watch her and Theresa.
"What are you looking at?" she challenged him.
"Nothing," he said, hurriedly moving to wipe the counter at the other end of the coffee shop.
Summer huffed, then turned back to Theresa.
"OK, here's the real truth. Atwood was my first long-term love affair. I loved him more than air, but he was all hung up on the fact that he was working for my dad. I went to his apartment one day, and he was gone. No furniture left. No clothes. No directions. No phone number. Nothing. Just a dramatic little note. I hired a detective to find him, but he had no luck before I ran out of money."
Theresa put down her cup.
"OK," she said. "Here's what I know. I was living in Atlanta with my cousin. My mom called and said Ry had been living in the house for about a year, helping out with things while my stupid brother was in prison. But she said he was all depressed over some woman. So I came home, made him get out of the house some, and we started having sex again."
"Explain," Summer said tightly. She wasn't liking the sound of this. She might have to kick Theresa's butt after all. And just when they were getting to be such good friends. Too bad. Another woman wasn't going to be having sex with her Atwood.
"No, nothing like that," Theresa said quickly. Apparently she could correctly interpret an unspoken death threat. "When we were kids, just teenagers."
"Before Atwood went to prison?" Summer said. Just so Theresa would know that she knew and didn't care. Also to establish a timeline.
"Yeah," Theresa said in surprise. "Then when I came home again, it was a friend thing again. Just a hook-up thing. For a while. Then my husband and I started dating."
"OK," Summer said slowly. "Atwood told me he had a friend who took care of him. Is that you? From hooking up with the boss's daughter, he moved on to hooking up with the boss?"
"I wasn't the boss then," Theresa said. "And I haven't slept with him since I got married."
"Oh," Summer said. She had noticed the ring, because she always noticed jewelry, but in her experience – not personal experience, of course, but observational experience – wedding rings didn't necessarily indicate faithfulness. Just look at her dad. That jerk.
Summer leaned over the table toward Theresa. She felt the need to warn her. She spoke deliberately.
"OK. Here's the deal. I want Atwood back. I love him. He makes my life better. If you get in my way, I will run over you. I will do whatever I need to do. Am I clear?"
Theresa gazed at her.
"OK," Theresa said. "Here's my deal. If you hurt him in any way, I will make you feel pain you never knew existed. Your pool will be full of rats. Your lawn will be full of weeds. You will never be able to hire a housekeeper again. A mysterious termite infestation will invade your home."
Theresa leaned over the table toward Summer.
"Am I clear?"
"I think we're both clear," Summer said. She picked up her bag, stood up and tossed her paper cup in the trash bin behind her. She turned back to Theresa and gave her a bright smile.
"By the way, thanks for the great work on my new pool. I love it."
