A brother and sister love story

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I’d landed quite a few jobs, but none of them lasted. When I was canned from my last official position as a weekly column writer for a small-town newspaper, my refusal to return in defeat to my parents’ home landed me on Summer’s doorstep in south Florida.

By contrast, Summer was a well-rounded success; it goes without saying, she was well-rounded in all the appropriate places.

She earned a Master’s degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. Not only was she the published author of a series of children’s books, but she elbowed her way into the fashion industry as both a runway and a commercial-print model when she was still in college.

Despite her age, Summer maintained the look and the poise required for modeling. Miami had a market for women like Summer; they doted on tall, tanned, beautiful blondes.

“I think I need a drink,” I grumbled as I lifted her foot from my lap and placed it firmly on the floor. I wandered to the bar and poured myself a stiff Johnny Walker on the rocks.

“Would you care for anything?” I offered dully.

Summer wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“Not scotch. I’ll make us a pitcher of Margaritas if you promise to help me drink it,” she replied.

I downed the scotch and meandered through a set of French doors onto the deck. In the darkness, a cool ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds overhead, and Summer’s passion, a row of wind-chimes suspended from the eaves, played a tinkling tune.

In the distance, the sound of rolling waves crashed against a sand beach with an accompanying rhythm. Summer called the combined chaos ‘the angel’s waltz’. Somehow, she found beauty in everything, even stormy days seemed brighter through Summer’s eyes.

I half seated myself on the handrail, resting one buttock there as I looked towards the water and swirled the melting ice in my glass. I took a deep breath of fresh ocean air and sighed.

There was a faint scent of hibiscus on the salty breeze and something more. I closed my eyes and sniffed again. Citrus, I thought. Perhaps a few late blooming oranges from some nearby neighbor’s yard.

Summer joined me on the deck, bearing a tray with two large frozen drink glasses.

“Here we go! Just like old times,” she exclaimed as she gently clinked her glass against mine.

She also half-mounted the rail and faced me in the dark. She gave her hair a toss and took a deep breath.

“Isn’t it marvelous out here at night? We should have dinner here. Lobster Thermidor and steamed snow crab,” she suggested with enthusiasm.

I snorted at the idea. “Who’s going to cook?”

Summer’s skills didn’t include cooking. She could barely manage to scramble an egg without scorching it. I pondered for a moment the irony that most unattached men were proficient in the kitchen, while single females remained dependent on microwavable cardboard cartons and take-out food.

“Don’t be such an old grouch!” she admonished. “I’ll talk Joachim into cooking for us one night. He’ll do it. He owes me a couple of favors. Maybe you could invite someone, and we’ll make it an intimate little dinner party for four.”

In the two months since I arrived in south Florida, I managed to meet a few dozen people, most of whom were friends of Summer, and none of whom I had any real interest in knowing any better. The feeling appeared mutual, because the type of friends Summer collected showed little interest in an unsuccessful freelance writer, even if he was Summer’s brother.

“That sounds positively peachy, Sis,” I replied with sarcasm. “I’ll just check my catalogue of romantic interests and see who’s available.”

“Oh, that reminds me! Do you think I could borrow you again this coming Saturday?” Summer asked as she suddenly bounded to her feet.

I was already frowning and I hadn’t heard any details of her proposition yet.

“I have this thing…it’s a late cocktail party,” she began with enthusiasm. “A lot of the who’s who are going to be there and I haven’t managed to find a date yet.”

“It will give me an opportunity to introduce you to my publisher,” she added slyly.

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