every summer after carley fortune

A Cottage Country Love Story

Summer romance grows up in an excerpt from Carley Fortune's debut novel, Every Summer After

As part of our Kit Book Club series, we’re highlighting incredible new reads to add to your list. Up next: An excerpt from Toronto writer Carley Fortune’s debut novel, Every Summer After. Set in Ontario cottage country—specifically Barry’s Bay, where Fortune grew up—it’s a rollercoaster love story told over the course of six summers in the past and one weekend in the present, and spiced with the kind of flirting that belongs to steamy summer nights.

It takes about twenty minutes to walk to the center of town. My bangs are stuck to my forehead by the time I get there, and I hold my hair in a dense pile on top of my head to cool my neck down. Other than a new café with a sandwich board advertising lattes and cappuccinos (neither of which you could get in town when I was a kid), the family businesses on the main street are pretty much the same. Somehow I’m not prepared for the wallop of seeing the butter-yellow building and the red sign painted with Polish folk art flowers. I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring. The Tavern is in darkness, the green patio umbrellas folded shut. This is probably the first time since the restaurant opened that it’s been closed on a Thursday evening in July. There’s a small sign taped to the front door, and without thinking, I move toward it.

It’s a short message, written with black marker: The Tavern is closed until August to mourn the loss of owner Sue Florek. We thank you for your support and understanding. I wonder who wrote it. Sam? Charlie? Butterflies swarm my stomach. I lean into the glass door with my hands cupped around my face and notice a light on inside. It’s coming from the windows that lead into the kitchen. Someone’s in there.

As if drawn by a magnetic force, I head around to the back of the building. The heavy steel door that leads into the kitchen is propped open a few inches. The butterflies become a flock of flapping gulls. I pull the door wider and step inside. And then I freeze.

At the dishwasher stands a tall, sandy-haired man, and although his back is turned to me, he is as unmistakable as my own reflection. He’s wearing sneakers, a blue T-shirt, and navy-and-white-striped board shorts. He’s still slim but there’s so much more of him. All golden-brown skin and broad shoulders and strong legs. He’s scrubbing something in the sink, a tea towel over one shoulder. I watch the muscles clench in his back as he lifts a platter into the washer rack. The sight of his large hands sends blood rushing to my ears so loudly it’s like waves are crashing inside my head. I remember when he knelt over me in his bedroom, running those fingers along my body like he had discovered a new planet.

His name slides softly from my lips.
“Sam?”
He turns, a look of confusion across his face. His eyes are the clear blue skies they always were, but so much else is different. The edges of his cheekbones and jaw are harder, and the skin underneath his eyes is tinged purple, as if sleep has eluded him for nights on end. His hair is shorter than he used to wear it, cropped close on the sides and only a little floppy on top, and his arms are thick and corded. He was beautiful at eighteen, but adult Sam is so devastating I could cry. I missed him becoming this. And the grief of that loss—of seeing Sam grow into a man—is a fist squeezing around my lungs.

Sam’s gaze moves across my face and then drops down my body. I can see the flint of recognition that sparks when his eyes make their way back up to mine. Sam always kept a snug-fitting seal on his feelings, but I spent six years figuring out how to pry it off. I devoted hours to studying the subtle movement of emotions across his features. They were like rain that traveled from the far shore and across the water, unassuming until it was right there, pelting the cottage windows. I memorized his shimmers of mischief, the distant thunder of his jealousy, and the white-caps of his ecstasy. I knew Sam Florek.

His eyes lock onto mine. Their hold is as unrelenting as ever. His lips are pinched into a flat line, and his chest expands in slow, steady breaths.

I take a hesitant step forward as if I’m approaching a wild horse. His eyebrows shoot up, and he shakes his head once like he’s been startled from a dream. I halt.

We stand staring at each other silently, and then he takes three giant strides toward me and wraps his arms around me so tight it’s like his large body is a cocoon around mine. He smells like sun and soap and something new that I don’t recognize. When he speaks, his voice is a deep rasp that I want to drown in.

“You came home.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.

I came home.

Every Summer After by Carley Fortune (Viking Canada)


Every Summer After by Carley Fortune. Used with permission of the publisher, Viking Canada. Copyright 2022 by Carley Fortune.

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