Sugar Birds

by Cheryl Grey Bostrom

  Frankly, I hadn’t cared what he talked about. His kisses made up for whatever he lacked, helped me forget my family wreckage. And since the afternoon I interrupted him on that blanket by the river, he hadn’t pushed me for more, either.

  Until I invited him to Chelan.

  The day after we postponed our trip, I hurried home from the berries, but he never showed. I didn’t see him the next day, either. I checked the windows for his car so many times that finally I laced on my running shoes and jogged toward the dairy to find him. I figured I’d tell him we couldn’t go to the cabin after all, then suggest we go somewhere even more fun. Local. I’d cheer him up. Kiss him. He’d forget Chelan and be his former self in no time.

  A familiar tune pestered me all the way to the farm. Only when I turned at the dairy’s lane did I recognize it—and how I danced to it. By running to that barn, I was groveling again, chasing Cabot the same way I chased my mother when she was upset with me, even if it wasn’t my fault. Afraid of rejection, was that it? Thinking Cabot’s or my mother’s anger was mine to mend, because they both tried to make me responsible for it? Thinking I needed to placate them to keep them from being mad at me?

  Well, no thank you. I would hold my ground about Chelan and if he didn’t like it, if he got angry, so be it. His anger was his. I was not. I made a quick U-turn and hurried home.

  The following morning, Cabot’s day off, he showed up at Gram’s at nine, smiling like he hadn’t left in a snit three days before. What was the deal? Did he think I would sit there every day waiting for him? What about phoning me and asking if he could come over, instead of assuming?

  I should have been out there in the forest looking for Aggie when he arrived. She’d been missing for close to three weeks already, out there eating twigs and berries or whatever. Sleeping with raccoons.

  But when he grinned at me, I wavered. The girl was out there by choice, and plenty of people were searching. Why did I think she’d let me find her? A balmy summer day beckoned. Today would be better with Cabot in it. I wanted to feel his arms around me again and forget that I was practically an orphan. I could at least spend a few hours with him and hunt for Aggie in the afternoon.

  “Hey, girl. Have I ever got a day planned for you.” He bent over and kissed me full on the mouth, his eyes shining.

  “Do you now?” That face. Those lips. Whether or not I wanted him to, the man woke me up inside.

  Just go with it. I heard Meredith across the miles.

  Mer had attended our school for three months when some senior boys came in the library and sat at a table near my study carrel. When they mentioned her name, I pulled my feet under me, so they wouldn’t know I was there. I didn’t hear everything, but one guy said something about her strumming his banjo. Another, snickering, said she made him feel so good he wanted to sing. Then their voices muffled, and they all started laughing. That’s when Bradley King whammed his books down in the carrel beside me. That boy has the world’s worst B.O., so I got up and snuck out the back way.

  I told Meredith. “They, uh, said you were …”

  “I was what? Out with it.”

  “That you were a fun, fun girl. Sounded like you were part of a band.”

  She laughed. Said our school was one long, hot gig, and she’d play every chance she got. “Better than drugs,” she said.

  Drugs. Yeah. I guess all those hookups were like drugs to her. She sure never called them love, though I thought her eyes welled when Greer McWilliams dumped her.

  Mer had her reasons. Her parents were on the ropes. I got that. Where did Daddy’s love for Mother get him? Still, was it good for my friend to give herself away like that? Was it worth losing herself for the pleasure—or the comfort? How would she ever gather up all those pieces? How would she find herself again?

  How would I, if I took her advice?

  “Grab your swimsuit,” Cabot said. River level’s dropped. We can float the South Fork.” An inflated inner tube poked from the Camaro’s trunk.

  “Um… Can’t. I tore it the other day.” A ridiculous lie, but being mostly naked with the man would not help me figure out our relationship.

  He ran his eyes over me, assessing my cutoffs and tank top. “Not a problem. You can wear that. Bring a change of clothes.”

  “How long you expect to be gone?”

  “’Til dinner. Why? You got other plans?” He stood with his feet planted wide, his hands clasped behind him.

  “I do.” I smiled weakly. “Helping Mender today. You and I have three hours, max.” Through the screen door, I saw Gram working at the sink. Her head snapped up when I mentioned her. Eavesdropping.

  And I was changing the rules between Cabot and me.

  “Ohhh-kay. Plan B, then.” He clicked his tongue, thinking, then called to Gram. “Want anything at the C Shop, Mrs. Burke?”

  She raised her soapy palms. “Surprise me.” Dropping her chin, she pointed at me. “I want you back here by noon. I’ll have lunch ready. We’ll get started after we eat.”

  I took the stairs by twos. Gram, frowning and holding a towel, stood on the porch and watched us drive off. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Burnaby’s pickup, parked by the barn at last. After I got home, I would pick his brain about his coworker.

  Birch Bay was half an hour away, Cabot said. He drove with one hand and rested his other first on the gearshift, then above my knee, his fingers wrapping my thigh like a shackle. He chewed a toothpick, pensive.

  “How’d work go yesterday?” I asked. Some ice needed chipping here, but I would not get all needy and pry about how he spent our time apart. Better to float a general question, for starters.

  “What do you think?” He sounded accusing, as if I had wounded him. Was he still teed off because I’d delayed Chelan? Or because I’d be doing something without him that afternoon? I didn’t know. The quiet between us unsettled me, but I let it be. No need to rile the gator.

  A few miles out, he suddenly punched the accelerator and veered into the opposing lane to pass a minivan—directly into the path of an oncoming dump truck. It was bearing down on us. Fast.

  “Look out!” I screamed at him and grabbed for the wheel as the truck barreled toward us, its horn blaring. He flicked his wrist to the right, and the car swerved nimbly into the narrowing space between the truck and the van. Then he laughed at me.

  “Never played chicken, have you, Celia?”

  Trapped in that car, I was a bird in the jaws of a dog, waiting for the animal to chew. I crowded the door, my hand near the handle. Why had I agreed to this? Made myself so vulnerable? He wanted to scare me. Why?

  He braked and drove slowly then, and his winning smile returned. At a stop sign at the top of a short hill, he pointed through the windshield toward the water. “Lummi Island’s out past the point. We can take a ferry over there one of these days if you want. Walk on the beach and eat at a little café near the landing.” I stared at him. This was crazy-making. Jekyll and Hyde.

  The car cruised down to a two-lane crescent of pavement squeezed between a clutter of low, multicolored cabins and a bay of wide mud flats, peppered with people digging.

  “Clam tide,” Cabot said. “We won’t be floating for a while yet.”

  “Butter clams?”

  “Littleneck, Manila, Butter, Horse. Almost every variety’s out there. Depends on which part of the beach. Most of those diggers are county locals. They know where to find the good ones.” Cabot nodded at a small boy toddling in the mud, hugging a plastic shovel and dragging a bucket as his dad trailed him with a clam rake. “They start ’em early. It ain’t like digging for razor clams at the ocean, but they can pretend.”

  Past the exposed shallows, toward the Strait of Georgia, smooth water held more of the San Juan Islands, floating like green dumplings in cool blue soup. Calming. I pulled in a warm, salty breath, held it in until my lungs wanted more, then blew between my pursed lips, forcing myself to relax into the festive beachfront. Teenagers strolling in clusters on
the road’s shallow shoulder turned and watched the shiny Camaro as it rumbled past.

  “Speed limit of twenty-five feels like a cage, don’t it, Celia? My car is crying to be let out.”

  Apparently, while I was taking in the view, he was thinking about racing. His gearshift knob said Hurst on it and had finger grips; the speedometer maxed out at 150 mph. “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven this thing?” I asked. Screaming past that minivan had seemed way too comfy for him.

  “Over 130. On Highway 82, about midnight a year ago. I bought the car from a guy in Pasco—east of the mountains— and gave it a little test run on the way home. I was about to punch it over the top, but my radar detector went off.” He tapped a black box sitting on the dash. “My friend.”

  “Didn’t that scare you?”

  Cabot shook his head, incredulous. “I felt like God.”

  “I bet.” My hands sweated just thinking about it. Where else did this guy like to go fast?

  At the far end of the bay, he parked in front of an old house painted a cheery yellow and with “The C Shop” in huge letters under the gable.

  “Ah. The place you mentioned to Gram.” I climbed out of the car and stepped under the shady porch awning.

  He smacked his lips. “Candy worth the drive, including every flavor of jelly bean known to humankind.” I would have followed him inside, but he blocked my path. “Stay here,” he said. “I want to surprise Mender and you.” Through the window, I saw him point as a lady scooped beans into two bags. I snatched at one when he came outside, but he held it overhead and spun away from me, laughing. “Hold your horses, girl. Wait ’til we get there.”

  Five minutes later, we arrived at the state park at the far end of the beach and lofted inner tubes across a driftwood log. I blinked toward the white ruffle of retreating waves in the distance. “You’re an optimist,” I said. “The tide’s still going out.”

  “Luxury seating, instead.” Cabot laid our tubes against the sun-bleached log and gestured for me to sit in one. I bounced on the edge twice and plopped in the middle as he pulled off his T-shirt and lay back on his tube, a bag of jelly beans in his lap.

  My heart started racing. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, lying there beside me as a warm, salty breeze blew over us. My mind braked, but the rest of me was drawn to him as if we were magnetized.

  “Ready to guess flavors?” His head moved back and forth between a bean he was pinching and a card he pulled from the bag.

  I swallowed slowly and shifted my eyes to the paper. “What’s that, a cheat sheet?”

  “Reference, girl. Jelly Belly has forty official flavors now.” He ran the bean down the row of descriptions, searching for a match. “There it is.” He rolled onto his side and held the bean poised between us. Then he lowered the candy onto my tongue. Watched me chew.

  “That mouth of yours …”

  “Stop, Cabot.” I turned away from him, giggling nervously, but he stroked the side of my face until I felt like a cat, leaning into his touch.

  “I have to concentrate.” I exaggerated a gulp. “You giving clues?”

  “Nope. Let your palate tell you.”

  Well, my palate and I hadn’t talked much, and he could tell. I called cotton candy beans, lemonade; cantaloupe beans, peach. After eight or nine, they all tasted like variations of orange. Blurry orange. The only one I got right was licorice. I didn’t care. The only taste I wanted was of him.

  “Hm. You need a little help, I see.” He leaned over me, his face inches from mine—and popped a white bean into my mouth. “What do you think?”

  I chewed. “No clue. Good though.”

  He brushed my cheek with his nose and kissed me, lingering, before he pulled away and licked his lips. “Gotta be Coconut.”

  I watched his tongue. “Cheater. Gimme that.” I lunged for the card, but he swung it out of reach and held out another bean. Pink grapefruit. The entire tasting session grew more and more delicious, no matter which flavor he offered. I had decided to breeze right by my three-hour deadline, until he fed me a bad bean. Figuratively speaking.

  “Having fun?”

  I stopped chewing and nodded. His chocolate eyes gazed at me from under those thick lashes. “I am now,” I walked my eyes over that gorgeous face.

  “This is only the beginning, Celia. Wait ’til we get to the lake.”

  “About the lake—”

  “When you changed your mind the other day, I thought you chickened out. After today, I know better. You want to go as much as I do.”

  “But I don’t—”

  He pressed his fingers to my lips, shushing me. “And when we have that place all to ourselves?” His hand coasted over the top of my head and down my neck. “Just wait, woman.”

  My brakes were squealing now. I pushed him off me and sat up. “Cabot, I like you. I really do. But we can’t go to Chelan. It was a lousy idea. I was so mad at everyone and I wanted to get out of here. When you offered to take me …”

  He slid stiffly back onto his tube, his jaw tight. An angry flush crept from his neck to his face.

  “I’m sorry.” I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away, ignoring me as he watched a woman haul a bucket of clams to her car. A black lab loped along the shore, dragging a piece of kelp.

  A minute passed. Two. Gradually, his shoulders relaxed, and his features softened. He turned to me then, his eyes wide, as if someone had switched on a light bulb and he was seeing me for the first time.

  “I don’t believe you.” He spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d heard him.

  “What did you say?”

  He shouted this time. “I said, I don’t believe you.” Then he laughed. “I get it. You’re scared. I know you want to go, but you’re afraid. Sure you are. I get that. You’ve never done anything like this before. There’s always a first time, Celia. You just need a little encouragement.” He ran the back of a finger down the side of my neck. “Leave it to me. I’ll get you over there, and you’ll be glad you went.”

  My skin went cold. I had heard a hundred times that when a girl said no, a guy should comply, no matter what. If he didn’t, well, he’d be in deep weeds. I agreed completely. A girl should know she was safe—exactly the opposite of how I felt right then.

  Why had I misled him? I had encouraged him by inviting him to sneak off to our empty cabin. And by coming out here and playing games. I had used him like a drug—and hadn’t thought about how I would affect him. I was disgusted with myself. Dismayed.

  Still. Even if I was an idiot, he had no right to me.

  I stood and picked up my tube. “We better go.”

  The man jabbered all the way back to Gram’s in an animated discourse about what we would do tomorrow and next week and when we went to Chelan. Blah, blah, blah. His words smeared. I couldn’t think straight. I watched trees whir past, felt the engine growl through the floorboards. Smelled that musky Kouros cologne of his in my hair. I said nothing. Did he even notice?

  At the gate, he turned off the car. “You don’t have to go inside yet.”

  “Yeah, I do. Gram’s waiting. I can walk from here.” I gave him a feeble smile and reached for the door, but he grasped my arm.

  “Here. For your grandmother.” He handed me a small paper bag and pulled me sideways as I took it from him. Kissed me so hard his teeth sliced my lower lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  If this were quicksand, I was sinking. I had to extricate myself before Cabot’s next days off.

  I closed the gate between me and his car and licked my bleeding lip.

  CHAPTER 30 ~ CELIA

  Mother

  Gram must have seen us sitting in Cabot’s car at the end of the drive. By the time I walked in the front door, she was sliding grilled cheese sandwiches off the skillet. I dabbed the strap of my tank top against my lip and examined the cloth. No blood.

  “Here you go, Gram. C Shop.” I tossed Cabot’s bag of jelly beans onto the coun
ter and sat on a barstool. “Make ’em last. No more where those came from.”

  “Surely the store’s not closing?” She unrolled the bag and sniffed the beans. “Mm. That place is a landmark.”

  “Nope. Going strong. On the other hand, the Celia-Cabot stor-ee is shutting down. We won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Oh?” She set a sandwich in front of me. I dunked it in the bowl of tomato soup already waiting on the counter. “I wondered why he left you at the gate.”

  “I left him down there so he wouldn’t follow me. He wants to be with me every second.” I shoved a bite in my mouth and talked through the food. “And he’s getting pushy as a goat. What Cabot wants, Cabot gets. Or he’ll keep trying.” Mender set a bowl of sliced apples between us, her brows pinched. “Nobody will hijack me like that ever again. No ma’am. I’ve got better things to do.”

  “So did you tell him this?”

  “Not in so many words. But I will. Next time he comes over.” I wasn’t as sure as I sounded. I worried a strand from my ponytail between my fingers and watched Gram’s lips move as she ladled soup for herself. Was she praying? Right there at the stove? Couldn’t she give it a rest? I was about to suggest that when the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Without thinking, I lifted the receiver off the wall phone, untangling the cord as I returned to my stool. “Hello. Burke residence.”

  “Finally.”

  I dunked my sandwich again.

  “I’ve heard nothing but an answering machine at the house for days. There’s no answer at the cabin. Tight-lipped receptionists at Campos Oil. How are you? Is your dad there?”

  “Hello, Mother.” Gram faced me, her ladle suspended over the pot. I dropped my sandwich; soup sloshed onto the counter. I was nine years old again. “No, he’s working. How are you?”