Winter at the White Oaks Lodge

by Abbie Williams

  For fuck’s sake, Camille.

  “Thank you,” he told me politely, and when I shrugged in my best attempt to convey slight disdain, his grin only deepened, along with his dimple.

  My heart kicked the shit out of my ribcage at the sight of this and so I said, “Excuse me,” and moved around them to let Aunt Ellen know I needed two more pitchers. Or at least, it was a good excuse to get the hell out there.

  “Two High Lifes,” I told my great aunt.

  “You want to grab them, hon?” Aunt Ellen called over from where she was pouring Jim Beam into a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Sure thing,” I told her; I was ashamed at myself for not immediately recognizing how busy she was, rather than ridiculously woolgathering over a stranger. I moved behind the bar amid the chatter and laughter of a roomful of customers, collecting two pitchers and tilting one after the other beneath the beer tap. When I turned around, Tish was elbowed up to the bar.

  “You foamed those perfect,” she said, nodding at the pitchers with a perfect inch-and-a-half of froth at the tops.

  “What’s up?” I asked her and then groaned as the jukebox kicked in with Bing Crosby crooning ‘White Christmas.’

  “How many times do I have to hear this song this week?” I groaned.

  “Like we’re dreaming of a white Christmas around here,” Tish joked.

  “Are those for us?” And there he was again, obviously back from the bathroom, this time leaning beside my sister with that same grin and indicating my full hands with a tilt of his head.

  “Hey,” Tish said cheerily, as though they were longtime buddies, so totally Tish. She asked him, “Are you dreaming of a white Christmas?”

  “Experiencing one,” he corrected, teasing her back. “I just played the song though. I love this one.”

  I almost had to smile at that. I bit the inside of my cheek.

  “So, I’ll take one of those off your hands,” he offered me.

  You are really, really sexy, I told him without saying the words; our gazes held again, perhaps no more than a few seconds, but it was enough time for my heart to begin pulsing and I almost believed that he knew what I had just been thinking. I reminded myself, taking no prisoners, what had happened the last time I had been so stupid about a guy, and so with determination I insisted, And I will not notice that from this moment forth.

  “I got it,” I said as casually as I could and carried both pitchers to the table where they were received with extreme gratitude. I collected a tray of empty glasses and on the return trip to the kitchen I didn’t even make eye contact with him.

  It’s for the best, I told myself again. But…

  “So, who’s that?” I heard myself casing Tish not fifteen seconds later, back at the bar.

  “Who, Mathias?” she asked loudly, looking over her shoulder at Eddie’s table.

  “Don’t look!” I hissed at her.

  She whipped around to give me a look, her eyebrows lowering. She said knowingly, “He’s got a girlfriend. And it’s Tess French. At least, that’s what Clint and Liam told me.”

  Of course he does. And then, pretending there wasn’t a note of dismay in my mind, Tess French? Tess was not only gorgeous, but friends with Mandy Pearson, who had been in my grade and who had done her best to make my days at Landon High miserable, Mandy who was now dating Noah. Then I thought, But how credible a source is Clinty?

  “Who cares about that?” I asked, surely making it entirely obvious that I cared about that. I persisted as casually as I was able, “Who is he though? I’ve never seen him around here.”

  Tish followed me back into the dining room and sat on the same stool that Jake had been using; he was back at the high top with his buddies. It was just as boisterous in here as it was in the bar, the tables all full. Jilly was leaning one hip against the corner booth, where Justin, Clint and Rae were all seated, along with Dodge; Rae was perched on his lap, her brown eyes wide and full of wonder as she observed. I was suddenly struck with a bolt of longing for my own daughter, close as she was, just back at the house with Mom, Ruthie and little Matthew.

  “He’s Liz and Uncle Justin’s like second-cousin or something,” Tish explained. “He just moved back from the Cities, I guess. His name is Mathias.”

  I nodded at this news, repeating his name in my mind. Mathias. It sounded old-fashioned. And then I heard what Tish was saying and felt a lightning bolt of surprise.

  “Mathias Carter,” she had added. “Like, from White Oaks.”

  “Wait, Bull’s son? No kidding? I’ve heard all about him from his sisters. I thought his name was Matty.” I was babbling and felt Tish giving me a speculative look. I snapped my mouth closed and changed the subject, saying, “I better go help Aunt Jilly.”

  “Milla, your food’s up!” Rich called, and I looked over to see the entire window full of onion ring baskets. I drew a breath and slipped two bottles of ketchup into my apron pocket.

  “I’ll help,” Tish offered, even though she wasn’t technically on shift this evening. She took a second to band her hair into a ponytail and then together we brought the food out to the ice fishermen. As much as I tried to pretend I didn’t notice Mathias, it was a flat-out lie. So here was Tina, Glenna, and Elaine’s baby brother, the workaholic and dater of poodle-like women, visiting from Minneapolis. I had heard so much that I felt like I already knew him. He was sitting with one arm curled over the chair back behind him, tipping it onto two legs as he listened to one of the other guys, but as I deposited the food and the ketchup and double-checked their pitchers, purposely keeping away from his side of the table, he looked right over at me.

  “One more?” I asked Eddie, who was always the unofficial leader.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  A half an hour later Shore Leave had mellowed to its usual crowd. I had cowardly avoided their table after Eddie settled the tab in the dining room. Clint and Liam were sharing a booth with Tish, playing poker with a pile of dinner mints. Dodge and Jake had joined the ice fishermen, most of them now sipping coffee and chatting. Mathias was still in the same spot at their table, even though some of the men had drifted to the bar stools; I pretended that I was not completely aware of his exact location. Grandma was wiping down the counter in the dining room while Aunt Jilly rolled silverware at table three. Justin had taken Rae home to bed. I was just moving to help with the never-ending task when Mom came through the front door under the tingling bell, her blond hair hanging loose. She was wearing her warmest sweater, a deep green one that matched her eyes, a gray wool scarf that I knew was Blythe’s, leggings and big furry boots, carrying Millie Jo, who was bundled in her snowsuit.

  “Millie missed you,” Mom explained. Her cheeks were pink from the cold.

  “Hi Mom. Hi sweetie,” I said to my daughter, who looked almost ridiculously cute, her little round face peering out from behind the furry rim of her hood. I collected her from Mom, who leaned and kissed my cheek. Bly came from the kitchen upon seeing her.

  “Hi, Joelle,” he said and curled Mom close to his chest for a moment, kissing her hair. “And Miss Millie Jo. Hi there, little one. God, she gets cuter every day.”

  “Mama!” my daughter enthused, squirreling down. I helped free her from the snowsuit and she looked around excitedly for Rae. Millie was clad in her footie pajamas that were striped like candy canes, with pom-poms on the heels, the kind I’d worn on my socks in middle school when I’d been on the junior cheer squad. A million unreachable years ago. Her curls were in two pigtails, courtesy of Ruthann. Not spying her best friend, Millie lifted her arms to me and I smiled, couldn’t help but smile. She ordered, “Up high, Mama!”

  “Aw, I was hoping I’d see her before I left,” I heard Jake saying then, coming around the corner from the bar as I collected my daughter into my arms. He had joined Eddie’s table after his two friends went home and now came right over to see Millie. My eyes were directed behind Jake though, my stupid heart panging hard to see Mathias, who was draping a scarf
around his neck as he walked in a group with Dodge, Eddie and Jim Olson, Eddie’s best friend.

  Jake patted Millie Jo’s back, saying, “Hi, Millie. You’re so pretty.”

  “Say ‘thank you,’ ” I prompted my daughter, dragging my gaze from Mathias. But then to my extreme agitation he joined us, coming up beside Jake.

  “What a cutie,” Mathias said to Millie Jo, and his dimple appeared as he grinned. With the ease of someone used to little kids, he took her hand into the tips of his fingers and bounced it gently. He speculated, “Your little sister?”

  “Her daughter,” Jake corrected, before I could reply. Instant irritation rippled through me that he would answer for me that way.

  Oh, Mathias said, without sound, dark eyebrows lifting instantly. He removed all traces of surprise from his face; I watched it happen. Then he added, “Well she’s adorable.” He addressed Millie, asking, “What’s your name, kiddo?”

  “Millie Jo!” she piped up, giving him her biggest crinkly-eyed smile, practically flirting. I almost rolled my eyes.

  “And what’s yours? You still haven’t told me,” Mathias said next, and his eyes held mine directly. I damned my heart for kick-starting again, senselessly fast. He had a long straight nose and straight black eyebrows above eyes of a very rich blue, almost like Aunt Jilly’s, but darker. I blinked once.

  “Camille,” I said.

  “I should have introduced you guys, I’m sorry,” Jake was apologizing then. “Milla, this is Mathias Carter. He graduated three years before us.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said then, my voice unusually reedy. Determined not to sound like a moron, I added, “You’ve been living in the Cities?”

  “Wait, you’re Camille?” Mathias asked, not answering my question. “Camille who’s been working at White Oaks?”

  “Yes, I’ve been helping out in the bar—” I started to say, but Mom interrupted me inadvertently, coming over and pulling Jake into a fond hug.

  “Jake! You’re home from school then,” Mom said warmly. Of course Mom loved Jake. “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks, it’s good to be back,” he said, beaming at my mother.

  “Matty Carter?” Mom said then, spying Mathias. She carried on, “Look at you all grown up. I remember you as a little peanut, in here with Bull and Diana.”

  Oh my God. Mom, come on.

  Mathias grinned gamely. His cheeks were flushed and his scarf just slightly askew; he’d pulled a gray stocking cap over his head. A few dark curls had escaped the back edge of his hat. I swallowed and tried to pretend I didn’t feel too warm with him so near.

  “I’m home for good now,” he explained to Mom. “Had enough time in the big city.”

  “I thought Diana said you were just visiting for Christmas break,” I said, distractedly unwinding Millie’s chubby fist from a strand of my hair. The noisy bustle of everyone leaving jostled us a little closer together as Mathias stepped out of the way and thereby closer to me. He was probably about five inches taller than me, and I could see his resemblance to Bull, the black hair and powerful shoulders. His eyes however were as blue as his mom’s and his sisters’, the kind of blue that you see for only seconds in the glittering bursts of heavy-duty fireworks.

  “I surprised everyone and moved home,” he said. “It was time. I lived in Minneapolis for over four years.” I couldn’t seem to look away from him and wondered if he too felt the strange, wordless communication happening between our eyes or if I was just imagining that. He added, “Three and a half years too many, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Are you living in the cabin again?” I heard myself ask, and he grinned effortlessly at this question, my heart responding accordingly. My eyes detoured without my intending it to his mouth; he had what Grandma called a ‘cupid’s bow’ on his top lip. He was unexpectedly close enough that I caught the faint scent of beer on his breath; rather than making me want to draw away, it only served to increase my instinct to lean closer to him.

  “Nah, in the summer is when I used to do that,” he said, and his eyes crinkled just a little at the corners as he studied mine. “Dad has been telling me all about this girl who was interested in the Carter family history. You, I mean. The thing is, I used to—”

  Dodge wrapped a big hand around Mathias’s shoulder in that instant and said with a good-natured roar, “Boy, you tell that goddamn Bull he owes me money from last August!”

  “I will, Dodge, and you know what he’ll say,” Mathias said back, leaning a shoulder into Dodge for emphasis. “He’ll say that you owe him from that one poker game in ’76 or whatever. Shit, I can’t keep track.”

  “Well, we’re glad you’re home,” Dodge said, winking at me as if including me in this pronouncement.

  “I’m so glad to be back, you don’t even know,” Mathias said in response, his dimple appearing momentarily, making my heart hitch even worse. He went on, “City life is not for this boy. Took me a while to figure that out, but give me the north woods every time.”

  “Mathias, you coming?” Jake asked then.

  “You’re my ride, that’s right,” Mathias said. “Drank more than I intended, but it’s a night of celebration, right guys? We’re out early tomorrow, right, Dodge? Dad and Tina’s husband want to join us too.”

  “Yessir,” Dodge agreed. “Bright and early!” To me he added, “We’ll stop in for coffee first.”

  Jake said, “See you soon, Camille.” But I could hardly even look at him.

  Mathias put one hand on my left elbow for just a fraction of a second before he tugged on a woolen glove; Millie was still perched on my arm, so my elbow was bent towards him and it seemed like a polite gesture more than anything. He said, “Good to meet you, Camille. I’ll see you at White Oaks. And it sounds like tomorrow morning too.”

  And though a zing of something I couldn’t explain shot through my blood from that brief point of contact, I said with admirable calm, “Good to meet you too.”

  Chapter Six

  The next morning I spent an hour getting ready. In the shower I steamed myself like a bundle of snow crab legs, taking time to shave my armpits and my legs (normally I didn’t bother in the winter, but I was struck with a blast of femininity that been absent in my routine for too long). I studied my face critically in the mirror after wiping away a circle of condensation.

  “Still pretty,” I muttered to myself. “Still a little bit pretty.”

  I moisturized my skin with oatmeal lotion, brushed my teeth, blew out my hair (Grandma came upstairs to see what the racket was all about, not recognizing the sound of the blow dryer) and then brushed it soft over my shoulders, rather than scraping it all back into a ponytail as usual. My hair was just like Dad’s, dark and wavy, and I used to consider it my best feature. It was longer than it had ever been, past my shoulder blades when wet. I ignored what was probably a lot of split ends. Next I applied pink-tinted lip balm and mascara, reminding myself that I had nice long eyelashes when I bothered to highlight them.

  What to wear?

  And why? My feet stalled a little at this question. Why are you doing this? It’s so stupid, Camille.

  Because I couldn’t rationalize my behavior, I pushed those thoughts aside and perused my wardrobe with a critical eye. My favorite faded jeans and the caramel-colored sweater that brought out the gold in my eyes. Wait, I would look like I was trying too hard. It was early in the morning, barely 7:30; I couldn’t wear a date-night sort of sweater. All of my sweatshirts were absolutely out of the question. The minutes ticked by and I began to panic before settling on a faded-green hooded sweater that I had loved in high school; it was soft and almost worn through at the elbows, but it was still casually pretty and would subsequently fit over my breasts. I harnessed them into my huge, totally unsexy white bra and then slipped the sweater over my head.

  There. Not bad.

  In the kitchen Millie was helping Grandma pat out biscuit dough on the floured counter. The scent of cinnamon rolls permeated the space, d
eliciously. Grandma’s eyebrows lifted just a little at my appearance; her long braid hung over her right shoulder and she used the edge of her wrist to wipe a smudge of butter from her cheek, as her hands were covered in sticky flour. She said, “Was that you singing in the shower? I thought it must be a burglar or something, surely not my granddaughter.”

  I flushed a little, which did not go unnoticed, but Grandma didn’t tease me further. I helped myself to glass of orange juice and said, “That looks yummy, Millie Jo-Jo.”

  “Ellen said you’re heading over to the café with her,” Grandma said. “She’ll appreciate the company. I don’t know how she listens to those fishermen go on without stabbing someone.”

  I giggled and went to kiss Millie’s cheek. My daughter smiled at me and said, “Morning Mama! Me and Grandma are making more cinnamon rolls!”

  I couldn’t believe she would be two years old this next Valentine’s Day; it seemed unimaginable. I smoothed dark curls from her forehead, returning the smile, studying her golden-green eyes with a sense of wonder. She really didn’t look at all like Noah, as though he hadn’t contributed a thing to the conception of her, as though she’d just been formed in my body by me alone. I knew that was silly, but a vindictive part of me was glad there was nothing of him in her appearance. He hadn’t set eyes upon her, to my knowledge, since June of 2004.

  “I don’t mind those guys,” I said, in response to Grandma’s comment. “They make me laugh.”

  Grandma’s eyes flickered over to me as she rummaged in a drawer for the biscuit cutter. Millie filched a piece of dough and ate it without a sound. I winked at her as we shared the secret and she giggled, hiding her mouth behind both hands and rocking forward.

  “I saw that, little one,” Grandma said, and then to me, “Well, be sure to bundle up, hon.”

  “It’s in the teens,” I said, which these days meant a heatwave. “But I’ll grab my scarf.”