“I think I’m gonna call you Cami.” He drops my hair and folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah, Cami. That’s better.”
“You can call me what you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” I snort then pick up the edge of my T-shirt, protecting my hand as I try again to open my drink.
The edges of his lips crinkle into a grin. He yanks the bottle from my hand, leans back, and pops the top off in the metal bottle opener hidden on the side of the counter. The top drops with a clink into a white bucket with about a million others. He holds the bottle up to his eyes, scanning the label, then tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding. “Blenheim Hot. A bold choice.”
“You even have commentary for ginger ale?” I yank the bottle from his hand, the jostle creating a thin, foamy line in the bottle neck. That’s when I notice they’re all staring at me like I’m some three-headed goat, and I dart my eyes down to make sure my scar’s not showing. It isn’t. Whatever. If watching me drink this is so damn interesting, I can’t wait to see what the next three and half months bring. I wrap my lips around the smooth bottle edge and take a substantial gulp. Their smiles widen, eyes huge.
Suddenly I know why. The liquid sloshes down my throat like a river of fire, the flames sucking back into my nostrils, robbing my breath. My nose runs and eyes water. “What in the hell?” The words squeak out as I fan my open mouth. “I think I just swallowed a firecracker!”
“Told ya it was a bold choice,” Jett says as they all circle around me, laughing. “That’s the real deal. The famous southern tradition.”
“It’s a southern tradition to burn holes in your esophagus?”
“A little bit of fire is good for the soul. Where’s your fire? What’s your passion, Cami? Gotta let it out. Put the pedal to the metal.” He leans back, sticking out his leg like it’s on a gas pedal, his right hand shifting imaginary gears.
I shudder. “No thanks. I’m good.”
He thumps his fingernail against my bottle. “We’ll see.”
I glance up. Jett stares at me, gaze like stone, with a slight upturn to the corner of his lips. He wrenches his arm toward his face, clicking the side button on his watch, then turns to Bo. “You ready to go, man? We gotta be there in ten.”
“Yep, I’m done here today.” Bo nods and waves at me. “Nice meeting you, CJ. I’ll catch you later at home.”
“Bye kid.” Jett side-hugs Gin who clamps her eyes closed and nestles into his side like a faithful puppy. He walks toward his car but pauses at the pallet of cantaloupes, looking back at me over his shoulder. “See you around…Cami.”
I break eye contact, whipping my head sideways to the stacked containers of pimento cheese and crab dip on my left. He laughs, and seconds later, two doors slam and the engine roars to life in a deep rumble. I look back as Jett accelerates out the drive onto the blacktop, tires squealing and smoke rising in the air behind him.
Gin sighs and rubs her fingertips down the length of her neck. “He’s trouble, all right. The good kind.”
I shake my head. “There is no good kind. Trouble’s trouble, and I don’t need any more of that in my life.”
Chapter Two
Gin ducks behind the counter and re-emerges with a crate of bottled sodas. “Keep me company while I restock?”
I glance at the empty parking lot. “Captive audience,” I say and draw in a much smaller sip of my ginger ale. “So, I’m guessing you have a thing for what’s-his-name?”
“Jett?” She giggles, double-fisting Cheerwines to load into the freezer. “He and Bo have been friends forever. We were all raised together. He’s gorgeous—I mean, you saw him—but it’ll never be like that between us.” She pulls the door open with her foot, steps in front and lets it bump on her hip, continuing to talk as she refills the shelves. “Jett thinks of me as a kid sister. Always has.” She steps toward me, and the door slams, the bottles clinking together inside. “But he seemed to like you.”
I roll my eyes with a throaty snort. “Hardly.”
“Trust me. Jett’s hyper-focused on his racing.” She picks up the empty crate and props it on her hip under one arm before walking back to the counter. “If it ain’t got wheels and a motor, he usually ain’t interested.”
I narrow my eyes, every muscle rigid. “His racing? Like illegal street racing?” That explains the hot dogging in the parking lot. Just some punk trying to prove his manhood with a flashy car and a disrespect for anyone in his way.
“Heck no!” Gin tosses the crate on the ground behind the register then turns to me, eyes wide, head shaking back and forth at light speed. “He’s the real deal. Gonna be on the NASCAR circuit one day. His daddy was years ago, but then he retired young and stayed here to run shrimpin’ boats.” She presses her lips together and releases them with a pop. “They say Jett’s better than he ever was.”
“Well there goes your theory.” I shoot her a thumbs-down. “No way would a hotshot racer ever be interested in a professed car hater who doesn’t drive.”
Her nose crinkles as she frowns. “I saw your license in your wallet.”
“I said I don’t drive, not that I can’t.”
A knowing glint lights her eyes. “Oh…because of…” I jerk my head in her direction, wilting her under my glare. “Right.” She drops her head, walks behind the counter, and leans forward on her hands, her fingers rat-a-tat-tatting the wood. “What are your plans for the summer?”
Quick change of topic. Good. She’s getting the point.
“Lay low. Forget everything. Maybe get a job. Anything to make this summer go by faster.” I chuck the empty bottle into the glass recycling bin by the front door, then weave back through the pallets to the counter. “Hey, do you know anyone hiring?”
Her smile returns as she triggers her finger at me. “Beachin’ Books at the marina is looking for a part-time cashier.” She thumbs over her shoulder as if the bookstore is visible from the back window. I shuffle sideways and peer out the screen-covered hole. Nope. Nothing but swamp grass and mud. Gin stops talking and follows me with her eyes. “It’s that way,” she points her finger in the opposite direction. “On the other end of the island. But only a mile from Ms. Bessie’s house.”
I nod. A mile is perfectly walkable. “Cool. So, books, huh? Sounds easy.”
“Yeah. New and used books, souvenirs, drinks, and live bait.”
I stop-sign my hand. “Live bait?”
She laughs, explaining that I won’t have to touch it. Apparently, it’s scooped out downstairs on the dock. My only responsibility would be taking the cash.
“Plus, the place has awesome windows overlooking the water. Best views in town.”
“Of the beach?”
She winks. “Among other things.”
“Wait. If the job’s so good, why don’t you want it?”
“I don’t get a choice. This market is my dad’s. Family business means everybody in the family works here.”
“Gotcha.” Making spending money in an obscure little shop while watching the ocean all day? I think I can swing it. “In that case, it sounds perfect.”
Gin claps her hands together, the huge power grin returning. “I’ll text the owner right now with your information.” She slides her phone from her pocket and begins pecking at the screen, looking up every so often to smile at me. Her friendliness is tough to swallow after dealing with the shitstorm of people walking on eggshells around me for the last eight months. We’ve known each other all of twenty minutes, and here she is putting her own neck on the line to recommend me for a job. Such hopeful naiveté reminds me of Emmalyn, my best friend back home. The only person who didn’t treat me like a fragile flower. The only one who kept trying when I balled up and pushed everyone away.
I should call her, but I probably won’t.
The gravel crunches out front. An older model blue Cabriolet convertible pulls in the space in front of my suitcases, inching so close, one topples over on its side. The driver lumbers out and slams the door with a f
oot-shove. She drops the keys in the sand, then reaches for them with a few cuss words to boot.
“Sounds like Ms. Bessie’s here.” Gin chuckles under her breath.
My eyelids sink backwards in my head. No way is this Memaw. Standing about five-foot-nothing, her stature doesn’t match her boobage, which hangs long and low in her black tank top. I’d swear she isn’t wearing a bra, but the cheetah-print straps peeking out the side prove me wrong. Cheetah-print? Really? She slides her hands over her ripped denim capris, perhaps knocking off the ever-present grittiness I’ve determined is inevitable here, then strolls inside.
Pausing by the zucchini, she steeples her hands against her mouth. “This cannot be my little CJ! You’ve grown a foot since I’ve seen you!” Before I can respond, her arms circle me, yanking my head into her chest. A puddle of her sweat dribbles onto my nose and cheek, and I jerk back, swiping the remnants away with the hem of my sleeve.
“That kind of thing happens in nine years.”
Her shoulders snap backwards as if I’ve scorched her with a branding iron, lips curled in a grotesque scowl. “That wasn’t my doin’. I’ve always loved you and wanted to see you. And I did. Your mother,” she stops and makes the sign of the cross, “emailed me pictures and videos of you girls quite often.”
My mouth drops open the same way it did last week when Dad called me into the living room, ran his hand through his hair, then spontaneously announced I’d spend my summer in Edisto. This doesn’t make any sense. I was always under the impression we didn’t visit Memaw because there’d been some huge falling out between her and Dad after Grandpa’s death. I remember the night I snuck out in the hallway after bedtime and heard him telling Mama that Memaw should be committed and was an embarrassment to the family.
After that, no one ever really spoke of her again, though my sister and I used to wonder about her late at night when we had sleepovers in my room. She’d ask me all sorts of questions, and sometimes I knew the answers, and sometimes I didn’t. But if I didn’t, I made it up because it made her happy. She was four years younger than me, so she had no memories of Memaw and Grandpa, and I figured my made-up stories were better than nothing.
“But I thought…so Mama sent you…I didn’t…” I stammer, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck.
She shakes her head. “You didn’t know. No one did.”
“And Dad?”
“We talked for the first time about a month ago. My son…your father…” She sighs, replacing her frown with a toothy grin. “Never mind. That’s nothing to worry about right now. Point is you’re here, and we’re gonna have a terrific summer!”
I stare at her, unsure of what to say. How can it be I’ve only just met her again and I’m more confused than ever? She seems genuinely concerned, not at all the aloof and uncaring woman Dad insinuated. Eccentric, quirky? Yes. Self-absorbed? No. Why did they start talking again a month ago? And why did Mama feel the need to go behind Daddy’s back to keep Memaw in the loop?
Gin taps me on the shoulder and thrusts a piece of paper into my face. I pinch the note between my fingers and survey the words written on it.
Mrs. Baxter. Beachin’ Books on the Marina. 2PM.
“You have an interview this week. If she likes you—which she will—the job is yours.” She clasps her hands together against her chest, her full cheeks smooshed up like some overly-eager cherub. Something about it makes me want to slap her and hug her all at once.
Memaw plucks the note from my fingers. “Edith Baxter’s a dear friend! I’ll call her and…”
“No. I don’t want any special favors. If I get it, I get it. If I don’t, I don’t.”
She tucks the paper into the pocket of my cut-off shorts, then pretends to twist a key into her puckered lips.
“Thank you,” I say to Memaw, then turn to Gin, her blue eyes shining. “And thank you.”
She nods and touches my arm. I shrink backwards; it’s involuntary now.
“Once you’re settled, we’ll hang out. It’ll be nice to have another girl around,” Gin says.
I smile and nod as Memaw reaches out and cups Gin’s chin in her hand. “Such a sweet girl. I know you and CJ are gonna be quick friends. Now, come on.” She turns toward me, hoists her purse higher on her shoulder, and fans herself with one hand. “Let’s get your bags and get to the house. I’m hotter than a hooker in Sunday church.”
Chapter Three
I pry my right eye open about a millimeter. My hand death-grips the beige passenger seat of Memaw’s convertible. Hasn’t she heard of the “ten-and-two” rule? If it wasn’t an actual thing, I doubt cars would have those ergonomic steering grips to clue everybody in.
But then again, Memaw’s not everybody.
Obviously.
She steers the car with her knee (her knee!) and rifles through her purse, mumbling something about her Chapstick. The speedometer needle holds steady at 58 mph, her right foot jammed onto the accelerator.
Put your hands on the wheel, Memaw! For the love of all things holy, put your hands on the damn wheel! Inside I’m screaming. Yelling. Outwardly, I fidget, checking then rechecking my door lock. Tugging the seatbelt just in case.
I roll my head to the right, looking out over the mangle of swamp grass and inlets, and beyond, a cluster of houses and civilization. The wind whips through the topless car, my nose burning from the wafts of rotten-egg stench forced up my nostrils, my forehead stinging from the assault of a few loose tendrils of hair. I turn back toward the windshield and clamp my eyes shut. The glow of the late afternoon sun filters to the backs of my eyelids, splashing orange swirls through the darkness, and spreads out like hot fingers over my skin. Beads of sweat squish between my back and the cotton material of my shirt.
The car jerks as she slows, leaning into a tight curve. High-pitched squawks overhead, the steady rhythm of crashing waves, and the saltiness on my lips mean one thing. I peek again through slits as multiple shapes—houses in row after row—carve through the graininess. The greenish-blue waters of the Atlantic whitecap in the distance.
The brakes squeal as Memaw stomps hard, swerves onto a packed dirt road, then whirls into a driveway. The continuous twisty motion throws me side to side, then forward toward the dash. The seatbelt strap digs into my chest. Once stopped, I struggle to unlatch the belt, stepping out of the car on Jell-O legs.
Memaw gets out and runs to my side, throwing her arm over my shoulder. “What d’ya think?” She pans her hand wide.
The house is not much different than the countless others around it, maybe a little smaller than most, though the twelve-foot stilts give it a faux-mansion curbside appeal. Its moss-green planked siding and white wraparound porch organically fade into the palm-shaded lot, and the staircase going to the front door has about a gazillion steps. At least my butt will be in good shape by summer’s end.
“It’s great.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Right there is where the Johnsons live.” She points to a large, two-story, cobalt blue home studded with hanging flower baskets. The ocean breeze tousles the monogrammed flag on the porch, friendly and welcoming like the kids who live there. “You met Gin already. Did you meet Bo?” She nudges me with her hip and licks her lips. “Now that boy’s a looker.”
Awkward.
“I did meet him. And his friend.”
“Friend?”
“Some guy named Jett. Drives this really loud car.”
She nods and pushes her sunglasses back onto her head. “Jett Ramsey. Good boy…good family. He’s pretty fine-lookin’ too, huh?” Her eyebrows waggle up and down.
Again, awkward, but not totally off base. There was something about the way his green eyes pierced me, simultaneously infuriating and exhilarating, as though he looked through me instead of at me. Like he knew exactly which buttons to push.
I wipe his image from my mind. I didn’t lie when I told Gin I’m not looking for trouble this summer. I’m not looking for anything.
“If you sa
y so, Memaw.”
She huffs out a stiff breath, walks to the car, and grabs my bags from the backseat, handing me one, then nods toward the house. Halfway up the stairs, she stops and stares back at me. “Are you that resistant to fun? What are you here for if it’s not to cut loose a little?”
I follow her to the landing, waiting behind while she slides the key from underneath the garden gnome by the door. With a click, the door swings wide, and she steps inside. I step in beside her. “The point of all this is to ‘get away.’ I want to forget everything for a while, and then, after I testify in August, I never want to think about it again.”
She slams the door with her foot. “Sounds like an impossibility to me.” She reaches out and grabs my arm, her fingers melding through the folds of the shirt into my skin, forceful. “You’re gonna think about it. Always. Except in time, you’ll focus more on the positive, realize how much—”
“Please don’t give me that ‘better to have loved and lost than never loved at all’ bullshit, Memaw. I’ve heard it a million times—from Daddy, the pastor, my therapist, Dr. Phil.” I tick off each name on my fingers. “Forgetting is the only way to move on.”
“I think you’re wrong, but then again, what do I know? I’m just an old lady.” She grabs my chin and gives it a shake. “Hell, I’m glad to see some passion in your eyes. The way your Daddy talked, I thought I’d have to keep you from drowning yourself with the swamp gators.”
“I’m not that bad.” I leave my bag at the foot of the stairs and trudge behind her to the kitchen. One entire wall of windows overlooks a lagoon sprinkled with crooked palmettos. Globs of greenish, curly moss trickle from the branches.
“You’re not that good either.” Memaw pulls out the first of three metal barstools at the island and pats the seat, motioning me over with a head tilt. “That’s why you’re here.”
I snort. “No, I’m here because Daddy doesn’t want to deal with me anymore.” My therapist mentioned a few sessions ago that I might benefit from some time away. Dad’s eyes whirled in their sockets and a month later, bada boom, hello Memaw.
As Much As I Ever Could Page 2