Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

by Abbie Williams

  “Jo, two top at ten!” Mom yelled over the din as she walked a couple out to the porch.

  I refocused with effort. Joelle, I groaned to myself. You are pathetic right now. Beyond pathetic.

  “Coming!” I called, and turned away abruptly, almost crashing into Camille as she refilled two sodas at the drink stand.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  “Hi, love,” I replied. “You hanging in there?”

  “Yeah, it’s fun,” she responded enthusiastically. Her gaze suddenly darted over my right shoulder and instantly her cheeks heated. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Blythe was back in the window.

  “Number five, Joelle,” his deep voice announced.

  I turned, acting indifferent, and said, “Thanks,” for the second time. I didn’t mean to meet his eyes--it was a complete accident. Our gazes collided for a moment…how could he look at me so knowingly? I grabbed the new sandwich and turned away, my heart galloping as though we’d been caught making out.

  ***

  By nine that evening I’d earned over seventy dollars in tips. Jilly, Camille and I sat at table one, rolling silverware for tomorrow, with Camille gloating that she’d also pocketed quite a bit of change. Clint, Tish and Ruthann had all gone out in the paddleboat; Mom and Aunt Ellen were chatting with Rich out on the porch, enjoying after-dinner smokes. Gran was snoozing, Dodge had long since headed home, and Blythe was…I tried to pretend I didn’t have the slightest notion that he was back in the kitchen, brushing down the grill and getting a last load of dishes washed.

  “What a pretty sunset,” Camille observed, nodding her head at the windows.

  “You can say that again,” Jilly agreed, winking at her niece, her hands flying as she rolled napkins around flatware.

  I glanced up, drinking in the marvelous view. How many times had I watched the sun sink into Flickertail Lake? Enough to realize that I would never tire of the sight. The lake was satin-smooth, a gleaming cerulean in the last rays. The only disturbance on the water was the paddleboat; we could hear the girls shrieking and Clint laughing as the sound carried over the still water. The sky itself was awash in a rosy tangerine, the air mellow as evening descended.

  We rehashed the unexpectedly busy day for a bit before Camille said, quietly, “Mom, Dad called today.”

  My heart snagged on something sharp for a moment. I felt Jilly’s gaze but met Camille’s when I looked away from the window. “Did you get to talk to him?”

  Camille shook her head. She’d taken the barrette from her hair, and her beautiful dark curls hung to her shoulder blades. Her white shirt was undone past three buttons, allowing for a tiny glimpse of nude-colored bra beneath. Obviously she didn’t realize that it was showing, and I was debating telling her before she said, “No, Ruthie did.”

  “Well that’s good,” I allowed, my voice unpleasantly brusque. I felt suddenly sweaty and confined, as though my blouse had shrunk.

  “Ruthie said he misses us,” Camille went on, undoubtedly unaware of the guilt she was piling on my head.

  “I know he does, hon,” I replied, throttling the resentment in my voice down a notch. “He can call anytime he wants, you know that. And you can call him, too.” As per tradition, I’d insisted on an electronics-free summer, and the girls had obeyed without too much complaint. The only exception was our cell phone, which I’d yet to unpack.

  “Will Dad come up here this summer?” she asked.

  I wasn’t prepared for these questions yet; we’d been in Landon for less than forty-eight hours, for heaven’s sake. I said, using my special nickname for my oldest, “I don’t know, Milla, I really don’t.”

  Camille sensed she was crossing the border into unknown territory and backed off. I knew she was dying to press the issue, but I’d been unusually reticent with her in the past few months. I hated it as much as she did, but I didn’t know what else to do; as much as I wanted to smash my husband’s reputation (and skull) to smithereens, I didn’t want the girls to know he’d cheated. It was terrible enough having Jilly know. And Mom, Aunt Ellen, Gran…

  “Is Dodge married?” Camille wanted to know then. She went on, speculatively, “Because he and Aunt Ellen would make a good couple, don’t you think?”

  My girl, the matchmaker. Jilly huffed a surprised laugh and said, “I’ve thought that for years, that’s so funny.”

  I explained, “No, he’s not married anymore. Marjorie was his wife, but they split up back around the time Ruthann was born. They have a few kids…you remember Justin, probably. He used to help out around here some, when Dodge didn’t need him at the filling station. Liz is still around Landon. Marjorie moved to North Dakota, right, Jill?”

  Jilly nodded. “Yeah, and Liz married Mark Worden, remember him, Jo?”

  “She married Wordo? But he must be two feet taller than she is.” How quickly we fell into gossip. Camille listened avidly, though she hadn’t met anyone we were discussing.

  “They ended up having triplets!”

  “Can you imagine?”

  “And Wordo already has two kids with Missy Worthington. But she does have custody.”

  “She and I were pregnant at the same time, when I was carrying you,” I told Camille. Missy had gotten an unexpected surprise on prom night too.

  Before anyone could respond, Camille, opposite me, lit up like a sparkler; again, I didn’t have to turn to know that Blythe was headed in our direction. He was at our table in the next moment, leaning over the only empty chair, curling his big hands around the top. I pretended to be occupied with my silverware rolling, not wanting to notice how Camille was beaming at him, her own hands gripping each other tightly. Jilly said, “Hey, Bly, you outta here for the night?”

  He grinned at my sister. I braved a look in his direction and found myself studying the line of his jaw, scruffy now with a day’s growth of whiskers. His forearms were tan and sinewy, braced against the chair back, and lightly dusted with dark hair. As much as I wanted to kick myself, I would be lying if I said that a pulse didn’t beat low in my stomach at the sight of him.

  “I’m headed into town, actually. I thought I might see what’s shaking over at Eddie’s.” Eddie always had live music on Fridays. Bly’s deep voice was so very appealing. For a split second I allowed myself to fantasize that I was seventeen—no, make that eighteen—and that I could accompany this gorgeous man to the bar, where we would drink and dance, and then…

  I mentally bashed my forehead on the table in front of me. Joelle Gordon, you have absolutely lost your mind, I reprimanded, harshly. Too long had passed since I’d had sex with Jackson. A good year, actually, and obviously not once since the incident at the Christmas party. Much more time had passed since we’d made love like we used to…hot and heavy and fantastic. In all those years I’d scarcely fantasized about other men, so consumed with wife- and motherhood. It must be the dearth, catching up with me at last.

  But then, to my amazement, he added, “You two would be more than welcome to come with,” addressing Jilly, but his gaze flickered to include me in the equation. Then he looked apologetically at my daughter. “I’d invite you, too, but…”

  Camille smiled winningly. I could tell how thrilled she was to be included, though she played it cool. “I know, not old enough. But thanks.”

  “No problem,” he replied, and looked back at us. “What do ya say?”

  If Jilly was as profoundly tempted by this request as I was, she did a marvelous job of hiding the fact. She said, “We’ll see. Jo, you’re probably pretty tired, huh?”

  Damn you, Jilly, I telegraphed her fiercely. But I could tell she was just giving me a delicate out. I almost ground my teeth together before saying what I knew I had to, what propriety demanded. “Maybe some other time. But thanks.”

  He appeared unruffled, backing up a step and removing the bandana from his forehead. “I’ll hold you to it,” he added, and his lips were full and soft as he met my eyes for a fraction of a second, with the merest suggestion
of heat. I was sure I wasn’t imagining it, and darted my gaze away like lightning.

  “See you guys,” he added before lumbering away; all three of us watched him go, watched him through the window as he bid the older folks good-night. Mom actually slapped him on the butt as he said something to make them laugh, and I was absurdly jealous of her.

  Camille said, low, as he disappeared into his truck, “Oh my God, he’s cute.”

  Jilly and I exchanged a quick look at the reverence in her tone. Shit, I had to damper this right now; my own fantasies were insane enough, but I would absolutely not allow my impressionable young daughter to go down this road with a full-grown man, and an ex-convict, no matter how beautiful he was.

  “Milla, goofball, he’s got a girlfriend,” Jilly said, keeping her tone intentionally light. She conceded, “I know he’s cute, though.”

  A girlfriend. Of course he did…and I thanked Jilly for mentioning her. “Camilla-billa,” I added, in keeping with the nicknames, “he’s a man. Isn’t that sort of, you know, grody?” I borrowed a word she’d once used with laughable regularity.

  And, to my utter relief, in the next instant my girl was back. She giggled at the word and said, “Whatever, Mom. Hey, can I still go out on the boat for a while? It’s not too dark yet, is it?”

  “Of course, just yell and Clinty will paddle them back to shore,” Jillian told her.

  Camille bounded up and untied her apron, then hurried out into the growing dusk. I was watching her, marveling again at how lovely she was, so close to being a woman…

  Jilly said then, startling me, “I had another dream, Jo.”

  Jillian and her dreams. At times during our lives I’d laughed heartily over them, but then she’d have one that was eerily precognitive, and I’d shut the hell up. I felt a slight chill dart up my spine, but kept my tone light as I asked, “Another one?”

  “Yes, but this time you were the horse being mounted.” Although her words were absurd, her face was wreathed in somber lines. This settled in as she added, “And Jackie wasn’t the centaur.”

  My heart pounded very hard again for a moment, but still I tried to tease her, “Jilly, what’s with the horse thing?”

  “Joelle, you know who it was, I can tell.” My little sister reached and caught my hands in her smaller ones, warm and soft, and she gripped mine tight. “I can’t see it all, but it’s dangerous, Jo. Please just think about that.”

  I looked deep into her indigo-blue eyes, eyes that I knew as well as my own, my children’s. I lied, “I don’t know what you mean, Jill.”

  Mom was coming into the café, Ellen on her heels. Jilly broke the contact of our hands and said, “Yes, you do.”

  Chapter Three

  We piled into the living room at Jilly and Clint’s place an hour later, the girls giggly and sunburned and Clint claiming a bean bag all for himself. Jilly and I made popcorn in her minuscule kitchen, and to my relief she didn’t mention her dream again. Mom, Aunt Ellen and Gran had retired for the evening, and the atmosphere in Jilly’s place was pure carnival.

  “Hey, Mom! ‘Hitchhiker III’ is on!” Tish yelled over to us, dodging Ruthann as she tried to steal the television remote. “Can we watch it? Please?”

  “No way!” I called back, sticking my head around the edge of the half-wall that separated the two rooms. “That’s a horror movie.”

  “Awww, come on, Aunt Joey,” wheedled Clint, and I almost gave in; it was nearly impossible to say no to Clinty. His big blue eyes and all.

  Jilly came to my rescue, adding firmly, “Clint, no. Ruthann will have nightmares for a week.”

  “Nuh-uh!” protested my youngest from the direction of the couch.

  “It’s okay, ‘Sex and the City’ is on!” Tish crowed triumphantly.

  “Patricia, I’m taking that remote away,” I warned.

  She yelped as Clint lambasted the back of her head with a crocheted throw pillow, saying, “I’m not watching that crap!” Tish attacked and Ruthann dove for the remote. Camille was draped over the back of the couch, doing leg lifts with her head propped on the heel of her left hand.

  “Mom, hurry with the popcorn!” she called. And then, “Ruthie, stop on that one!”

  I rejoined Jilly, muttering over the sound of popping kernels, “We’re just slaves to them,” and she handed me an ice-cold glass with a salty rim.

  “Here, drink up.”

  “But it’s not Saturday,” I protested, taking a deep swig anyway. Saturdays were the traditional margarita night for the Davis women.

  “I know, but this is a special occasion,” she clarified. She drew me to the small table with its four mismatched chairs. “Sit, and I’ll get the kids their snack.”

  She was back moments later, her own drink in hand, and sat across from me, with nothing but a pair of salt and pepper shakers that looked like mallard ducks between us. The television was blaring, the kids were wrestling and scarfing popcorn, and no one but me heard her as she asked, “So what happened?”

  We’d talked on the phone since Christmas, of course. But I’d been in a flurry of emotion, alternating between anger, denial, depression, and exhaustion, unable to carry on a lengthy conversation. It had taken me months to find the courage to leave the house with the kids, and even then I’d done so under pretense of visiting my family in Minnesota. Jackie should have been the one to move out, but he’d stayed, albeit in a separate room; I was terrified at the thought of losing him, even when I wanted to claw out his eyes. It had been a terrible and long set of months since Christmas. I sighed, scraping one had through my hair.

  “I let him go, I guess,” I said after a moment. I took another deep drink of the sweet frothy drink; tonight I’d just have one, though. I could not give in to abject alcoholism, no matter how tempting. “I knew it was happening. It started about five years ago, best I can tell.”

  “Why then?” she asked, concern and sympathy crossing paths over her delicate features.

  “Jackie got a new assistant around then,” I answered, catching up the girl duck salt shaker and turning her around and around in my hands as I told the story. “He would come home talking so innocently about her, this girl named Lanny.” Even now I wanted to spit out her name like a bad grape. “He talked about her so much, and I thought he couldn’t be possibly be that obvious. I was just being suspicious of nothing. And then I met her.” My voice dropped ominously and Jilly’s eyebrows raised.

  “Slutty, nasty, grody, right?” she asked, and I smiled just slightly.

  “No, of course beautiful, and young. Long eyelashes, long legs. Jackie was obsessed, I could tell. But it took me years to admit it. I knew he was cheating, I knew it, Jill, but I did nothing. I’m a total coward.” I set down the duck and reclaimed my drink. Jilly waited calmly. I continued, feeling tears prickle, “See, the thing is, Jilly Bar, he used to look at me that way. I know he loved me once. We were totally in love.”

  “I know you were,” she said softly. “Anyone with eyes could see it.”

  “People change, you know? I used to think that if we’d stayed around Landon Jackie would never have strayed. But now I’m not so sure. He doesn’t look at me the same anymore.”

  “Don’t be a martyr, Jo. You’re still gorgeous, and desirable, and all of the things that you’ve always been. Don’t give me any crap about it being all your fault.” That was the Gran in her, coming out. My mouth twisted wryly as I considered voicing the thought to Jillian.

  “I don’t really think that, honestly. But it’s not all his fault.”

  “Mom is going to hound you about getting back with him, forgiving him. She always liked Jackie.”

  “I know,” I groaned. “And Aunt Ellen and Gran are in the exact opposite camp.”

  “Of course. Gran thinks good riddance.”

  I contemplated my sister’s tan face, pixie-like chin and small, pointed nose. Her eyes were the blue of an August afternoon on Flickertail Lake. “What do you think?” I finally asked.

  �
��Like I said last night, Jo, I’m just glad you’re home. Fuck Jackie, for now, anyway,” she said. And again her tone grew serious as she tapped her drink on the table with every word for emphasis, “But don’t go fucking anyone else until you’re sure he’s the right guy. No rebound fucking, okay?”

  I giggled in spite of myself. I knew she didn’t want me to get hurt, didn’t want me to make a grand old fool of myself, fantasizing about a much younger man. Crap, I would have to forcibly reign in my attraction to him from this point forward. Forcibly, I reminded myself. The kids were piling in then, requesting drinks, and our conversation was shelved for the moment.

  Hours later I led my groggy children along the dew-damp shore to the big house and up the steps to the third level loft, where I left them to their own devices for getting into pajamas and then bed. I crept back down the tiny wooden staircase and eased open the door into Gran’s room, which I used to share with Jilly. Gran’s snores met me from where she was curled on one of the twin beds. I slipped out of my clothes, too exhausted to find my own PJs, and slipped beneath the covers of my old bed.

  ***

  May passed into June. The days grew longer and the air hotter, and we were all incredibly fortunate for the proximity of the lake, which allowed relief from the increasing humidity. In the garden behind the café, the tomato vines climbed like green monsters up their stakes, and the stargazer lilies and wild roses bloomed in a splendid profusion of oranges and pinks; in the morning air, their sweet scents flowed like a magical current. I woke each day to a chorus of wrens, who’d industriously built a mini-city in the birch tree outside my window. And Shore Leave became ever busier as the fishing season blasted into full swing.