Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

by Abbie Williams

  Aunt Ellen hid a smile in her coffee; I watched, ready to do damage control if necessary.

  Camille knelt near Gran’s chair and hooked her wrist over the back of it, giving her great-granny a winning smile. For a second she looked exactly like her father. She said, “Gran, it’s just my bathing suit.”

  Gran harrumphed, not one to be easily charmed. “Well, one tug on those strings and you’ll be bare naked from the waist up, girl.”

  Ruthie came to give me a kiss, but Tish laughed, loving every moment of Gran scolding her big sister. Camille shot me a look that clearly asked for help. I sighed, torn between Gran’s authority and my own. At long last I said, “Bring a t-shirt along, honey, just in case.”

  “I was going to anyway,” she let me know, sounding the slightest bit defiant.

  “Fabulous,” I replied, matching her tone with an edge of sarcasm.

  The girls took off with Clint minutes later. I was mildly concerned that her older sisters wouldn’t keep an eye on Ruthie, but then reminded myself that she was twelve, not a toddler, and was headed into Landon, not downtown Chicago. Jilly and I had run wild all around Landon, the lake, and Shore Leave since the summer we were seven and eight. Probably even earlier. Besides, I planned to join them after the lunch crowd was gone, nostalgic for the decorations that hadn’t changed since I was a kid: the huge plaster replica of a rainbow trout, the nets, lures and poles strung between all the local businesses, the scent of fish and cheese curds frying. It would make a native Chicagoan cringe and run in the opposite direction; fortunately my girls had spent enough time here to refrain from being judgmental.

  We watched as the four of them, Clint and Tish in the front, Camille and Ruthie in back, clung to the roll bars as Clint hightailed it down the gravel road. I could hear their laughter through the screen door, and sighed, depression momentarily almost crushing me as I contemplated how long it had been since I’d laughed that way. I mentally scolded myself in the next moment for being so morbid, when Aunt Ellen commented, “It seems like yesterday that was you and Jillian.”

  “I know, it’s scary how fast time flies,” I agreed, shoulders sagging a little. I bolstered myself with a sip of the strong coffee.

  “Things will get better, Joey,” Gran said then, elbows braced on the tabletop, her own mug just inches below her chin as she studied me. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so optimistic. I waited too long to reply, feeling the familiar sting of unshed tears, and Gran went on, “I hear you crying at night, sweetie, just like that sad song on your radio that we hear again and again.”

  I had to laugh at that, staving off the tears. Of course she meant the Dixie Chicks, whom I loved and listened to religiously, even still. “Gran,” I said, setting my coffee on the table and leaning to affectionately kiss her cheek. “You’re funny. And I’m sorry if I wake you, really.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. Mom came through the swinging kitchen door just then and leaned to hand me a fresh apron, officially signaling the start of the work day. But by four-thirty in the afternoon I was done with work, sitting on the dock waiting for slowpoke Jilly. I had managed to sneak home for a shower and emerged feeling just slightly renewed. I was even wearing a sundress, albeit a plain cream-colored one. My bare legs were submerged to mid-calf in the lukewarm lake water. My hair was loose and damp and I was enjoying watching a pair of sailboats out on the lake, the sounds of laughter and merriment from Trout Days drifting across the water. When the dock began shuddering with the impact of an approach, I called back, “Took you long enough!”

  A man laughed at that, and my head jerked around. For a second my heart stuttered in my chest; the angle of the sun distorted my vision momentarily and I was certain that Jackson was walking toward me. A fist seemed to seize my throat and I clutched the boards at the end of the dock with a hard, startled grip. Then in the next instant I realized that it was not Jackson at all, but Justin Miller, wearing dirty jeans and a work shirt, with his name stitched across the pocket. He said, “Well, about sixteen years, I’d say.”

  He approached to within a couple of feet and studied me for a moment, while I took in the familiar: his wide-legged stance, strong arms, and thick black hair—and the unfamiliar: his scarred face From a certain direction anyone would still consider him the best-looking guy they’d seen in a long time; straight on, the scarring was intense and resembled something from a Halloween mask. I found myself gaping and immediately glanced away, then immediately back, sure he would know I was uncomfortable. I finally spit out, “Well, hi, Justin, long time no see.”

  His full lips curled into something resembling a grin. He knelt and our faces were suddenly at the same height. I turned more fully around, bending one knee against the dock and struggling to find something to say. I managed, “How are you?”

  He still had long lashes and straight black brows over his pecan-brown eyes. As a teenager he’d been wild and known for his outrageous sense of humor; I remembered him cajoling the guys to race their trucks with his, and I remembered him slamming beer and yelping in victory during football games. He had been one of Jackson’s longtime buddies. For a moment I was steeped in memories of those bygone days, rendered mute. His formerly beautiful, boyish face was cross-hatched with ropy red scars all along the right side. The outside corner of his right eye was pulled slightly down, giving him an unintentionally menacing look. The scarring continued down his neck and into the unbuttoned collar of his blue work shirt. He said, “Fucking great, how about you?” but his tone held no malice. I felt one corner of my lips pull up in a smile.

  “Me, too. In fact this last year has been really amazing.”

  He adjusted his position and caught one wrist in the opposite hand, braced on his knees. “Jackson is still in Chicago, huh?”

  I figured Dodge had told him everything anyway; they had always been close.

  “Yep,” I agreed without elaborating. “I brought the girls for the summer.”

  “You usually do, right?”

  “Yeah, they love it.”

  “Funny I haven’t seen you around before now.”

  “I know, it’s Landon, right? But we don’t usually stay more than a couple weeks.”

  Such surface conversation, while his eyes seemed to be telling me something much more complex. It was odd being engaged in a multi-level communication I wasn’t sure he intended. He asked, “Longer this summer though?”

  Something caught in my throat, so I nodded instead of answering. He went on, “Dad is glad to have you back. He misses you a lot around here. Jillian, too.”

  I moved my gaze to the dock, studying the unchanging wood grain with its knot holes and wavy lines. I said, still looking down, “I miss everybody here, too.”

  Justin rose abruptly then, back to his full height. I shaded my eyes with one hand and returned his gaze; it was easier with distance between our faces. He said, “Well, it’s good to see you, Joelle. You and Jilly going to Trout Days later?”

  “We’re headed there now, actually.”

  “See you around then,” he said, and then turned and walked away; I could see Jilly, clad in a bright yellow sundress, approaching from the café as I watched him go.

  “Hi, Justin,” she called to him and he lifted one arm in a brief wave. She then directed a smile my way and stopped twenty yards away, on the bank, planting her hands on both hips. “Come on, Joey, I’m sick of waiting for your ass!”

  “Oh for the love, Jillian,” I grumbled, hiking my dress down and standing. My wet bare feet left slim prints along the boards of the dock; I leaned and grabbed my sandals by the heel straps.

  “You wanna walk or take my car?” she called as I made my way over the grass.

  “Let’s walk, do you mind?” I replied. I saw Justin climb into his truck up in the parking lot; he began driving but then braked suddenly as his dad called over to him. For a moment they spoke, and then he drove away.

  Dodge turned back to the café and caught sight of us. He yelled, “Have fun, gi
rls, don’t break too many hearts!”

  “I don’t think there’s much danger of that,” Jilly called back good-naturedly.

  Mom appeared on the porch then, and teased, “Back before midnight, girls.”

  “Hardy har har,” I responded. “Seriously, Mom, I turn into a pumpkin way before that hour. I’m old!”

  “If you’re old then I don’t want to think about what I am!” she returned.

  “You guys are coming over later, right?” Jilly asked. We always closed after lunch during Trout Days; no one ventured out of Landon during the festivities, even the scant mile it took to get out here.

  “Sure, we couldn’t keep Gran from the dance,” Mom joked, lighting a smoke.

  Jilly and I made our way along the lake road, dappled with shadows from the maples, oaks, pines, and grapevines that grew thick enough on either side to make it seem as though we traversed a glowing green tunnel. Flicker Trail was so familiar I could have walked with a bandana over my eyes; instead I ambled along beside my sister, happy in the moment that we were in no hurry and could enjoy the luxury of walking barefoot (I still carried my sandals) beside the lake. To our left it lay in a clear blue expanse, calm as sheet of sapphire satin where no boats marred the surface. The sun in a cloudless sky danced over the water, twinkling in an ever-changing light path, tempting as always, as though you could climb out there and walk along its length over the ripples.

  “So I talked to Justin,” I told Jilly.

  “So I gathered,” she responded.

  “His face…”

  “I know, it’s hard to get used to.”

  “I always think of him as so carefree…he and Aubrey were so in love, back when.”

  “We were all carefree back then. God, if only,” Jilly said, and hung her head back for a moment, walking for a few beats as she stared straight up at the treetops. “Aubrey tried to keep their marriage going, I think, from what I’ve heard. But it couldn’t have been easy. He’s so bitter.”

  “Yeah, but who can blame him?” I felt a flash of defensiveness for Justin, who had certainly only minutes before driven this very stretch of road. “Then she cheats. She was always a total flirt.” I hadn’t intended to sound so bitchy, and if that wasn’t me projecting my own experience onto the situation, then I didn’t know what was.

  Jilly didn’t disagree. “She was, that’s true.”

  “What happened? Do you know?”

  “Not totally…Dodge won’t go into details, even when Gran starts digging. But from what I understand, she ran off with a tourist. That was three summers ago now, and they moved out of state. Aubrey doesn’t even come back to visit her parents very often. But then, they’re so religious they probably shun her.”

  My heart constricted for a moment, unexpectedly, as I imagined Justin alone and dealing with that bullshit. No wonder he’d taken up drinking. That much I’d heard from Mom. I needed a subject change so I asked, “How’s Clinty looking forward to tenth grade?”

  We were discussing our children’s respective future plans fifteen minutes later as we came out from under the canopy of trees and turned right onto Landon’s main drag. The music was growing steadily louder, as the atmosphere would undoubtedly grow more raucous as the evening progressed. The air was redolent with the smell of the fish fry; vendor’s booths were set up along the street, festooned with colored lanterns, fishing lures, plastic trout and blue garlands meant to resemble waves. Near the lake, a local band called Untamed was setting up their equipment on the pavilion for a show later tonight. Eddie Sorenson and Jim Olson were putting on an impromptu show at the moment, sitting on a bench under an enormous weeping willow whose branches trailed into Flickertail Lake, plucking along on their respective guitar and banjo. Picnic tables were jammed with families; kids were running everywhere, most wearing foam fish heads that fit like headbands over their sweaty hair. I felt a small pang, remembering my own girls at those fun ages of seven, eight, nine…big enough to have some independence, but still with enough of a child’s heart to hold my hand, wear a foam fish head and caper without restraint or fear of embarrassment.

  “Joelle Davis!” I heard then, and turned towards the familiar voice of Leslie Gregerson, a former classmate. I was prepared for questions, I reminded myself. I wasn’t about to let anyone see the real me, the aching one. I could project the happy, smiling Joelle that I used to be, the one everyone remembered: Jackie’s Perky Girlfriend. Hopefully not: Slut Who Got Pregnant on Prom Night.

  “Hi, Leslie,” I said, and we hugged briefly; her hair smelled exactly like I remembered.

  “You look great, Jo,” she said, and then smiled warmly at my sister. “Hi, Jilly, you know I think that about you too.”

  “Thanks, Les, you too,” I added, honestly; it was funny how after a few moments around people you knew as teenagers, no matter how much they’d physically changed, you suddenly just saw the person you used to know. Despite the extra pounds and much shorter hair, she was still the girl I’d sat by in senior English, taken tequila shots with at parties, whose older brother Keith had been Jilly’s first crush.

  “These are my kids, Randy and Tim,” she said, trying futilely to grasp the shoulders of a couple of boys as they darted by. “How many do you and Jackie have now?”

  “Three girls,” I told her. “They’re here somewhere, with Clint.”

  “Oh, sure, I’ve seen them today. I was wondering where Clint found a couple of girlfriends.”

  “He’s a lady’s man,” Jilly added, rolling her eyes at Leslie. “At least, he is beginning to think he is.”

  “My oldest will be thirteen this fall,” Leslie said. “I’m not ready!”

  We chatted for a few more minutes before heading further into town; I wanted cheese curds, and to lay eyes on my own kids. Of course we were waylaid about a thousand times along the way, and so the sun had almost fully sunk behind the pines by the time we’d found the kids, confirmed they were fine, and then ambled all the way back to the picnic area. In the dusk, Landon was almost magical. Twinkling white Christmas lights began winking on all around the pavilion dance area. Someone began lighting the hanging lanterns that adorned the trees, and sparklers were crackling everywhere as kids found grown-ups with lighters in their pockets. It became imperative to keep your elbows close to avoid getting burned by a stray spark. Untamed was about ready to get rolling on the stage. I sighed, mostly in pleasure, and joined Jilly and my youngest at a picnic table; Ruthann had elected to stay with us for a while. Minutes later Mom, Gran, Aunt Ellen, and Rich found us in the crowd. I tried as unobtrusively as possible to determine if Blythe had accompanied them, but to my extreme disappointment he was nowhere to be seen.

  It’s for the best, Jo-elle, I reminded myself, emphasizing the syllables of my name as Mom did when angry with me, but some of the magic seeped from the evening anyway. I scooted down the seat to make room, and then saw Liz Miller, Dodge’s daughter, making her way through the mass of people. Dodge was with her, carrying a kid piggyback, while Liz carted two more with her.

  Dodge led her to our table. Liz looked frazzled, and I extracted myself from the picnic bench to hug her as Dodge introduced Ruthann to the triplets, who were just a year younger than she was.

  “Joelle, hi,” she murmured, drawing back to smile at me. She was little, and looked just like I remembered her mother. “Justin said he’d seen you.”

  “So, three kids at once, huh, Liz?” I teased her, and she made a face, half sheepish, half proud.

  “Yeah, these are my rugrats. Do your girls baby-sit?”

  I laughed, and suddenly Clint, Tish, and Camille were all there, too. Our picnic table was far too small to accommodate our group, so I had Camille (who was wearing her t-shirt now, I noticed with relief) guide the kids to a separate one within eyeshot. Ruthann and the triplets seemed to be getting along, and Ruthann, who’d collected a king’s ransom in parade candy, was sharing some with them.

  The air was almost fully dark now, and stars sparked i
n the navy velvet of the sky. The band did a quick instrument check, and then launched full force into some good old-fashioned country music. Because talking was impossible with the noise, Jilly had to lean practically into my ear to be heard. She asked, “You having fun?”

  I nodded, sincerely. She grinned back at me, looking young and cute with her short hair and bright blue eyes. She’d worn a little make-up: mascara, lip gloss and some eyeliner. She mouthed the word ‘good.’

  Mom had brought a cooler and began passing out beer to the adults. I snagged one, and then a couple of soda cans for the kids, and headed across the way to deliver them. I snaked through the crowd and deposited the drinks for Clint to distribute; the melted ice clinging to the cans had left the front of my dress damp and sticking to me.

  “Dammit,” I muttered as I threaded my way back. I paused to pluck at my dress, and it was then that a big, warm hand caught my elbow from behind.

  I somehow knew it was him even before I turned around. He’d let go of my arm almost instantly, now that he’d gotten my attention, but my skin burned as though he was still touching me. For a moment, with the music pulsing and people swirling all around us, we were a little island of stillness, only our gazes making contact now. My heart seemed to be trying to keep rhythm with the foot-stomping music, battering my chest hard.

  Blythe tipped his head towards mine, and I felt shaky and weak-kneed, like he was about to kiss me. He was not, of course, instead just attempting to be heard over the noise.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice melting over me and sending shivers spiraling through my ribcage and along my spine.

  Hi. My lips formed the word, but no sound emerged. I stared up at him, aware of my own body in myriad ways…how my breasts and stomach were aching to be pressed against him, how my fingertips curled against my palms to avoid reaching…