by Mary McNear
She’d felt this way once before, during her junior year in college. She’d had what her therapist had referred to as a kind of breakdown, though to Quinn it had felt more like she was shutting down than breaking down. Whatever the terminology, the experience had frightened Quinn enough so that when she felt it beginning to happen again in January, she knew she needed to do something. But what? She understood that accident on Route 45 had brought up buried feelings and memories about Jake’s death, but knowing this did not mean she knew what to do about it. She’d thought about trying to find a therapist to talk to, but then, a couple of weeks ago, the anonymous newspaper clipping had come in the mail. And it had felt to Quinn like a message, a sign, that she needed to return to Butternut.
So here she was. And here she would stay. For how long exactly, she didn’t know. But she was going to need to stay beyond the weekend. That much was clear. She’d found her encounters with Gabriel and Theresa so upsetting that they made her want to leave, but then perhaps that was all the more reason to stay. No one said this was going to be easy, she reminded herself.
As for what Theresa had said to her, well, she didn’t know what to think. She’d blamed Quinn for the misery of the last ten years, which meant she was blaming Quinn for the accident. Why would she say that? Well, she’d been drunk. Was it possible she’d wake up tomorrow morning with no memory of what she’d said?
Of course, Theresa could have been motivated by pure anger. She’d wanted someone to lash out at, and Quinn, who’d been Jake’s girlfriend at the time of the accident, had presented herself as a convenient target. Perhaps Theresa had been offended that Quinn hadn’t gone to the reception. Or perhaps her behavior was better explained by grief alone. She was hurting; she was a mother who had lost a son. Quinn could only imagine how debilitating that must be. Maybe, then, her words to Quinn were the result of a toxic mix of all these things—alcohol, grief, and anger.
As Quinn got up, turned on her bedside table lamp, and pulled the curtains closed, she settled on this as an explanation. And, as she got ready for bed, she thought of the other parents she knew who had lost a son, Jake’s parents. She did not believe they would treat her the way Theresa had. She would go see them tomorrow, she decided. And after that, she’d go see Gabriel. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t run into Theresa again during her stay in Butternut.
Chapter 11
The next morning, Quinn sat in one of the back booths at Pearl’s, a now-tepid cup of coffee and a half-eaten order of blueberry pancakes in front of her. She picked up her fork and poked at the remaining pancake left on her plate. How did Caroline Keegan, the owner of Pearl’s, do it, she wondered, concocting this impossibly fluffy creation, part pancake, part pillow, and, months before berry season, studded throughout with plump, purplish blueberries? Quinn had no idea. She’d never graduated beyond the Bisquick mix herself. She gave the pancake a final prod and set her fork down, too preoccupied to eat any more.
“Quinn? Is that you?” Caroline asked, coming up to the booth.
“Caroline!” Quinn said. She slid out of the booth and gave her a hug.
“What a nice surprise,” Caroline said.
“I wanted to say hello when I first came in, but you were so busy,” Quinn said, noticing that Caroline—a pretty, strawberry-blond woman in her forties—looked the same as she’d looked ten years ago. Quinn had once written a profile about Caroline for the school paper in which she’d described her as the de facto mayor of Butternut. But she was much more than that. And there were few people in town whose lives she hadn’t touched.
“Your dad and Johanna were up here last summer,” Caroline said. “He told me that you’re writing and living near Chicago. Good for you, Quinn. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
“Thanks, Caroline. I love what I’m doing. Hey, how’s Daisy?” Quinn asked, of Caroline’s daughter, who’d been three years behind her in high school.
“She’s married. She got married last summer. She married Will Hughes—he’s from Winton. And, just between you and me, she’s pregnant. Newly pregnant. The baby is due in the fall.”
“That’s wonderful, Caroline,” Quinn said. “I’m so happy for her.” But just as she said this, there was a crash from the kitchen.
“Oh, dear,” Caroline said. “I’m training a new employee.” She gave Quinn a quick kiss and was gone. Daisy is going to be a mother? Quinn marveled, sliding back into the booth. Although Quinn had always imagined she herself would have children one day, she couldn’t imagine being ready for them now. And even though she was three years older than Daisy, she hadn’t yet had a relationship that was serious enough for her to broach the subject of having a family. She signaled the waitress for her check and ordered a to-go cup of coffee.
A FEW MINUTES later, Quinn stood outside of Pearl’s, sipping her coffee and listening to the Sunday bells ringing from the Lutheran church down the street. A few cold droplets of water from the overhead awning dripped onto her hand. The weather, again, was clear and cold. But it was fractionally warmer than the day before, and those few added degrees of warmth were enough to encourage a thawing of sorts on Main Street. Melting ice and snow dripped from awnings and sent rivulets of water gurgling through the gutters. It was spring, technically, but it didn’t feel like it yet. Not when the trees were bare and the flower boxes empty. There wasn’t a bud or a shoot in sight. But the thaw, the thaw was real. And spring would eventually work its way this far north.
Quinn was loosening her scarf when she saw a woman in a navy peacoat and her blond-headed son coming out of the IGA grocery store down the block. The boy shot past Quinn as he ran up the street, and Quinn studied the mother. She recognized her. Her name was Annika. Annika Bergstrom. She was from Winton. She’d been two years ahead of Quinn in high school, and she’d also been a waitress at Pearl’s during Quinn’s last year in high school. Quinn remembered her as an unusually gloomy presence there. But something else about her gave Quinn pause. Annika was the blond woman who’d stopped Tanner at the dedication yesterday before he’d gotten into his car.
As Annika approached her, she shifted her grocery bag in her arms and looked at the businesses across the street. For a second Quinn wondered if she should simply let her pass. But her curiosity got the better of her.
“Annika?” she said.
Annika turned and looked at her. “Oh, hi,” she said. She looked distinctly uncomfortable and it occurred to Quinn, too late, that Annika may have been hoping to avoid her. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d barely known Annika back in high school, she might have been offended. But they hadn’t been friends; they’d barely been acquaintances.
“You’re still here,” Annika said now, as she juggled the grocery bag she was holding.
“Yes, for a few more days,” Quinn replied, sipping her coffee. Annika, she realized, must have seen her at Shell Lake yesterday. “What did you think of the dedication?” Quinn asked her now.
Annika looked briefly up the street to where the little boy had stopped. “I didn’t want to go at first, but now I’m glad I went,” she said. A gust of wind rattled the awning above them and sent Annika’s blond hair flying. She caught it and pulled it back off her face, revealing her pale complexion and light blue eyes. She’s pretty, Quinn thought, pretty in the way that women of Scandinavian descent—women like her stepmother, Johanna—often were.
“I know what you mean about the dedication,” Quinn said. “I felt the same way.”
A customer came out of Pearl’s then, sending the little bells that hung from the door into a frenzy of jingling. “You used to waitress here,” Quinn said, gesturing at the door as it swung closed. “Do you still?”
“Oh, no. I work at Loon Bay Cabins now. I’m the manager,” Annika said, pulling the collar of her peacoat closed. Quinn nodded, remembering that Tanner was staying at the cabins this week. That must be how he and Annika knew each other.
“Do you live there too?” Quinn asked, though she had the vague impressi
on that Annika needed to get going.
Annika hesitated. “Jesse and I have one of the cabins there,” she said. Quinn looked up the block at the boy. He was bouncing one of those Pinky rubber balls that they still sold in the vending machine outside the hardware store. Quinn had loved these as a child, and she and her dad could rarely pass by the hardware store without Quinn wanting a quarter for one. She shuddered to think of how many near accidents she must have caused when she’d lost control of one. Jesse was bouncing his ball with great skill and total absorption, though. It made her smile. She loved the way kids that age could be so oblivious to the adult world unfolding around them.
“He’s cute,” Quinn said, of the uncomplicated boyness of him, and of that need, she still remembered, to be in a state of unending motion. “How old is he?” she asked, watching as Jesse made a dramatic dive to catch the ball.
“He’s nine. He’ll be ten in August,” Annika said, and then she looked down into the bag she was holding as if she might find more information there.
“He’s in fourth grade, then?”
Annika nodded and smiled a barely there smile. “Well, nice seeing you,” she said, and she started to move away.
“Wait,” Quinn said. “How are the cabins at Loon Bay? I’m staying at the Butternut Motel,” she explained, “but I’d love to move somewhere else for the next few days.”
“The Butternut Motel?” Annika asked, turning back to Quinn. She wrinkled her nose.
“Yeah, it’s pretty depressing,” Quinn agreed. “What about Loon Bay?” she persisted. “Do you have any cabins available?”
“We do,” Annika said, pulling her hair back.
“How are the rates there?” she asked.
“We have a midweek rate of seventy-nine dollars a night now.” Annika looked up the street again, trying to spot her son, who was looking in the window of the variety store.
“That’s good,” Quinn said, of the price, especially since she didn’t know if she could face another night in room 6. At Loon Bay, at least, she’d have a whole cabin, albeit a tiny one, to herself. And if she didn’t feel like going out to eat, she wouldn’t be limited to chicken-flavored soup from a vending machine either. The restaurant there—if that wasn’t overstating what it was—overlooked the lake. She and her dad had gone there when they’d wearied of his indifferent cooking. It was nothing fancy, and the menu had been limited, but she remembered it as being cozy in the winter and busy in the summer. Thinking about this, a little nostalgically, made her want to check in to Loon Bay Cabins right now.
“Could I get a reservation there for tonight?” Quinn asked.
Annika looked surprised. “How long are you planning on staying?”
“I don’t know yet. But not more than a couple of days.”
“We have cabins available now. Check-in is any time after three o’clock,” Annika said. “I’ve got to go. Nice to see you.” Then she headed up the sidewalk toward Jesse.
“Bye, Annika,” Quinn called after her. Annika waved back. As Quinn drained the last of her coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can, she watched as Annika took Jesse’s hand and the two of them crossed the street to their car. That was odd, Quinn thought. Not odd in any definable way. Annika, of course, was different than she’d been in high school. She was certainly politer than she’d been back then. But she still wasn’t exactly friendly. Maybe she’s shy, Quinn speculated, or reticent. Scandinavians might be blessed with natural good looks, but they could also be maddeningly reserved. Or maybe she’s one of those socially awkward people. Or maybe, after ten years away, Quinn—who’d always prided herself on her social ease—was the one who was awkward. Now there was a thought.
Chapter 12
As Quinn walked back to the Butternut Motel, she formulated a plan. She would check out, pay a visit to Jake’s parents, and then go see Gabriel again before checking in to Loon Bay Cabins. When she got back to the room, though, she reached for her laptop and flipped it open. There was something she wanted to write about. Bumping into Annika this morning had unearthed another memory from ten years ago, though it was a memory that Annika had played only a tangential role in. This was a memory that was mostly about Gabriel.
September, Senior Year, Gabriel (and Annika) at Pearl’s
“One iced tea,” Annika said, putting the glass down on the Formica-topped table a little too firmly. She turned abruptly and left the table before Quinn could ask for an order of fries. She watched as Annika crossed the room and deposited some dishes, roughly, into a dishpan behind the counter. Annika had graduated two years ago. And since then Quinn hadn’t seen much of her, until recently, when Annika had started waitressing at Pearl’s.
“She does not like you,” Gabriel said, smiling for the first time since Quinn had slid into the booth at Pearl’s five minutes ago.
“You mean, ‘she doesn’t like us,’” Quinn corrected, reaching for the first of the five packets of sugar she put in her iced tea.
“No, I mean she doesn’t like you,” Gabriel said. “She was perfectly pleasant when she took my order. In fact, she was more than pleasant. Before you got here. Late.”
Quinn frowned. Gabriel was still rankled about her being late. She was never late. Not to their afternoons together after school. Usually, they met in the communications room—when they were rushing to get the newspaper out—but today they were meeting at Pearl’s.
She watched as Gabriel squirted mustard onto his open-faced burger and flipped the top bun back into place. He didn’t take a bite of it, though. He looked out the window instead. It was raining, for the third day in a row. And it was not a gentle rain, either, but a hard, unforgiving rain that sent the few people who were out on Main Street scurrying from one business’s awning to another in a vain attempt to stay dry. The bells on the front door of Pearl’s jingled, and another customer came in, closing their dripping umbrella, the rain still running off their raincoat.
“Another lovely day,” Quinn said, under her breath, dumping another packet of sugar into her iced tea. Weather like this—this wet, for this long—made her feel claustrophobic. The simplest act—getting from school to your car in the parking lot, for instance—was fraught with difficulty. And nothing stayed dry. The cuffs of her blue jeans were wet, her Converse sneakers were positively soggy, and the plateglass window in front of them was starting to cloud with moisture from the inside.
But the weather, of course, wasn’t why Gabriel was in a bad mood. The reason for that, Quinn suspected, was Quinn. Or, more specifically, Quinn and Jake. Quinn had told Gabriel back in July that she’d gone out on a couple of dates with Jake, and he’d been surprised. More than surprised, actually. “Jake Lightman? Seriously,” he’d said. “What do you two even have in common?” At the time, though, she’d made light of it. “Not a lot,” she’d said. “But he’s fun.” And she’d left it at that. The truth was she was as surprised as Gabriel at her growing attraction to Jake. Still, she tried not to dwell on this in her conversations with Gabriel. She sensed that he was not interested.
But by the time Gabriel had returned from his summer in Chicago, a couple nights ago, Quinn had heard Jake refer to her as his girlfriend and Quinn had told her dad Jake was her boyfriend. She’d gone to see Gabriel the day he got back and she’d told him this too. “I thought this was a summer thing,” he’d reminded her. And when she’d said it was more than that, he’d been silent.
“Have a little iced tea with your sugar,” Gabriel said now, watching her pour another packet of sugar into it.
“Hey, you know me. I’m a five-sugar girl,” she said, picking up a spoon and stirring her drink vigorously. “It’s all about the viscosity. I want it right at the point of changing from a liquid into a solid.”
This didn’t get a smile from him, though. He picked up his burger. She noticed his hair had gotten a little longer this summer, and his face was a little tanner. There was something else—in the ten weeks that he’d been away he’d changed. It was almo
st imperceptible. But it was still there. He seemed older. More worldly? Was that even possible? Quinn wondered. After all, he’d only been two states away.
“Hey, you’ve barely told me anything about the summer program,” she said now, sticking a straw into her iced tea and taking a long pull on it. “And I don’t mean what you learned, either. Didn’t you say something about a girl in your class? The one who kept flirting with you. What happened with her?”
“Nothing, really,” he said, taking a bite of his burger.
“Nothing, really? What does that mean, Gabriel?” She said this part teasingly, but she was also curious.
“Forget it, Quinn. Nothing happened. She wasn’t my type.”
“What is your type, by the way?” she asked him, again teasing. “Because you said Emma Raible wasn’t your type either.”
He looked at her, a wary expression on his face.
“Never mind,” she said, lifting a french fry off his plate and popping it into her mouth. She realized she needed to tread carefully here; Gabriel and girls was one subject they only discussed superficially.
“Quinn, tell me again. How did it happen, you and Jake?” he said, pushing his plate away. And he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she’d slid into the booth.
“I told you,” Quinn said. “I wrote a profile of him for the Butternut Express.” The truth was, she’d started seeing him less than two days after she’d interviewed him. He’d pursued her then. There was no other word for it. It was a new experience for Quinn. No one had done that to her before, not with that kind of intensity.
“So . . . you did an interview, and then what?” Gabriel asked.