After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  “You’re off today?” A thought crossed Charlene’s mind. “Any plans?”

  “Staying cool and lazy. That’s about it.”

  “What do you say we go find a beach and cool off? It would be fun. We could pack a lunch. Interested?”

  Brook perked up. “Know what? That’s actually a good idea. Know what would make it even better?” She pulled out her phone.

  Charlene soon overheard her inviting someone, so she slapped together a few extra sandwiches.

  Through the window several minutes later, she saw Clay pull up to the apartment in his gray truck.

  “Can you believe I actually convinced him to come? He’s usually all, ‘I have to work,’” Brook confided. “This is going to be awesome.”

  “Awesome,” Charlene parroted. I get to be a third wheel.

  Clay helped Brook up into the front seat while Charlene clunked and clambered with her bags into the narrow back seat.

  Brook cranked up the radio and began singing along. Charlene admired her ability to be so unselfconscious. For a fraction of a second, she wondered what it would be like to simply open her mouth and join in. Instead, she opened a novel and hoped the book was thick enough for what was shaping up to feel like a long day.

  Over an hour later, Brook groaned, “Why’s it taking so long to get there? This better be some special beach you’re taking us to, Clay.” She nudged him playfully. “Or are you lost? Please tell me you’re not lost.”

  “I’m not lost. Look.” He pointed to the right.

  Charlene glanced up from her page to the window, just in time to glimpse a huge sapphire ribbon shimmer over the grassy horizon.

  Brook gasped. “It’s . . . like an ocean!”

  Clay chuckled. “Lake Michigan.”

  Charlene watched out the window, transfixed. Rolling countryside stretched wide around them, but past it, the deep blue expanse dipped and disappeared, peeked tauntingly between two hills, then vanished. She moved closer to the glass, watching for a reappearance.

  “What do you think, Charlene?” Clay caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.

  Such an easy question, yet her tongue felt tied. “It’s beautiful,” she managed.

  Clay stepped on the gas. The lake—it really did stretch as magnificent as an ocean—surged back into view.

  A short time later, they exited the highway. They drove a few more miles, turned off on a country road that swooped through bobbing trees, and eventually parked in a little rectangular lot tucked into a stretch of woods.

  Charlene and Brook tumbled out excitedly. A restroom and a picnic table sat on the edge of the lot. A wooden sign pointed to a cordwalk through the trees, another pointed to sand dunes, and yet another pointed straight ahead to the beach.

  “There’s even sand dunes? Wow,” Brook gushed. “What’s a cordwalk, though? Don’t they mean boardwalk?”

  “Nope,” Clay said, loading his arms with a bag, then a cooler, “though that’s basically what it is. The boards are connected by thick ropes—cords—and so you get cordwalk.”

  Brook spun around with her arms outstretched, her sundress twirling prettily. “This is great! Charlene, I’m so glad you talked me into this. And Clay, you picked the best spot.” She dove at him with a kiss and he set down the supplies to take her in his arms. Charlene quickly fixated on searching in her bag for her sunglasses.

  When she dared look up, Brook was trotting up the beach path, her hair swooshing in the warm breeze. Clay turned to smile at Charlene gratefully. “I haven’t seen her this happy in a while. Thanks.”

  “You bet.” But he was already out of earshot, catching up to Brook, putting an arm around her shoulder. Charlene glanced down at her feet as she walked, till the parking lot gave way to matted grass, which gave way to a sandy path bordered by tall waving prairie grasses. Sand grit slid into her flip-flops and under her bare feet.

  When she crested the hill and saw the huge, seemingly endless glimmering water speckled with white sailboats, awe washed over her. After standing still a moment and absorbing the sight, she picked her way down the uneven wooden steps, hazardous with blown sand. On the wide shore, Clay set down the cooler. She saw a couple colorful shade umbrellas and only a few other people up and down the vast beach.

  Her ears welcomed the constant rush of waves. She breathed in an enormous lungful of fresh air and savored the peacefulness, marveling at how God had spared no beauty in creating this.

  She lifted her face to the sun, her skin absorbing the warmth. So she was a third wheel. So what. She would enjoy this day anyway, and be grateful for it.

  With each step she took, sand squeaked underfoot. Brook’s happy chatter floated her way. Brook dropped her towel, tugged on Clay’s arm, and raced into the waves.

  “It’s freezing!” she shrieked, before splashing him and instigating a wild water battle. Charlene watched for a minute, then shook out her towel and laid it down smoothly. Reclining, she looked up at the delicate clouds powdering the blue sky with fanciful shapes. Castles. Angels. Dragons.

  “That water is ice,” Brook declared when she returned, dripping, to her towel. “Liquid ice. My skin was turning blue.”

  “I’m hungry,” Clay said, apparently not bothered by the water. “Let’s eat.” He plunked down and sand stuck to him. Again, didn’t seem to bother him. Charlene’s skin crawled just imagining the clinging grit.

  She noticed him tug his knuckle bandages tight and secure before unpacking the cooler. “All right,” he said. “Real food and not a blender in sight. This is living.” He’d healed fast, and just had the wires removed a couple days ago. It had been a wonderful sight when he first smiled to show his wire-free teeth.

  As if the seagulls had sensors, they began swooping and landing nearby, boldly ambling closer, trying to snag a morsel. “Scram,” Clay told the birds. “I’ve got a lot of eating to make up for.”

  Charlene mainly listened while Brook and Clay chatted through the meal, but as the food dwindled, she noticed they’d become very quiet. Then she realized Brook had fallen asleep.

  Charlene tucked the remains of their picnic away, speaking to Clay without looking at him. “Your explanation about how the lake never freezes completely over in winter must have bored her to sleep.” Glancing at Brook, she added, “She looks so peaceful.” Indeed, she had a visage of sweet innocence, of a pure soul who’d never been wounded or damaged or traumatized by life, who only dreamed of rainbows and moonbeams, never haunted by nightmares.

  “You’re frowning,” Clay said, and Charlene flinched, taken unaware by his sudden nearness. “What’s wrong?”

  She smiled. “Nothing.” She slipped off her flip-flops and stood on the sand. “Ouch!” Without soles to protect her, the sand scorched her feet. She scurried to the water. Breathless at the cold temperature contrast, she stepped out of the lake onto the saturated, wave-washed sand. Glancing up and down the seemingly endless stretch of shore, she began strolling, ready to be alone with her thoughts.

  “Hey,” Clay caught up to her, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” He squinted against the sun’s glare, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “You haven’t found my ma’s letter anywhere, by chance, have you? I thought Nails left it in the shop, but I haven’t been able to find it.”

  Panic billowed inside her while she put on a thoughtful face and continued walking the sun-kissed sand. For whatever reason, Nails must be what he called Lance. That wasn’t important right now. Her mind churned furiously. She couldn’t lie to Clay, but she’d promised Sam she’d give him time to break the news tactfully. She reproved herself for thinking so little of the letter lately. If she didn’t keep the pressure on Sam, he may never tell Clay the truth.

  “Charlene?” Clay waved a hand near her face.

  Snapping out of her thoughts, she chose her words carefully. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen the letter in the shop since that day. Do you think Lance—Nails—or whoever he is—maybe took it?”

  Clay grunted.
“Maybe.” He began to work his jaw slowly, as if testing it.

  She dug her toes into the wet sand as they walked, gouging little troughs. She debated voicing a question she’d been wondering for a while. When she spoke, she couched it in several questions. “What’s the deal with that Nails guy, anyway? Why did he come after you like that? And why did he think—how did he know—that I’d lead him to you? Why did he say . . .” she let the last words fall out in a rush, “I was your girl?”

  “Because he’s an idiot. He’s deluded. I don’t know.” Clay shoved his hands into his pockets. He glanced over the water, then back at her. “He thought he was a big shot in prison. Rumor had it he liked to try and get friendly with the female COs, and most of the inmates looked up to him or feared him. They called him Nails. He picked fights all the time. When he went after me, I busted his jaw. Not long after that, my time was up, but he ended up having to serve extra time. He held a grudge, and he didn’t get his chance to really pay me back till he got out.”

  She kicked a piece of driftwood. “You don’t think he’ll come back, do you?”

  “Nah.” Clay rolled a shoulder. “He got his revenge. And if he’s smart, he’ll stay away, now that you’re a sharpshooter.”

  “Oh, please.”

  Rushing waves filled the ensuing silence. Hardly realizing it, they’d walked a fair distance and were now approaching a young family. A little boy of about six was digging a hole in the sand with his little sister. Another sister, probably almost two, was busily spooning sand into a bucket. Colorful floppy sunhats topped the girls’ wispy golden hair. Their mom wore a straw hat with a brim so wide, Charlene expected the wind to pick it up at any moment and send it sailing like a flying saucer. Their dad sported a monstrous beard, reminding her of the one Clay used to have.

  When she smiled and said a polite hello to the family, the little boy perked up. “I’m digging for pirate treasure.”

  “My name’s Gina,” announced his sister. “I’m five. Look what I can do!” She flung herself over in a wild blend of a summersault-cartwheel.

  “Wow, good job,” Charlene said.

  The littlest girl stared at them and said, “Hi! Hi! Hi!” over and over.

  “Can we bury you in our hole?” the boy asked excitedly. “I can dig it really big.” Sand began flying in every direction.

  “How about after you find your treasure, you bury her?” Clay pointed at Charlene.

  “Hey,” she admonished, elbowing him and lowering her voice. “The poor kid’s not going to know you’re joking.”

  “Who said I’m joking?”

  “Then they should burry you.” She walked on with a friendly wave. “You’re still covered in sand.” Her skin itched and prickled at the sight. “Gosh, how can you stand that?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me.”

  She couldn’t help glancing back at the happy family scene. Once upon a time, that had been her and Max.

  Someday, in a different way, she wanted that again.

  She came to a cluster of rocks and driftwood, and the thought of sitting and resting, her feet dangling in the water, lured her closer. “We should probably head back before we walk too far.” She almost hated to say it, and belying her words, settled on a rock and stared out over the sparkling water, taking it all in.

  Clay shaded his eyes and gazed too, saying after a moment, “There’s sure something about wide open spaces . . .”

  Indeed. Especially after serving time in a cell, Charlene found herself thinking, but she merely nodded.

  Her skin tingled with heat. She dipped her hand in the water and patted her brow with the cool liquid. In mere seconds, it evaporated, leaving her skin more parched than before.

  Stepping away, Clay plucked a small piece of driftwood from the dry sand and turned it speculatively in his hands before returning and propping himself against the rock beside her. He pulled a tiny pocketknife from his shorts and flicked open the blade. He began swiping it along the wood, shaving off curls.

  The flash of sharp silver summoned an unpleasant memory. She swallowed and looked away to the hazy horizon. “Did anyone ever approach you about Abner’s knife? You know, the black snake-handled one?”

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Clay pause with his blade in the wood, his calm countenance transformed with tension. She couldn’t help glancing at the scar on his ring finger. The perfect match to hers.

  “No, they didn’t.” His gaze skewered her. “Why would they?”

  Regretting that she’d brought it up, she hastily explained her strange encounter as Clay’s eyes narrowed.

  “It was weird and creepy,” she finished, “but I only saw the guy that once. He probably gave up searching by now.”

  “I don’t like it. You ever see him again, call me. I’ll take care of him.” Clay’s eyes wouldn’t leave hers, like he was waiting for her to say something.

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  Slowly, his hands eased back into carving, but his face didn’t relax.

  She sighed and lifted her hair off the back of her damp neck, holding the short strands up so the breeze gave a little relief as she prepared to drop her other weighty question. “So I was wondering

  . . . do you still think bad things happen when I’m around?”

  The corner of Clay’s mouth dipped. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Then why did you?”

  He bent his head over his carving and she stared at his wind-blown hair.

  “To make you leave.”

  “Okay. I got that. But why? If it’s because of my grandfather—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just—we shouldn’t see each other. It’s better that way.” He looked directly at her, but she couldn’t decipher his expression.

  She stayed silent a moment. “Do you still wish I’d go?”

  He broke eye contact. “I should. Look what happened with Nails. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  Despite the heat, a chill touched her. “So you do think he’s coming back.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I’m not going to live in a bubble. I’ve done that . . .” She glanced around at the beautiful beach. “I feel safe.” Right here. Right now.

  “Feelings mean nothing,” he said shortly. “I’ve got no right being anywhere near you.” His brow furrowed. “After everything, how do you even look at me without hating me? I don’t get that. I can’t make it up to you. I know that. The least I can do is stay away. You don’t need to be reminded—”

  “I don’t care,” she said, almost fiercely. “Stop thinking of me as some kind of victim. I’m not. It’s over. I’m not going to let it rule my life. It’s been long enough. I can look at you and not think of all that.” Her tone softened. “If you can do the same . . . maybe we could be friends. Finally.” Her voice held a hint of hope.

  She waited.

  Waves surged and receded. Misty lake droplets sprayed her legs. Clay’s head angled so that she couldn’t see his face at all. Just when she was ready to stand up and walk away, he spoke. Grudgingly. “I’ll try.”

  Not exactly the answer she’d hoped for, but it was something. Progress. She swirled the water with her toes.

  At last, she slid off the rock. “We’d better head back.”

  Clay nodded, then he lifted his carving and blew it clean. “What do you think?”

  “Oh,” she breathed. She accepted the wood gently and turned it in all directions. “It’s perfect. It’s . . . a little park bench. What made you decide to carve that?”

  He snapped his knife shut, pocketed it, and shrugged. “The driftwood was the right shape.”

  “You could specialize in this. ‘Clay’s Custom Dollhouse Furniture’,” she quipped as they began their trek back.

  “Very funny. I’ll pass.”

  “Well then, if you have a daughter someday, you’ll make her very happy.”

  She tried handing the carving back, but he crammed his fists into his pocket
s. “No, keep it. Or throw it away. I don’t care. It was just something to do.”

  On their way back across the beach, they sighted the young family, but they were in no danger of the shovel-wielding little boy even noticing them. He was too busy racing around, kicking up clouds of sand as he played tag with his mom, who held onto her floppy hat onehanded as she ran. The dad was giving the little girls a ride on a float a couple of yards from shore. Happy squeals carried on the wind.

  Clay watched the little boy as his mom caught him in a big hug. A muscle on the side of Clay’s jaw twitched.

  When the laughter faded behind them, he spoke up. “I should have read the letter when I had the chance. Nails could have made it all up, you know? To mess with me.” He rubbed his hair roughly.

  She strolled with heavy steps, grinding her heels in the sand. Keeping this secret was killing her.

  “I shouldn’t doubt her,” he went on, “but . . . what if I always have to wonder? That’s just a heck of a way to wreck my ma’s memory. What if I never find out the truth?”

  “You will.”

  He looked up at the sky. “I don’t know, Charlene. I just don’t know.”

  She had the answer he needed, but with it would come a hundred more questions, and she didn’t have those answers.

  Fingering the miniature wooden bench, still in disbelief at the skill of Clay’s hands, she felt unworthy of the gift . . . if she could really call it that.

  Slowing, she turned and walked backwards a few steps, just to see their footprints side by side for the briefest moment before they were washed away by the waves. As if they’d never been.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “It’s about time,” Brook huffed as soon as they came within earshot, and Charlene felt an incredible jolt of guilt as she realized she’d forgotten all about her. She palmed Clay’s carving, feeling an odd need to keep it from sight.

  “Where were you?” Brook demanded.

  “Just walking the shore,” Clay said. “We didn’t want to wake you.”