Summer Breeze

by Catherine Palmer

  “Well, you’re chairman of the neighborhood bylaws committee, Charlie. You’d better tell Brad before he gets too far along with the garage or baby nursery—or whatever it’s supposed to be.”

  “Problem is, we don’t know if we can really enforce our bylaws. They don’t carry much weight with the county, and no one knows what the rules are way out here. Do you have any idea?”

  “There are zoning laws; I’m sure of that.”

  “But do they apply this far out of the Camdenton city limits?”

  Vaguely irritated, Derek raked a hand back through his hair. “The Water Patrol enforces state statutes, Charlie. We don’t have authority where municipal or county laws are concerned. But I’m sure if anyone can find out the rules for construction in Deepwater Cove, it’s you. You’ve got the time and the know-how.”

  The golf cart moved forward again. “I was hoping you’d have the answer for us. But Esther kept telling me that your jurisdiction was the lake and you might not know. A man ought to listen to his wife.”

  They rode along in silence with Derek slapping at the occasional mosquito. Listening to his wife was apparently his biggest failing, he thought irritably. When he got home, he would have to explain to Kim where he’d been, and she was upset already. Though he had been trying harder to communicate with her about his work and the other issues she had spelled out, he found it difficult. Derek wasn’t used to talking about anything beyond whatever was happening at the time. If he was ticketing someone for a violation, he explained lake laws. If he was meeting with the Major Case Squad, he discussed homicides. If he was eating dinner, he complimented the meal. What was so wrong with that?

  “Speaking of the lake,” said Charlie, who didn’t seem to have any problem talking about anything at any time, “Esther came up with the craziest notion this morning. Not too long after breakfast, I was trying to tell her what I was planning to do about servicing the golf cart, and all the while she was putting together one of those Jell-O salads with the marshmallows and fruit. You know the kind I mean?”

  Derek nodded. He’d eaten Esther’s gelled salad more times than he could count.

  “Well, she wasn’t paying a bit of attention to me. When I grumbled about it, she turned around and said, ‘Charlie, a woman is like a fish. If you want to capture her, you’ve got to find the right bait, dangle it in front of her, and then reel in nice and slow.’ Can you believe that? Esther—talking about fishing! The woman hasn’t tossed out a line in twenty years. But this afternoon while I was working on the golf cart, I thought about it, and sure enough, Esther was right.”

  “You say that a lot,” Derek commented.

  “Because she usually is.” Charlie chuckled. “I’ve lived nearly a lifetime with the woman, and she rarely lets me win an argument. So I’ve learned to pay attention when she tells me something. That fishing idea of hers, for example. Not too long after she told me about it, I had a hankering to go to Aunt Mamie’s Good Food for supper. On Friday nights, Mamie’s features an all-you-care-to-eat shrimp special. Sautéed, breaded, peel-and-eat—you name it. But when I suggested eating out, Esther got all upset with me—fuss, fuss, fuss. So that’s when I decided to go fishing … for my wife.”

  “For Esther?”

  “That’s right. I wanted to catch her and get what I wanted from her—a trip to Mamie’s for the shrimp special. So I sat down on the chair right across from Esther, and I looked her right in the eye—just the way you study a fishing hole before you cast your line. Then I threw out the bait. ‘What’s wrong, Esther, honey?’ I asked, sweet as you please. Right away, she bit. She started telling me everything that was bothering her, and I shut my mouth tight. You can’t talk if you want to catch a fish, you know.”

  Derek did know. He also knew that when Kim started talking about everything that was bothering her, the last thing he wanted to do was sit there gazing at her. He wanted to bolt in the opposite direction—as fast as he could. But Charlie was continuing his tale as he drove the golf cart along the moonlit road.

  “The whole time Esther talked,” he told Derek, “I kept on looking at her, studying her, not saying a word, just nodding my head. I was itching to pick up the remote and see if the ball game was on TV, but I wanted to eat at Mamie’s even more. So I kept my hands still, just the way you do when you’re reeling in a big ol’ bass. And Esther kept talking. She said she had made that salad, and her feelings were hurt that I would prefer to eat out. She confessed that she had always been insecure about her cooking. She told me she thought Mamie’s could fix shrimp better than she could, and she figured that was why I wanted to eat there.”

  Derek was trying to listen, but he was getting kind of drowsy. All this talk of Jell-O salad and shrimp had made him hungry, and the slow pace of the golf cart was about to put him into a trance. The more Charlie talked, the more Derek envisioned Esther Moore as a largemouth bass. He could almost see her swimming closer and closer to Charlie’s goal of eating out at Mamie’s as she talked and he reeled her in.

  “I didn’t move a muscle,” Charlie went on. “I just leaned forward and listened. She was talking about her salad, but when she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and went to dabbing her eyes, I started to realize what she was really feeling. Her fussing at me didn’t have a thing to do with Mamie’s. It was all about the fact that Esther’s mother had never taught her how to cook, and that made her insecure about her culinary skills all her life. So you know what I said? I said, ‘Esther, you are the finest woman the good Lord ever made. You learned how to be a better cook than your mother ever was—and you taught yourself. Furthermore, I prefer your Jell-O salad to all the salads in the entire universe. And I feel exactly the same about your shrimp.’ You know what Esther said to that? She said, ‘I love you, Charlie. Put on your shoes, and let’s go eat supper at Mamie’s.’ And that’s exactly what we did.”

  Derek felt as though he had just been handed that largemouth bass in a frying pan with a pat of butter and a sliced-up lemon. Charlie hadn’t reeled in a trip to Mamie’s. He had landed his wife’s heart—hook, line, and sinker.

  When Kim heard Derek’s footsteps on the porch, she decided to try to intercept him before his mother did. Somehow, Kim had to convince Derek to send Miranda back to St. Louis if they wanted any hope of peace in their family. Tensions were strained to the bursting point, yet the man at the center of the hurricane seemed blissfully unaware. And that infuriated Kim.

  She was almost at the front door when she heard Derek’s voice on the porch. Through the screened window, she could see his silhouette. He had hunkered down and was talking to Lydia, who had stretched out on the swing, one arm thrown dramatically over her eyes. Kim reached for the doorknob, but she paused as she heard Derek speaking.

  “What’s wrong, Lydia, honey?” he asked, laying a hand on the arm of the swing.

  It had been so long since Kim had heard a gentle tone in her husband’s voice that she stood unable to move in the darkened foyer. For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Lydia sniffled. “I hate this family,” she said.

  Derek moved over and sat down on the wicker rocking chair near the swing. “You hate this family?” he repeated. “You mean me, Luke, your mom, and Grandma Finley? Or do you still like some of us?”

  “I like Luke,” Lydia said. “I like Mom, too, but it makes me sick the way she’s been acting. She’s such a grouch.”

  “Hmm.” The chair squeaked a little as Derek began to rock back and forth.

  Kim eased down onto a chair near the door. She watched the silhouetted shapes and listened through the open window as her husband and daughter talked. For some reason, it felt almost magical to hear their voices. His was deep and manly; hers was small and almost timid. Though Lydia spoke with belligerence, she often sounded fragile and even afraid. Kim wondered if Derek had any idea how delicate the girl was, hovering on the brink of her teens, wondering who she was, unsure of her future. She remembered feeling so much like Lydia, and yet Kim knew Der
ek must have no idea what to make of such a tightly wound ball of confusion, fear, and hope.

  “Grandma Finley is okay,” Lydia told him. “She’s just weird. You know what I mean? She’s got that altar on the deck. People can smell the incense—and she wears her bathing suit to do her tai chi.”

  “I thought she wore a robe too.”

  “She takes it off!” Lydia groaned. “It’s so embarrassing. I could die. If Mom ever did anything like that, I would just kill her.”

  “Die. Kill. Strong words. You thinking a lot about death, kiddo?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you? I mean, she’s your mother, Derek. Aren’t you creeped out by her? You should have seen the pizza she tried to make tonight. It was all Parmesan and spinach and weird herbs. She’s just strange. I don’t know how you even turned out normal.” Lydia fell silent for a moment. “But I don’t want her to leave us. I mean, like, I wouldn’t want her to really die. Or you either. Or Luke.”

  “Oh yeah. Sure, I know.” Derek rocked some more.

  “That’s how it feels around here. Like everything’s breaking apart and about to die. We already went through that, Luke and me, when Mom and Dad got divorced. It’s not that I mind having you for a stepdad. But I hated it when they broke up. Even though he wasn’t the best father, he was all we had. And then we had to live in that stupid shelter. And then that crummy little house with the leaky roof. Then we got you.”

  “Yeah, that was next.”

  Kim realized Derek was saying almost nothing, yet for some reason Lydia had decided to talk to him. Calmly. She was sitting up now, her feet curled under her and her arms wrapped around the chain that held up the swing. In the rocking chair, Derek had leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He was looking at Lydia, nodding as she spoke. The intensity of his concentration almost frightened Kim. She had never seen her husband so purposefully focused.

  “You’re all right for a stepdad,” Lydia admitted. “But why did you have to go and invite Grandma Finley here? We were doing okay without her. Every time I look at her, I remember that she’s staying with us to make sure Luke doesn’t die. And that just bugs me. Luke can take care of himself, and if he messes up, then I’m there to watch out for him. I mean, I do remember what happened on the Fourth of July, and I’m glad Grandma Finley was able to find Luke’s insulin kit so fast. But it’s always confusing around here. Who’s in charge? I mean, is Grandma Finley living with us forever, or is she going back to St. Louis? It’s like things never feel normal. First we lost Dad, then we got you, and now we have Grandma Finley—but we might lose Luke, or Grandma Finley might leave. Or stay. And I’ve heard you and Mom fighting. You guys might get divorced like she did with Dad, and then you would leave. You can’t trust anyone in this family. I just hate it.”

  “Wow.” Derek had stopped rocking. “You really do hate this family.”

  “No, I don’t hate it. You’re so dumb, Derek. I love this family, but how can you love something that you can’t count on? It could all just shrivel up and die and blow away. It’s awful. I can’t stand it.”

  At this, Lydia began crying softly, and Kim could hardly bear to watch her daughter struggling. But as she rose to step out onto the porch, she saw Derek stretch his hands toward Lydia.

  “Come here, kiddo,” he beckoned. “Come sit with me a minute.”

  Even as he spoke, Lydia was already leaving the swing and curling into his lap as she had when she was younger.

  Derek wrapped his arms around her and began rocking. “Listen up, tater tot,” he said in a quiet voice. “I am not leaving this family. Not divorcing your mother. Not running out on you and Luke. No way. No how. You got that?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lydia sobbed, suddenly a baby again. “But what if Mom divorces you?”

  “She won’t. I’m not going to let her. So that’s all there is to it. As for Grandma Finley … well, now that you mention it, she is pretty weird. But I’m used to her, because that’s how she’s always been. You’ll get used to her too. Your grandma and your mother are going to have to figure out how to get along, because neither one of them is going away. I haven’t gotten around to telling your mom that, so don’t spill the beans.”

  What? Kim couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Hadn’t they discussed it? Hadn’t she made herself perfectly clear? Miranda had to leave! Now Derek was saying she was going to stay. Not only that, but he was asking Lydia to keep a secret from her mother.

  Even as her anger mounted, she saw Lydia snuggle closer to Derek. “I won’t tell anyone,” Lydia said.

  “As for Luke, you’re right,” Derek told her. “He’s smart, and he’s getting this diabetes thing figured out. Plus, he’s got you to keep an eye on him. So there you go. One family—kind of stressed out, a little bit weird, sometimes sick or angry, but together. That’s us.”

  Lydia sniffled. Kim could see her skinny arms snake around Derek’s neck as her dark head nestled against his shoulder.

  “You promise?” Lydia asked.

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Hope to—” She caught her breath.

  “No, I don’t hope to die. I intend to live a long life, watch you and Luke grow up, be a good husband to your mother, and rock your babies just the way I’m rocking you. How’s that?”

  “Good,” Lydia said.

  Inside the foyer, Kim leaned her head against the wall and nodded. Not perfect. Not even truly acceptable. Yet in this moment, it was good enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  August came in hot, just as it always did in mid-Missouri. Patsy stayed busy cutting hair short against the heat and humidity. Clients entered the salon wearing shorts and tank tops. Everyone wanted pedicures, because you couldn’t go outside in anything but sandals or flip-flops. People smelled like suntan lotion or baby oil. Some of the drop-in customers were sweaty and damp, but by the time they walked out, Patsy had their hair soft, clean, and bouncy. She added three flavors of iced tea to the menu in the tea area, and they were a hit. She could hardly keep up with the demand.

  In fact, things seemed pretty good all over. Next door, Bitty Sondheim’s Pop-In was hopping with vacationers buying her California-style omelets and wraps to take out on the lake. Now that Pete and Patsy had patched things up, Patsy again frequented Rods-N-Ends for root beer floats and the occasional rotisserie hot dog, which she enjoyed while chatting with Pete over the counter.

  His business was booming as people bought gas for their cars, RVs, boats, and Jet Skis. He kept tackle moving in and out of the shop too. His worms and minnows were said to be the healthiest and fattest around, and of course, Pete was generous in counting them out. If you asked for a dozen, you were more likely to get fifteen or twenty.

  The chiropractor and tattoo places down the street both saw an upswing in their trade. People were forever flipping or flopping the wrong way in the water, and they’d come to the chiropractor for an adjustment. And the young crowd had a carefree and often reckless attitude that took them to the tattoo parlor in groups of three and four. Patsy knew they would select words or pictures they’d later regret and have them tattooed in places that would one day sag something awful. But she understood. On a dare from a group of her girlfriends, she’d had a small ladybug put on the back of her shoulder one afternoon when she was sixteen. Nowadays, she would sometimes wear a skinny-strapped top to show it off if the mood hit her.

  As members of the Tea Lovers’ Club began slipping into the salon one Wednesday afternoon, Patsy realized she couldn’t think of a single thing for Esther Moore to put on the agenda. Maybe for once the group would be allowed to chat in peace. Not only that, but Patsy had ushered her last customer away in plenty of time to join the TLC at the start of the gathering.

  “I think we should fix some hot water,” Cody suggested. He was already filling the stainless steel urn as Patsy checked on the dessert supply. “Maybe someone would want real tea,” he explained. “With milk and sugar. And maybe that someone would be me.”

  “You don’
t like iced tea, Cody?” Patsy asked.

  “My daddy never had a refrigerator or a cooler or anything like that. So I prefer my … my beverages … warm. Did I get that right?”

  “Sure did. Beverages. That’s a big word.”

  “I am increasing my vocabulary. Brenda thought it was a good idea, and so did I. Just so you know, I’m already up to fifth grade reading skills. Phonics and comprehension—both.”

  Patsy gave him a big hug. “I’m so proud of you, Cody.”

  It hadn’t been so long ago that Cody couldn’t read at all. Brenda Hansen had told Patsy she was terribly frustrated with trying to teach him and had been about to give up. But suddenly everything clicked, and Cody began to understand letters and how they formed words. Recently Patsy had noticed him studying the magazines in the waiting area. Before, he had been looking at the pictures in order to get ideas for his wall mural. Now she realized he was probably reading the text as well.

  “Fifth grade?” she said. “No joke?”

  “Why would I make a joke about my reading level?” Cody asked her. “Reading skills are not funny. I’m working really hard on them, and right now, I’m reading My Side of the Mountain, which is a book written by Jean Craighead George. And do you know what? The boy in that book is sort of like me. He lives in the forest, and so did I. And that’s why reading is good. It makes you think about yourself and figure things out. I never had a falcon named Frightful. That part is different. Also, I got beat up by some men who didn’t like me. That hasn’t happened to Sam. He likes living by himself in the woods, but I’m glad I live in Deepwater Cove with people around.”

  “We’re glad you live here too.” Patsy studied Cody’s plugged-in water urn. “And as a matter of fact, I believe I’ll have a cup of hot tea myself.”

  “Earl Grey or Darjeeling?” he asked.

  “The latter.”

  Cody stared at her. “There’s no ladder in here, Patsy. I’m tall enough to paint near the top of the wall without one.”