Skinny Dipping Season

by Cynthia Tennent

  I refused to let him see my embarrassment. I had some dignity after all. I pulled his coat from my back, involuntarily inhaling the scent one more time before offering it to him. He took it and dragged it back on and his biceps were momentarily outlined underneath his shirt.

  Blinking and looking away, I gestured to the black spot on the floor. “I wouldn’t have dropped the cigarette if you hadn’t scared me like that.”

  “All you had to do was answer the door.”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “So while you are looking up the local AA chapter in the directory tomorrow, you might want to check out fire extinguishers too.”

  A strange feeling overtook me as my stomach rolled over. I wasn’t under arrest and with any luck I would never run into this man again. Sure, in the brightness of the light coming from the bare bulb in the ceiling, he managed to look normal and well . . . almost attractive. But earlier it was easy to mistake him for a beast.

  Using the last of my draining energy, I stood up and stumbled on my way to the front door. My nerves were frayed and my confidence was deflating by the moment. Not knowing how one was supposed to handle formalities when asking a cop to leave, I reached for the knob. “Thank you for stopping by. I’d like to say it has been a pleasure . . .”

  He broke into a caustic smile that was both cruel and strangely appealing. “Have an enjoyable evening doing whatever it was you were doing.”

  I narrowed my gaze.

  Then he leaned in. “Your dancing was fine, but I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

  He said the wrong thing. “M—my dancing may not be any good, but your manners are deplorable.”

  He was already through the door. He turned on the front step and his face was lost in the shadows.

  “I remember Truhart having a nice sheriff,” I continued. “I can’t imagine what anyone was thinking to put you in charge.”

  He stepped slowly into the light and a wide smile spread across his face. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my stomach did somersaults as bile rose in my throat. Why was I having this reaction?

  Just then, a breeze blew the stench of the cheap wine and singed carpet my way. I looked at him, wondering if I should warn him.

  But it was too late.

  The wine and cigarettes were mounting a rebellion all their own. And they were doing it all over Officer Hardy’s boots.

  Chapter 3

  At 7:30 the next morning, my favorite Disney theme song erupted, sounding more like a fire alarm than a happy chime. I moaned from underneath the blanket and tugged it tighter over my head. The cell phone finally stopped.

  I should have gotten up. But I wasn’t sure I was ready, sensitive stomach and all. Good lord, I must have looked like a crazy woman to Officer Hardy last night. Hopefully, the dispatcher hadn’t told anybody. The last thing I needed was a whole new town of people who thought I was crazy.

  I put a hand over my eyes. Did I really lose it all over that man’s boots?

  I couldn’t forget the expression on Officer Hardy’s face. Poor man. By the time I had emptied the contents of my stomach, he had managed to jump backwards into the weeds.

  “Are you all right?” I’d heard him ask after I gave one last dry heave. I had nodded my head, afraid to move too quickly, and felt a tissue shoved in my hand. I held it to my mouth and straightened in time to see him walk with an awkward shuffle around the side of the house. He located an outside faucet and turned the handle. But it didn’t work.

  “Do you want to come in and clean your boots in the bathroom?” I had asked in a hoarse voice.

  “No,” came his curt response. He headed back to his car and I watched him gingerly remove his boots and socks and throw them in the trunk of his sheriff’s SUV. Then he walked barefoot to the driver’s door and climbed inside without looking my way.

  For the second time that evening I watched as headlights faded down the road.

  Testing each sore muscle, I raised my arms and stretched. I had tossed and turned all night, trying to get comfortable.

  I looked at the flashlight I had placed on the bedside table. It must be Officer Hardy’s. Could I mail it back to the sheriff’s office? I never wanted to see him again. Suddenly, the sun popped out from behind a cloud and blazed through the filthy windows. The glare hit me like a spotlight. I really should have gotten out of bed and started my new life in Truhart. I curled up in a ball and pulled the blanket back over my head.

  Or not.

  Two hours later, nursing only a tiny headache, I stepped outside and squinted at the sun. The thermometer outside the kitchen window read fifty degrees this morning. I was pretty sure that was balmy for mid-May in northern Michigan.

  I had heard raindrops on the roof earlier, while I debated getting out of bed, and the driveway was now spotted with puddles. I stomped directly into one and let the splatters coat my boots. Every movement was like wading through knee-deep sand. But with each stride, I felt the tightening in my chest loosen and my footsteps lighten. Breaking the pattern was always like that. I would make sure to note that in my journal later.

  Feeling a little lighter, I paused to look back at the house. Grandma’s mustard-yellow–painted cinder block had faded to an indistinguishable gray and the brown trim around the windows was peeling like bark on an old tree. Part of a gutter was hanging free from the left corner of the house, and the old screen door was propped sideways against the foundation, where weeds sprouted between fallen branches.

  “God, I love this place,” I said out loud. The gut feeling that had driven me to come here had been a bull’s-eye. Who needed therapy when they could have this wonderful imperfection?

  Hugging my cardigan around me more closely, I breathed deeply and sighed before turning back down the road, marveling at the scene around me. Fallen branches and logs decomposed among tender fiddlehead fern shoots. Sprouting wild flowers peeked through the sandy dirt. Popples, Midwest aspen trees, fought with maple and oak for their fair share of sunlight in a forest dominated by pines. The dappled sun danced back and forth across the dirt road. And the breeze ripped through the branches the same way it tore the hair across my face.

  The last few summers that Elliot and I had visited Grandma Dory, an eagle couple had lived on the highest branch of an old red pine tree along this road. We would play a game to see who spotted the eagle first. Sometimes we even saw a baby eagle poking its head out of the huge structure. Now, rounding the familiar bend, I scanned the treetops, hoping the nest might still be there. When I finally located it, I stopped. It was still perched gloriously in a tree above the marshy pond beside the road. But it looked empty. I scanned the sky for several minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive birds.

  “They’re around somewhere,” said someone behind me.

  I turned around at the sound of the unforgettable voice.

  “I imagine they’re hunting for rabbits and mice. Hopefully not my cat!” he said.

  Nestor Nagel. His name had been a source of great fun for Elliot and me. (We had gone so far as to name a video-game character after him once.) His eyes were sharp blue and the long hair on his brows with the prominent ridge of his forehead almost made him look like an eagle himself. Even more fitting, he had a nose that rivaled Cyrano de Bergerac’s. It was narrow, and hooked down in such a way that it shaded his chin. He was older now. His hair was whiter and sparser. But his blue eyes flashed humorously and his smile was still crooked.

  “Do you remember me, Mr. Nagel?”

  “Well, let me see. I don’t think I bought any magazines or candy from you. You don’t look like the new lady minister at St. Andrew’s church, although God knows I haven’t been there since Easter and my memory is pretty bad these days. You’re not wearing a post-office uniform.” He raised his brow and grinned. “So I guess that means you are little Elizabeth Lively.”

  I stepped forward into his open arms, careful not to knock over the fragile older man or the basket he held. “I don’t k
now how you remembered me!”

  “That curly hair and those blue eyes gave you away. Plus, I heard that old busybody, Gladys Stubbs, saw the light on in your grandma’s house and called the police last night.”

  I couldn’t believe the news traveled so fast. Hopefully, he hadn’t heard the whole story. “You look great, Mr. Nagel.”

  “Go on with you. Spending winter in the Keys helps my bones. And I guess I don’t look too bad for an old queen.”

  “Mr. Nagel, you defy aging.”

  “Call me Nestor. You never used that formal language when you were young.”

  I giggled, mainly out of relief to see a friendly face from the past. Nestor had been close enough to Grandma that no secrets were kept. They used to play cards and drink manhattans at twilight while Elliot and I watched old reruns of Happy Days and made fun of the goofy way the two of them laughed. I thought they were dating until I was older and realized that Nestor swung the other way. He had a house full of cats and on cool summer nights he wore sweaters that smelled of kitty litter.

  “No, Nestor, you don’t seem a day older than the last time I saw you.”

  “Well, some of us old folks haven’t died off yet. I still miss your grandma like hell.” He shook his head and reached for my arm as he steadied himself. “So, what brings you back to Truhart? I thought you were living in D.C., helping to keep the government open long enough to help get me my Social Security checks. Or was it something else you did?”

  Thank God that people up here didn’t get the Toledo Dispatch.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t work for the government, but that’s a long story. I’m here to stay for now.”

  “To stay?”

  “For now. I am here for some peace and quiet. No job. No people. No complications!”

  He gave me a cautious glance, but kept his mouth shut before responding with care: “Well, I don’t know about your motives, but it’s good to see you around here. I know how much you and Elliot loved it. Too bad your sister never did.”

  Alexa had hated Grandma’s so much that she begged our parents to send her to the swanky summer camp I had been kicked out of. I had never been sorry about that. It meant I had Grandma to myself. By the time Elliot was old enough to come, she and I had already formed an alliance.

  “I don’t suppose you remember how to play euchre?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I could brush up. I’d love to play sometime.”

  He assured me that he would have me over for dinner and euchre soon. My mouth watered at the memory of all the delicious meals he used to cook.

  I looped my arm through Nestor’s and walked him farther down the road to his one-story cedar-shingled cottage, asking about the eagles and loons. When we reached his door I helped him up the step into the house, noting that the inside still smelled of cats.

  “How many cats do you have these days, Nestor?”

  “Only two. I lost the old white Siamese, Belle. Do you remember her?” I nodded. Actually, I didn’t remember her as much as I remembered trying to find her. The poor thing hid whenever Elliot and I stepped inside the house.

  Glancing around the living room, I felt like I was in a time warp. Nothing had changed. The darkly upholstered couch had the same orange crocheted throw over it and was flanked by a wing-back chair. Pictures of the woods Nestor had painted still hung on the wall.

  “I have something of your grandma’s around here that might interest you. When your family put the house up on the market they left only a few pieces of furniture, sold what they could, and threw the rest in a Dumpster. It made me sick to see so much thrown away. And for what? They still couldn’t sell the house. But, somewhere around here is a box with a few things I dragged out of the trash.” He gazed around in confusion. “I know it’s somewhere; I just can’t remember where I put it.” He laughed.

  He walked into the hallway that led back to the bedrooms and opened a closet, then looked up and down, scratching his head.

  “Well, not in here—but hey, lookee at this.” He pulled out an old fishing pole and tackle box and I had to steady him as he straightened up. “Your grandma gave these to me on my seventy-fifth birthday. She said it was time I learned how to fish like a real man . . . never mind that I always told her I was happier cooking the fish than catching them . . .”

  I took the pole and box from his shaking hands. “They’re yours, dear. Take the rowboat I keep on the shore. If I start fishing now at my age, I’m liable to fall in and drown the minute I get a tug on the other end of the line.”

  “It’s been so long since I fished I don’t know if I remember how,” I confessed. Perfect. Putting a worm on a hook was the kind of thing my therapist would have pushed on me. I took the equipment and as if he had read my mind, I caught him staring at my chapped hands.

  He hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “Oh, you know. I’ve just been moving stuff.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I could see the scrutiny in his sharp eyes.

  I broke the silence. “I tell you what: If I catch something, you can still cook it. My cooking isn’t half what I remember yours was.... And if I can catch fish the way I’ve been catching trouble lately, I’ll be back before the end of the week.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners and he patted me on the arm. “You come back and we’ll have ourselves a gourmet dinner, certainly better than anything you eat at them fancy places in the city.”

  “I’m on my way into town this morning. Can I get you anything?”

  I could see his mind working as he stared at me over his long nose. “It’s all right.” He shook his head. “I have a long list of things I need to get when I go into town. I am making Pottawatomi pie for the church bake sale.”

  I had forgotten about Pottawatomi pie. Nestor’s special recipe was known for miles around. I knew I had to find a way to add it to my journal.

  “Oh, please. You have to let me get the ingredients, Nestor. It may be the only way I can truly find out if there are Twinkies in the recipe,” I begged. Twinkies were perfect therapy for people with food phobias. I was pretty sure they had a shelf life of a hundred years.

  His high-pitched laugh ended with a sputtering cough. He winked and his hooked nose moved to the side as he did. “A few years ago, when Hostess almost went out of business, there was a run on Twinkies at the Family Fare. Everyone in Truhart took it on themselves to stockpile Twinkies in case I couldn’t get them anymore. I guess my recipe isn’t such a secret.”

  “Well, if you entrust me with the shopping list, I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut. I haven’t had Pottawatomi pie in years! I’ll get the ingredients you need, if you’ll give me a piece of pie before it sells out at the bake sale.”

  Nestor’s eyes sparkled. “It’s a deal.”

  Chapter 4

  My mouth was full of orange cheese when I spotted him. I was standing over a half-eaten nut-coated cheese ball in the deli department. One hand rested on a plastic knife and my other hand was buried in a basket of broken crackers when someone cleared his throat. I looked up at the one person in Truhart I never wanted to see again.

  “Hungry?”

  “No . . . therapy,” I said. He looked confused. “Never mind.”

  I wasn’t about to explain my need to expose myself to certain things that would normally make me cringe. Like an open tray of cheese and crackers, or the handle of a shopping cart. Or that exposure therapy was a proven way to counteract my OCD behavior and make the anxiety disappear. And it was helping today. Despite the distraction of Officer Hardy, I found myself relaxing. I could almost pretend I was normal.

  Officer Hardy’s eyes moved from my worn boots and tight jeans to the clinging Led Zeppelin T-shirt and the uneven old cardigan I had thrown on before leaving the house. No doubt he thought my clothing matched my culinary taste.

  He looked pretty hunky in his uniform and clean boots today. But he was the last man on earth I wanted to admire. He tightened the muscle on his j
aw. I must have looked even worse than I thought.

  He started to say something until his eyes locked on the contents of my shopping cart. Candy galore, marshmallows, and several boxes of Twinkies. Ingredients for Nestor’s Pottawatomi pie. And yes, some comfort food for me.

  “Going organic, I see?” he asked.

  A blanket of embarrassed heat spread over me. This man had no business scowling at me. His collar was so starched it probably cut into his neck.

  “Well, good morning to you too, Officer Hardy,” I said sarcastically with my mouth still full. I offered him a cheese and cracker. “Want one?”

  He frowned and stared at the arc of curls that had settled low over my right eye. “No, thanks.”

  “Is it against the law for me to eat samples, Officer?” I asked, unsuccessfully tossing my hair aside with the back of my hand.

  He clenched his jaw and said, “No . . . I guess all the dancing gave you an appetite.”

  I stuffed the crackers in my mouth and chewed quickly. I wasn’t going to bother explaining that I had barely eaten in forty-eight hours. Or that I was purposely eating off the tray as part of my therapy. My chapped hands reminded me that looking after myself was more important than pleasing Mr. Starched Collar.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for doughnuts,” I said with my mouth still full. I pointed to a display against the wall and practically ran over his foot as I angled the cart away.

  I reached for a box of Krispy Kremes and couldn’t help glancing back at him. But he was distracted by a large brown-haired lady wearing a green Family Fare smock and clutching a clipboard. Officer Hardy bowed his head as he listened to what she was saying. Then they glanced directly down an aisle where several teenagers lingered near the candy. One pimple-faced skinny kid noticed Officer Hardy watching him and elbowed his friend. Officer Hardy waved. They waved. A pack of gum was placed back on the shelf.

  I moved my squeaky cart away from the baked goods and put Officer Hardy out of my mind. Or at least I tried to.