Skinny Dipping Season

by Cynthia Tennent

  Moments later, I heard the familiar chime of the bell as I stepped inside. I was back to my childhood.

  A soothing aroma of coffee and the haze of fried food from the griddle filled the diner. The sun was glaring through the front window, where three large booths were covered in faded blue vinyl. I glanced up at a sign above the counter, Large Booths for 3 or More, and smiled when I saw two people sitting at the largest booth. Good to know customers still ignored that.

  Grandma Dory had been a regular patron at Cookee’s and I always sat at the counter. I had vivid memories of my grandma smoking her cigarettes and drinking her coffee while she chatted with the other regulars. I used to sit on the stools and spin in endless circles until my grandmother told me I would spin the top right off and the cook would make me bus the tables. That had always done the trick. Touching someone else’s dirty dishes grossed me out, even back then.

  Of course, the best thing about going to Cookee’s with Grandma Dory was that I was allowed to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted—as long as I let Grandma Dory talk to her friends without interruption. Therefore, I had many milkshakes for breakfast at that counter. Grandma used to laugh and call it “backwards day” when I did that.

  I sat down on a stool by the cash register and let a sense of well-being sink in. I had to suppress an urge to spin. Propped against the counter stood an older woman who stared at the TV in the corner. She wore a gray-collared shirt with Cookee’s written on the left side of her chest. Her bleached-blond short hair didn’t quite match her darkly penciled-in eyebrows and weathered face.

  “Can I help you?” said the lady as a commercial came on.

  “Do you have a menu?” I asked, noting the old Hamilton Beach mixer against the back wall.

  “Yeah, I know I have one around here somewhere, but mostly Mac, the cook, fixes regular meals. You want something, he can make it, unless it’s something fancy like them quiche or linguine-type dishes.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was being teased or not. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “The hash browns are great for a hangover, I hear.”

  And just like that, my bubble of joy popped.

  Life was truly unfair sometimes! Of all the people to run into twice in one morning, why did it have to be him? I had been so distracted by my walk down memory lane that I had missed Officer Hardy sitting in the shadow at the end of the counter.

  “You probably wouldn’t know what a hangover feels like,” I said.

  One of the men at the booth started laughing. “Party Hardy? Is she kidding?”

  Officer Hardy reached up to readjust his collar, and I noticed a flush of red creeping up his cheek. “I’ll forget last night if you think before you cover for someone again,” he said in a low voice.

  I corrected him, “Officer Hardy—what happened earlier was a simple misunderstanding—”

  “Is that what you call it? Before you apologize, let’s at least get the story straight.”

  “Excuse me, you must be under a misconception.” I turned toward him and was relieved to see my professional-spokesperson face reflected in his sunglasses. Hooded eyes. Professional smile. The facade I had thought I wouldn’t need again had slipped into place. “I never intended to apologize.”

  “Don’t you realize that you just made things worse for that girl?”

  “Really? You think it would have been better for her in jail? Another notch on your badge?” I looked away from my reflection and straightened my hair. “You have no interest in helping someone like her. You just wanted to scare her.” The lady behind the counter frowned and grabbed a dirty plate before heading toward the back.

  “More like warn her. Some kids shoplift for fun the way other kids play arcade games. If we catch them, we can notify their parents and get the family help before they commit a bigger crime. Catching that young lady is actually the only thing we can do to help her. Better now than when she does something a lot worse than steal a few magazines.”

  My hand wandered to the small pot that held sugar packets. My brother came to mind. From the moment I was arrested I had protected him. Doubt surfaced. But I forced it back and shook my head. Looking down, I realized that I had just reorganized the sugar packets. Officer Hardy noticed too. He gave me a funny look.

  I pushed the sugar away and shrugged my shoulders. “You could have handled the situation differently. Or maybe, you could explain the whole thing before getting all high and mighty. You turned on me like I was some sort of criminal too.”

  “As far as I was concerned, you were a criminal. You were aiding and abetting—not to mention putting yourself in the middle of something you knew nothing about. Listen closely, Miss Lively.” I felt the heat of his body as he moved closer and I turned back to him, once again faced with my own reflection mocking me in his sunglasses. “Lots of people think they can come here and lose themselves in the north woods. They think there’s no such thing as the law and rules up here. I know the type. The north woods are full of hicks who don’t care how they behave, right? Maybe that is what you think?”

  That stung.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I said, ignoring the wobble in my voice.

  I could almost feel the heat of his stare behind his Polaroids as he tilted his chin from the tip of my scuffed boots to my messy head. “After two encounters with you, there isn’t a whole lot left to the imagination.”

  His words hit hard. “It isn’t—I don’t always drink like I did last night,” I said, feeling my veneer slide a notch. The men in the corner had stopped their discussion and were staring at us. The waitress reappeared.

  “Drink?” interrupted the woman. She moved toward us, pointing a finger at Officer Hardy. “Did you hear that, J. D.? This woman wants a drink. Our first fresh face in a dozen weeks and I can’t give her one!”

  Her words temporarily broke the tension. Officer Hardy held up his hands and tilted his head to the grease-stained ceiling. “Don’t start with that liquor-license talk, Corinne. She is a perfect example of why we won’t recommend the diner, for one. What kind of woman wants a drink before noon on a Monday morning?”

  The slime. He was letting the waitress assume the worst. I was tired of being the fall guy. For a brief moment I was back in Toledo again, in the impossible position of having to explain the unexplainable. Officer Hardy’s arrogant face merged with the titillated faces of reporters who loved slinging accusations.

  Fine. Let this man believe what he wanted. If I was going to be judged no matter what I did—no matter how well-intentioned, albeit stupid, my motives were—then why bother? I was an addict, a self-centered rich girl, and a lawbreaker.

  I stood up and pushed my hand against his rock-hard chest, wishing I could spear the most irritating man in the Midwest with only a finger. “What kind of girl wants a drink at eleven in the morning, Officer? You’re so smart. You’ve already decided everything about me. So go ahead and figure it out.” I reached for my purse, ready to leave before I did something I would regret, like dump the nearby creamer over Officer Hardy’s head. But I accidentally knocked my purse over and the contents spilled everywhere.

  I dropped to my knees and scrambled to pick everything up, trying not to think of the dirty shoes that had touched the floor. I was almost finished when a hand holding my pack of cigarettes appeared in front of my face. “Don’t forget your smokes.”

  He said it loud enough that everyone in the diner heard.

  God, I hated him right now. But I wasn’t going to let him know.

  “Wouldn’t want to forget those,” I said with a little laugh of bravado. I angled my head toward the men in the booth. I placed a cigarette in the corner of my mouth like I saw people do in old movies and held the pack out to anyone who might be interested.

  “Anyone want one?” The cigarette almost fell out when I spoke. The lady behind the counter put a hand over her mouth and snorted.

  Officer Hardy moved closer. He was so near I could smell t
he same faint musk I remembered from his coat last night.

  “Actually, smoking in a public restaurant is against the law these days.” He removed the cigarette from my mouth and threw it in the trash can behind the counter. “Welcome to the new millennium.”

  Of course. I had forgotten about that.

  Then, leaning down until his face was inches away, he said, “I suppose you think rules don’t apply to you.”

  I saw a different woman in his sunglasses now. Gone was the proper, straitlaced professional. In her place was a fierce woman I didn’t recognize. It was too much. “Can you take those things off? You’re inside, you know.”

  He reached up and grabbed the glasses off his face. “Better?”

  I should have kept my mouth shut. Now I saw his anger without a filter. I shook my head. “I am over trying to explain myself to you. I understand rules, Officer. But one of my own rules is about judging others before you know them. They must have forgotten that little bit of training back at the police academy.” My voice rose as I unleashed my temper. “Are you so perfect that you’ve never made a mistake?”

  The diner was quiet. Officer Hardy leaned backward as if I had slapped him.

  The voice of a corny weatherman on television talking about rainbows and sunshine cut through the silence. One of the men in the booth snickered.

  Officer Hardy straightened and stuffed his glasses in his pocket. He didn’t look so sure of himself now. He nodded to the waitress with a jaw that was clenched so hard I wondered if his teeth would crack. Then he walked out the door with restrained slowness, as if faster movement might shatter his control.

  I had never in my entire life spoken to a virtual stranger the way I had to Officer Hardy. And now, for the second time in a day, I hadn’t stopped to think before talking. Before shouting, in fact. And the strangest part was, I felt really good.

  An embarrassed rustle of activity burst from the booth. Hopefully, the men weren’t going to share my breakdown with half the town.

  The lady behind the counter set a coffee mug down and smoothed her apron. She reached under the counter and handed me a menu.

  Grinning, she said with a sparkle in her eye, “Just for the record, honey, would you really have ordered a drink if we served liquor?”

  I hated beer and most mixed drinks. Colin only drank wine. Mom only drank gin. So, I had to dig to remember what kind of drink I might have enjoyed.

  “Well, perhaps a chocolate martini,” I said tentatively.

  The woman laughed so loudly I thought she would lose a part of the gold crown that covered her lower eyetooth. Taking a deep breath, I sat back down and smoothed my hair. Looking around the diner, I said, “I’m really sorry I yelled like that.”

  “Honey, if you think that was yelling, then I need to introduce you to the mayor’s wife. That was barely speaking above a whisper.” She winked at me. Reaching across the counter, she offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Name’s Corinne Scott.”

  I shook her hand and tilted my mouth. “I’m Elizabeth Lively.”

  “Are you passing through or staying put?”

  “Staying put for now. I’m living at my grandmother’s house on Crooked Road.”

  “Crooked Road? We love newcomers. Get ’em about once every two or three years.” I liked her immediately. “J. D. needs a little mischief to spice up his days.” She reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t be too hard on him. He has a lot on his mind these days, being the acting sheriff while Sheriff Howe is out of town. You two may have gotten off to a bad start, but he isn’t always like that.”

  “Yes, he is,” said one of the men at the booth.

  “You men don’t know anything about J. D. That’s the problem with this town. You oughtta take a lesson from Elizabeth here. You shouldn’t judge a person by a few minor indiscretions.”

  “Minor?” laughed another man. “How about stupid-ass mistakes?”

  She rolled her eyes at the men. “J. D. had a tough time when he was younger. But he is doing everything by the book these days. He can even be downright pleasant when he tries.”

  “Yeah, he was pleasant when he wrote me up for failing to get a new tag on my RV last year,” he said.

  Corinne leaned in. “Ignore these wise guys. You’re new here. So, here’s my advice for you. There are a few jokesters in town, like those geezers in the booth. But with the exception of the mayor’s wife and the guy who owns the ATV dealership, and maybe a few others, we have a lot of nice people in Truhart. Things are a little crazy this summer. We don’t have our regular sheriff and his wife always runs the Timberfest. So, everyone in this town is like a bunch of chickens running around with their heads cut off. Oh—and one other thing: Watch out if you go to the Family Fare. I love her to pieces, but if you meet my friend Marva O’Shea, she’ll corner you like a hunter in November and sign you up for all sorts of home-selling parties. She’s sort of pushy when it comes to candles and makeup and . . . well . . . just about everything a woman might want to buy and never use.”

  “I’ve already been initiated.” I leaned my elbows on the counter, surprised to realize I wasn’t at all concerned with the tacky feel of dried syrup.

  Corinne put her hand on her hip. “We’ll make sure to invite you to our Wednesday ladies meetings here at the diner. You’ll learn all about the town that way.” She thought for a moment. “So, Crooked Road?” One darkened brow arched up. “Well, that explains it. I heard there was a doozy of a call there last night. It’s all over town.”

  I winced. “Yeah, Officer Hardy and I sort of ran into each other. He doesn’t like me much.”

  “Give it some time, my dear. Just a little space and he’ll calm down. Now, do you have an idea what you might like to eat, Miss Elizabeth Lively?”

  Smiling, I knew exactly what I wanted. “Well, if you don’t have chocolate martinis, do you still serve chocolate milkshakes?”

  Chapter 5

  For several days, I read paperback vampire romances, watched television talk shows on my laptop, and devoured junk food. I visited Nestor and we made two Pottawatomi pies. And then we sat down and ate one. Now I was stuck with an overdose of sugar and sexual angst.

  Then, this morning, Grandma’s ancient Whirlpool gave its last gasp halfway through the soak cycle. It was pronounced DOA by the local repairman. He eyed me with curiosity and offered to sell me a used one, but I wasn’t sure my feeble checking account could handle it.

  The load of whites sat in a pile of suds at the bottom of the drum.

  I grabbed the laundry basket and piled the soapy whites into it. Then I loaded the car and came back to grab my purse with a feeling of anticipation. It was a sad moment when the Sit and Spin became an exciting outing. It gave a new purpose to my day and an excuse to write another entry in my journal. For people with OCD, a Laundromat was therapy. One could only imagine how many sweaty clothes had been in the same spin cycle.

  Officer Hardy’s flashlight still sat in the middle of my coffee table. Every time I looked at it I remembered J. D. Hardy’s eyes as he had walked away from me at the diner. Despite what Officer Hardy or the reporters in Toledo thought, I wasn’t really a criminal. Respect for government property had been drilled into my mind since I was young. I grabbed the flashlight. Maybe if I brought it back it would ease my guilty conscience.

  As I turned to leave, I looked around the living room. Way too clean. I grabbed the trash can from the corner and tipped it upside down. A swift kick sent the contents sprawling. A used Kleenex and several old pieces of junk mail were scattered across the floor. That was a bit too much. I left the mail and threw the Kleenex in the bin. Wimp. Oh, well. At least I had tried.

  As if my thoughts had conjured him, I passed Officer Hardy’s SUV parked on the side of M-33 on my way into town. He stood beside a pickup truck with a trailer hitch that had come undone. The trailer was halfway through a split-log fence. The obvious owner of the fence was standing by the road, shaking his head and gesturing toward the da
mage. The pickup-truck driver had his baseball hat in his hand and was waving it back and forth. Officer Hardy stood between the men with that expression of restrained control I was becoming familiar with, and he looked up when I passed him. I turned away, so he wouldn’t see my look of sympathy.

  At least I could return the flashlight without running into him in person at the sheriff’s office.

  Five minutes later, I parked in front of a small, single-story brick building and pushed open the steel door. A woman sat behind a long desk covered in stacks of papers and books. She looked up as I entered and pointed to a chair against the wall. Then she continued speaking on the phone.

  I sat down and waited, trying not to listen to her conversation. She placed her hand over her eyes and spoke quietly, but in the silence of the room I could hear her as she explained that she couldn’t make it to the school to meet with a counselor.

  Trying to ignore her, I studied the room. A wanted poster, a fire-level chart, and a picture of the governor adorned the pine-paneled walls. A sign above a door next to my chair read Sheriff Howe. The door stood open and the light was on. I wondered if that was where Officer Hardy worked when he was in the office.

  When the woman behind the desk hung up, she sighed. Then she picked up a pair of scissors and started cutting, forgetting that I still sat nearby. I stood up and approached the desk, noticing a pile of coupon clippings spread in front of her. She finished cutting a large one and placed it in one of several piles.

  “You might want to put the orange-juice coupon with the dairy, not the meat,” I couldn’t help commenting.

  She raised her tired eyes and looked at me absently. “What?”

  “The orange juice is technically with the dairy in grocery stores.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she looked down at the coupons as if she were finishing a puzzle. “Oh yeah, right. Thanks.”

  “Sure.”