Skinny Dipping Season

by Cynthia Tennent

  I peeked through the doorway and made sure Nestor wasn’t anywhere within earshot. Flipping my loose hair behind my shoulder, I added, “I could say that you’re using him too. You called him to check up on me and got your own free meal.”

  J. D.’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head. “Well, I guess we both have him fooled pretty well. You even cleaned yourself up. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were a tourist from the suburbs downstate. That outfit seems like it could have come from Preppies ‘R’ Us.”

  I shrugged and lifted the glass to my lips, examining his jeans and light blue button-down from the corner of my eye. I would die before I told him how incredibly sexy he looked right now. His broad shoulders stretched across the top seam of his shirt and his sleeves were rolled up, showing a dusting of arm hair. Was that the heat from his body drifting my way? Or maybe it was just me, having an early hot flash.

  I took a large sip of wine and smiled. “Obviously, anyone can put on fancy clothes and pretend they’re something else. I’m surprised you took out your pocket protector and buckled your belt below the belly button for tonight’s meal.”

  His nostrils flared and I could have sworn he was about to laugh.

  “You sound like someone else I know. The difference is, she is fourteen. Speaking of which, I hear you have been making some friends in town. Sandy Miller claims you’ll be hosting some of the ladies for a little party,” he prodded me. “That doesn’t sound at all like you. A party girl who likes candles and makeup?”

  “Well, it’s one way to get free booze.” I was actually starting to have fun.

  He rubbed the back of his reddening neck and I ached to scratch that itch.

  “Well, Sandy seems very grateful that you’ve given her daughter a little extra work—says you even took her girls for ice cream,” he said with a gleam in his eyes.

  “Oh that . . .” I dropped my gaze to my toes that were, thankfully, painted with the brightest red nail polish I could find at the Family Fare. “You know kids. It was easier to bribe her with stuff like that than to put up with her incessant whining about being hungry and needing more magazines. I was tired of buying Cherry’s stupid teenybopper magazines, so I thought I could get some weeding done cheaply and convince her to buy her own magazines. My cigarette habit can be pretty expensive, you know.”

  “Speaking of which, please don’t let me stop you from lighting up.”

  I wished I had them in my purse. Unfortunately, the entire full pack had been stuffed in the trash can earlier in the week. I opened my mouth to reply when a loud crash came from the kitchen. J. D. was the first out of his seat, but I was close behind.

  In the kitchen, Nestor knelt on the floor with his hand against the side of the open refrigerator. Next to him, glass shards were strewn everywhere.

  “How the hell did I do that?” he said with a shaky voice. Surveying the mess, he shook his head. “Stupid old man—can’t pour a pitcher of water without dropping it like a moron.”

  “Hey, Nestor, don’t let it bother you. I did that just last week. So maybe we’re both getting to be old men,” J. D. said.

  “Well, it’s not just old men,” I added, putting a hand on Nestor’s back. “I missed the colander and spilled a whole pot of pasta down the sink yesterday.”

  I held one of Nestor’s elbows and J. D. took the other. Together we lifted Nestor and eased him into one of the kitchen chairs. Nestor’s chin wobbled, but he managed to smile. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not gonna work. I’m just turning into an old fart.”

  I sat in a chair across from him and covered his hands with my own. “Well, you’re one of my favorite old farts, so don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  Over Nestor’s shoulder J. D.’s dark eyes met mine and we shared our concern for him with just one look. He picked up Nestor’s wrist in one hand and checked his watch. “You’re not feeling dizzy or anything, are you?”

  “No, the only thing I feel is embarrassment.”

  After a moment, J. D. lowered his hand, looked in both of Nestor’s eyes, and nodded. While he made sure Nestor was all right, I located a broom and dustpan resting against the wall in the corner of the kitchen.

  Nestor saw me. “Elizabeth,” he warned, “no cleaning.”

  “It’s just a little bit,” I said, embarrassed that J. D. might catch on to Nestor’s warning. Nestor was very well aware of my OCD problems.

  “J. D.? Can you help her?” Nestor asked.

  “Sure. Sit there, Nestor, while I tidy this up,” J. D. said a moment later. He didn’t ask what was going on and I was relieved. He grabbed the broom from me and a towel from the counter.

  I held on to the dustpan. “I’ll hold this for you.”

  When J. D. finished wiping the floor and I threw out the glass shards, he said, “Well, the floor’s practically mopped now, so no need to clean that for the next week. Now, what can we do to help put this meal on the table? I’m starving.”

  The three of us worked like a team in a French bistro, shifting around each other in the small kitchen and setting the food on the table in the dining room. When Nestor wasn’t looking I stole samples of the sautéed vegetables.

  J. D. eyed me. “Stealing again?”

  And before I could comment about stealing, he deftly snatched a mini-potato soufflé and popped it in his mouth. I couldn’t help the giggle that erupted.

  True to my memory, Nestor was still a wonderful cook. I savored every bite as I listened to J. D. and Nestor talk. I heard about how the sheriff was on leave visiting his new grandchild in Arizona with his wife. As the acting sheriff, J. D. was in charge, but judging by the way his mouth turned down when Nestor asked him about it, it didn’t sound like things were going too well. They discussed the Timberfest in August and the fact that Regina Bloodworth had been bossing the ladies around so much that no one wanted to help her. She was threatening to quit. I thought about the mayor’s wife and her comments when I had returned the flashlight at the sheriff’s office.

  “We aren’t going to have any summer shenanigans this year, are we?” Nestor asked J. D.

  “I hope not,” he said, his eyes flickering my way.

  I pretended to fold my napkin while I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, we have so many summer residents, the population of Truhart practically triples each year,” Nestor said. “The problem is, they think our town is like one giant playground. Lots of parties, lots of noise, and lots of illegal fireworks.”

  “Imagine that,” I teased.

  “Well now, don’t feel too much pressure, J. D. Even Sheriff Howe had trouble with the FIPs and FOPs,” Nestor said.

  “FIPs and FOPs?” I asked.

  “Well, it isn’t a nice term. Let’s just say it refers to our Illinois people and Ohio people . . . add the pejorative term of your choice at the beginning of the acronym,” Nestor said, wagging his scraggly white brows. He grabbed my hand. “And yes, you are from Ohio. But because your grandmother is from Truhart, you are completely exempt, my dear.”

  J. D. leaned back in his chair and looked at me like the curtain had just been pulled away. “So you are from Ohio? I guess I didn’t realize that.”

  “Oh yes, her father is a well-known congressman from Toledo. Have you heard of Thomas Lively?” asked Nestor.

  I panicked and started rubbing the table with my napkin. “Oh, no one knows Dad outside of Toledo.”

  But Nestor kept talking. “Of course, your grandma tried to ignore the fact that her only child moved south and became a FOP. But I know she would have been proud to know you can wrestle a fish, honey.”

  I was grateful to deflect the subject. “Grandma would have caught twice as many as I managed today.”

  “Perhaps. But she enjoyed it twice as much when you and your little brother did the catching.”

  Thunder rumbled softly in the distance and I felt a heaviness rise in my throat.

  “What was she like?” J. D. asked. His elbows res
ted on the table and he seemed to be weighing every word with new interest.

  I didn’t know where to begin. But Nestor did. “She was never afraid to enjoy life and made every moment count. She was probably my dearest friend in Michigan. She could play cards like any Las Vegas regular. She loved her sports, especially when Ernie Harwell gave the play-by-play for the Tigers. Her favorite drink was a Manhattan, although whisky sours were a close second. And she never once belittled or looked down on anyone.”

  I stared down at my plate, remembering all the things that made her special.

  “She loved her grandkids to pieces,” Nestor added.

  “Did you see her often?” J. D. asked with a softness to his voice that was new. I raised my head and realized he was looking at me.

  “Every summer.” Nestor’s description of Grandma made the words stick in my throat.

  “I remember each time your mother dropped you all off before gallivanting around the globe. You were so young. But you clung to your grandma like a burr on wool.”

  “My parents had to travel the state and meet constituents,” I explained lightly.

  Nestor leaned back in his chair. “Your mother wouldn’t even spend the night. She would whisk in, unload your luggage, and be gone within the hour.”

  “My mom moved out of Truhart as soon as she was old enough and hardly ever returned.”

  “That’s an understatement,” laughed Nestor. “Your mother was not a fan of this town.”

  Nestor reached out a hand to my own. I realized I had been polishing my fork. He turned to J. D. “But Elizabeth and her little brother spent several summers here. And from what I can tell, they loved it.” He turned my way and raised his big brow. “Your grandma made it her mission to show you kids what she called the good life. She made sure you had plenty of freedom and lots of fresh air. Your sister was another story.”

  “Alexa came just one summer and spent the whole time on the phone, begging my mother to come get her.”

  “I seem to recall that when she wasn’t calling your mother, she was calling her friends. She racked up your grandma’s phone bill and got mad when she couldn’t watch her programs on TV.”

  “Grandma didn’t have all the cable stations,” I explained. “After that, Alexa preferred another camp.” It was actually a joke. Elliot and I nicknamed her camp Camp Pay-a-lot. A lot of kids from Chicago and other cities in the Midwest loved it.

  “But you and Elliot seemed to thrive here. Am I right?”

  I looked across at J. D. I could see his mind working. “Grandma Dory used to take all of us out in her old rowboat and let us swim off the back with an inflatable raft for hours.”

  “I remember well,” Nestor said. “I joined you sometimes. She would bring the most god-awful cheap beer and drape it over the side in a net to keep it cool.”

  I forgot myself and laughed. “Is that what was in there? Why didn’t I think of that today when I was catching these bluegill? I only remember her producing cans of pop for us when we came out for a sugar break.”

  Nestor chuckled. “She didn’t want to be a bad influence on you children.”

  “Why did she care? She smoked a pack of cigarettes every day and had no problem swearing when the Tigers lost.”

  “Those things she couldn’t help. They were old habits she hated for you kids to witness.” Nestor’s hands shook as he placed his folded napkin on the table. “I don’t know how many times she tried to quit smoking and swearing. When you visited one time she made me hide her cigarettes and told me to disconnect her antenna if she swore during a Tigers game. Of course, she always swore when they lost. I got up on her roof to disconnect that antenna, but hell, you know how mechanically challenged I am. I ended up cutting her telephone line by accident.”

  “But why would Grandma Dory care? Those are all the things we loved about her. She didn’t have any need to show the world she was high-quality and better than everyone.” I had forgotten about J. D. as I tried to understand my grandmother.

  Nestor looked up. “Your grandma was high-quality despite that, my dear. . . .”

  “Well, thank God she wasn’t caught up in trying to prove anything. She did what she wanted and lived her own life. No glitzy suburban home, no responsibilities.”

  Nestor’s eyes turned upward, studying the light fixture.

  “Hmmm. Maybe, Elizabeth, you didn’t know your grandma as well as you think.”

  “Nestor, you were a big part of the reason we loved it here. I’ll never forget evenings on your back porch playing euchre. Do you still play?” I was acutely aware of J. D. watching me like a detective connecting the dots of my life.

  “Well, now I’m a little rusty. But I could be persuaded. But we don’t have a fourth player.”

  “I figured you were a cardplayer, Elizabeth,” taunted J. D. He was having fun now. And I knew when I was being teased.

  Still, I had to keep up the image. “Oh, I love poker,” I lied. “We could play that too!”

  “A game of Texas Hold’em?” he asked.

  “Well, I kind of like poker better. You might need to remind me of the rules for Texas Hold’em,” I said.

  J. D.’s eyes took on a holy glint that made me feel like he had won a game already. We hadn’t even played yet. How dare he assume he would win!

  Nestor put a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. “Maybe we should stick with euchre, J. D. We can play buck euchre for three.”

  During the third round, J. D. and I waited for Nestor’s bid and realized his eyes were closed and he was nodding off. I put my finger over my lips and signaled to J. D. We crept into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

  I stood at the sink, washing the dishes, and thought about my grandmother. Here she was, in the middle of nowhere her whole life. She didn’t care what people thought. Yet, she was a much better person than I could ever hope to be.

  I was so lost in thought that I had forgotten what I was doing.

  A throat cleared nearby, and I looked up. J. D. stood next to me, staring at the dishes in my hands submerged in the dishwater. “Do you think they’re clean?”

  I froze as I realized I had been washing the dishes over and over in the scalding water. I quickly emptied the drain, refusing to meet his gaze. He said nothing, but I could feel a question on the tip of his tongue. He took the dishes from me and dried them.

  Being with him in close proximity was unnerving. When the last dish was put away, I touched my hand to my cheek and pointed to the clock above the kitchen door. “It’s later than I thought! Oh, wait. You probably think I’m used to partying all night.”

  Folding the towel with an exaggerated patience, J. D. placed it over the handle of the oven. “The jig is up, Elizabeth. I’m on to you, and you aren’t half as bad as you pretend to be. Come on. Confess.”

  I leaned against the sink. “Now that you know my family belongs to a country club, you’re going to change your mind?”

  “Maybe.” He was directly in front of me. So close I could see the fine lines wrinkling at the outer end of his eyes and feel the heat of his breath on my face. “Or do you still want to convince me you’re a party girl? If so, I might need more proof.”

  “You already have proof. I was twerking and drinking and—and smoking—when you first saw me.”

  “Twerking? Oh yeah, that’s what you were doing in the middle of the living room.”

  I nodded my head. He leaned toward me and I had nowhere to go unless I wanted to land in the sink. I barely had time to catch my breath before his lips descended.

  I wasn’t prepared and I stiffened up.

  His lips only just touched mine when he pulled away, shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you so uncomfortable. I don’t know why I did that. You just bring out the worst in me.”

  Humiliation washed over me. I waited for him to accuse me of being cold.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just that I can’t figure you out—”

  “Try
harder!” I hissed. I grabbed J. D.’s collar with both fists and brought his lips back to mine. I opened my mouth and thought to give him the kind of kiss a party-girl FOP would have given.

  But all teasing intention disappeared. A surge of adrenaline and longing shot through my veins like a drug. The kitchen melted away. So did thought. I was addicted before I took a single breath.

  My hands were all over him. And his were setting fire to my skin. It could have been seconds, but I suspected it was longer. Either way, there was no faking my reaction this time. I was all over him like every bad cliché I’d read recently. If I’d had a bodice on, I’d be ripping it off and making him howl at the moon.

  Nestor’s snoring from the dining room broke through the haze. I paused to catch my breath and realized I was pinned against the refrigerator with my hands buried in J. D.’s hair. How the hell did that happen? He looked just as stunned, because he removed his hands from underneath my shirt and held them in the air as if he was under arrest. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I smoothed my shirt and wondered what would have happened if Nestor hadn’t snorted in the other room.

  I was the first to recover. I tapped J. D. on the sternum. My voice shook, but I managed to say, “Well . . . that was a good warm-up for the rest of my night.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “Lose the act, Liz. It’s getting really boring.”

  I said nothing. To be honest, I felt so blown away by what we just shared that I couldn’t come up with any more lines. The “act” was starting to exhaust me. Maybe I didn’t have to act anymore.

  I glanced through the doorway at Nestor, who still napped, and nodded in his direction. “Should we wake him up before we go?”

  “I suppose it is the proper etiquette, even for you.” His hand smoothed a wayward curl from my forehead.

  I turned my back and moved into the dining room to Nestor’s side. If I wobbled slightly, J. D. didn’t seem to notice. He was walking strangely himself.

  Laying his hands on Nestor’s shoulder, he said softly, “Time for me to be heading home, Nestor.”