A Notion of Love (13 page)

My husband moved forward and closed my hands around the star. Although I could see him touching me, I couldn't feel any pressure on my hands. He smiled at me and I tried to speak to him again, to reach for him, but the star was suddenly hot against my palms, hot and glowing steadily brighter. I dropped my eyes in wonder, watching as beams of green light burst from between my interlocked fingers. I made a small sound and when I looked up to see what Chris thought, Justin was standing there instead, scars and all, his dark eyes steady on mine. He closed both of his big hands around mine, warm and solid, and said, “Come on, Jilly.”

And then I woke up.

I felt so fragile, as though just a touch might shatter me into jagged fragments.

My room was dim and gray and tears were flooding over my cheeks. I rolled to one side, aching, not knowing what to make of the vividness of the dream. I bunched up the covers and pressed them to my belly, wrapping around the bundle I'd created as though it was a baby, or something that needed protecting. I cried and cried, muffling the sounds, until I eventually fell back asleep.

Hours later Clinty tapped on my door and peeked into my bedroom, dressed and combed, and asked softly, “Mom, you okay?”

My sweet boy
. He added, “Everyone's here for breakfast, and Justin just asked me where you are.”

My breath caught in my throat. Justin was over at the café and he'd asked where I was.
Justin, oh God, come over here yourself. I need you so much. I need you to crawl into my bed and hold me, just hold me. I need to breathe against your neck. Oh, God
.

To my son, I said, forcing cheer into a sleepy tone, “Honey, I'll be over later. I'm just tired from our late night.”

“K, Mom,” he said, dashing back through the house and then outside. I heard his footsteps pounding down the steps and for a moment was entirely grateful that my only child was a boy; any of Jo's girls would have heard something in my tone that wasn't right, plopped on the bed and demanded to know what up. But Clinty accepted what I said and ran off to eat more of Ellen's caramel rolls, which she'd been prepping yesterday.

I groaned and rolled to my other side.

***

Because Trout
Days was still in full swing in town, we closed the café after lunch. By early evening the western sky was tinted a rich, creamy pink, the air still and sweet with the fragrance of the rose bushes beyond the porch. It always seemed to me that dusk lifted fragrances high into the air, made them almost tangible. I leaned against the railing and breathed deep, catching all of the smells of summer I loved best:, the lake, fresh-cut grass, mingled with rose blossoms. Across the parking lot Milla and Tish were trying to climb into the golf cart, piloted by my laughing son, who kept inching forward so they couldn't quite board. I smiled a little, despite the ache that had settled behind my breastbone like a leaded weight, dense as guilt. I was glad the kids were oblivious to anything but themselves, headed for an evening of fun just like Jo and I did once upon a time. The activity from downtown danced across the water in waves of laughter and bursts of firecrackers; the music would get rolling in an hour or so. Just down the shore, my sister sat on the dock with her legs crossed, her gaze fixed on the kids, too; her own low mood was practically visible in the air above her head, a gray cloud streaking rain over her shoulders.

Behind me, Ellen was firing up the charcoal grill; I turned with a sigh and went to retrieve drinks for everyone. When I came back out, Jo had climbed the porch steps. I called over my shoulder, “Ruthann, grab your mom a beer, will you, honey?”

Jo plunked into a chair near Gran, her eyes ringed with shadows, her shoulders drooping. For a moment I was exceedingly grateful that it was just us girls for the evening, no menfolk in sight. I slid across from Mom at the table just as Gran piped up, “Jillian told us about the divorce.”

Jo glared instantly at me, twisting her long hair over one shoulder. I only tipped my head to the side and asked her with my eyebrows,
What do you expect, it's Gran
? In truth, I'd only commented that Jo had better stick around here and not even consider going back to Chicago. I hadn't mentioned divorce, but Gran had read between the lines in our conversation earlier today.

“We aren't getting divorced yet,” she said, just a hint of acid in her tone, which she drowned with a long swallow of beer.

Mom's eyes brightened at this, and she patted Jo's knee. She said, “Oh, Jo, I'm glad.”

My heart clenched up at my sister's expression. I was just about to say something when Ellen, her back to us as she flipped burgers on the grill, said, “Joan, how is the girl ever supposed to trust Jackson again?” Gran nodded with satisfaction, while I exhaled slowly, relieved beyond measure that Ellen had neatly contradicted Mom. She went on, “Jo, I just don't feel like Jackson deserves you. Not now.”

I realized that none of the womenfolk suspected anything about Jo's attraction to Blythe. At least, not yet. They were all so focused upon Jackson, and how Jo was dealing with him, that no one had noticed what was right beyond their noses. Well, maybe Gran. But she hadn't breathed a word to me, not yet.

“Not ever,” Gran added, immediately lifting her hand as Jo's eyebrows drew together and her lips parted to respond. Gran hurried on, “Joelle, he was the best looking boy in Landon, I admit it. Those eyes, and his easy way of talking. I know you loved the boy. But re-examine the man, honey. You are better off without him. You know it.”

Jo's eyes sparkled with tears; she realized the truth in Gran's words, and I sent Gran a surreptitious look of relief and gratitude before turned my expectant gaze back to my sister. Jo studied Ruthie, who was down the shore playing fetch with the dogs, and her face reflected everything she was grappling with; the decision to leave her children's father was sharp and pointed and potentially painful as the tip of a knife. I pressed my own lips together and conveyed a telepathic message to my sister:
You know Gran is right. You know it, Jo.

At long last Jo released a shuddering breath and said, “I know you're right.”

Gran nodded, pleased. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction.

Jo added, “But it hurts so fucking much.”

“Oh sweetie,” Mom said low, patting Jo's knee again. I was pleased that despite Mom's differing opinion about Jackson, she was being supportive.

Jo's lips twisted as though she was trying not to cry, but she managed to say, “Hey, it's Saturday.”

Gran winked at me and then added, “Then you and Jillian better get your asses into the kitchen and whip up some margaritas.”

A full moon was such a splendid
thing. Especially the June full, which was called the Strawberry Moon. When I was a kid, Dodge had told me the name of each month's moon; I thought back then that he'd made them up, but realized eventually that he'd actually lifted them from the
Farmer's Almanac
. I remembered sitting on the top of the tire swing that used to hang from the big oak by the garage, drifting in lazy arcs, twining the rope between my fingers while Dodge used the hedge clippers on the raspberry bushes, his big voice soft as he told me about things like full moons and growing seasons and summertime constellations. Curling low on my spine, nearly thirty years later, I again heard him explaining why the June full was known as the Strawberry.

The music from the street dance was rippling over Flickertail; we were into our third pitcher of drinks and I sipped yet again from my goblet, made of clear-blue glass with a long stem and a base that was curved like the petals of a tulip. Since my teenage years this had been mine for our Saturday margarita nights. This evening I clutched it like the old friend it was as the womenfolk talked and laughed, their words flowing and swirling around me like eddies in a busy stream. I lifted my eyes again to the silver-dollar orb in the sky, flooding us with its brilliance, casting our shadows which danced along the porch like the darker parts of our souls set free for this one night.

I was thinking again of Justin with no relief in sight. What was he doing this evening? Certainly he was downtown. What was he thinking? I was still so wounded by his continued avoidance, his fear of daring to acknowledge his feelings. What would it take? I felt tears stinging my eyes and refocused on the conversation in progress with effort, suddenly recalling that Clint had asked me about pictures of my father, his grandpa. I hadn't remembered to question my mother about that, despite the fact that it had been a month ago, when he'd needed pictures for school. Going through old albums had only cemented the fact that we, as a whole, possessed very few photographs of the men from our pasts, including my own husband.

I found my voice and asked, “Mom, Clint wondered once if you had a picture of Mick anywhere? Do you?”

Mom had also been studying the sky and she answered dreamily, “I have our engagement picture somewhere, and a few from that summer. He liked to take pictures more than he liked to be in them.”

That I had known. I was drunk, and I was aching for Justin, and I was afraid that tears were about to fall over my cheeks and then everyone would wonder what the hell was going on. To top it off, I'd realized earlier today that tomorrow would have been Chris's thirty-fifth birthday. I heard myself say, “I wish I had more of Chris.” From across the table I could sense Jo's surprise at my sudden choice of words. To punish myself I went on, “He would be turning thirty-five tomorrow.” Though it was probably after midnight; I glanced down at the slim gold watch I wore when I worked and had forgotten to remove earlier, and added, “Today, actually.” The thought made me immeasurably sad, but I still felt like a flake, a faker, as I said, “I just can't stop thinking of him tonight, guys, I'm sorry.” Because the man I truly couldn't stop thinking about was Justin. But they couldn't know it, not yet. For a moment I felt like such a coward, a total jerk, and I turned my chin against my shoulder and pressed my mouth there, wanting so much to give in and cry.

Gran said, “It's only natural, love.”

Did she know? Her gaze was sharp and shrewd upon me. Maybe she meant that it was only natural to move on, to allow myself to love again. Maybe she was trying to convey that to me with those words, or maybe I was just reading too deeply into her obvious concern.

Jo said, using her old version of Jackie's nickname for me, “Jilly Bar, we love you. We love you so much.”

I nodded in response, swamped with guilt, knowing that was true but wishing at least my sister knew the real reason I was so utterly torn up inside. From across the water the music had stopped and I whispered, “I think it's time for bed.”

Jo wasn't satisfied with this and asked, the concern in her voice overt, “Do you want to take a walk, Jilly Bean?”

She rose from her chair, stumbling a little as she made her way to me and cupped my head in her hands. Mom and Ellen both stooped to kiss my cheeks, and I sheltered for a moment in their collective love, letting its balm comfort me a little. I caught Jo's hand in both of mine and at that moment I was struck with a Notion, right smack in the gut, of her and Blythe wrapped in each other's arms.
Tonight.
Somehow, some way, it would be tonight, and there was nothing I could do to stop her from taking this path. I didn't even want to anymore. I loved her; I loved Bly in my own way, and they deserved this happiness, fleeting though it may be.

I whispered, “No, thanks though, Jo.”

Mom and Ellen were flanking Gran on their way back to the house and Jo asked, “Hey, will you help me with Ruthie?”

With difficulty we lifted her, half-asleep and floppy between us. We couldn't help but giggle as we hauled her across the dew-damp grass and then up two flights of steps, to the loft the girls were sharing for the time being. Even without turning on the overhead light I could tell it was a wall-to-wall wreck. I scraped mounds of clothes from Ruthie's bed to the floor and then we managed to get her into it. Jo tucked the covers up to her shoulders and kissed her cheek with affection.

Back outside we stood for a moment under the amazing moon that was flooding the sky with its light; depending on my mood, the moon's face took on varying expressions. At the moment it seemed censuring, disapproving. I was drunk enough to shiver slightly. In the next moment Jo asked, “Are you worried about the kids? Should I head over to town?”

The air around us seemed tense, charged with something I couldn't quite define. I sighed a little and then responded, “Nah, they're fine, Clinty will bring them home now that the music is done.” I turned my face to Jo's at last; she was watching me with a slightly wary expression, unsure what my tone was actually conveying. At that moment I longed to spill everything to her, confess why I was truly so ripped up, so hurting. But I had to let her go; I'd seen it. I sighed again and whispered, “Night, Jo.”

As I made my way across the grass to my empty apartment, she called, her confusion at my attitude clear in her tone, “Good-night.”

I wrapped around myself in my bed minutes later, my face scrubbed clean and finally managed to doze. It wasn't until much later that I was awoken by the buzz of my cell phone, tossed carelessly onto my nightstand. It pulled me from a vague jumble of dreams and I pressed the button to answer without fully realizing that someone calling at this time of night had always meant no good. But I could sense my son in his room and so fear didn't flash within me like so much lightning; I didn't hear that nausea-inducing hockey buzzer in my head.

“Hello,” I murmured into the stillness, my eyes still closed.

“Jillian,” he said, as though breathing out in a rush, and my eyes flew open. My heart sprang to life as though electrocuted and I couldn't respond. He whispered, “I miss you.”

“Justin,” I whispered back, longing and desire and all of the wretched hurt he'd caused me these past weeks flowing through my voice. I could tell he'd been drinking, probably way too much, and my heart continued its agitated rhythm against my breastbone.

“I'm sorry,” he said then.

I wanted to ask him about which of the many things he definitely owed me an apology regarding, but for the moment I held back, finally whispering, “Where are you?”

“Home,” he said then, and he sounded miserable. Though I hated that he was suffering it was a kind of consolation, knowing it. Not just me then. But deep inside I'd known all along. He knew how to change all of that, but he had to do it; I was more determined than ever. In the silence I could hear his breath and the pulsing thud of my heart.

I wanted to tell him I'd be there in ten minutes. Five, even. But I heard myself say, “Good-night, Justin,” and though it just about killed me, I hung up on him.

***

Morning came
on with a dull, heavy sky the gray of concrete blocks. I made my way over the grass in the morning hours, craving coffee and a chat with Gran. But she was still sleeping, as were all of the kids besides Ruthie. Ellen looked me over with a practiced eye, making sure I was truly all right as I poured myself a steaming mug and then drifted outside to sit, at least until it started raining. Judging from the sky, that would be in about ten minutes. I knew Mom and Ellen were worried about today; it was Chris's birthday, after all. I couldn't help but imagine what we'd have been doing were he still alive and actually turning thirty-five today, and not just in my imagination. I wondered the same things at Christmas, or on Clinty's birthdays. The western edge of the world grumbled with the approaching storm and the humidity in the air stroked all along my limbs. And almost instantly my thoughts turned to Justin, traitor-like. He'd drunk-called me, which I resented, while another part of my soul thrilled to the fact that he'd said he missed me. God, I missed him.

At that moment I caught sight of Jo making her way across the grass and wondered suddenly how her night had gone with Blythe, a welcome distraction at the moment. I couldn't act as though I knew anything, but I watched her watching me carefully, knowing that if anyone suspected it would be me. For a second I almost smiled at how warily she approached, and said cheerfully, “Morning,” as she climbed the porch steps. She relaxed a little and I asked, “What time did the kids get back last night?”

She hedged with me, grabbing my coffee cup and taking a sip before saying, “Late.”

I followed this with, “How about you?”

I wanted her to tell me what had happened and sent her silent messages to confide. She fiddled with my cup and had just opened her mouth as though to speak when Justin's truck came pulling into the lot. My heart propelled blood through me hard enough to cut off any words I intended to say; my eyes were locked on them. Jo noticed that my gaze had snapped from assessing her and she turned to watch as Dodge climbed out of the passenger side and called, “Hi, girls!”

Dodge winked at us as he climbed the steps. Justin followed in his wake, silent and pale beneath his tan, sunglasses still in place. I couldn't pull my eyes from him, my face at once flushed. I hadn't yet managed to reply, grateful that Jo didn't seem to suspect a thing; she replied, “Morning.”

Dodge clacked through the screen door calling cheerful greetings to Ellen and Mom, but Justin stopped at our table without a word. My heart was thundering. Jo teased, “A little under the weather this morning, Mr. Miller?”

He grimaced slightly, the side of his leg braced on the edge of the table closest to me. I was breathless, and wholly grateful that Jo was unaware of my distress. Justin murmured, “Don't ask.”

Jo said, “I saw you heading into Eddie's last night, buddy.”

I looked over at her at that, surprised at this statement. I figured Blythe had come to Shore Leave. I asked, “You went into town?”

Jo seemed to realize that she'd said too much; I could almost read her thoughts as she backpedaled for a moment. At last she admitted, “Yeah, I saw the fireworks.”

Yeah, I'll bet
, I almost teased. But suddenly Ruthann flew through the screen door with the cordless phone from the counter in her hand, effectively cutting off any comment I might make.

“Mom, it's Daddy!” she informed Jo, whose face went slightly green.

I watched in sympathy as Ruthie's eyebrows lifted and she wiggled the phone at her mom, not understanding why Jo wasn't jumping at the chance to speak with Jackson. Justin pushed back his sunglasses and my eyes flashed immediately back to his face, noting that his eyes bore the marks of a sleepless night.

Jo reached for the phone and I forced some cheer into my tone as I addressed my niece, saying, “Ruthie, come with me and let's get another muffin, huh?”

Jo gingerly brought the phone to her ear and then disappeared in the direction of the dock. Ruthie galloped back inside with no further encouragement and left me stranded with Justin. I met his gaze and my heart clobbered against my ribs; he was studying me in silence, his eyes shadowed with smudges. After a moment he said, his voice low, “Poor Jo told me when we were dancing that Jackie loves someone else.”

“She did?” I asked, hardly aware of what he was saying I was so caught up in his eyes. I drew a breath and pulled myself together. I tried my best to keep the tremble from my voice as I added, “Leave it to Jackson.”

Justin's eyes burned into mine. I wanted him to mention that he'd called me last night, though I sensed that he was waiting for me to say something first. Neither of us noticed Blythe until he'd cleared the top step and said, “Hey, guys,” by way of greeting. I jumped a little and Justin shifted his gaze to Bly, replying, “Hey.”

Blythe gave us a knowing look as the first raindrops began pelting out of the sky. He was about to continue into Shore Leave but in the next moment he changed course, moving swiftly to the porch rail nearest the dock, bracing both hands around it and asking, “What's Joelle doing down there?”

“Talking to Jackson,” I tattled to his back, and watched as Bly's huge shoulders squared with tension. Everything about his posture became instantly both threatening and protective. Down below, Jo was pacing with the phone, her free hand moving as though she intended to punch something. Or someone. Rain was flecking the lake with pockmarks, and Blythe pushed himself from the railing, ducked inside the door and re-emerged seconds later with the raincoat from the tree rack.

Lightning flashed like a beacon in the next instant, and it must have been some signal to the sky to unleash a downpour. I squeaked a little, jumping up to go and haul my sister out of the storm, but Justin caught me lightly around the upper arm and said, “Jills, he's got it,” before drawing me closer to the café, under the awning of the roof. My skin pulsed where Justin's hand held me. I couldn't make myself meet his gaze though I felt his gaze upon me as we stood within a few inches of the torrent. Instead I stubbornly watched Blythe make his way through the rain, down to where Jo was pacing and shouting, though her words were drowned out by the thunder.