Butternut Summer (19 page)

L
ong after midnight, Jack lay on the dock he'd recently rebuilt and looked up at the sky. He'd heard on the radio today there was going to be a meteor shower tonight, but that wasn't why he'd come down here. He'd had the dream again. He'd been having it almost every night lately, and after he woke up from it, he could never go back to sleep again. So he'd started coming down here. He figured if he was going to be an insomniac, this was a pretty good place to be one, surrounded by sky and trees and water. Besides, if he spent too much time in the hovel he called a cabin, he got claustrophobic.

He squinted at the sky now, looking for signs of meteors, but he couldn't find any. Sometime after he'd gone to sleep, the wind had picked up, and it was blowing wispy white clouds across the dark sky, obscuring most of the stars. Jack didn't mind, though. The wind felt good on his skin, and it was keeping the mosquitoes away, too. What he minded was the dream. Not the dream itself, but the fact that it was just a dream, the fact that it wasn't real.

In the dream, it was nighttime, and Jack was back at the apartment above Pearl's, walking down the hallway to Caroline's bedroom and then opening the door to it. And she was there, waiting for him, in her bed, in
their
bed. Sometimes in the dream, she was wearing one of the nightgowns she'd worn when they were married, a simple, sleeveless, white cotton nightgown that barely hinted at the lovely nakedness it concealed. And sometimes in the dream, she'd already taken the nightgown off, and her bare skin was emitting a faint, almost otherworldly glow. But in both versions of the dream, she smiled at him, and peeled back the covers, and welcomed him into the bed beside her. And then, just as he took her into his arms, just as he crushed her sweet-smelling softness against him, just as he felt the warmth of her skin against his skin, he woke up abruptly and looked around. And he was stunned, and bereft, to discover himself, once again, alone in his cabin.

Jack missed Caroline so acutely then that he experienced it almost as a physical pain. He'd had a way to treat that pain once, to numb it almost beyond recognition, but now he had no choice but to feel it, to feel it filling up his chest, settling in his rib cage, gnawing at his stomach. When he first started having the dream, he'd lain there with the pain for a while, letting himself feel it, and then he'd tried to go back to sleep. But now he knew better; he didn't try anymore. He came down to the dock and waited there for the pain to lessen or, if not to lessen, then at least to change. Because usually, right around the time the sky started to lighten in the east, he'd feel a tiny flicker of hope.

That's when he'd tell himself, it'll work out, one way or another. They'd be together again. He couldn't turn the clock back, he knew that now. He wouldn't even try to. He would just love her, love her the way she deserved to be loved. He'd love her the way he would have loved her the first time if only he'd known how, if only he'd been a real man, and not some sorry excuse for one.

Now, right above him, the gauzy layer of cloud cover lifted just long enough for him to see a smattering of stars, and then, a moment later, a falling star, streaking across that same patch of sky. He decided to take it as a good omen.

O
n a muggy evening in early July, a week after the girls' night out at Allie's cabin, Caroline found herself standing at her apartment's living room window, staring down at the street below. It wasn't that there was anything to see down there—there wasn't—but she was completely at a loss as to what to do with herself tonight. This was surprising, really, when she considered that she'd spent a whole lifetime staying busy.

Tonight, though, she'd exhausted all her options. Thanks to Frankie, who'd insisted on staying late again today, there was nothing to do downstairs at Pearl's. The tables had been wiped down, the chairs stacked neatly on top of them, and the floors mopped to within an inch of their lives. The napkin dispensers had been refilled, so had the salt and pepper shakers and the ketchup and mustard bottles. The industrial coffee machines, the heartbeat of Pearl's, had had their filters changed and freshly ground coffee shoveled into them. They'd been programmed, too, to start brewing at exactly six
A.M.
the next morning.

And upstairs? Well, there was nothing that needed doing up here, either. Caroline found herself wishing, for once, that she and Daisy weren't both such naturally neat people, and that there was some big cleanup job just waiting for her to roll up her sleeves and get started on it. But there wasn't; the dish rack was empty, the laundry was folded, and the living room rug was vacuumed. She thought, for a second, about cleaning out the lint screen in the dryer, but then realized she'd already done that tonight—twice.

She sighed, still watching the street below. It was quiet in the apartment, but even quieter, it seemed, on Glover Street. Where was everybody? Well, Daisy was on a date, for the third time that week, with Will. Buster was home, at his cabin, watching a baseball game. Allie and Jax were home with their families, and, if her conversation with the two of them last week was any indication, they were probably waiting for their children to go to sleep so they could be alone with their husbands. And Jack? What was Jack doing? She had no idea. She wondered, idly, if he was lonely living out at Wayland's cabin, then quickly dismissed the thought. Jack, lonely? Not likely—the man had never been lonely in his life, as far as she could tell. She pictured him now, sitting on a bar stool somewhere, talking to a pretty girl, smiling that slow smile of his at her . . . But then she stopped herself. She couldn't take that image of him any further.

Caroline felt a heaviness settle over her then, a slowness, a sleepiness almost. It was as if she suddenly had more than her fair share of gravity binding her to the earth. She recognized this feeling. She knew it very well, in fact, even though she'd only felt it a few times in her life. It was the feeling she got when she had to do something she really didn't want to do. Something that would be hard, and messy, and painful. She'd felt it when she'd had to tell her parents, who couldn't stand Jack, that she was marrying him. She'd felt it when she'd had to say good-bye to her father, a few years after that, on his deathbed. She'd felt it when she'd had to fire a longtime employee, who she knew was going through a hard time, when she'd caught him stealing money from her. And she felt it now.

She sighed again and left the living room, picking up her handbag from the hall table on her way out of the apartment. As she walked around the corner to where her pickup was parked, she felt that same resistance settling on her limbs again, as though she was walking under water. And when she got into her pickup, pulled out of her parking space, and drove out of town, she imagined that her pickup felt slow, too, and sluggish in its handling. She gave it a little gas, though, and after what felt like an eternity, she was turning onto gentle, meandering South Butternut Lake Drive, then onto a private dirt road, and, finally, into Buster's long gravel driveway.

She wondered briefly if he would mind her surprising him like this, since, as a general rule, he didn't like surprises. But when she pulled up in front of his cabin and he came out on the front porch, he didn't look irritated. He looked worried.

“Everything all right, Caroline?” he asked, coming down the steps to meet her.

“Everything's fine,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. But it wasn't, of course. And Buster knew it wasn't.

“Why don't you come inside, Caroline, and I'll pour you something to drink,” he said. And the way he said it told her that now they were both dreading the conversation they were about to have.

“Okay. Thank you, Buster. I'd love a glass of water,” she said.

The two of them went into the cabin together, and Buster went into the kitchen, leaving Caroline alone in the living room. She sat down on the couch and looked around her. This living room should have been utterly familiar to her after three years of dating Buster, but tonight, for some reason, she felt as if she was seeing it for the first time. It was neat and orderly, with not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust anywhere. She didn't mind that, of course. But she minded
something
. Her eyes traveled over to the card table, where Buster played gin rummy with friends one night a week, then over to a dining table that Buster had commandeered for one of the jigsaw puzzles he loved to do, and finally over to the bookshelf where Buster kept his prized collection of military history books. And she suddenly realized what it was about the room that she minded: it never changed. Not really, not in any meaningful way.

It was like their relationship, she suddenly understood. Their relationship was comfortable too, and pleasant, and predictable. But it never changed, and it was never going to.

Her eyes settled on Buster's armchair then. There, on its arm, was today's paper, neatly creased and waiting for Buster to return to it. And on the small table beside the armchair was a single glass of scotch, waiting for Buster to drink it. He always had exactly one glass of scotch, never more. Not like Jack, she thought; his philosophy had always been if one was good, then more was better. He'd been that way about their lovemaking, too, she remembered, and then, realizing she was sitting in Buster's living room, and thinking about being in bed with Jack, she had the decency to blush.

But Buster was back then, carrying a glass of ice water, and as Caroline took it from him, she smiled. Or she tried to, anyway. Buster sat down on the couch and smiled back at her gently, a little sadly. And Caroline understood that when he'd gone to the kitchen, he hadn't just poured her a glass of ice water, he'd accepted, in some fundamental way, what was going to happen next.

“Buster,” she said softly.

“Yes, Caroline,” he said with the same gentleness.

“I . . .” she stopped.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know why you're here. It's been coming for a while now, hasn't it?”

She nodded, feeling miserable

“I'm sorry, Caroline.”

“
You're
sorry?”

He nodded.

“Buster, this is
not
your fault.”

“Yes, it is, Caroline,” he said, his blue eyes pained. “I couldn't give you what you needed.”

But Caroline shook her head. “No, Buster,
I
couldn't give you what you needed,” she said, her eyes glazing over with tears. And it was true, she thought. Because what Buster needed was so simple: affection, companionship, respect, and yes, predictability and routine. And what was wron
g
with that? Nothing, she told herself. There was nothing wrong with that. It had been enough for her until . . . until when? When had it stopped being enough?

“Look, Caroline, I appreciate that,” Buster said now, his face pained. “But I think we both know I'm just an old bachelor, too set in my ways for my own good. I wish I'd met you when I was younger. But I was married to the army for so long”—he gave a little shrug—“it's hard to shake.”

She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “You loved the army, Buster,” she said softly.

“And I love you,” he said quietly. “But that doesn't change anything, does it?”

She shook her head, slowly, knowing he was right.

“Now, if you don't mind, I'll walk you out to your truck,” he said, his expression stoic.

“Of course,” Caroline said, wiping a tear off her face with the back of her hand. She saw she'd been wrong about one thing. Breaking up with Buster may have been hard and painful, but it hadn't been messy. He was too dignified for that. Whatever grieving he would do, he would do privately.

Caroline let Buster walk her out to her pickup, but when he opened the door for her, she turned to him. “Buster,” she said, a little sob escaping her. “Just for the record? It's been a good three years.”

“It's been a great three years,” he corrected her, reaching over and hugging her gently. She was so tempted then to tell him she'd made a mistake, that she'd changed her mind, that she wanted to stay with him here, tonight, at his cabin. But she knew in her heart that it wouldn't work. She knew that she needed something different, something more, than Buster could give her.

So she climbed into her pickup, and Buster closed the door for her. But he left his hand on the door frame for a moment.

“Caroline, promise me something?” he said.

“Of course.”

“Promise me you won't let him hurt you again?”

She stared at him. “You mean . . . Jack?”

He nodded.

“What? Buster, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Is that what you think? That I did this because I'm going to get involved with him again? Because I'm not. I haven't even seen him since he came to Pearl's that day.”

But Buster looked unconvinced. “Drive safely,” he said, taking his hand off the door frame and stepping back.

And she started to say that he was wrong about Jack, and that none of this had anything to do with him, but then she stopped herself. If Buster was going to believe that, there was nothing she could do to persuade him otherwise.

She pulled her seat belt on and turned the key in the ignition, and, as she turned her truck around, Buster went back up onto the front porch. She saw him there, in her rearview mirror, until she went around the bend in his driveway. How like him, she thought, to be concerned about her when she was the one who had broken things off.

“
Oh Buster
,” she said, fighting back tears. And as soon as she turned out of his driveway, she pulled over to the side of the road and let herself cry, really cry. Most of those tears, of course, were for Buster, and for what they had had together, but a few of those tears were for herself. Because ever since the day when Jack had walked into Pearl's, nothing,
nothing
had gone as planned. Sometimes she felt as if she was letting go of everything that was safe and familiar to her, and sometimes she felt as if it was being taken away from her.