Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (10 page)

“Joelle,” he whispered, his mouth almost against my hair, and I was done for, with that word from his beautiful lips, the lips I had watched for weeks now, had dreamed about opening over my nipples.

I turned my chin a fraction and he brought his lips to within an inch of mine, his other hand moving to press against my belly in a wide, warm length. I moaned, softly, leaning into him and then he kissed me, a lush, open-mouthed, shatteringly incredible kiss that sent me melting against him, my hands moving to curl around his huge, hard shoulders. Somewhere within me, where the last bit of my sanity was attempting to make a valiant stand, I couldn't believe I was doing this. But that was shortly drowned out by the flood of rampant desire overpowering my blood.

Oh God, Blythe, Blythe
, I thought, as he sucked gently on my bottom lip and wrapped his big hands around my waist, letting his fingers slip beneath the fabric of my shirt to tease my bare flesh. His tongue stroked mine, his mouth more inviting than anything I had ever known. We kissed and kissed, and he moved his hands slowly up my waist, his thumbs finding my nipples beneath my bra. He drew lazy circles over them while his mouth plundered mine, and I moaned again, it felt so good. So necessary.

When he drew back, I almost collapsed against him, my eyes closed, my head tipped slightly back. He said, low, “I have been wanting to do that since the night I met you, Joelle.”

My eyes flew open. I regarded him with something close to stun, still in his arms.

“Don't look so surprised,” he laughed, nuzzling warm kisses along my jaw. I was liquid and fire, all at the same moment. “You haven't noticed, huh?”

Still I couldn't formulate words. I came slowly to my senses, and then grew suddenly terrified that someone might have spied us…but the fireworks were still exploding, and no one could see us where we sat. I finally managed, “But…how can you…how can that be?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, holding me close, his hands still under my shirt.

“I'm…you're…” I found I couldn't articulate the problem of the difference in our ages.

“Because I'm younger?” he asked.

I nodded at last, wanting so badly to kiss him again. My eyes kept detouring to his lips, and he grinned.

“I'm twenty-three,” he told me in his beautiful deep voice, though I hadn't asked.

Twelve years.
Shit, shit, shit
, I thought.

“And I've been in jail,” he added, soberly. “Gramps said you knew.”

“Yeah, I know,” I told him. I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, but of course it did. So many things mattered, but then he kissed me again, and all things reasonable flew swiftly away. For that moment, I let him saturate my senses and kissed him back with total abandon, sliding my hands over his hard torso, down to the vee of his bent legs. He moaned a little then, thrilling me…I hadn't heard that sound from a man in way too long, and I wanted it, absolutely craved it. He shifted to accept my left hand as I slid it over the zipper on his jeans, pressing lightly against the ridge of incredible hardness. My own body seemed to liquefy in that instant…I wanted him inside me, and that meant I had to stop.

The last volley of fireworks, the grand finale, was happening now, I could tell: the sky above Flickertail Lake was absolutely soaked in bursting color, the full moon like a beacon in the background. As the noise died out and the smoky scent of black powder filled the air, I pulled away and whispered, “We've got to go.”

Blythe kissed my jaw, my chin, my lips one last time, then drew away. He whispered, “Can you meet me sometime this week?”

Yes, oh yes, yes, yes…

We can't…this is so wrong…I can't possibly…

“I will,” I told him, as we got to our feet and I tugged at my shirt, smoothed my hands into my hair with trembling fingers. Chief was wagging his tail, waiting dutifully for me. I patted his head and tried to pull myself together. Blythe rubbed his hand over my back once more.

“Good,” he said simply. “Let me know.”

We joined the crowd, just two more people who'd enjoyed the fireworks, and hadn't walked more than twenty yards before I intercepted Clint and my girls, tangled in a big bunch of laughing teenagers.

“Hi, Mom!” called Tish, waving and grinning at me, uncharacteristically giddy. I wasn't three feet away before I caught the beer on her breath.

Dammit, this was just what I deserved right now.

Camille detached herself from the group and hurried to my side; if she seemed surprised that Blythe and Chief were both with me, she hid it well. But I was suddenly too angry at Tish to care what anyone might notice. My oldest read my face and instantly began laying the groundwork to cover up for her sister; I knew this technique all too well. Hadn't I used it to cover for my own younger sister a million times in years past?

“She's not drunk, Mom,” she said right away, but I could see that Clint was, and then I was even more pissed. Oh, the irony of parenthood. It was a whole new experience to be on this side of the equation, the angry adult who saw clearly what was going on, then immediately projected all of that wrongdoing into a lifetime of potential crime and heartbreak for her daughters and nephew.

“Goddammit, Camille,” I said, my voice shaking. I felt like the world's biggest hypocrite. Blythe, who could have easily distanced himself and headed for his truck, instead moved through the crowd of kids and caught Clint in what appeared to be a brotherly headlock.

“Come on, little buddy,” he said, easing Clinty away from his friends, who were hooting and acting obnoxious.

“Mom, she just had one beer,” Camille went on, dogging me as I clutched Tish's upper arm in one hand and propelled her after Blythe and Clint.

Clint was leaning on Bly for support, and they just made it to edge of the beach in time for Clint to double forward and spew vomit in a wide arc. His friends began laughing and chortling at his expense, and I yelled in their direction, “I know all of your parents!”

“God, Mom!” Tish yelped at me, horrified.

“You are grounded with a capital G,” I informed her through clenched teeth, meanly pleased to see the group of rowdy kids disperse like wildfire at my words. I curbed the urge to yell something else after them, feeling slightly ill myself; the smell of boozy puke was thick in the air as we caught up with Clint and Bly. This was a recreation of a hundred thousand of my own teenage nights.

“Mom, I'm sorry,” Camille said, breathlessly, probably figuring that as the oldest she was in the most trouble.

“I am in no mood to deal with this tonight,” I told my girls, and then took pity on Clinty, who was clutching his belly and groaning slightly. Bly had one arm around Clint's waist, supporting him. I moved and patted my nephew's spine.

“Sorry Aunt Joey,” he managed before another wave of retching engulfed him.

Fifteen minutes later we had rounded up the golf cart, which Camille elected to drive home, with me supporting Clint in the backseat, Chief on the far side of him. Tish rode in front with her sister, eyes forward, an angry set to her shoulders. I'd bid Bly a totally platonic and apologetic farewell, insisting that he didn't need to drive us back to Shore Leave. His gaze had lingered on me as I'd herded the kids into the golf cart, and despite the anger churning through me, I let just the thought of meeting him later this week (because surely I couldn't really meet him) fill me with a buoyancy I hadn't known in a long, long time.

In our parking lot, I helped Clint
from the golf cart and up the porch steps, unlocked the café with the key hidden under a window shutter, and proceeded to make a pot of coffee. The girls settled their cousin at table three, where he tucked his head into his bent arms and groaned again. Both girls were edgy and I allowed that, not speaking nor looking at them as I worked with quiet efficiency, toasting a few slices of bread for myself, spreading peanut butter as my gaze wandered to the kitchen, where Blythe worked. And he had wanted to kiss me since the night we'd been introduced. My hand was shaking again as I attempted to pour a cup of coffee for Clint. Never in a million years would I have guessed that.

Even Tish was looking nervous as I slipped the mug in front of Clint, then leaned back against the counter between two stools, and regarded the three of them with my arms crossed. Camille was chewing her thumbnail, mascara smudged under her eyes. Tish was obviously stone sober by this point, watching me warily, tipping her chair back on its hind legs.

Finally I ordered, “So tell me about tonight.”

Tish plunged in, her voice contrite, “Mom, we just were having fun.”

I rolled my eyes and asked, “What have we talked about so many times?”

Camille said, “It's not like that, really. You know we don't drink, Mom, but Clint's friends had all this beer, and Tish just had one, seriously. I only had a sip, I don't even like beer.”

I sensed she was telling me the truth, but asked, “What about Clinty?”

He groaned at the sound of his name, and mumbled, head still cradled in his arms, “Aunt Joey, please don't tell Mom.”

“You are shitfaced drunk, young man,” I observed. “Tell me why this won't happen again, or I will go and wake up your mother this moment.”

Clint lifted his head at that, winced at the motion, and said, “It won't happen again, I promise, Aunt Joey.”

I sat down then, across from my nephew, and took one of his hands in both of mine. His hands were big and all knuckles. I held it tightly as I said, “Your mom would die if anything ever happened to you, you know that don't you?”

Clint's eyes welled, and my own responded with sympathy tears instantly. I went on, “It's your dad's birthday today, and so you need to be extra good to your mom tomorrow, okay?”

He wiped his eyes with his other hand, and I knew he was truly sorry. He whispered, “I will, Aunt Joey, I promise.”

I blinked back my own tears, picturing Christopher leaning over this same table, teasing my sister, chatting with Gran, drinking Dr. Pepper from a can. It had been his favorite. I could still hear his easy laugh, and for a moment almost shuddered at the memory. The girls were still and silent, alternating between studying Clint and me. They had never known their uncle.

Suddenly Tish reentered the conversation with a vengeance, asking, “Mom, where is Dad this summer? Why is he being so weird when we talk to him on the phone?”

I regrouped, turning to face her now, and said, “Tish, I meant to talk with you, all of you girls, earlier tonight.”

“No time like the present,” Camille murmured, but not in a snotty way. She was still worrying her thumbnail between her front teeth.

I gulped and took the bull by the horns, even though Clint was listening intently, too.

“Girls, Dad and I are separating. He's been seeing someone else,” I said, and then tipped my head back and released a sigh that seemed to bubble up from the bottom of my soul.

There was silence, into which I fell and then floundered.

Finally Tish barked out, “What? With who? Is it someone we know? Shit, Mom, how come you didn't tell us!”

Camille was staring at the tabletop, and spoke quietly, but I heard her even over Tish's brimming anger. She said, “I knew it, Mom, I knew it.”

I asked, “You guessed? Honey, I'm so sorry, I should have—”

But she cut me off, finally looking up and into my eyes, “No, I saw him. And that woman he works with.”

My heart thumped painfully.

“Where?” I managed to ask, thinking
don't let it be at home, please
…

“They were at Gioco's,” she said, naming a popular Chicago restaurant. “I was walking by with Payton and Cara, and we saw them. They were holding hands. It was last Thanksgiving break.” Tears gushed over her face then, and I moved quickly, taking her into my arms as she gave over to sobbing.

“Oh sweetie,” I said, stroking her hair as I hadn't in ages, a part of me grateful that she was allowing me to comfort and hold her—two things I hadn't been as able to do since her advent into the teenage years.

“Mom, I should have told you,” she said, pressing her face against the belly of my t-shirt and sobbing even harder, and I damned Jackson for putting her through all of this.

“No, no, don't think that, sweetheart,” I reassured as best I could. Tish had simmered down, and put her own head into her arms, reminiscent of Clint's earlier pose. He, poor boy, sat with both hands wrapped around the mug of cooling coffee I'd set before him, eyebrows drawn into a look of total discomfort. Well, that couldn't be helped now.

“I found out around the same time,” I told Camille, as her sobs eventually subsided to shaky gasps. “I didn't know what to do, and I haven't felt better until we came here, to tell you the truth.”

Tish asked, her voice muffled, “Are you guys getting divorced?”

I bit the insides of my cheeks and then admitted, “Probably, honey.”

Camille began weeping again, and I felt all at once incredibly exhausted. But I couldn't give in to sleep just yet. I rocked her gently, reaching one hand to cup Tish's bent head.

Tish observed, “Ruthie is gonna be really upset, Mom.” She lifted her head and I saw that her eyes were brimming, but she continued, staunchly, “Can we move here then?”

“I don't know, honey, I really don't.”

Clint chimed in then, adding, “That would be great, Aunt Joey. Mom would be so happy.”

I caught sight of the clock over the kitchen pass-through. It was quarter to two, and I was about to collapse. Camille sniffled and sighed, sounding like a little girl, and then pulled gently away, knuckling her eyes.

“I'm ready for bed,” she said through a plugged nose.

“Aren't we all,” I agreed, and dumped the rest of the coffee into the sink.

***

Alone in bed
twenty minutes later, my face scrubbed clean and coated with moisturizer, I allowed myself to revisit the kiss. Immediately my belly was at the top of a roller coaster, soaring, and I curled around it, cupping my breasts and caressing my nipples with my own thumbs, scarcely able to believe that Blythe, gorgeous, hunky, young Blythe Tilson had kissed me like that.

Joelle
, I groaned to myself, angry and so aroused, conflicting emotions rioting within me again. Despite the aching tiredness that weighted my limbs, and the emotional upheaval I'd been through with the girls, I longed for his hands back on my body.

When the cell phone on my nightstand suddenly buzzed with an incoming call, I started as though a gong had been struck a foot from my ear. Heart clanging, I groped for it, thinking it was Jackson, finally returning my call. But the number was one I didn't recognize. Softly, so not to wake Gran, I whispered, “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” came a deep voice. It sounded like he was smiling, and my heart pounded even more fiercely.

“No, actually,” I murmured, pulling the covers over my head like a naughty child, snuggling up with the phone, with his voice.

“Is Clint all right?”

“Yeah, he's okay, I just got them all to bed.” My voice trembled slightly. It was like my seventh grade self was taking her first phone call from a boy.

“How about you?” he asked then, definitely smiling. I let out my breath, smiling now, too, and Blythe added, “I can't stop thinking about you.”

How could this be real?
I marveled anew, heard myself admit, “I'm thinking about you, too.”

“Good,” he responded. “When are we meeting this week?”

My heart was in my throat, my blood humming with the thrill, the excitement of it all. I whispered, “I wish it was right now,” and felt the joy of flirting fill up my entire being.

He breathed out now, a soft rush, and said, “Me, too. Soon, then.”

“Yes,” I whispered back.

“Good-night, Joelle,” he said, low and sweet-voiced, and I trembled all over again.

“Night,” I murmured, and hung up, then rolled to my back and smiled, wide, up at the dim ceiling.