Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (17 page)

“Did you like living there?”

I considered for a moment, picturing the department stores, the fabulous restaurants, incredible museums and concert halls, my luxurious townhouse…all of the things I was supposed to return to in just a few short weeks. Finally I said, “No, it's no contest. There are things I like about Chicago, but my heart is here, truly. Landon will always be home.”

“I used to feel like that about the town where I grew up,” Blythe said. “But it's lost so much appeal anymore.”

I studied him, trying and failing to picture the little boy he used to be. I asked, “Why's that?”

He shrugged, resuming paddling with a smooth motion. “Being in jail ruined a lot of that for me. You get older, see things differently.”

For a moment I was struck by the fact that he was so very young…far too young to even voice the phrase “you get older,” especially in that tone, but then he was insistent that I underestimated his life experience. We'd discussed it several times already, in our quest to cut through the thicket of unknown facts separating us. He hadn't spoken much about being in jail; he'd told me he wasn't ashamed, necessarily, but it was still hard to discuss. He spoke with fondness of his mother and the trailer in which he'd been raised, and I tried again to picture him as a boy, a teenager…for a moment my mind truly betrayed me, and I found myself imagining another baby, our baby…a sweet, blue-eyed little boy…and then I gulped a little and directed my gaze back at the bowl of the sky.

In the wee hours of the morning, after checking on Camille (sound asleep in her bed) and getting Tish and Ruthie tucked in near her, I made my way back to the living room to say good-night to my sister, determined to ask how the evening had gone with Justin. Jillian was curled on our old couch, almost asleep there, and despite my own exhaustion I squeezed next to her, aligning my front with her spine, letting my chin settle between her shoulder blades. She smelled familiar, and like wood smoke.

“You have a good night with Bly?” she murmured, sleepily.

I closed my eyes, my stomach flooded with warmth at just the thought of my lover.

She found my left hand with one of her own and linked our fingers. “That good, huh?”

I nodded against her back, and then whispered, “How was your night with ‘the boy'?”

She giggled a little at Dodge's nickname for her own lover. “It was the best night we've had together since it all happened. He is such a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“He's always been, though,” I reflected. “Clint likes him.”

“He does,” she agreed; after our canoe trip, we'd rejoined everyone around the fire, where Clint had proceeded to chatter to Justin as though they'd been friends for decades. “He doesn't remember his dad enough to realize that in some ways Justin is a lot like Chris. He's not a replacement, that's not what I mean,” she went on, sounding more awake and very sincere. “But his sense of humor, the way he teases me.”

“I can see that,” I murmured, my eyelids feeling heavy.

“Night, Jo,” she muttered back, and we dozed there, snuggled together. I didn't recall anything else until Jilly started awake, somewhere near dawn, and said, “Someone's coming.”

I groaned, blinking in the darkness of the room, realizing I was still wearing my contact lenses. They felt like hubcaps attached to my eyeballs. I flopped to the other side of the couch, stiff from being in the same position for hours.

“It's probably Gran,” I replied, still groggy, groping for the afghan that covered the back of the couch, desiring warmth and more sleep.

Jillian was only partially awake, but she whispered, clearly, “No, it's someone new,” before resuming her light snoring.

It was the Fourth of July Eve,
an event in itself at Shore Leave. We had long celebrated the Fourth traditionally, in Landon at the parade and picnic, then on the beach by evening for the fireworks. The night before, however, a huge group gathered at the café for a dance and an amateur fireworks display, lit off by Dodge and Justin; many more people boated over and stayed on board their vessels, floating in the leisure of decked-out pontoons to watch the show. It was an event that had drawn a crowd since before I'd left Landon as a teenager.

This year I was a woman torn. I spent days working lunch, trying to catch my daughters for a word edgewise, and attempting to damper the happiness that radiated from me around Blythe. I wasn't sleeping much lately, but I didn't feel tired; lovemaking had restored my energy in myriad ways, and despite the fact that I ran across the dewy grass every night to meet him and didn't catch more than five hours of sleep or so a night, I felt more alive than I had in a decade. And yet the effects of hiding and sneaking and lying on occasion to secure time with him dug more and more deeply into my conscience with each passing day. Blythe, too, was disenchanted with the secrecy, but I told him, quite honestly, that my children could not handle the truth, and he didn't push me any further.

I was in crazy in love with him. I had fallen hard, tail over teakettle as Gran used to say. Every day I lived desperately in the moment, determinedly beating back the entities of Responsibility and Common Sense. Jackson had not yet called back in order to converse with me when I was being more reasonable and less bitchy, according to his description, though he was still communicating regularly with our daughters. I could be grateful to him for that, if nothing else at this point. A divorce seemed likely and I couldn't even claim to be upset by this any longer. Instead I stressed about what I would do in August, decision time. The rational part of me, Joelle the Longtime Mother, knew what I would have to do; I was deluding myself that there was even another choice to make. I had to put my girls first, no matter what. My love for them superseded all else…but it hurt so much to even think about giving up Blythe that I couldn't manage to dwell on it for more than a moment.

“Mom, can I borrow that white jean skirt?” Camille was asking, snapping me from a moment of absorption. I had been gazing out across Flickertail Lake, watching as a sailboat glided along the horizon, letting the breeze stroke my face. It was late afternoon, and in an hour or so a local band that usually played Friday evenings at Eddie's would set up on the porch; Mom and Ellen were helping Dodge string paper lanterns from four poles sectioning off a rough square of earth in the flattest part of the yard, near the fire pit where the kids usually set up the tents. I had been listening as the three of them joked good-naturedly as they prepared the dance floor, putting up with Gran as she loudly directed operations from her lawn chair.

“Honey, you can have that one,” I told my oldest, turning to smile at her. “I haven't worn that since high school. I don't think it would even fit me anymore.”

Camille smiled back, looking lovely and tan, and very much like her father. Her curls were loose and soft on her shoulders; my girls had all inherited Jackie's enviable mane of hair, thick and cascading and luxurious. Camille's cheeks were pink and her long-lashed, hazel eyes sparkly…I didn't take a genius to guess that she was experiencing a case of the First Loves; to be fair, my opinion of Noah had improved as I'd spent more time with him. He was a little flippant, but I didn't get the sense that he was insincere. My concern was the worshipful gaze with which he watched my daughter, the same one she returned when she looked back at him. Oh, my hypocrisy seemed to know no boundaries this summer; but I didn't want to think about that right now.

“Thanks, Mom,” she returned, and seemed about to breeze away, but then suddenly her gaze grew speculative. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I returned easily, though I was instantly on guard internally.

“I'm just thinking about Dad and how you threw the phone in the lake,” she clarified, and I relaxed incrementally. “Have you talked to him since then?”

“No, I haven't,” I told her. “But you guys have, right? Is he upset with me?”

“No, he doesn't mention it if he is,” Camille told me, leaning on her forearms beside me. She looked down and over at Mom, Ellen and Dodge and giggled. “They look like they're having fun.”

“Are you excited for the dance?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, it'll be fun.”

“Is Noah coming out?”

She flushed a little, and I simultaneously admired her beauty and mentally cringed at the sentiment that such coloring suggested. “Yeah, of course.”

I nudged her shoulder with mine, teasing, “You won't mind if I dance with him, right? He knows how to waltz and everything? You know, that dance from when I was a teenager?”

“Ugh, Mom, you're so annoying,” she grumbled back in mock irritation.

“Thanks, that's my job,” I replied.

“Milla, come and help me get ready!” Tish called then, from the direction of the path to the house.

“See ya,” Camille said, and hurried down the porch steps.

“See ya,” I whispered softly, and looked back towards the sailboat, but it was long gone.

***

The kitchen was
closed for the evening, but Shore Leave was bustling with bodies a few hours later. I had managed a shower in the bathroom at Jilly's, since my own was occupied by three girls fighting for mirror space. I blew out my hair, brushing it into silken softness over my shoulders, which were bare above a strapless, apple-green sundress I'd purchased last spring at Fox's in Chicago. It fit snugly over my waist and then flared into a knee-length skirt perfect for twirling. I hadn't worn much for jewelry this summer (my wedding band was in the cut-glass dish on my dresser back in the townhouse) but dug out a pair of slender gold hoops from my high school collection of earrings, spread mascara over my lashes and gloss on my lips, and studied my reflection with a quaking heart. I was glowing with anticipation at the thought of seeing Blythe (who I hadn't seen since he left for home around four) at the dance. I was simultaneously trembling with terror at the thought of my family observing me with Blythe; maybe I should be wise and pretend to have a headache. But my entire body rebelled at the idea; I would just have to play it cool. No one would suspect a thing, except Jilly, but her precognitive flashes made it impossible to keep anything from her.

She emerged from the bathroom just as I located my sandals. I glanced over at her and then gave her a wolf whistle; she glared at me and then rolled her eyes.

“Hot Mama,” I teased my sister. She was dressed in a sundress with a short skirt and three tiers of ruffles cascading over the front, emphasizing her breasts. The color was a blue so deep it was almost purple, which emphasized the blazing indigo of her eyes. Her hair was a study in indifferent style.

“Thanks, you look good, too,” she said. “Let's go boogie.”

It was a basic potluck; people brought coolers with beer and soda, bowls of pasta salads, hot dogs, burgers, and all the fixings. Two of our picnic tables were lined up near the makeshift dance floor, covered in checkered tablecloths and bulging with food. Dodge and Rich had the grills going, beers were being cracked open, kids were running all over (my own included), and Gran was stationed on the porch, chatting with the band as they set up their drums. No microphones for this occasion, just a guitar for the lead singer, a local woman named Haddie, her husband Pete on bass, and Pete's twin brother Shawn on drums. I'd known all of them in high school; they'd been seniors when I'd been a freshman. Walking up on the familiar scene from a distance, Jillian at my side, with the slanting sun casting a stunning glow that dusted everyone's hair with radiant gold, I felt a burst of contentment in my stomach. It caught me off guard a little, this sensation that things were right in the world, that I was on the correct path; occasionally I'd felt this way over the years and the feeling always seemed to strike suddenly, and melt away almost instantly, allowing me retain only a little of its force. I didn't know how to interpret it at this juncture in my life, when so many unknowns hung in the balance, when I was faced with decisions I'd been so consciously avoiding…

As though manifested by my thoughts, Blythe came striding through the crowd, wearing his customary jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, his hair tied back and a smile on his beautiful lips as he joined Rich and Dodge, wrapping one arm around Rich's shoulders for a moment, affectionately. He hadn't spied me yet, but as though his internal radar was tuned to me (as mine certainly was to him) he looked up and caught sight of my adoring gaze. He tipped his head a little and his grin widened. My heart began throbbing as an answering grin lit up my own face, and Jilly said, “Jo, you gots to turn it down a little, unless you want to tell everyone the big news tonight.”

I pulled myself together, though I couldn't look away until we reached the crowd and about a dozen people claimed my attention: friends from Landon, the girls (Tish was mad at Camille about something), Mom (who needed me to grab a pan of brownies out of the fridge, and did I know where she'd put that box of sparklers she'd dragged out of the shed for the evening?)

“Mom, you look really snazzy,” Tish noted, her gaze moving up and down my dress. “Is that the one we picked out back home?”

“Yes, and thank you,” I said, attempting to sound unruffled. “I haven't worn it yet, so I thought why not?”

“It looks so pretty with your eyes,” Ruthie said, and I felt unduly observed, which was unfair; they were just being admiring.

“Thank you, honey,” I told my youngest, and bent to kiss her forehead.

“Wow, Aunt Jilly, you look great, too,” Tish added.

“You don't need to sound so surprised,” Jillian added drily. “But thanks, Tisha. Where's your big sis?”

“She's hanging out on the dock with Noah,” Tish informed us, then expressively rolled her blue eyes. “She's so annoying now that he's here all the time.”

“I agree,” Ruthann added. “It's all ‘Noah this' and ‘Noah that.'”

“You guys are so harsh,” Jilly teased them.

Behind me Mom said, “Jo, go grab those brownies, will you?”

“I'm going, I'm going,” I told her, skirting the crowd, peeking over at Blythe as I did. He was chatting with Dodge, but his eyes skimmed over to me as I climbed the porch on the far side and he excused himself and nonchalantly followed me, at a distance. I entered the silent café, populated only by dust motes this evening, although the sounds of chatter and laughter from outside were only a little muted. I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen as I heard the outer door open once more, and I smiled, my blood coursing with fire as I knew Blythe was headed my way. Sure enough, he ducked through the same swinging door seconds later, into the kitchen that was empty of all but me, and I moved into his embrace at once.

He caught me close and brought my mouth to his, kissing me with small, teasing pecks before running his tongue lightly along my bottom lip. I shuddered with pleasure and curled my arms tighter around his neck; he was such a good kisser it literally made my knees weak. For a sweet long moment we kissed, growing more and more aroused, until he pulled back just a touch and said, “You look amazing, baby.”

“So do you,” I told him, kissing his jaw, his chin and then his lips again, while his hands slid over my back, caressing, until he cupped my hips and held them flush against him.

“Shit, we have to stop this,” he said, his eyes hooded and dark with desire.

“Later,” I promised, pulling his lips back to mine for another minute, until I was breathless.

“Yes, later,” he said against my neck. “I'll head back out first.”

He did, with reluctance, while I located the brownies with shaking hands. On my own return, I happened to glance over at the dock, and saw Camille sitting with Noah on the bench at the end, their heads tipped close together. For a moment I was overwhelmed with emotion, seeing my daughter with a boy that way; she was seventeen, I realized, and no little girl. But still so young.

As though you should talk,
I admonished myself. Blythe was only six years older than my daughter.

I bit my lip and put that thought determinedly out of my mind; Haddie was picking out the first chords of a John Denver song, and I wanted to dance.

The sun sank
and the western sky was rimmed with rose and violet, saffron and gold. The band played mostly up-tempo numbers, which was good because we could all shake it up or line dance as the music dictated without having to partner up. Blythe was a little shy, snagging a lawn chair near Rich (and most of the other husbands who preferred grabbing a drink and talking about fishing to any dancing) and cracking open a can of beer. I wanted him to dance, but was too self-conscious to go and pull him into the crowd in front of everyone. Instead I had a good time with the womenfolk and the few guys brave enough to join us (Clint was one, the cutie), meeting Blythe's eyes once in a while and telegraphing private messages to him without being obvious. Stars were spangling the sky and the lanterns glowing in jewel tones when Haddie and the band slid into a slow song, and Dodge appeared to ask me for a dance. I was happy to dance with him, even happier that Justin came to claim my sister, the first he'd braved the dance floor this evening. Jilly slipped into his arms with her eyes like blue sparklers. And so it wasn't until much later in the evening (after I'd danced with Rich and Clint, and a couple of rounds with Ruthann, who still liked to try and stand on my feet while we danced) that Blythe dared to approach. I tipped my head and smiled at him, as people coupled up all around us and Haddie crooned a Trisha Yearwood ballad, feeling heat trail all through my belly and limbs as he held out his arms and asked, “May I have this dance?”