Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (2 page)

“You okay?” she murmured, and I lifted my head, and sighed.

“Rich's grandson?” I asked a moment later, wishing I had a burning cigarette caught delicately between my fingers just now. Years had passed since my last one, but the moment I got home, on ancient turf, an insistent craving began until I either gave in, guilted the hell out of myself, or fell asleep. “He doesn't have any kids, does he?” Rich had been married twice, but neither of those unions had produced children, that I knew of, anyway. And I'd known Rich for exactly as long as I'd been alive.

“Actually, it's his stepdaughter Christy's son,” Jilly reminded me. “You remember her, don't you?”

“Yeah, I guess, vaguely.” A memory flickered. “Boobs and big hair, like 1978, right?”

“Yeah, that's her. She stayed with him and Pam that summer. Crap, it seems like a million years ago now.” Jilly sighed too. “Anyway, she had a kid, and now he's staying with Rich in his trailer, even though Pam's gone. Mom hired him to help in the kitchen this summer. He's actually here now, having a beer.”

“Dammit,” I murmured, annoyed that a stranger, even a stranger connected to Rich, was infringing on my homecoming. “Is he even old enough to drink?”

“Yeah, he's in his twenties,” Jilly said. “And he was in jail.”

My head darted to the left and I stared at her in shock. All of the mommy-activated alarm bells in my head were shrieking. “What?”

“Seriously, I freaked a little too, but Rich insists that he's a good kid.” In response to the panicked question in my eyes, she added, “He stole a car and some cash in Oklahoma, two years ago.”

I absorbed this not-so-bad-as-I-had-imagined information, yet still felt fidgety and pissed. I could hear the girls chattering with Aunt Ellen, their voices piping and genuinely pleased; just around the corner in the bar, my mother's bar, an ex-con was having a drink, listening.

“Jilly, what was she thinking?” I whispered furtively, peering over my shoulder, and my sister surprised me by laughing her warm, rollicking laugh.

She unselfconsciously ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair and then squeezed my arm before saying, “It's not like you have to whisper, Jo. I don't think he has superhero senses.”

Mom was climbing the steps now, as Rich's taillights winked ruby before he turned right and headed back into town. I accosted her immediately. “Mom, how could you?” I demanded, yelling in a whisper, annoyed now at Jilly too, for laughing at me. She was a mother, but not of daughters, and that does make a difference in outlook, I swear. Clint was tall and strong , the image of his father. He wasn't vulnerable the way my girls were.

Mom stopped and sighed; she'd tossed her dishtowel over one shoulder and reached now into the front pocket of her overhauls for a slim pack of smokes. Her silver-streaked hair was still long, caught up in a tortoiseshell clip on the crown of her head, her ears appearing sunburned in the yellow glow of the porch light. Wordlessly, she passed one to me and then Jilly, and then drew a lighter from her side pocket. She never smoked anymore, unless under stress. I sincerely hoped the stress wasn't caused by the proximity of a former criminal, but instead her eldest daughter's disgraceful and undignified return home, bearing her children and all of her dear worldly possessions, crammed into the trunk of a luxurious Toyota. Mom lit up and passed the small plastic tool to Jilly; I sighed and handed back the cigarette, unable to in front of the kids. I settled for second-hand instead.

“Honestly, Jo, he's a good kid,” Mom said, low, blowing smoke toward the lake. “Do you think Ellen or I would've hired him if we didn't think so?”

“Because of Rich,” I pointed out. “You couldn't say no to him, you know it.”

Mom shook her head, and from the far side Jilly elbowed me. Mom griped, “Rich wouldn't have taken him in, even in honor of Pamela's memory, if he thought Bly was dangerous. Criminy, Joelle.”

“Bly?” I asked, turning to my sister.

“His name is Blythe,” she informed me, blowing smoke from both nostrils. Mom dropped her filter into an empty beer can on the windowsill and went inside without another word. She'd had enough of the day and her daughters questioning her judgment, I supposed. Quietly, and yet full of teasing, Jilly added, “And she's wrong, he is dangerous.”

I gave her a withering look but she only smiled, so Jillian. “The girls are meeting him right now,” she said, heading inside, and I darted after her at that, all of the repressed irritation that had been thrumming under the surface of my skin rushing up and into my throat.

“Girls, this is Rich's grandson,” I heard Aunt Ellen saying. I followed Jilly around the arched wall separating the bar from the rest of the café, my lips set in a hard line. I came around the corner and blinked once, then again, noticing things in slow motion. My oldest daughter's radiant smile. Tish's slightly open mouth. Ruthann's hazel eyes round and glowing. Aunt Ellen and Mom were both grinning up at who I could only assume was the car thief with the ridiculously sentimental name, Gilbert's name from
Anne of Green Gables
.

He was gorgeous. Unbelievably, excruciatingly, insanely so. There was no denying it, no matter how much older than him I must certainly have been, no matter what his sketchy past. I stopped as though having run up against a barbed wire fence and stared inanely before catching myself and darting my gaze elsewhere. My daughters had certainly noticed, and were in various stages of adoration; he glanced momentarily over at me and nodded slightly, acknowledging yet another female presence in his sphere of influence before turning his attention back to my mother. He was grinning at something she was saying, grinning more with one side of his lips than the other. He had full, amazing lips set in a lean face with a strong cleft chin. He was tall, towering over all of us, scruffy dark-blond hair under a blue bandana tied over his head like a hard-core biker's. His eyebrows were darker than his hair, framing amused eyes, the kind of eyes that would be grinning even when he was not, rich navy-blue eyes. Long lashes. Hunky shoulders. Strong hands.

I observed all these things in less than ten seconds. Somehow that was also sufficient time to set my pulse humming before I cursed myself for a nearly-middle-aged fool. Just as I opened my mouth to introduce myself, Aunt Ellen did the honors for me, saying, “Honey, this is Rich's grandson, Blythe Tilson. Bly, dear, meet my niece, Joelle Gordon. She's just in from Chicago.”

“Hi,” he said just for me, warm and deep-voiced, offering a hand. I swallowed and gathered myself, smiling back, wishing I'd checked my reflection even once since leaving the city around dawn yesterday. I shook his hand swiftly, trying again not to stare at him. His hand was warm and hard. Of course.

“Hi,” I added, my voice unnaturally husky, and then managed, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he returned politely, then, “Well, Joan, Ellen, I better head home, let you have some family time,” and a gaggle of girls, including my mother, followed him to the front door. Only Jilly and I remained behind. She grinned knowingly, like an imp of misfortune, while I sank to a barstool and lowered my chin to my right palm. From the other room, Bly called back, “Have a good night, ladies. Good to meet you, Joelle.”

I shook my head slowly, not visible from where he was standing, letting my children offer a chorus of heartfelt good-nights. The screen door clicked shut behind him and we all heard his footsteps reverberate over the deck as he headed for his truck. I hoped the girls weren't pressing their noses to the window screen. Jilly hauled a barstool closer to mine and said, “Told you so.”

We sat for another hour at the
bar, and then moved out to the glider that Dodge had bolted onto the planks at the end of our dock years ago. It, too, was the faded color of cinders, but soft and worn, and wholly familiar. I sipped my fifth beer while Jilly munched a microwave corn dog. The girls had been tucked in long since; they were sharing one of the loft rooms at the top of our house, not fifty yards along the shore from the café. Down by the lake in the predawn hours the air was chilly and damp, thick with the sounds of woodland and shore-dwelling creatures. I drew my knees under the faded afghan I'd dragged from house earlier, after depositing my things in mine and Jilly's old room, listening to the spring peepers and gray tree frogs chanting their ever-lovin' hearts out as they sought mates in the lush beach mud. A thousand and more crickets harmonized; I still stubbornly clung to my childhood belief that crickets sang with their little faces pointed toward the moon, rather than scraping their back legs together. Mosquitoes whined near our ears, but I kept my bare arms and feet wrapped in the wool of the blanket and felt relatively protected. Jilly, bundled in a hooded sweatshirt, sat Indian-fashion beside me, and for a long time we studied the fortune of stars flung out across the three a.m. sky; I was dizzy from both exhaustion and the beer, and would occasionally get caught up in the view, feeling as though I could detach from myself and dart up there and use the stars like stepping stones to a distant place.

“Jo, you're drunk,” Jilly giggled, and I realized I had been speaking that last thought aloud. “You just got here, don't go leaving yet.”

“The boy is gorgeous,” I muttered, and Jilly snorted, her mouth full of corn dog.

“Hell yes he is,” she agreed. “The kind you can see coming a mile and more away.”

I pressed the beer can against my chest and cupped my forehead with the other hand. I heard myself say, “I miss Jackie so bad.”

I sensed Jilly groping for an appropriate response. She settled for resting her cheek against the afghan over my left shoulder. I could smell the fragrance of her lavender-scented shampoo, the coconut oil from her face, the beer and cornmeal on her breath. At last she murmured, “I know. I really do.”

And at that I felt even shittier, because I knew that what she said was true: she did know, and then some. I had only been gone from Landon for five years when Chris died, her Christopher, who Jilly had loved so much and with such abandon that, in my secret heart, guarded intently, I was jealous. I loved Jackie, and believed then that I always would, but Chris and Jilly had something beyond that, something I could sense without directly admitting it to myself. Chris had been her One True Love, and even now, twelve years later, she had never gotten over him, had never seriously dated another man. It was her self-inflicted punishment, her personal torture, and she lived solely now for Clint, their baby, who was only three that terrible winter when Chris had fallen through the ice on his snowmobile and drowned. It didn't matter what had claimed his life that night: beer, the cold, the icy water or his own brazen recklessness, he was gone. And Jilly was left behind, his devastated widow with a toddler. Eventually she'd moved back in with Mom and Aunt Ellen, who'd helped her pick up the few straggling pieces of her heart that hadn't been buried with Chris, helped her raise Clint into a young man. I sighed and gritted my teeth again; what was a cheating husband compared to that? At least Jackie was alive out there.

As always, Jilly followed the trail of my thoughts almost exactly. “Don't,” she whispered. “It's still horrible. And your marriage, your relationship, is dead, even if Jackie isn't.”

“Jilly, don't,” I moaned, hating her a little for always being stronger. I was the older sister, dammit. But she was wiser in so many ways.

“I'm sorry, Jo. I know this sounds selfish in the extreme, but I'm glad you're back. I've missed you so much, and now I have you all to myself again. I ought to thank Jackie for it.”

I laughed then, a little pathetic huff. Finally I admitted, “I knew he was cheating a few years back. I freaking knew it, but I couldn't admit it to myself.”

“Like it's an easy thing to do,” Jilly said. “What happened?”

But suddenly the urge to discuss my cheating spouse drained away, down into a deep well of sadness within my chest. I wanted to blame him explicitly, entirely, but that was wrong, and I knew it; the truth was, the closest thing I'd felt to desire in a long, long time had been earlier tonight, coming unexpectedly upon the sight of my mother's new hired help. Blythe, of the wide shoulders and smoldering eyes, the full lips and scruffy jaw. In the face of my self-doubt I had denied my husband my desire for too long; what had I expected? When we married, when we were in love, long ago, I had abandoned myself to him, had given every square inch of my skin up to his mouth, his tongue, his big strong hands. We'd been wild and had tangled our bodies together making love. Jackie, who'd rubbed his face against my pregnant belly and spoken so tenderly to all three girls through my sensitive flesh, who'd cupped their tiny sleek heads moments after birth, planted bitty kisses on their smushy newborn faces. I would never share moments like that with anyone else; I would be thirty-six in August, too young to consider being without my man, but way too fucking old to start over with someone new, at least in my hurting, judgmental mind. I could hardly bear the thought of it.

Jilly tucked her arm through mine and appropriated my can for a sip. “Jo, just take it a day at a time. That's the only way. We have all summer to talk.” She stretched her slim legs and pointed her bare toes in the starlight; it was a new moon, and the stars rioted in bright joyous rebellion. And then, almost guiltily, “I'm so happy you're here.”

“Thanks, Jilly Bean,” I whispered back. “Me, too.” Even if I were here for all the wrong reasons.

***

We straggled back
to the house at some point; I passed out on the couch in the minuscule living room, the same blue-flowered couch that I had curled my baby hands around to pull myself upright before attempting a step into the wider world. Directly behind the couch the wall was sliced off on a diagonal plane, following the stairs up to a landing where they curved left and led to the bedrooms above. The house itself was silent; I could hear a rippling chorus of birdsong through the front windows, propped open to a fair, breezy May morning.

I squinted, slogging a hand through my tangled hair, enormously grateful to Mom and Aunt Ellen, who never made breakfast in the house kitchen during the summer months but instead trooped over to Shore Leave and got busy there. I imagined I could smell coffee drifting over on the morning air, a welcome thought despite the ache--courtesy of more alcohol than I'd intended to consume--blossoming behind my eyes. With a groan I extracted myself from the couch and climbed the stairs, pausing for a moment on the landing to study the familiar pale-green wallpaper with its faded, trailing ivy vines. The house smelled exactly the same, of some indelible perfume of all the women who'd lived within its walls for decades. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling my past, and then continued to the sad little excuse for a bathroom that hunkered between Mom and Aunt Ellen's rooms. Across the hall was the room I would now be sharing with Gran, unless I decided to scrunch in with Jilly in the apartment above the garage. She and Clint shared that space. It wasn't that I minded sharing a room with Gran, but it was tempting to squeeze in with my sister to catch up on our long talks. For another moment I pictured my master bathroom in our townhouse in Chicago: a gleaming, turquoise-tiled expanse complete with heated towel racks and a tub within which it was deep enough to scuba dive. I bit my lip, hard, and entered the bathroom of my formative years.

The ancient medicine cabinet mirror caught my reflection and threw it back without a hint of sympathy for my feelings. I continued chewing my lower lip as I took in the purple smears beneath my eyes, the snarls in my hair, the shiny, sunburned skin over my nose. Good lord, had I looked this terrible last night? My lips were chapped.
I look like a woman who deserves to be cheated on
, I thought, wallowing in a trench of self-pity. This is what I had come to…contemplating my pitiful reflection in the mirror where I had once primped for evenings out with Jackie. When my skin had been tan and taut and my eyes full of the sparkle of love and excitement. Tears flooded. God, I missed my husband. No, I corrected myself. I missed my boyfriend Jackson, in whose eyes I could see myself as I looked back then, full of confidence and spirit. My husband Jackie was a cheating son of a bitch I'd left behind in Chicago, ideally until he chased me back here to beg and plead forgiveness.

I sobbed then, bending forward at the waist, thankful no one was around to hear. I leaned over the yellowed old sink where I had brushed my teeth a thousand times and where I'd puked when I'd had too much to drink. I sobbed until I almost gagged, and finally sank to my knees, onto the shaggy green bathroom throw rug, where I pressed my forehead to the edge of the sink and breathed, shallow and shaky at first. But as the minutes ticked by golden morning light began to creep across the floor and I regained a shred of composure.
Come on, Joelle. Jesus. Get up and at least wash your hair.
Mom always said clean hair made everything easier to face. I stood in the hot water until it ran out (about five minutes) and then scrubbed my scalp with Prell (which had been the brand of choice in this house since the 1950s), coated my face with Noxema and used the loofa sponge to give my body a thorough once-over.

Fifteen minutes later I clacked out the screen door, my hair squeaky clean and soft on my shoulders, dressed in cut-off jeans and a sleeveless green blouse. Make-up would have added untold amounts to my self-esteem, but the small pink zippered bag containing my cosmetics was nowhere to be found this morning. I was fortunate to locate my toothbrush. Barefoot, I gingerly crossed the road and then made my way over the worn path towards Shore Leave. Dodge must have recently mowed, because the scent of shorn grass was fresh in the air. To my right, the sun was sparkling over the water like shifting gold coins, and I felt a momentary buoyancy, unexpected but certainly not unwelcome. The air felt amazing on my limbs and in my lungs, and I drew a deep breath, smelling the lake.

“Hi, sweetie!” I heard then, and smiled in spite of myself, turning to wave to Dodge out on the end of the boat launching dock. He was a fixture around Shore Leave; a big, scruffy-haired man whose black beard was now heavily salted with silver, whose infectious laughter made his stomach shake and everyone around him grin. I couldn't recall ever having witnessed Dodge in a pissy mood. From a distance he looked almost exactly the same as he had in my youth: hearty and beaming, his aviator sunglasses perched on the crown of his head.

“Morning!” I called back, blowing him a kiss. I'd catch up with him later, and he appeared busy chatting with someone ten feet below, sitting in a boat with an outboard motor.

“Good to have you home, Jo!” he yelled before turning back to whatever conversation I'd interrupted. Seconds later I jogged up the porch steps, then winced slightly at the heavy smell of frying egg that met me at the screen. Barf.

“Aunt Joey!” Clint came barreling toward the entryway, and I smiled at my nephew, meeting him halfway for a bear hug.

“God, Clint, you're huge!” I told him as he crushed me tight. It was such an aunt sort of thing to say, but it was true. He must have grown six inches since last summer. Clint pulled back and grinned at me.

“I'm so glad you guys are here!” he said, and my smile widened. Clint was such a dear boy. He was kind-hearted and sincere; sometimes I couldn't believe that he and Tish were as close as they were. She often ate him alive, but he took it with ease. Clint was tan and lanky, with Jilly's incredible eyes. The rest of him was pure Chris, though; it took my breath away to see how exactly he resembled his father, from the wide, dimpled grin to the tumbled dark hair and square jaw.

Jilly was on his heels, bearing a cup of steaming coffee. She grinned, too, and gave me a quick once-over. “You feeling all right this morning, Mama?”

I decided not to answer that, instead taking the mug and inhaling gratefully.

“Thanks, Jills,” I told her, and followed the two of them into the dining room. Shore Leave was built on the spare; the best tables were all out on the porch, visible through the wide, curtainless windows. Mom claimed that cutting off the lake view was a crime. Inside we had six four-tops, eight stools at the counter, and three deep booths, not counting the row of high tops in the separate bar area; the sky-blue walls were adorned with all manner of what Jilly affectionately called “trinkety crap,” which was an apt description for the fishing nets, fishing poles, lures, tin soda signs, saw blades painted with images of lake shores in summer, and dozens of framed pictures of Shore Leave in all seasons since the 1940s. I especially loved the one of Gran and Great-Aunt Minnie, taken when the two of them were in their twenties, looking like rural beauty queens, Minnie with a cigarette in her teeth and Gran with a stringer of fish. Smiles about two feet wide, happy as clams without any menfolk whatsoever. What did they know that I did not?

In the busy season, we were open Tuesday through Saturday from eleven to eight, Sundays for lunch, but now, early in May, there wasn't much appreciable business until dinner. Locals drove or biked over from Landon to hang out on the water; I had been simultaneously dreading and anticipating this particular crowd. Though I enjoyed seeing my former high school classmates, most of whom still lived within walking distance of downtown Landon, it would be difficult to explain why I was on an extended visit without my husband. I shuddered internally, turning my attention to the kitchen, where I could hear the voices of all three girls vying for Rich's attention. I realized, on a bit of a delay this morning, that it was awfully busy back there, far more than breakfast for the family would warrant.