Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (3 page)

“What's going on?” I asked my sister, who was behind the white Formica counter refilling her own coffee. Clint reclaimed his chair at table three and began pouring maple syrup over a stack of pancakes around a foot tall. I looked quickly away, my stomach jumping, and snagged a stool near Jilly.

“Rich said there's a party of twenty heading over for lunch today. Some guys he used to know. I guess they're at the campground and heard we serve a damn good fish fry.” Jilly leaned the small of her back against the stainless steel sink near the coffee maker and took a long drink. “Mmmmm.”

I sipped cautiously. From behind the ticket window, Tish's face appeared. She was my early riser, a true morning person, and she grinned brightly at me, visible only from the shoulders up.

“Morning, Mom. Aunt Jilly said we should be nice to you since you're hung over this morning.”

I groaned, giving Jillian the evil eye. She rolled her own back at me, as Tish continued, “Grandma said we could all help out this summer in the café.”

“Starting today, if you like,” Mom called, appearing behind Tish. She was dressed in a flowered blouse, her hair piled into a serviceable bun on her head. Both she and Tish were sporting earrings made from feathers, two pairs for my daughter.

“Where'd you get those?” I asked, twirling a finger near my own earlobe.

“Aunt Ellen makes them,” Tish informed me. “Are you gonna help out today or what, Mom? There's a twenty-top at noon.”

“We're here twelve hours and you're already spouting restaurant lingo,” I observed, deciding not to make an issue about the earrings. I was all about picking my battles these days. “Yeah, that's fine, Mom, I'll help.”

“Better get some shoes first, Aunt Joey,” Clint said, indicating my bare feet with his fork.

“Right, thanks, Clinty,” I told him, curling my toes over the rung of the stool.

“Here comes Gran,” Jilly observed, peering over my shoulder.

I turned in time to see our grandmother come whacking through the screen door, a small, wiry woman in pink pedal pushers, her wispy hair resembling nothing so much as a dandelion gone to seed. She used a cane these days, and wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes, but her voice was as strong as ever, her eyes snapping as she reached with her free arm to give me a hug. I wrapped my own about her and hugged as hard as I dared; she felt so frail in my arms. I clung for a long moment as she rubbed her hand over my back, briskly. Then abruptly she pulled back and said decisively, “Joelle, you look good.”

My heart softened. “Thanks, Gran, you too.”

“Where's that son of a bitch, Jackson?”

I didn't even flinch, I was so used to this attitude. Gran, to be fair, had never been overly fond of Jackie, even back in our dating days. She always claimed he was too charming for his own good, which I'd resented. I leaned and pecked her on the cheek before replying, “He's home in Chicago, Gran. He won't be here this summer.”

“How are the girls taking it?” she asked, lowering her voice a smidge. Her shrewd gaze would harbor no bullshit from me.

“Terrible,” I admitted, following at her side as she moved to join Clint.

He mumbled, “Morning, Gran,” around a mouthful of pancakes.

I went on, low-voiced, “They adore their dad. They can't see his faults.”

“Hmph,” Gran replied to this. But it was true; the girls didn't know about their father's indiscretion, though I knew Camille suspected. She hadn't been willing to swallow the story I'd concocted about the two of us needing a break. But as much as I loved my children, and desired to be honest with them, I couldn't bear to reveal that particular truth.

“Nice t-shirt, Gran,” Jilly observed, steering the conversation onto a new path. Clint wasn't hugely observant, especially with food in front of him, but he certainly didn't need to be inadvertently informed about my husband's lover, either. “Is that one Dodge got for you?”

Gran smirked, sitting up straighter so I could read the words printed across her shirtfront. Gran loved t-shirts with slogans; this particular one was navy blue and announced: EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION. I giggled.

“Speaking of the devil,” Gran said, as the front porch thundered with Dodge's footsteps. I jumped up again and ran to give Dodge a big hug; it was damn good to see him. He caught me up and growled into my neck, then released me for a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, honey,” he said. “It sure is good to see you coming up the lake road for breakfast. Takes me back to the olden days, you know?” His voice still rumbled like thunder in the next county.

“It's good to be here,” I replied. And it was, no matter what the circumstances.

“The boy says hello,” Dodge went on, referring to his son, Justin. “He was heading out on the lake this morning.”

“How is he doing?” I asked, trying to curb my profound curiosity. “I haven't seen Justin in years.”

Dodge opened his mouth but Gran filled in, living up to her shirt: “He's in a bad place, Jo, real bitter. He can't get over his accident.”

To my surprise, Dodge didn't argue. He sighed and accepted the coffee Jilly held out to him. He sipped and then added, “Lou's right, Joelle, much as I hate to admit it.”

Gran pursed her lips in satisfaction and Clint looked on, his own eyes full of questions.

“How bad is it?” I asked, directing the question to Dodge, but again Gran answered, “He is still a handsome devil. He always had such a pretty face, looked just like Marjorie. But the scarring is hard on his vanity. You'll just have to see for yourself, Joelle.”

Ruthann came through the swinging door between the kitchen and dining rooms and scampered over for a hug. She was young for her age, with a sweeter disposition than her sisters; at twelve, neither Camille nor Tish would have been overly willing to hug me in public. I reached out my arm and snuggled her while Dodge ruffled her hair. Tish reappeared and Gran began to badger her about her earrings, and in the ensuing hubbub I forgot all about Justin Miller.

By twelve-thirty, Shore Leave was packed with fishermen. I donned a pale blue Shore Leave apron over my shorts, reprising my role as server along with Jilly and Camille. Tish was helping in the kitchen while Mom and Aunt Ellen took care of seating and bartending, respectively. I fell right back into the ebb and flow of waiting tables, even enjoying myself in the familiar space, bantering with Rich's buddies as they ordered mugs of beer and fried fish sandwiches. Jilly and I took care of the porch crowd, letting Camille take the indoor tables, which weren't as busy; she was still getting used to the whole waitressing gig. I watched her surreptitiously as she worked, marveling anew at how lovely and grown-up she looked, my prim, intelligent, dreamer of an eldest daughter, her dark curls held back in a barrette, her cheeks flushed and her eyes merry. It struck me that at her age I'd been with Jackie for nearly two years; had spent countless hours in the backseat of his car and in his parents' basement drinking cheap wine and listening to Billy Squires and Van Halen; had been making love in every conceivable position known to two teenagers in the early '80s.

Oh Camille
, I thought, my heart pulsing with an ancient ache. I was so very glad she'd yet to have a serious boyfriend; I couldn't bear to imagine my girls doing the things I had done. Done and yes, enjoyed very much. That in itself was one of the most profoundly difficult realities about being a mother: reconciling the old self with the mother-self. The sexless, dull, rule-spouting mother I had most surely become. The worst part was, I'd give my front teeth to go back the old me, at least for a weekend.

“Can I get this without cheese?” a man at my elbow asked, pulling me from my wool-gathering. It was bright and sunny on the porch, with little wind, and Flickertail Lake was gleaming like a polished blue agate under the radiance.

“For sure,” I told him, transferring the pitcher of iced tea to my left hand and collecting his plate. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing doing, honey,” he said, catching up his beer and returning to a story in progress at his table. I headed for the kitchen, using my rear to open the outer door, and eased through the throng of people up to the ticket window.

“Rich!” I called, clacking the fish sandwich onto the high metal counter. “I need a number five, no cheese!”

“Coming right up,” someone said, and I started slightly as Rich's grandson Blythe appeared from around the corner and into my line of sight. He was so tall he had to duck to meet my eyes. My heart began pounding my breastbone like a fist, and I found myself momentarily tongue-tied. How humiliating.

“Thanks,” I finally managed.

“Busy out there,” he observed, taking the plate and turning to the grill while I remained frozen to the spot, unable to tear my gaze away. Holy hell, he was good-looking. Because his back was to me, I studied him longer than prudent, taking in his faded jeans, worn almost smooth over the back pockets. His hair was probably almost as long as mine when undone; currently it was tied low on his nape with a piece of twine. The bandana was still wrapped around his forehead, though he'd shaved since last night. His shoulders were so wide under the sky-blue Shore Leave t-shirt that a yardstick wouldn't be enough to measure them. The pale color of the material allowed for the play of his muscles across his back. I bit the insides of my cheeks, hard.

“Jo, two top at ten!” Mom yelled over the din as she walked a couple out to the porch.

I refocused with effort.
Joelle
, I groaned to myself.
You are pathetic right now. Beyond pathetic.

“Coming!” I called, and turned away abruptly, almost crashing into Camille as she refilled two sodas at the drink stand.

“Hi, Mom,” she said.

“Hi, love,” I replied. “You hanging in there?”

“Yeah, it's fun,” she responded enthusiastically. Her gaze suddenly darted over my right shoulder and instantly her cheeks heated. I didn't have to turn around to know that Blythe was back in the window.

“Number five, Joelle,” his deep voice announced.

I turned, acting indifferent, and said, “Thanks,” for the second time. I didn't mean to meet his eyes--it was a complete accident. Our gazes collided for a moment…how could he look at me so knowingly? I grabbed the new sandwich and turned away, my heart galloping as though we'd been caught making out.

***

By nine that
evening I'd earned over seventy dollars in tips. Jilly, Camille and I sat at table one, rolling silverware for tomorrow, with Camille gloating that she'd also pocketed quite a bit of change. Clint, Tish and Ruthann had all gone out in the paddleboat; Mom and Aunt Ellen were chatting with Rich out on the porch, enjoying after-dinner smokes. Gran was snoozing, Dodge had long since headed home, and Blythe was…I tried to pretend I didn't have the slightest notion that he was back in the kitchen, brushing down the grill and getting a last load of dishes washed.

“What a pretty sunset,” Camille observed, nodding her head at the windows.

“You can say that again,” Jilly agreed, winking at her niece, her hands flying as she rolled napkins around flatware.

I glanced up, drinking in the marvelous view. How many times had I watched the sun sink into Flickertail Lake? Enough to realize that I would never tire of the sight. The lake was satin-smooth, a gleaming cerulean in the last rays. The only disturbance on the water was the paddleboat; we could hear the girls shrieking and Clint laughing as the sound carried over the still water. The sky itself was awash in a rosy tangerine, the air mellow as evening descended.

We rehashed the unexpectedly busy day for a bit before Camille said, quietly, “Mom, Dad called today.”

My heart snagged on something sharp for a moment. I felt Jilly's gaze but met Camille's when I looked away from the window. “Did you get to talk to him?”

Camille shook her head. She'd taken the barrette from her hair, and her beautiful dark curls hung to her shoulder blades. Her white shirt was undone past three buttons, allowing for a tiny glimpse of nude-colored bra beneath. Obviously she didn't realize that it was showing, and I was debating telling her before she said, “No, Ruthie did.”

“Well that's good,” I allowed, my voice unpleasantly brusque. I felt suddenly sweaty and confined, as though my blouse had shrunk.

“Ruthie said he misses us,” Camille went on, undoubtedly unaware of the guilt she was piling on my head.

“I know he does, hon,” I replied, throttling the resentment in my voice down a notch. “He can call anytime he wants, you know that. And you can call him, too.” As per tradition, I'd insisted on an electronics-free summer, and the girls had obeyed without too much complaint. The only exception was our cell phone, which I'd yet to unpack.

“Will Dad come up here this summer?” she asked.

I wasn't prepared for these questions yet; we'd been in Landon for less than forty-eight hours, for heaven's sake. I said, using my special nickname for my oldest, “I don't know, Milla, I really don't.”

Camille sensed she was crossing the border into unknown territory and backed off. I knew she was dying to press the issue, but I'd been unusually reticent with her in the past few months. I hated it as much as she did, but I didn't know what else to do; as much as I wanted to smash my husband's reputation (and skull) to smithereens, I didn't want the girls to know he'd cheated. It was terrible enough having Jilly know. And Mom, Aunt Ellen, Gran…

“Is Dodge married?” Camille wanted to know then. She went on, speculatively, “Because he and Aunt Ellen would make a good couple, don't you think?”

My girl, the matchmaker. Jilly huffed a surprised laugh and said, “I've thought that for years, that's so funny.”

I explained, “No, he's not married anymore. Marjorie was his wife, but they split up back around the time Ruthann was born. They have a few kids…you remember Justin, probably. He used to help out around here some, when Dodge didn't need him at the filling station. Liz is still around Landon. Marjorie moved to North Dakota, right, Jill?”