Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (4 page)

Jilly nodded. “Yeah, and Liz married Mark Worden, remember him, Jo?”

“She married Wordo? But he must be two feet taller than she is.” How quickly we fell into gossip. Camille listened avidly, though she hadn't met anyone we were discussing.

“They ended up having triplets!”

“Can you imagine?”

“And Wordo already has two kids with Missy Worthington. But she does have custody.”

“She and I were pregnant at the same time, when I was carrying you,” I told Camille. Missy had gotten an unexpected surprise on prom night too.

Before anyone could respond, Camille, opposite me, lit up like a sparkler; again, I didn't have to turn to know that Blythe was headed in our direction. He was at our table in the next moment, leaning over the only empty chair, curling his big hands around the top. I pretended to be occupied with my silverware rolling, not wanting to notice how Camille was beaming at him, her own hands gripping each other tightly. Jilly said, “Hey, Bly, you outta here for the night?”

He grinned at my sister. I braved a look in his direction and found myself studying the line of his jaw, scruffy now with a day's growth of whiskers. His forearms were tan and sinewy, braced against the chair back, and lightly dusted with dark hair. As much as I wanted to kick myself, I would be lying if I said that a pulse didn't beat low in my stomach at the sight of him.

“I'm headed into town, actually. I thought I might see what's shaking over at Eddie's.” Eddie always had live music on Fridays. Bly's deep voice was so very appealing. For a split second I allowed myself to fantasize that I was seventeen—no, make that eighteen—and that I could accompany this gorgeous man to the bar, where we would drink and dance, and then…

I mentally bashed my forehead on the table in front of me.
Joelle Gordon, you have absolutely lost your mind
, I reprimanded, harshly. Too long had passed since I'd had sex with Jackson. A good year, actually, and obviously not once since the incident at the Christmas party. Much more time had passed since we'd made love like we used to…hot and heavy and fantastic. In all those years I'd scarcely fantasized about other men, so consumed with wife- and motherhood. It must be the dearth, catching up with me at last.

But then, to my amazement, he added, “You two would be more than welcome to come with,” addressing Jilly, but his gaze flickered to include me in the equation. Then he looked apologetically at my daughter. “I'd invite you, too, but…”

Camille smiled winningly. I could tell how thrilled she was to be included, though she played it cool. “I know, not old enough. But thanks.”

“No problem,” he replied, and looked back at us. “What do ya say?”

If Jilly was as profoundly tempted by this request as I was, she did a marvelous job of hiding the fact. She said, “We'll see. Jo, you're probably pretty tired, huh?”

Damn you, Jilly
, I telegraphed her fiercely. But I could tell she was just giving me a delicate out. I almost ground my teeth together before saying what I knew I had to, what propriety demanded. “Maybe some other time. But thanks.”

He appeared unruffled, backing up a step and removing the bandana from his forehead. “I'll hold you to it,” he added, and his lips were full and soft as he met my eyes for a fraction of a second, with the merest suggestion of heat. I was sure I wasn't imagining it, and darted my gaze away like lightning.

“See you guys,” he added before lumbering away; all three of us watched him go, watched him through the window as he bid the older folks good-night. Mom actually slapped him on the butt as he said something to make them laugh, and I was absurdly jealous of her.

Camille said, low, as he disappeared into his truck, “Oh my God, he's cute.”

Jilly and I exchanged a quick look at the reverence in her tone. Shit, I had to damper this right now; my own fantasies were insane enough, but I would absolutely not allow my impressionable young daughter to go down this road with a full-grown man, and an ex-convict, no matter how beautiful he was.

“Milla, goofball, he's got a girlfriend,” Jilly said, keeping her tone intentionally light. She conceded, “I know he's cute, though.”

A girlfriend. Of course he did…and I thanked Jilly for mentioning her. “Camilla-billa,” I added, in keeping with the nicknames, “he's a man. Isn't that sort of, you know, grody?” I borrowed a word she'd once used with laughable regularity.

And, to my utter relief, in the next instant my girl was back. She giggled at the word and said, “Whatever, Mom. Hey, can I still go out on the boat for a while? It's not too dark yet, is it?”

“Of course, just yell and Clinty will paddle them back to shore,” Jillian told her.

Camille bounded up and untied her apron, then hurried out into the growing dusk. I was watching her, marveling again at how lovely she was, so close to being a woman…

Jilly said then, startling me, “I had another dream, Jo.”

Jillian and her dreams. At times during our lives I'd laughed heartily over them, but then she'd have one that was eerily precognitive, and I'd shut the hell up. I felt a slight chill dart up my spine, but kept my tone light as I asked, “Another one?”

“Yes, but this time you were the horse being mounted.” Although her words were absurd, her face was wreathed in somber lines. This settled in as she added, “And Jackie wasn't the centaur.”

My heart pounded very hard again for a moment, but still I tried to tease her, “Jilly, what's with the horse thing?”

“Joelle, you know who it was, I can tell.” My little sister reached and caught my hands in her smaller ones, warm and soft, and she gripped mine tight. “I can't see it all, but it's dangerous, Jo. Please just think about that.”

I looked deep into her indigo-blue eyes, eyes that I knew as well as my own, my children's. I lied, “I don't know what you mean, Jill.”

Mom was coming into the café, Ellen on her heels. Jilly broke the contact of our hands and said, “Yes, you do.”

We piled into the living room at
Jilly and Clint's place an hour later, the girls giggly and sunburned and Clint claiming a bean bag all for himself. Jilly and I made popcorn in her minuscule kitchen, and to my relief she didn't mention her dream again. Mom, Aunt Ellen and Gran had retired for the evening, and the atmosphere in Jilly's place was pure carnival.

“Hey, Mom! ‘Hitchhiker III' is on!” Tish yelled over to us, dodging Ruthann as she tried to steal the television remote. “Can we watch it? Please?”

“No way!” I called back, sticking my head around the edge of the half-wall that separated the two rooms. “That's a horror movie.”

“Awww, come on, Aunt Joey,” wheedled Clint, and I almost gave in; it was nearly impossible to say no to Clinty. His big blue eyes and all.

Jilly came to my rescue, adding firmly, “Clint, no. Ruthann will have nightmares for a week.”

“Nuh-uh!” protested my youngest from the direction of the couch.

“It's okay, ‘Sex and the City' is on!” Tish crowed triumphantly.

“Patricia, I'm taking that remote away,” I warned.

She yelped as Clint lambasted the back of her head with a crocheted throw pillow, saying, “I'm not watching that crap!” Tish attacked and Ruthann dove for the remote. Camille was draped over the back of the couch, doing leg lifts with her head propped on the heel of her left hand.

“Mom, hurry with the popcorn!” she called. And then, “Ruthie, stop on that one!”

I rejoined Jilly, muttering over the sound of popping kernels, “We're just slaves to them,” and she handed me an ice-cold glass with a salty rim.

“Here, drink up.”

“But it's not Saturday,” I protested, taking a deep swig anyway. Saturdays were the traditional margarita night for the Davis women.

“I know, but this is a special occasion,” she clarified. She drew me to the small table with its four mismatched chairs. “Sit, and I'll get the kids their snack.”

She was back moments later, her own drink in hand, and sat across from me, with nothing but a pair of salt and pepper shakers that looked like mallard ducks between us. The television was blaring, the kids were wrestling and scarfing popcorn, and no one but me heard her as she asked, “So what happened?”

We'd talked on the phone since Christmas, of course. But I'd been in a flurry of emotion, alternating between anger, denial, depression, and exhaustion, unable to carry on a lengthy conversation. It had taken me months to find the courage to leave the house with the kids, and even then I'd done so under pretense of visiting my family in Minnesota. Jackie should have been the one to move out, but he'd stayed, albeit in a separate room; I was terrified at the thought of losing him, even when I wanted to claw out his eyes. It had been a terrible and long set of months since Christmas. I sighed, scraping one had through my hair.

“I let him go, I guess,” I said after a moment. I took another deep drink of the sweet frothy drink; tonight I'd just have one, though. I could not give in to abject alcoholism, no matter how tempting. “I knew it was happening. It started about five years ago, best I can tell.”

“Why then?” she asked, concern and sympathy crossing paths over her delicate features.

“Jackie got a new assistant around then,” I answered, catching up the girl duck salt shaker and turning her around and around in my hands as I told the story. “He would come home talking so innocently about her, this girl named Lanny.” Even now I wanted to spit out her name like a bad grape. “He talked about her so much, and I thought he couldn't be possibly be that obvious. I was just being suspicious of nothing. And then I met her.” My voice dropped ominously and Jilly's eyebrows raised.

“Slutty, nasty, grody, right?” she asked, and I smiled just slightly.

“No, of course beautiful, and young. Long eyelashes, long legs. Jackie was obsessed, I could tell. But it took me years to admit it. I knew he was cheating, I knew it, Jill, but I did nothing. I'm a total coward.” I set down the duck and reclaimed my drink. Jilly waited calmly. I continued, feeling tears prickle, “See, the thing is, Jilly Bar, he used to look at me that way. I know he loved me once. We were totally in love.”

“I know you were,” she said softly. “Anyone with eyes could see it.”

“People change, you know? I used to think that if we'd stayed around Landon Jackie would never have strayed. But now I'm not so sure. He doesn't look at me the same anymore.”

“Don't be a martyr, Jo. You're still gorgeous, and desirable, and all of the things that you've always been. Don't give me any crap about it being all your fault.” That was the Gran in her, coming out. My mouth twisted wryly as I considered voicing the thought to Jillian.

“I don't really think that, honestly. But it's not all his fault.”

“Mom is going to hound you about getting back with him, forgiving him. She always liked Jackie.”

“I know,” I groaned. “And Aunt Ellen and Gran are in the exact opposite camp.”

“Of course. Gran thinks good riddance.”

I contemplated my sister's tan face, pixie-like chin and small, pointed nose. Her eyes were the blue of an August afternoon on Flickertail Lake. “What do you think?” I finally asked.

“Like I said last night, Jo, I'm just glad you're home. Fuck Jackie, for now, anyway,” she said. And again her tone grew serious as she tapped her drink on the table with every word for emphasis, “But don't go fucking anyone else until you're sure he's the right guy. No rebound fucking, okay?”

I giggled in spite of myself. I knew she didn't want me to get hurt, didn't want me to make a grand old fool of myself, fantasizing about a much younger man. Crap, I would have to forcibly reign in my attraction to him from this point forward.
Forcibly
, I reminded myself. The kids were piling in then, requesting drinks, and our conversation was shelved for the moment.

Hours later I led my groggy children along the dew-damp shore to the big house and up the steps to the third level loft, where I left them to their own devices for getting into pajamas and then bed. I crept back down the tiny wooden staircase and eased open the door into Gran's room, which I used to share with Jilly. Gran's snores met me from where she was curled on one of the twin beds. I slipped out of my clothes, too exhausted to find my own PJs, and slipped beneath the covers of my old bed.

***

May passed into
June. The days grew longer and the air hotter, and we were all incredibly fortunate for the proximity of the lake, which allowed relief from the increasing humidity. In the garden behind the café, the tomato vines climbed like green monsters up their stakes, and the stargazer lilies and wild roses bloomed in a splendid profusion of oranges and pinks; in the morning air, their sweet scents flowed like a magical current. I woke each day to a chorus of wrens, who'd industriously built a mini-city in the birch tree outside my window. And Shore Leave became ever busier as the fishing season blasted into full swing.

I was happy on the surface. The familiarity of place and presence of family infused my soul like a comforting balm in which I'd not been bathed in years. The girls settled into routine, helping out occasionally during lunch, but mostly having fun with their cousin on the lake, canoeing, fishing, swimming, paddle-boating and clam-digging to their hearts' content. They'd met several of the other local kids as the weeks slipped past, and I was grateful for their distraction. They talked often to their father, but were so busy filling him in on the details of their busy days that they forgot to mention me; I had yet to determine how I felt about that. Jackie didn't ask and I didn't offer, and so I hadn't heard my husband's voice in almost a month. While at the café I was very careful to replace my early and instant attraction to Blythe with a sort of false bravado. I actually just avoided him whenever I could, and when it was necessary to talk I fronted a cheerful, almost deprecating attitude that I quite hated. But it was either that or humiliate myself to a revolting degree.

He was gorgeous as ever, there every day in the kitchen, working beside Rich, joking with everyone, good-natured and calm. If I found my gaze lingering too long on him, I chastised myself and recalled that he had a girlfriend, though he'd never mentioned her. After the first night, he didn't ask if we'd accompany him to town; maybe Rich had talked to him about the appropriateness of that, even though I couldn't imagine Rich doing so. I had yet to drive into town for any bar-hopping (and with two bars in town, it's not as though there was too far to hop), too exhausted at the end of the day to do more than hang out on the dock with Jilly, sipping a beer. It wasn't until a lazy evening in the second week of June that she talked me into accompanying her to Eddie's; I was tired of making excuses and that evening we managed to sneak the golf cart away from the kids and made our way around the lake to town.

The scene at Eddie's was mellow, the usual for a Monday night. Jilly and I were greeted with open arms (literally, as he swept each of us into a bear hug) by Eddie himself, who then proceeded to pour us a draft on the house. I opted for a Leinie's, Jilly a Schell, and we chatted for a bit with Eddie and the ever-present Jim Olson, his best friend and, as we'd concluded long ago, Eddie's Platonic Life Partner.  Jilly had coined the phrase years ago when we decided, in middle school, to be each other's if we never found our true loves.  Both men were married, with grown children, but apparently found the most happiness in one another's company.

“Jo, you look beautiful,” Eddie told me, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned. “And Jillian, you too, darlin' girl. Just like Joanie twenty years ago.” I was glad Mom hadn't heard this offhand compliment, which Eddie would surely have delivered even if she'd been with us, bellied up to the bar.

“Well thanks,” I told him, taking a long sip of the smooth golden beer.  “Mmmm, this hits the spot.”

“Jackie coming up later in the month?” Jim asked from the far side of Jillian, where he leaned against the bar to industriously apply chalk to the end of a pool cue.

“Yeah, yes, he probably will,” I responded, then took another long drink, in hopes he would abandon this line of questioning.

“Well, have fun, ladies,” Jim added, and then made his leisurely way to the table, where his drink sat waiting. Eddie joined him minutes later, leaving us in relative peace.  The radio above the bar was crooning the local country station, out of Bemidji.  An older couple was chatting down the bar.  I sighed, and smoothed one hand over my hair, as though it had slipped out of place; my hair was straight and smooth, no hint of a wave, and it felt vaguely unfamiliar as it hung past my shoulder blades.  For most of my motherhood career, I'd kept it shoulder-length and in a tight ponytail.  It used to shine as blond as Jilly's from the days on the lake, but was now a shade or two darker.

“Jo, it's so nice to have you back home,” Jilly reflected again, nudging me with her shoulder. “It feels like the old days.”

“It does, kinda, doesn't it?” I observed, though in the old days I'd had piles more confidence, a good tan and much perkier breasts.  It sounded so petty and material when I thought of it that way, but, I justified, my self-esteem had taken a huge hit and my pre-baby figure would have added untold amounts to my current outlook.  I sighed for a second time.

“Stop that,” Jilly admonished me, and I caught her eye in the Pabst Blue Ribbon mirror above the bar.  She gave me a look and then I turned to face her, smiling in spite of myself.

“Okay, you're right, no more self-pity,” I said.

“You want to do a couple shots, maybe go dancing? Scare up some trouble?” Jilly teased.

“Yeah, all the people we'd scare up trouble with are probably home with their kids,” I said.

“Or already in bed,” she joked. “It is a Monday after all.”

“It's good to be working again,” I said. “Truly, it gives me something to do so I don't have to think. I don't know how I got through the last five months since Christmas.”

“You're a Davis at heart, remember,” Jilly said. “We get by on our own.”

“I know, I know. I was never very good at getting by on my own though. I'm slowly starting to realize how much I depended on my husband. God, I don't even have any friends in Chicago, at least not any of my own.”

“Why not?” my sister asked, studying me. She swirled the remaining beer in her glass, slowly, as though beginning a hypnosis routine.

“I don't know, motherhood, maybe. It's so easy to blame that. All these years I've been so busy mothering and running around for them—not that I mind—but it's hard to have a life.”

“I mind!” Jilly said, reassuring me. “Clinty is demanding as hell most days, and he's a teenager. Honestly, I can't imagine having more than one child at a time.”

“Even if Chris were still alive?” I asked. I was the only person, other than Gran, who would have dared to ask her such a thing.

She considered for a moment in silence. “Shit, Chris wanted at least six kids. He always hated being an only child. Imagine now how great it would be if Clint had some cousins on the Henriksen side.”

“Chris's mom is still alive, right?”

“Yeah, but she's not in great shape. They had Chris when they were in their late forties.”

“I remember that they were pretty old. I guess not everyone begins bearing children in their teenage years, like our family,” I joked, only sounding a little bitter. It's not as though Jilly or I had conceived without help, after all. 

“Right,” Jilly laughed. “But hey, our kids have turned out all right. The girls seem totally happy to be here. I love hearing them chatting with Ellen and Mom in the mornings. And Tisha is a great help to Rich, you know.”