Butternut Summer (7 page)

“Mom, you know the mechanic who repaired your truck today?” she said, coming over to Caroline. “I went to high school with him.”

“Really?” Caroline said distractedly, washing out her coffee cup. She was thinking about Jack again.

“Uh-huh. His name is Will. Will Hughes. We weren't friends back then. I think he used to . . . you know, get into trouble a lot.”

“Well, no wonder you weren't friends,” Caroline said. “That doesn't sound like someone you'd have had anything in common with.”

“No, but . . .” Daisy lingered there for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Well, I'll see you in the morning.”

“All right, honey,” Caroline said, putting her coffee cup in the dish rack. She was relieved when Daisy went into her bedroom and closed the door. God knows, Caroline adored her, but right now, she needed to be alone. She needed to think. And although she generally did her best thinking at the kitchen table, the bathtub, she decided, was a close runner-up. So she went to her room, undressed, and put on her bathrobe. Then she went into the bathroom and ran lukewarm water into the tub, pouring a generous stream of jasmine bath oil under the faucet. Soon, its soothing fragrance filled the room, and Caroline felt some of the tension ebb out of her body.

She turned the faucet off and started to slip out of her bathrobe, but she stopped and turned instead to look at herself in the mirror above the sink. Caroline wasn't a vain woman, not by any stretch. And, as a general rule, she spent very little time staring into mirrors. But tonight, she studied herself in the mirror carefully, critically, trying objectively to see who it was Jack had seen when she'd first sat down across the table from him that afternoon.

Still no gray in her red-blond hair, she thought with satisfaction, ruffling it with her fingers, though that would probably change soon. And her eyes, she decided, leaning closer, her eyes were still her best feature, still a vivid blue. But her skin, unfortunately, was beginning to show her age. It was still creamy white—she'd always been careful to avoid sitting in the sun—but there were a few wrinkles, she thought, with a frown that only deepened those wrinkles. Well, there was nothing she could do about those.

She turned her head slightly to the side now, and, lifting her chin a fraction of an inch, studied her profile. Was the skin there, under her chin, softening just a little? she wondered. Getting just a little less firm? Would she look like her grandma Pearl one day? Grandma Pearl's droopy under-the-chin skin had always reminded Caroline of a turkey's wattle.

She sighed and let her eyes travel down, to her neck, to her collarbone, and then to her breasts, partially obscured by the pink fabric of her bathrobe. And she was tempted, for a moment, to slide her bathrobe down, over her shoulders, and continue her inspection. But she wasn't brave enough to do it. She was still, after all, Pearl's granddaughter, and Grandma Pearl would never have approved of anyone—let alone a middle-aged woman—examining herself naked in the mirror. Still, Caroline thought her body had held up pretty well over the years. Not that she believed in exercise. She didn't; she hated it with a passion. And she'd be damned if she'd get on a treadmill when she already walked at least five miles a day between tables in her coffee shop. But she hadn't gained any weight, as far as she could tell. There was no scale in the apartment, but there was an ancient pair of ripped blue jeans in her closet that were too comfortable to give away, and they still fit her. So that was something, wasn't it?

But then she came to her senses. “Oh, for God's sake, Caroline, stop being such an idiot,” she mumbled, turning away from the mirror and dropping her bathrobe on the floor.
You look exactly like what you are, which is a forty-two-year-old woman
. A forty-two-year-old woman who doesn't get facials, or Botox, or . . . or whatever other treatments women used today to turn back the clock, or at least slow it down a little. And that was fine, she thought, stepping into the bathtub, and easing herself down into it. She was perfectly attractive as she was, perfectly attractive to the only man who mattered to her, and that was Buster.

Buster!
She sat bolt upright in the bathtub. She'd forgotten to call him back. She looked at her watch; it was too late now. Buster belonged to the “early to bed early to rise” school of thought. It had been something of a sticking point, in fact, in the early days of their relationship, though she'd learned to appreciate the fact that if she didn't have any late nights with Buster, she also didn't have any bleary eyes at Pearl's the next morning. In any case, she decided, lying back down in the bathtub, she'd call him in the morning and bring him up to speed on everything that had happened today. He'd be as surprised as she'd been to discover her ex-husband was back in town. Buster had never met Jack before, of course. He'd only moved up here three years ago, when he'd retired from the military and bought a cabin on Butternut Lake. But he'd heard about Jack from her, heard about him and disapproved of him heartily. But then Buster and Jack were as different as two men could be. Buster would never do anything impulsively, never shirk a responsibility, never count on his looks, or his charm, to get the job done when hard work and discipline would do it just as well.

Still, she thought, easing down a little more into the water, she couldn't pretend Jack wasn't living here now. Butternut was too small for that. And even living out at Wayland's cabin, Jack would be making frequent trips into town. He wouldn't have any choice, if that cabin was as run-down as Caroline remembered it being. Besides, Jack had never been one for seclusion, or quiet reflection—not when there was a bar, or a poker game, within driving distance.

She'd get his cell-phone number from Daisy, she decided, and call him tomorrow. Then they could meet and establish some ground rules. Chances were Jack wouldn't stay long in Butternut anyway. He wasn't much on follow-through, wasn't much on what he'd once told Caroline was the “boring part” of life, the day-to-day in and out that most people not blessed with Jack's good looks had no choice but to be part of—paying bills, running errands, just generally taking care of business. Of course, Jack's business, when Caroline had last known him, had been having a good time. And, as she recalled, he'd been very good at that, though he'd been less good at picking up the pieces that having a good time left behind.

She sat back up and took a sea sponge off the bathtub ledge. She squirted some bath gel onto it and started to wash away the faint scent of bacon grease that always clung to her skin by the end of every workday. And, as she was rinsing herself off, the first real breeze of the day rippled the bathroom window curtain. It felt delightful on her bare skin, and it led her to hope that tomorrow, at least, might be cooler. Then maybe, just maybe, the air-conditioning wouldn't have to work so hard, and it would hang on a little bit longer, until . . . until what? Until she found the money to replace it under her pillow? Or until a customer left her a gargantuan tip, tucked beneath his or her water glass? She sighed. She'd better make that appointment with John Quarterman, the bank's executive vice president, tomorrow, she reminded herself. With all the craziness today, she'd never gotten around to it.

But she pushed the thought of that future meeting out of her mind and lay back down in the bathtub, letting the now cool water lap over her. She'd think about something else, she decided. She'd think about . . . Daisy. But thinking about Daisy, which usually brought her so much pleasure, brought something else with it tonight. She was still hurt that Daisy hadn't told her about Jack coming back into her life, and she was surprised, too, that Daisy didn't seem to share any of her resentment toward him. Then again, she reasoned, if Daisy didn't resent Jack, it was probably because Caroline hadn't
wanted
her to resent him. She'd always been careful, in the years since he'd left, to shield Daisy from any of the bitterness she'd felt toward him. She hadn't done this because she'd thought Jack would ever come back. She hadn't. No, she'd done it because she hadn't wanted to sour Daisy on the institution of marriage. Because despite her own experience with it, and her own reluctance to try it again, Caroline still believed in it, and she hoped Daisy would believe in it too, someday.

Now, though, she wondered if she should have been more honest with Daisy. And not just honest with her about the years before Jack left, but honest with her about the years after Jack left, too. Honest about the loneliness she'd felt then, a loneliness so overwhelming that there were times she was afraid it would simply swallow her whole. Honest about the exhaustion she'd felt; raising a child and running a business by herself, she'd sometimes been so tired that she'd literally fallen asleep on her feet. And maybe she should have been honest about the constant anxiety over providing for their little family, especially when the check that Jack sent every month never seemed to stretch far enough.

But no, she decided, she'd been right not to tell Daisy how difficult those years had been for her. Besides, Daisy wasn't a fool. She knew how hard Caroline had worked. She'd told Caroline, many times, how much she'd appreciated it, too. If she wanted to get to know her father now, well, that was her decision. And if he hurt Daisy, as he probably would, well, then Caroline would just have to strangle him herself. That was all there was to be done about it.

Another breeze blew now, stirring the window curtains again, and feeling, on her skin, like the gentlest caress of summer.
Summer
, she mused. She'd been looking forward to it all year, since last summer, actually. It was always a hectic time at Pearl's—the summer tourism season saw to that—but it was also an uncomplicated time, too. Sure, she worried about whether the “Butternut Burger” special would last through the lunch hour, but beyond that, her biggest worry was how soon she and Daisy could close up Pearl's and head out to Butternut Lake for a late-afternoon swim. Now, suddenly, everything seemed uncertain, unstable—as if the ground had shifted, ever so slightly, beneath her feet. And between the looming deadline with the bank, her ex-husband's return to town, and her daughter's relationship with that ex-husband, Caroline realized that, for the first time in years, she had no idea what to expect of the summer ahead of her.

She exhaled, closed her eyes, and sank a few more inches into the water. And, as she did so, an image of Jack came, unbidden, into her mind. It was an image of him smiling, smiling
that
smile. She hadn't seen that smile today. He'd been too nervous to smile that smile. But the truth was, when Jack smiled,
really
smiled at you, he had a great smile. It was a slow smile, a smile that seemed to say that he had all the time in the world. And you, the woman he was smiling at? You were the only other person in that world with him. She had loved that smile once, and she wondered, now, if he still had it . . .

Caroline sat up abruptly and yanked the plug out of the bathtub. What was she doing, thinking about Jack that way? If she started daydreaming about him again, the way she had when she'd first met him, she'd know it was time to go straight to a mental health professional. Because only a crazy person could go through what she'd gone through with Jack Keegan and still feel any attraction to him at all.

J
ason, seriously, are you going to take the shot or not?” Will asked. They were playing pool at the Moccasin Bar that night, and Jason had already lined up his shot three times.

Jason sighed with mock exasperation and straightened up. “Will, you broke my concentration. Now I'm just going to have to start all over again.”

“Yeah, well, they're not going to let us have this table all night,” Will pointed out, taking a swig from his beer bottle. “And I do mean
all
night, the way you're playing.”

“Patience, Will, patience,” Jason said, setting up the shot again, this time even more carefully than before. Will groaned, but only on principle. He didn't really care how long this game stretched out for, not when playing pool at his favorite bar with his best friend seemed as good a way to spend the night as any other.

“Three ball in the side pocket,” Jason said, finally taking the shot. As Will watched the balls scatter, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Although he knew who it was without turning around, he turned around. “Hi, Christy,” he said, and he saw, immediately, that there was something in his expression, or in his tone of voice, that she didn't like.

“You don't seem that happy to see me,” she observed, her pink lip-glossed lips forming a pout. Oddly enough, Christy's pout was one of the things that had initially attracted him to her. But tonight, for some reason, he found it mildly irritating.

“No, it's not that,” Will said. “It's just, I'm in the middle of a game.” He looked over at Jason, who was setting up another shot. He was used to these interruptions from Christy.

“Are you mad at me?” Christy asked. Her pout had gotten poutier.

“I'm not mad at you.”

“Are you sure? Because I know it's been a while. But, Will, I can't help that.”

“I know you can't help that.”

“Good,” she said, and after a quick look around to see if anyone was watching them, she reached out and gave his T-shirt a tug. “So let's go,” she said. “Now.” He saw then, objectively, how pretty she looked, with her wide blue eyes and her long, shiny blond hair. Saw it, but for some reason, tonight, he didn't feel it.

“I'm going to finish this game,” he said, shifting his pool cue to his other hand.

A frown creased Christy's smooth, suntanned forehead.

“Look, it's not a big deal,” he said.

“This is the first time we've been able to see each other in what, two weeks, and it's ‘not a big deal'?”