Just Flirt (33 page)

RULE #8:
Life’s full of storms, so when one hits you in the face, keep your hands on the wheel and keep driving.

RULE #9:
Don’t dance with a guy just to make your ex jealous, don’t jump to conclusions, don’t forget to pay your insurance bill, and for God’s sake, always,
always
hold on to the handrail while walking down steps.

With total love and sisterhood,

The Superflirts

29
Dee

After spending a hot yuletide day decorating stockings, overseeing a highly competitive ho-ho horseshoe battle, hauling kids in the packed hay wagon, and announcing that Mrs. Swain won for best-decorated site (thanks to the reindeer she put on top of their motor home), I am more than ready to slip into a most delightful, most decadent poolside nap.

Natalie and her blog, however, have other plans.

So does Roxanne, who wakes me by saying, “No, I would edit the first rule,” before passing the laptop back to Natalie. She adjusts her brand-new swimsuit—the first one she’s worn all summer—and says, “It’s too wordy.”

Natalie picks up my cherry snowball and helps herself to a bite. “But wordy makes it sound more dramatic. I’m going for
drama
.”

Sabrina bends her knees to keep from getting wet when a herd of kids jump into the deep end after diving sticks. “Oh, please, hasn’t there been enough drama for one summer?”

“Amen to that,” I say, as a guest with twinkling Santa lights tied to his golf cart drives past. “And, Natalie, why did you say that about Jake? Honestly. For the rest of the summer, until school starts, I’m going to be absolutely guy-free!”

“Ugh, school, must you mention that word?” Sabrina cringes and drops her sunglasses down her nose. “You three do realize the consequences of us arriving together on the first day, don’t you? Everyone from my old crowd with an A-level rating now hates me. Especially Torrance, over what’s happening to Blaine, boo-hoo-hoo.”

What’s happening to Blaine is the worst thing he ever could imagine—he had to get a job and is now working at the driving range instead of taking lessons. And there’s a
FOR SALE
sign posted in front of Larson’s fancy house, now that his female financial backers have caught wind of his schemes. But I truly believe that Blaine didn’t know about Larson’s cons. And it’s hard not to worry about him, despite everything. Is he going to have the same future as Larson, never knowing what love really means?

Who knows, maybe a job will be the best thing for him.

At least, I like to hope so.

“And come to think of it,” Sabrina adds, “anyone with a C rating or less pretty much hates me, too.”

“What does that leave us?” Natalie asks. “With B cups?”

When a little girl surfaces with more diving sticks than the boys, I grin and stretch my arms out wide. “We’re going to be icons!”

“And don’t forget, Sabrina, we’re Vo-Tech gals now.” Roxanne rubs at an oil stain on her thumb. She’s Jake’s official pit crew now, except for next weekend when she’s going to that NASCAR race with her mother, something Victoria is very excited about, judging from her new Jeff Gordon T-shirt.

Her father isn’t going, but that’s a battle for a different day.

And speaking of Jake. I’m about to ask Sabrina if she’ll give me free haircuts now that she’s signed up for cosmetology courses, but when I notice a certain someone approaching the pool, I take my hair out of its ponytail and tousle it at the roots.

Sabrina laughs and wiggles her big toe at me. “Pardon me, Miss Absolutely Guy-Free, but why are you fluffing your hair? Does it have something to do with him?”

She motions to Jake, who is striding through the gate with the chlorine kit, his biceps flexing. I force myself to turn away. “No, duh, I was getting a ponytail headache.”

“Hmm-mm,” Roxanne teases. “And why are you putting on lip gloss?”

I throw the gloss back into my tote and scowl at them. “My lips are dry, okay? Do you want me to be chapped
and
have a headache?”

Jake kneels by the shallow end, opening the kit and looking up in time to see Natalie, Roxanne, and Sabrina give him exaggerated girlie waves. “Heyyyy, Jake,” they call out.

Honestly!

I put on my sunglasses and lean back again amid all of their amused giggles. But after Jake finishes the test and heads back to the lodge, Sabrina sits up at attention, as though her hotness radar just went on high alert. “Seriously, that guy is so cute!”

My stomach plummets, almost right out of my bikini bottoms. She isn’t talking about Jake, is she? Oh, man, I do not want to go down that road again. But Sabrina isn’t looking at Jake. Instead, she’s watching a guy stepping out of a Ford 350 truck with a Ryland camper behind it. A guy who is wearing a thin white wife-beater.

Beater Boy.

“Sabrina, honey, no. Really, no!”

*   *   *

Mom is standing by the open store window, nervously biting her nails as she watches the entrance where a large inflatable snowman and a row of elves welcome our guests to Christmas in July. She fingers the hem of the cute new dress I helped her pick out and asks, “Dee, are you sure this outfit isn’t too young?”

“You look beautiful, Mom,” I say, pulling her hand away before she kills her manicure and noticing how bare her ring finger looks without her wedding band. Eventually, though, the white stripe of untanned skin will fill in with new memories.

“But it’s been so long! Do men still open doors or do women open their own now?” Mom asks, as a boy wearing green Grinch gloves chases his sister around the packed store. “And why on earth did I make plans on one of our busiest weekends?”

“Relax, Jane, everything is under control,” Madeline says, breezing past us with an armful of returned golf clubs, wearing a hunter green apron that she embroidered with BARTON FAMILY CAMPGROUND in bright yellow. She made one for each of us, and she’s even trying to convince Mom that employees should wear full uniforms.

Yeah, we still have some territorial issues to iron out.

“And as a woman,” Madeline continues, while hanging the clubs in meticulous order, “you certainly should expect a man to open the door for you.”

Okay, live in the 1800s much?
But to my surprise, Madeline adds, “Not because we are weak, but because we are worthy of being treated with dignity and respect.”

Oh. Nice.

Mom jumps when a vehicle pulls into the driveway. “Is that him?”

No. It’s a yellow Trooper. Mona parks and steps out, wearing a bright red skirt that ends at her knee instead of mid-thigh and a pretty golden shirt with green trim. She adjusts her furry Santa hat and garland boa. This outfit is totally different from the conservative getup she wore at the lawyer’s office—and totally better. Totally
Mona
.

Mom opens the door and welcomes her. “Hey, you ready for tonight?”

Mona awkwardly crosses the threshold, as though she is still unsure about taking over DJ Drake’s duties. But when she notices Mom’s outfit and haircut, she whistles. “Hubba, hubba, you look like the cat’s meow! You got a hot date or something?”

“Well,” Mom says, touching her hair, “I do … with Rex Reynolds.”

“My, my, he’s just darling!” Mona lets out a joyous whoop, but then a guilty blush fills her face. She steps to the jewelry display, fingering an earring as she says, “You know, Jane, Rex talked to me … at the Swains’ house. He, uh, asked me to drop the lawsuit. Lord, I’m sorry I didn’t listen, and I’m sorry for what I put you through. He also offered my old job back, if I needed it, so—” Mona turns back to Mom with a smile. “So you just might have found yourself a really nice guy.”

Yeah. Maybe she did.

“As for me, I’m taking a break from dating. You know, to have some special Sabrina time before she goes on vacation with her father. Turns out they have some patching up to do as well,” Mona says, before taking a small pair of scissors from her purse and using it to clip a loose thread on Mom’s sleeve. “Now. Don’t forget your breath mints and mad money, sugar, and for the love of everything holy, please tell me all the juicy details, okay?”

*   *   *

Later, after Rex walks Mom to his car, I watch as he opens the door for her like a true gentleman. It’s so odd and unnatural, watching my mother being driven off by a man other than my father. And yet—it’s so mature at the same time.

And it’s good to hear her laugh.

I walk out onto the porch and lean my head against a column. Nearly every campsite is festooned with lights that sparkle and dance among the trees, and the lodge is picturesque with draping garlands covering the railing and twinkling icicles hanging from the gutter. Footsteps come from the other side of the porch. Jake’s footsteps. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Jake faces the pavilion, where karaoke has started and Natalie, who’s wearing the sparkly pink mouse ears I bought for her upcoming Disney vacation, is butchering a nasty version of “Jingle Bells” with Sabrina, much to Roxanne and Danny’s delight—who, by the way, are sitting close together. Very close. “I have about an hour until it’s time to suit up as Santa. You want to go hang out with them for a while?”

Yes, but there’s something else I want to do first. I want to see the campground—my campground—where I will spend my life, first helping my mother, and later when she turns the business over to me.

“Jake, do you want to go for a walk?”

After all, it is my favorite time of day. And this is my favorite weekend theme, when we get yuletide joys
without
the cold. Together, we stroll past the playground with its squeaking seesaws and sweaty children. A few men are still fishing, and at the Cutsons’ site Lyle and Tanner frown at the dinner their mother served. They ping their peas off their plates when her back is turned, and then shoot me evil little smiles.

I give them a wink.

When Ivy sees Jake and me together, her lips curl up with satisfaction before she goes back to her paperwork. She’s now volunteering her legal services at a Baltimore shelter for abused women, and she decided to stay in Maryland year round. Ivy is also helping us work out the details for a yearly bluegrass festival. They’ve been wildly successful at a Gettysburg campground, bringing in more revenue in one weekend than three whole regular months. And it’s something Chuck Lambert does
not
have.

At the river, we sit at the end of the pier, my toes dipped into the chilly water. Lightning bugs flash in the darkening woods and water slaps against the columns with a hypnotic lull. As smells of barbeque on the grill drift over us, I peek at Jake’s strong profile and then slowly inch my hand along the wooden plank until it brushes against his. Jake takes off his battered cowboy hat. “Pardon me, Dee Barton, but are you
flirting
? I thought you were retired.”

I drop my chin and gaze at him through a thick fringe of lashes. “Well, powers such as mine
would
be a terrible shame to waste, you know, so what’s the harm of reserving them for one person only?”

Jake leans forward, reaching behind me to put his hat on my head. He gives me that cocky half grin of his and then asks me the very same question he did at the beginning of summer. “You
really
don’t expect me to fall for your bullcrap, do ya, Dee?”

“Actually, yes. Yes, I do, Jake.”

He leans forward and softly kisses me.

Gotcha.

Acknowledgments

Many,
many
thanks to the following people who have blessed my life:

To Karen Grove, Eric Luper, Andrea Rice, and Carole Shifman, for bravely reading the earliest versions of my book. How you survived that mess, I’ll never know!

To my wonderful Starry Night Writers: Larissa Graham, Susan Mannix, Lona Queen, Jeri Smith-Ready, Tricia Schwaab, and Lois Szymanski for your laughter and encouragement. A special thanks, also, to Jeri and Susan for your great critiques; to Starry Night Bakery, for the coffee; to Paul Zimmerman, for his legal expertise; and to Al Barnes, for helping me with the world of kart racing.

To my dear friends Pam Smallcomb and James Proimos, for your friendship, your inspiration, and your ability to keep me from jumping off a cliff when I think too much. Thank you!

To my phenomenal agent, Rosemary Stimola, for your continued faith and all your lovely XO, Ro Stimo’s. I’m so grateful to have you in my life! Thanks also to Naomi Milliner, for the matchmaking; to Lisa Graff, for giving me that wonderful glimmer of hope; and to copy editor Karen Ninnis, copy chief Karla Reganold, designer Roberta Pressel, and all the folks at Farrar Straus Giroux for bringing
Just Flirt
to life.

To my amazing editor, Beth Potter—wow—thank you for your belief in my story, and for helping me take it to a whole new level. It’s been a pleasure, and I mean that with total love and sisterhood!

To my father, Alfred Barnes, for being such a fantastic dad; my brother Al Barnes—best kart racer
ever
—and Jenny, Al, and Evan, for being awesome; my stepfather, Al Roberson, for reading another “chick” book, ha ha; and my mother, Betty Barnes—the only person I’ll ever show my rough drafts to—for her unwavering support.