One Reckless Summer (19 page)

“It’s the sun,” she said quickly. “I’m overly sensitive to it. Ask Sue Ann.”

“It’s true,” Sue Ann said, finally getting her voice back. “It comes over her very suddenly sometimes, just from as little sun as you’d get, say…walking here from the café, like we just did.”

Jenny became aware that she and Sue Ann were both nodding, so she
stopped
, in an attempt to look natural. As if there was a prayer of that at this point.

“It’s okay,” Amy said, sounding sly. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to. But I’m sure we’ll figure out who it is eventually.”

And Jenny’s stomach churned. She didn’t think it was
possible
they could find out, but she didn’t even like the idea of anyone snooping around the topic. “Amy, my husband just dumped me—what on earth would I want with a guy right now?”

“Um, I think you just answered your own question, Jen,” Tessa said. “Your husband just dumped you. Why
wouldn’t
you want another guy right now?”

“Because I’m
so
not ready to date.”
But I
am
apparently ready to have a lot of sex.
“And because I’m still recovering.”
And sex, it turns out, helps a lot with that.
“And…who in the world could I possibly be seeing in Destiny who you wouldn’t know about?”
Besides the scary guy across the lake who no one knows is here.

Thankfully, that last argument seemed to hold some water with Amy and Tessa. “You
do
know everything that’s going on with everyone,” Tessa pointed out to Amy.

“True,” Amy agreed,
then
looked to Jenny. “So I guess that lets you off the hook—for now. But I still think you’ve got a secret.”

Swell. Just what she needed. It was bad enough to
have
a secret—much worse when people started figuring that out and wanting to know what it was.

Jenny felt good.

Mostly.

Okay, so Amy’s accusations this afternoon had made her nervous. Now she knew a little something about how Mick had felt when
she’d
been prying into
his
secret. But by the time she’d left the store, they’d talked about lots of other things and Jenny was hopeful that Amy had forgotten all about it.

And except for the fact that it was too warm in the house—the A/C was acting up again. As her dad worked on it some more, she sat in the living room, reading—and wondering when Mick would come again.

That was part of why she was feeling so good. Since deciding it was okay to have a wild affair with Mick, she truly felt…all grown-up about it, in control of the situation, and like a woman of her own. Even if Mick
was
technically breaking the law.

And she was starting to enjoy socializing again. Catching up with her old friends had been good for her soul. Even if Amy was too intuitive for her own good.

At home, she’d taken more control, too. She’d followed through on getting a new comforter set on the bed, along with coordinating curtains, and the place felt much cozier to her, much more like her own little summer bedroom. She’d planted some of the last impatiens available at the garden store under a tree in the side yard, and she was thinking of repainting the rocker on the front porch. If she got really ambitious, she might update the living room a little, too. The truth was
,
dismantling the shrine had given the whole house new life in her eyes, a new beginning, something she thought both she
and
the cottage needed.

“
Feelin
’ any cooler in there?” her father yelled from the other room.

She contemplated the question. “Maybe. I think so.” Whereas a few minutes ago she’d been on the verge of sweltering even after changing into thin cotton shorts and a tank, now she only felt slightly too warm.

“Think I got her fixed again,” he said, and when she heard him shut the door to the laundry room, went to meet him in the kitchen. She found him wiping his hands on a rag, yet looking doubtful. “But if this keeps up, I may have to call somebody to look at it who knows what they’re
doin
’. I’m just
tinkerin
’ around and
gettin
’ lucky, but for all I know, we need to put in a whole new unit.”

“Oh Dad, no,” she said instantly. Because she knew that would cost a lot. And her father wasn’t made of money, especially given that he owned two houses without having a particularly good reason, other than not wanting to part with the one he’d shared with her mom. “I’m only here for the summer—I wouldn’t want you to go to all that expense.”

But her dad was shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter how long you’re here for—a house has gotta have
air.
” He reached in the fridge for a can of Sprite, which she’d taken to keeping on hand especially for him, and at the same time, he changed the subject. “Betty asked me to invite you to the Fourth of July picnic at their place.
Comin
’ up in just a few days,
ya
know.”

Oh. Was it July already? Actually, that had totally escaped her. Her life had been filled with fireworks of a different kind lately, and her focus had been on other things than the calendar. “That sounds nice,” she said.

“Most everybody we know goes there now. And I think some of your old girlfriends will be there, too.”

Back when Jenny was a kid, her
parents
had hosted the annual Fourth of July get-together. But after her mom’s death, the tradition had ended, and Betty and Ed hadn’t started having
their
party until after Jenny had left home. “Tell them I’ll be there, and please ask Betty to let me know what I can bring.”

After a swig of his soda, he smiled. “Knew you’d say that, so I already volunteered your lemon bars.”

“Great,” she said. “One batch of lemon bars, coming up.”

That’s when Jenny’s dad meandered into the living room with the words, “Think I need to take a load off for a few minutes before I head home.”

But he
didn’t
take a load off—instead, he stopped dead in his tracks just inside the doorway. “What happened to your mother’s picture?” he asked, clearly aghast. “What happened to
all
her pictures?”

We make our world significant by the courage of our questions and by the depth of our answers.

Carl Sagan

O
h hell. Maybe she’d gone too far putting them
all
away. And she’d worried how her dad would react, but she’d—foolishly, it appeared—hoped he wouldn’t make a big deal of it. She’d already gotten so used to them being gone that she’d sort of forgotten he didn’t know about it yet. Now she realized she needed to handle this gently.

“Dad,” she said, stepping up in front of him to make eye contact, “I took them down. They were making me think too much about her death. So they’re up in the spare bedroom, but I’ll put them all back before I leave.”

She thought she’d explained clearly and succinctly in a way anyone could comprehend, but her dad still looked dumbfounded.

“Dad,” she began again, “please
tell
me you’re not mad at me and that you understand.”

He shook his head, looking a bit helpless for a man who wore a badge. “I’m not mad at you, honey, but…I can’t say I really
understand.
”

Jenny sighed. “Let’s sit down, okay?” she suggested, and led the way by planting herself on the couch. Her father followed suit, and she tried again. “I felt like…this room was stuck in time, like it needed a change. It was no disrespect to Mom, but I…felt her—too much. In fact, I was thinking—this would be a good time for me to paint the walls, since they definitely need it.” She pointed to the darker blue square where the big portrait had hung. “And I thought I might buy some new curtains.”

He looked to one of the room’s windows. “Your mother made those curtains.”

In response, Jenny shut her eyes, tried to regroup. She felt like an uncaring ogre, but it had to be said. “Dad, those curtains are worn—they’re nearly as old as I am. We can pack them away with her other stuff you saved, but I really think some new curtains and paint would pep up the room. I hope you won’t ask me not to do it—I think it’s a good idea, for both of us.”

And she was trying to stay strong—she was committed to it, in fact—but it was difficult with her dad sitting next to her looking brokenhearted all over again, as if her mom had passed away just last week.

“All right,” he finally agreed. But then he peered up at the blank spot on the wall and said, “I just never dreamed I’d walk in this room and not see your mother smiling at me.”

The words nearly took Jenny’s breath away, because she could feel how much he still loved her mom, and it made her so sad that after all this time he really, truly had not moved on. It made her want to weep.

And it didn’t help that her dad was sitting here looking at her like he didn’t know who she was anymore.

And…oh boy. If he thought
this
was out of character, what would he think if he knew about Mick Brody?

But this is all okay,
she told herself.
It’s okay if Amy has her little suspicions.
It’s
okay if I have a secret or two my dad doesn’t know, too. It’s okay because I’m a grown-up and I can have an affair if I want to.
And none of the…well, less-than-great aspects of the situation were going to stop her pleasure.
For the first time in my life, I’m breaking rules, and I’m doing what I want, and nothing’s going to get in my way. And that’s final.

Walter Tolliver wasn’t quite sure what led him to pull into the gravel lot at the Dew Drop Inn the following afternoon. Truth was
,
he almost wanted a beer. Something to numb his feelings. He wasn’t on duty, so he could have one if he wanted. But he didn’t think it was good for a lawman to be seen out drinking, especially when he was driving the squad car, so he decided a Sprite would be smarter.

The lot was empty, and now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure the bar was open at this hour. But the door was open when he pulled on it. Stevie Nicks sang “Landslide” on the jukebox, and the new owner he’d met last time was busy unloading bottles of beer behind the bar in another pair of tight jeans. She looked up when she saw him, and he could tell she was surprised, but she smiled. “Well, if it’s not Officer Tolliver—what can I do for you, Walter?”

He couldn’t decide whether or not he liked it that she was so quick to use his first name. But she was bold, he’d give her that much. And he guessed you
had
to be bold to be a lady bar owner.

“Sorry if you’re not open yet. I was just
lookin
’ for a cool drink.”

“We’re not,” she said, “but take a stool anyway. Sprite? Or something harder this time around?”

“Sprite’s good.”

Something about that made her smile, but when she set a glass of it before him a minute later, she said, “Something troubling you, Walter?”

That surprised him. “Why would you say that?”

She pointed to the spot between his eyebrows. “You’re all pinched up and tight right there. You look like a man with something weighing on him.”

He tilted his head, not sure if he was impressed or annoyed. “You a mind reader or
somethin
’?”

She laughed softly. “No, a bartender.” She went back to unloading beer. “So what’s the trouble?”

He shook his head. It would sound stupid, be hard to explain. Maybe it
was
stupid to be upset over this—he couldn’t figure it out.

“Aw, come on—whatever it is, I bet I’ve heard crazier.”

He let out a sigh,
then
blurted it out without planning. “My daughter’s
stayin
’ at our old house this summer. And when I walked in there yesterday, she’d taken down my photos of her mother—who passed away.”

The bar owner—what was her name? Anita, he thought—rose from her task and ran
herself
a glass of Sprite from the nozzle behind the bar. Finally, she said, “Did she tell you why?”

Walter nodded. “Said they made her think about her mom too much.”

“How old was your daughter when your wife died?”

“Thirteen.”

“Well, no offense, Walter, but that makes good sense to me. A girl losing her mother is a hard thing—I can’t think of much harder. And at
that
age—must have been a nightmare for her. How
old’s
your daughter now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-one,” he said.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Anita
Garey
looked surprised, like maybe she’d expected Jenny to be younger. Maybe she thought it was pathetic that he still missed his wife after so long, the same way Jenny probably did.

The thought made him add, “She was the love of my life.” Only after he’d spoken did it occur to him that it was a damn personal thing to be telling a stranger, a stranger he had nothing in common with. But it was too late now.

In response, Anita set down her glass and touched his hand. It felt odd, moving through him in ways he hadn’t expected, in ways that made him feel…guilty. They were talking about Judy here, after all.

“It sounds like you and your daughter both suffered a lot of heartbreak, Walter. Thing is, people deal with heartbreak in different ways. If your daughter will feel better, stronger, having the pictures down while she’s visiting, what will it hurt?”

He turned the question over in his mind and couldn’t deny it was a good one. What
would
it hurt? Nothing. Nothing at all. He sat quietly for a moment, a little sad, a little embarrassed. “Guess maybe you’re right. She just got divorced, my daughter, so…reckon she needs to feel as strong as she can right now.”

Anita cast a pleasant look and said, “I’m sure she does,” and was about to turn back to her unloading—when Walter impulsively reached out and covered
her
hand with
his
.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know it seems simple, like I
shoulda
figured that out on my own, but…I just couldn’t see it from her point of view.” And touching her, it turned out, felt even better than when
she’d
touched
him.
So maybe he kept his hand there a heartbeat too long. Maybe he noticed too much the way her tank top clung to her breasts. Maybe he should take his hand away now—so he did.

But Anita
Garey
didn’t look the least bit flustered—like
he
surely did by now. She just smiled—all confident, sexy, and tough.

“So,” she said, changing the subject, “anybody got any good fireworks around here on the Fourth?”

And for a brief moment, he considered inviting her to Betty and Ed’s—but he bit his tongue and took another sip of his Sprite instead. “A few different folks set ’em off. And there’s a festival up at
Creekside
Park,” he added, not mentioning that it was usually poorly attended because most people went to Betty and Ed’s and that this might even be the last year for the park event according to Johnny
Fulks
.

Was it
unneighborly
not to invite her? But if he did, would it be like…a date, heaven forbid? And even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t imagine the crowd at Betty and Ed’s making Anita feel welcome. So it was just best he left it at that.

Mick knocked on the back door of Jenny’s house and waited, anxious to see her. He’d been thinking about her all day while he dug. And dug. And dug. He wasn’t totally surprised when she didn’t answer—he’d noticed there weren’t any lights on—but he couldn’t quite bear to leave so easily. The muscles in his arms were tired and sore from all the digging, so rowing across the lake had taken more effort than usual—and to just go home now would be a shitty end to what had already been a long, hot, shitty day.

So he knocked again, loudly. He knew he should feel bad for trying to wake her, but…he just wanted to see her. He wanted to see her smile. He wanted to see her long brown hair all tousled from sleep.

But shit, still no answer.

That’s what you get for coming so late.
Wayne
had been awake, more than usual tonight, and they’d found
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
on TV. Despite the ending, they’d loved the movie as kids—when they’d been roaming the hills,
Wayne
had been Butch, Mick Sundance, and they’d held up imaginary trains using small broken branches for guns. Given what was to become of them later, the memories probably shouldn’t have been good ones, but for Mick they still were. They were…the best of being a bad guy. When it was only pretend, it was pretty damn fun. It was when it had turned real that the fun had ended.

Instead of knocking again, he tried the door handle—and it turned, opened. Damn, people here were still so trusting. He couldn’t quite decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, but he had a mind to yell at her for it. What if he was someone else? What if he was…
Wayne
, at another time in his life, looking to rob somebody? He shook his head, disturbed by the notion.

He knew he probably shouldn’t go inside, but on the other hand, he didn’t think she’d mind. All the bad feelings between them seemed in the past now, and he knew without being told that she waited for his visits.

And as much as he wanted her right now, this wasn’t so much about sex as it was about just…seeing her. Even if she was asleep. Because the mere sight of her always reminded him that there were better, nicer parts of life out there than what he was seeing on his side of the lake these last weeks. Digging a man’s grave was bleak work. Digging your
brother’s
grave was even bleaker.

And so he walked quietly through the house, guided by the moonlight that shone through the windows. He caught sight of that big blank area on the wall, and the lingering scent of fresh paint told him she must have repainted the room, but he couldn’t tell what color. A half-open window across the room meant she was smart enough to let the fumes out of the house, even if some of the air-conditioning went with them.

He’d never been upstairs before, but he found the steps easily enough, and began to slowly climb them. Some creaked beneath his weight, so he tried to move lightly. He didn’t plan to wake her—he just wanted to look at her, just wanted to feel her goodness wash over him a little.

He wasn’t sure when he’d started realizing how much he valued that in her—the stark, pure goodness that emanated from her—but it had quickly become something he depended on. He thought of it like oxygen, like something he ran out of and needed more to energize him.

For Christ’s sake
,
dude
,
when did you become such a goofball?
He rolled his eyes at his own thoughts as he neared the top of the narrow staircase, glad no one but him would ever know he’d gotten so sappy and cheesy lately. He didn’t like being this way. But he told himself that desperate times called for desperate measures, and these were desperate times. Helping his brother die would be the hardest thing he’d ever do. So if it made him a little sappy for a few months, so what?

A narrow hallway that cut through the center of the house led to a small bathroom dead ahead, with doorways at both sides. He checked the one on the right, peeking through, and his chest tingled when he spotted Jenny lying there, looking just as pretty in slumber as she did awake. A ceiling fan turned overhead and the moon shining in the window above the bed cast a square of light across her body. Covers rose to her waist—but her arms were pretty and bare, looking silky smooth. Her lips parted gently, and her hair fanned across the pale pillowcase beneath her head.

God. She took his breath away. He’d thought she was pretty enough awake, but asleep—damn. She looked as innocent as he knew she was. And as sensual as he
also
knew she was. She was that beautiful girl on the dock, a dream girl, a fantasy girl—somehow magnified, multiplied.