Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (20 page)

“Please don't go,” I said again, terror at the thought of never seeing him again coursing through me.

“Joelle,” he begged. “Don't say that if you don't mean it.”

I suddenly realized that he was pulling into the Shore Leave parking lot for the first time since he'd dropped me off last Saturday night. I watched, from fifty paces away, as he parked and asked, “You on the dock?”

“Yes,” I whispered through a throat that felt bruised, but didn't hang up as he made his way across the lot, skirting customers' cars, and then moved with deliberation down the hill from the café to where I stood watching. I felt vulnerable, ill with longing, my heart begging me desperately to run into the arms that would have certainly crushed me close and hard against him.

The sun skimmed along his hair, loose over his shoulders. He was wearing dark jeans and a dark t-shirt, and his shoulders shifted as he walked, so wide and strong it made my breath catch, as always. He studied me as he approached, his face unreadable, and I couldn't help myself, drawn instinctively to him, and walked forward, meeting him just where the dock touched the grass. Beneath my feet, the lake softly lapped the shore.

My heart caught at the sight of his gorgeous face, his eyes so blue and steady on mine, and so full of pain. I pressed both hands hard against my thighs to stop myself from reaching for him, my phone still clutched tight in my right hand.

“I just wanted to say good-bye,” he said, low and soft.

My heart twisted, rebelling against this. With just a few words I could turn this moment into heaven, but I was not that selfish. My lips trembled as I whispered, “I'm glad you came.”

He looked intently into my eyes, as though memorizing every detail, and I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing him again, because surely when he left that's what would happen, so I blurted, “Camille is pregnant.”

His mouth softened a little, and he said, “I heard from Gramps. How is she?”

“All right,” I said, lost in his eyes.

“And you guys are staying here,” he continued. “Gramps is happy about that. And you belong here.”

“You don't have to go,” I told him, my voice shaking overtly now.

His beautiful mouth twisted, as though he was trying not to cry, but his voice was steady as he said, “I can't stay here, Joelle. Call me a coward, but I can't do that.”

At that moment Mom appeared on the porch and called down, tactful as always, “Blythe, you get up here and say good-bye to all of us before you go! We miss you bunches around here already!”

He turned and forced some cheer into his tone, responding, “I will, Joan, and I'll miss you, too.”

We walked together, close but not touching, and my mind was screaming at me, telling me to stop this, to keep him here. I felt dizzy and panicked, slightly detached from reality as I followed him into the bustle of Friday night at the café, where Mom, Ellen and Jilly were working, along with Sue Kratz, who'd filled in on weekends since I'd been in junior high. Clint and Tish were at the bar chatting with Justin, drinking 7ups with cherry juice, and they were the first to hurry over as Mom spread the word that Blythe had stopped out to say good-bye.

My daughter hugged Blythe, quick and intensely, as she did everything. I reminded myself that she had no idea about our relationship. She said, “Crap, I will really miss you,” and Blythe roughed up her hair. It was taking all of his effort to act normal, I could tell.

“I'll miss you too, kiddo,” he said, and then put one arm around Clint's shoulders for a hug. “You too, little buddy.”

Camille was at a table across the room with Ruthann, both of them rolling silverware but looking in our direction. Gran too was seated at that table, a mug of coffee at her elbow, and she waved for Blythe to come over there. He did; no one disobeyed Gran. I remained rooted, even as Tish and Clint followed Blythe, watching as he bent down to talk to Gran, and she kissed his cheek.

Jilly was at my side, and she watched with me as Blythe spoke to the girls and our grandmother. She hooked an arm around my waist for a moment, whispering, “We'll get through this, Jo.”

I didn't think so, and moved my gaze away, out the window, feeling sick. And suddenly I felt my heart plummet. There was Jackson, my husband, striding across the parking lot as though he owned the place. He looked fantastic, of course, even if he no longer had the power to move me in that way. His dark curls were trimmed but still managed to fall slightly over his tanned forehead; his clothing was impeccable; his shoulders wide and his movements exuding confidence. He was in his home territory, the beloved former football star, moving as though through a crowd of adoring fans.

“Oh shit!” Jillian uttered, following my frozen gaze.

Tish, who was also facing the window, happened to notice her dad at the same moment, and her face split into a grin. She poked Ruthann, and they both fled the noisy café, running to meet him. They intercepted him about ten feet from the porch, and for a moment he looked sincerely glad, catching Ruthann into his arms as she shrieked, “Daddy!”

Camille, still rooted to her chair, watched with wary eyes, certainly wondering just how much her father knew. Blythe observed for a moment, and even from across the room I sensed everything about his posture change in an instant. With no hesitation, he made his way back over to me, but I hardly had time to register this before Jackson was suddenly climbing the porch steps and tingling the bell on the door as he entered. He gave the familiar space a quick perusal, locked on me and headed my direction, our younger two daughters in tow.

“Hi, Joelle, you look great. Jillian, hello to you too,” my husband said smoothly, coming to a stop a mere two feet from us, but then his eyes flashed to Blythe, confused as he intuitively sensed both the protectiveness and animosity emanating from this stranger. Jackson hated it when anyone was taller than him; he was used to being the peacock in the room, the one everyone admired.

“Hi, Jackie,” I said, finally finding my voice. I lifted my chin a little, determined that I would handle this for myself, though my insides were churning.

“Mom, Daddy's here!” Ruthann chirped unnecessarily, and I forcibly bit back the rude things I would have loved to say to him. I would not sink low in that fashion in front of my children. Besides, none of that even seemed to matter anymore, in the face of Blythe leaving Landon.

“Yes, honey, I see that,” I told her. “Would you go and tell Camille to come and say hi to Dad?”

“Sure,” she agreed, and scampered away.

“Why are you here, Jackson?” I asked him then, though I knew (thanks to super-classy Lanny), unable now to keep the edge from my tone. Tish began to look a tad bit concerned, shifting from one foot to the other, her gaze lighting between myself, her father and Blythe, standing, ironically, in a triangle.

Jackson again looked at Blythe and ignored my question, instead asking, “Have we met?”

“No,” Blythe said curtly, his voice tightly controlled, but I could hear the tension and slight edge of menace beneath the surface.

Jackson suddenly turned possessive, wrapping one arm in a familiar way around my waist, tipping his head near my ear and saying, “Jo, I need to talk to you privately.”

I tried to move out of Jackie's annoyed grasp, saying, “Give me a minute,” but he was not to be deterred, and insisted, “No, now, Joelle. I didn't drive all the way here to—”

Blythe's hand was like an iron trap closing around Jackson's arm. I felt it behind my back, and Jackson let go immediately, but he swung around and faced Blythe like an angry pitbull. Beside me, Jillian was frantically signaling Justin, who looked momentarily confused before the situation registered.

“Take your hands off of her,” Blythe ordered, low, and I shivered a little at the tone of his voice, simultaneously moved that he was standing up for me, ill-timed as it was (I had nothing to fear from Jackson) and terrified of my husband's response.

Sure enough, he was livid. “Back the hell off,” Jackie said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “This is my wife.”

Justin, thank heavens, was suddenly there, and my shoulders sank with relief as he clasped an arm around Jackie and said, jovially, as though he had no idea there was any tension between us, “Buddy, long time no see! How the hell are you?”

Tish grabbed my arm and yelled in a whisper, “Does Dad know about Camille?”

“I don't know, honey,” I said, and then with my eyes implored Blythe to keep calm. He was on a razor's edge, I could tell by the set of his shoulders and the expression in his eyes, but I did have to talk with Jackson, little as I wanted to at this moment. Justin had succeeded in catching Jackie off guard, at least for the moment, and I redirected my soon-to-be-former husband away from my former lover, taking Jackson outside into the evening light of our hometown, pulling him around the far side of the porch.

The moment the outer door closed, leaving us relatively alone, Jackson wasted no time accosting me, spitting out the words just below a yell, “Who the hell is that guy?”

I was shaking with the stress of everything that was happening, but controlled my voice with effort to snap, “It's none of your business, Jackson, so get back to why—”

But he interrupted swiftly, cutting me off to ask, condescension dripping in every word, “Are you fucking him? Is that it?”

Apparently he did still have the power to rouse me to anger. Heat flashed into my eyes and cheeks, and I drove my pointer finger into his chest, hard. He didn't back off, but instead glared at me with his own eyes sparking. Familiar eyes I had gazed into countless times from across the breakfast table, on vacation at the beach, during sex.

“How dare you!” I yelled back, my voice shaking. “You hypocrite! If anyone deserves to—”

“Don't you have any respect for our girls?!” he raged, interrupting me again, and really boiling now. “It's no wonder that our oldest is knocked up when—”

“How do you—” We couldn't get a word in edgewise over the top of one another. My hands were planted on my hips to keep from strangling him. “Who in the hell told you?”

“Your mother!” he shouted at me. “She thought I deserved to know! When were you planning on telling me? Or were you too guilty because you're fucking some young asswipe—”

Without thinking I hauled off and smacked him across the face. I was no wimp, and all of my frustration and anger drove the thrust of that motion. Neither of us had ever before raised a hand in anger to one another. Jackson, obviously stunned, yelped and caught me by the forearms and then backed me up against the wall, hard. It didn't hurt, exactly, but I was caught off guard and it must have looked pretty bad, because in the next second he was plucked away from me as though he were a rag doll and thrown to the floorboards with a solid punch in the jaw, where Blythe towered over him like a superhero enraged.

“No!” I gasped out as Blythe moved as though to finish him off. Jackson moaned and rolled to one side, and suddenly Jilly, Justin, Mom, Aunt Ellen and my girls were flooding out of Shore Leave. Camille was in a tizzy, sobbing.

Blythe seemed to come to his senses and backed off, but not before issuing a warning to Jackson, “If you ever touch her again you're a dead man.”

“Fuck you,” Jackson told Blythe, lifting himself to one elbow, not seeming to care that our children were right there.

Blythe moved swiftly to me, ignoring Jackson's bait, cupping my upper arms with both hands and stroking gently. He asked, low, “Did he hurt you?”

I wanted to laugh and cry, overcome by near-hysteria at the insanity of the situation. “No, I'm fine,” I told him. “I'm just fine.” I was terrified of what my girls thought of all this more than anything. I moved first to Camille, who was leaning against Ruthie, and gathered them close, rubbing Camille's back.

Tish yanked at my elbow and demanded, her voice aghast, “Did Dad hit you, Mom? Are you okay? Is that why Blythe punched him out?”

“Holy shit, Aunt Joey,” Clint was saying from the other side of Tish, and Jilly had an arm around my waist then, her grip secure and comforting. She leaned in and whispered, “Wow, what a knockout punch, I'm just saying.”

“Patricia, your dad didn't hit me,” I told her, firmly. “We were having a disagreement and Blythe misunderstood.”

Blythe was inadvertently blocking my view of Jackson, and so I didn't see him move until it was too late. Mom suddenly shrieked, and I turned in time to see Jackson launch himself and drive into Blythe from behind, knocking him forward and into me. Blythe spun around and took a solid punch in the chest, but he clamped both arms around Jackie in a sort of ferocious bear hug, amid the gasps and shouts from everyone assembled on the porch. I was stunned, my heart clubbing in fear, and I yelled, “Stop it, both of you!” to no avail.

Grunting, they stumbled down the porch steps, Justin on their tails, where Jackson managed to dislodge himself from Blythe's grasp, swung again, and was taken out for a second time by Blythe's hard right. Jackson crouched forward, going to his knees, and Justin dodged between the two of them and ordered, “Enough!”

“Joelle!” Mom was yelling, as though I could do anything. Customers were piling out of the café now, and the air was lively with excited chatter and speculation.

Blythe was furious, steaming with rage, and I raced down the steps, my blood pulsing with the agony of this situation, in time to observe as Jackson groaned, heaved a little, and then spit out a tooth. On the porch, Ruthann was sobbing along with Camille. Jilly and Aunt Ellen were doing their best to herd everyone else back inside, but this was by the far the most entertaining thing going on this evening in the greater Landon area.