Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe (8 page)

Morning sunlight fell across my face and
I snuggled my jaw into the pillow, thinking,
I'll see him today! I'll see him as soon as I get to the café!

Fucking hell
, I thought next, rolling to my back and slapping the pillow over my face. I was thirty-five years old. I was obviously using Blythe as an outlet for both my bottled-up sex drive and my desire for revenge on my husband. There was no way that anything could happen between us. When it came down to it, I didn't even know how old he was. He could be twenty. Good lord. Fifteen years younger than me.

With that sobering notion I showered in ice-cold water as a sort of penitence for my thoughts, Puritan-like, and brushed my hair with vigor. As usual I was rolling out of bed at about ten-thirty, as though I were a teenager with no children of my own. That must end today. And, responsibly, I would sit down with the girls this afternoon and explain some things about their dad. As I walked along the sunny shore towards the café, I considered Justin's advice from last night. Letting Jackson explain was not a bad idea…but it seemed cowardly, as though I couldn't face them with the truth. Then again, Jackie was the one who'd put me in this position. And the bastard was a smooth talker, Justin was right on the money there.

As though my thoughts had conjured him up, I heard a voice call, “Morning, Jo,” and looked over to see Justin waving from the parking lot, where he was just climbing from his truck. I changed direction and strolled over his way, happy to see him despite everything else crowding for attention in my mind.

“I've been thinking about what you said last night,” I told him, catching up as he moved some gear from the cab into the bed. He was in his dirty jeans again, his work shirt, and a Minnesota Wild ball cap.

He slammed the tailgate closed and asked, “About what?”

“About Jackson, and him talking to the girls.” I leaned against the truck bed, bracing my elbows on its shiny silver side. “I feel like he'd mess it up, say the wrong thing. Or spin it to his benefit.”

Justin lifted his hat, swiped at his unruly hair and replaced it, looking as though he were really considering my words. He moved to lean opposite me, bracing his hands instead of his elbows. “Would they believe what he said?”

“Yeah, they worship their dad.” My tone suggested that I might possibly resent that fact, and I hurried on, “But I don't mind that. I'm glad they have a good relationship with him. I just don't want that shattered, you know?”

“Won't they have to know sooner or later?”

“I know,” I said, and didn't have to sigh.

Justin straightened and ordered, “Enough moping, Joelle. It's a beautiful day so let's go get some coffee, huh?”

I glared at him for a moment, stung a little.

“I wasn't moping,” I complained, sounding like Tish in a bad mood.

He angled a grin my way, already heading into the café.

“You are,” he said he said over his shoulder.

I jogged to catch up with him, smacking his arm much as I smacked Clint's last night.

“I don't remember you being so judgmental in high school,” I said, teasing him.

“Observant,” he corrected. “And I wasn't. I've learned a little since then.” He paused politely to let me pass first up the porch steps. Inside it smelled like coffee and sweetbread, the air full of animated chatter despite everyone's late night. Mom, Gran, Dodge, and Aunt Ellen were crowded around table two, while Clint attacked a pile of bacon, eggs, and a football-sized cinnamon roll alone at table three. My girls were lined up at the counter with sticky fingers, working their way through a pan of gooey goodness.

“Bless you, Ellen,” Justin said, bending to kiss her cheek and stealing a roll from another pan at their table.

I made for the coffeepot while the conversation swelled to include Justin, who pulled a chair from Clint's table, swung it around backwards and straddled it. I filled a mug and surveyed my girls, who were giggling about something. Tish was wearing the double set of feather earrings again, all four of which twirled merrily as she spoke. Camille had her long hair caught up in a twist, a pen stuck behind her ear. Ruthann was adorned in two braids, making her look more like my baby than ever; she was wearing earrings too, I suddenly realized with a start, but then recognized the pair as one from Gran's clip-on jewelry collection, which Jilly and I had played with as kids.

“Morning, Mom,” Tish said with a sarcastic edge. I knew she was mad at me for smoking, which I deserved. I took a sip, winced and reached for the sugar bowl, spilling some on the counter as I added a spoonful to my mug.

“Morning,” I responded. “You guys sleep all right?”

“Yes, and Mom, Dad called this morning,” Camille informed me, lining her forearms beneath her breasts on the counter and regarding me with somber hazel eyes. Her lashes were extra thick with mascara; I reminded myself that she was seventeen and entitled to wear make-up. “He asked me to have you call him.”

My heart sped up and I sipped again to avoid responding. Shit, why did Jackson want me to call? Ruthann studied me too, and then asked, “When is Daddy coming up here, too?”

“Mom doesn't know,” Tish said then, surprising me. I regarded her warily for a moment.

“Tish is right, honey, I don't know,” I told Ruthann at last. All three of my girls were looking up at me from their stools, three pairs of eyes wide and curious, looking suddenly much younger than their years. My heart panged with uncertainty. I finally said softly, “Hey, I promise we'll talk tonight, okay?”

Tish pursed her lips as though to disagree, but Camille spoke up, cutting her off. “That's fine, Mom, sounds good.”

Aunt Ellen approached us and said, “Morning, Joey!” She nodded at the spilled sugar and addressed the girls, asking, “Which one of you is falling in love?”

“Huh?” asked Tish, as though Aunt Ellen were nuts.

“The sugar,” she replied. “Whoever spilled it is next to fall in love.”

The girls were nearly identical in their perplexity. Finally Ruthann piped up, “It was Mom, Auntie Ellen, who spilled the sugar. But she's already in love,” my youngest continued, “with Daddy.”

Her innocent words were a blow in the chest. I forced a laugh and said, “That's right, Ruthie, now where's my apron?” and with that pathetically transparent non-sequitur began my day.

***

“You want to
head over to the street dance again tonight?” Jilly asked as we refilled the salt shakers after the lunch crowd had come and gone.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said distractedly, messing with a stubborn metal lid on the salt at table three. “Jackie wants me to call him. I haven't actually spoken to him since before we left. I'm such a coward,” I concluded, finally settling the cap in place.

“Oh, whatever, Jo,” Jillian responded.

“No, I'm afraid what he wants is a divorce,” I admitted, keeping my eyes on my task. A divorce, and what that would mean for our family, our home, everything, was more than I could bear to think about, let alone discuss. For once Jilly didn't make a smart aleck comment, but instead squeezed my hand.

After a moment during which we worked in companionable silence, she murmured, “Well, I hope if you do get divorced, you'll stay around here.”

Late afternoon, I tried his cell and office phones with no luck, and was not receptive to the idea of leaving a message, despite his warm, familiar voice suggesting I do so after the beep. Our townhouse was the final number, and I let it ring and ring; when at last the machine picked up I heard Camille voice's, with a painfully cheerful lilt, “You've reached the Gordons, and we'd like to know you called, so leave your information.”

I squeezed my eyes closed and squeezed the cell phone even harder, my hand slick over its length. God, we'd been happy, we had, once upon a time. Back when Tish and Camille seemed to be tethered to me by an invisible cord, had followed me everywhere, their dark curls restrained in pigtails, plying me with a million questions an hour. In those days I'd carried Ruthann in a baby sling and Jackie would come home to find us elbow-deep in pasta or bread dough, cooking something fun for supper. It hurt so much to think that my girls would never be five years old again, or ten. My baby would be a teenager on her next birthday, my oldest an adult.

“Jackie, it's me,” I said, keeping my voice light with extreme effort. “Call when you get a chance.”

At that moment I heard my two oldest come banging out the screen door of the café. Their sweet voices preceded them onto the dock, and I turned to watch them head my way, both dressed in jean shorts and tank tops—Camille's a spaghetti-strapped powder-blue affair, and Tish's day-glo pink, complete with matching lace straps. I wondered if she'd grabbed that from Jilly's closet; it looked vaguely familiar, and circa 1984. They were obviously coming to have the talk I'd promised at breakfast, and I craned my neck looking for Ruthann to come running behind them. I'd envisioned us sitting on the bed in my room late tonight, in our pajamas, with a single lamp lighting the space. But I couldn't put them off yet again.

“Hi, guys, where's your sister?” I asked as their footfalls trembled along the dock. Instead of joining me, they paused a few feet away and made no moves to sit down.

“Inside,” Tish said briefly.

“Can we head over to town?” Camille asked next. She let her gaze dance across the water in the direction of Landon.

“I think we should talk,” I responded, and observed two nearly identical expressions of dismay move over their faces.

“Mom, we'll talk when we get home,” Camille said. “Is that all right? We want to go to the street dance. Clint is driving over.”

Across the lake I could hear the laughter and commotion, music and the snap of an occasional firecracker. I felt the weight of desolation descend against my breastbone as I contemplated their lovely, eager faces, ready to head into Landon for an evening of fun, while I sat here and tried not to think about how I was waiting by the phone for their father to call me back.

“That's fine, girls, have fun,” I gave in without a fight. “Is Ruthie coming with you guys?”
You coward
, I berated myself again. At least this way I could wait to hear what Jackson had to say before I decided what to tell the girls.

Tish shifted impatiently, standing on the outside edges of her feet, curling them against the boards of the dock, before saying, “She's staying here with Grandma.”

“Be careful, please,” I told them, reaching my hands out. They knew what I wanted and leaned to let me clasp their faces for quick kisses, Tish rolling her eyes at me as she allowed the affection. Camille kissed me back and I felt tears threaten again; she looked so grown-up. What I really needed was a good long cry. Not because I felt sorry for myself, not that. Of course not.

I watched them hurry away across the parking lot to the golf cart; Clint kept inching forward so that Tish couldn't quite manage to climb in. I sighed a little, brushing my hair back with both hands as they finally peeled away, their laughter cascading back to where I sat. At least this way we could have our heart-to-hearts when they were home, in my room as I'd originally pictured.

“Joey, you getting hungry?” Mom leaned over the porch rail to call down to me, and I nodded in response, bracing my hands on my thighs to stand.

Aunt Ellen, Mom and Gran were crowded at one of the outside tables, watching the sunset color the sky a liquid rose. Aunt Ellen had burgers going on the little charcoal grill we kept on the porch; Jilly emerged from inside with four beer bottles hooked between her fingers. She saw me and called over her shoulder, “Ruthann, grab your mom a beer, will you, honey?”

Ruthie appeared moments later, a Shore Leave apron tied around her waist, hair still in braids. I kissed her freckled cheek as she brought me a beer. “Thanks, miss,” I told her.

“Welcome,” she responded, before jogging down the porch steps to throw a tennis ball for the dogs. I plunked onto the chair near Gran and sort of wilted, relieved that it was just us girls for the evening.

“Jillian told us about the divorce,” Gran said without preamble, taking a long swallow of her beer.

I shot my sister an evil look; she gave me the ‘what do you expect? It's Gran' eyes I knew so well.

“We aren't getting divorced yet,” I said, and took my own long drink. The beer was icy cold and flavored with honey, and just what I needed at the moment to settle the tension in the back of my neck.

From the left Mom reached to pat my knee and said, “Oh, Jo, I'm glad.”

Ellen's back was to us, but she contradicted, “Joan, how is the girl supposed to trust Jackson ever again?”

Gran asked me the same question with a pointed expression. Ellen looked over her shoulder, and her hazel eyes brimmed with empathy. She said, “Jo, I just don't feel like Jackson deserves you. Not anymore.”

“Not ever,” Gran added. She raised a small, wrinkled hand to stem the flow of words that my expression surely hinted was coming. “Joelle, he was the best looking boy in Landon, I admit it. Those eyes, and his easy way of talking. I know you loved the boy. But re-examine the man, honey. You are better off without him. You know it.”

My gaze moved away from the truth in hers, flitted over to where my youngest child was laughing in the slanting evening sunlight, vigorously rubbing the heads of Mom's golden labs before engaging Chief in a tug of war with the ball in his mouth. She was twenty yards away, safely distant from our conversation. The sun glinted over her shining dark hair that was just like Jackie's. I felt for a moment that I might pitch forward into a faint; my vision wavered, my head spun. But a minute passed and I didn't. Instead I looked back to the table of women who loved me, who would do anything for me, as I would for them. They were all watching expectantly, three pairs of golden-hazel eyes and one pair of indigo blue. Mom's lips were a little trembly; Jilly's pixie chin was tipped down in determination, her lips pressed tightly together.