Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (25 page)
“Apology accepted.”
He stands there awkwardly, pivoting on his toes and glancing around. “Was nice of you to go visit Josh. He seems better.”
My cheeks heat up at the sound of Josh's name. “He is, I think. I saw him this morning.” I avoid Nigel's questioning eyes.
“Cool.” Mikey walks backward. “Well, I gotta go eat with my friends.”
Nigel's smiling at me. “You bring out the joy in him.”
“In Mikey? I don't think so, Nigel. That kid's happy almost anytime I see him.”
“No, dear. I was referring to Josh. He's a different man with you in Otter Bay. I may seem like an old man to you, but I have perfect command of my faculties and there is a definite spark between you and Joshua Adams.”
I giggle and the sound of it makes me want to slap a muzzle on myself. Camille always giggles too, as do teenage girls and old women who eat truffles and watch chick flicks together. But Mom always said I was the serious type, the leader who didn't need frivolity in her life. Always took a bit of pride in that.
Nigel continues. “And it is very good to see. Very good, indeed. Perhaps you are the answer to the demons that young man fights.”
Nigel's words shrink the girlish smile on my face. How can I be Josh's answer when I need one of my own?
Chapter Twenty-four
It's like déjà vu, except today the diner is bustling with hungry tourists and Peg and Holly are jetting through the place with the intensity of adrenalized puppies. Too bad that underneath Peg's energetic exterior lives a pit bull.
Camille's reflective. “Did you know that celebrities often go commando when they walk the red carpet?”
I blink.
“I mean the women. It's so no one can see their panty lines.”
Mel cuts in. “It's because their dresses are sewed on so tight that they can't fit panties or even a thong underneath them.”
Sigh. “Is this pleasant breakfast time conversation?”
Camille continues. “One of the classes at the college is on waxing. I'm intrigued by that.”
I take another bite of my poached egg. “As in brow and lip waxing? That sort of thing?”
Camille flips a chunk of curls over one shoulder. “And the Hollywood, the Brazilian, all kinds.”
I look to Mel, who's wearing a quirky little grin, like she's got a secret. “Think naked in the nether regions . . . or nearly so.”
I gasp. “No! Why would anyone want to . . . to . . . ? Ugh. And what does this have to do with fashion design?”
Camille giggles. “Isn't that cool? We designers need to know the different waxing styles we'll be dealing with when planning our designs. This opens up a whole new world.”
I gulp my juice, trying to wash down the egg that just got stuck in my throat. “Some worlds are better left unknown.”
“What are you girls laughin' about?” Holly stands next to our table, one hand slung into her waist. “Wish I could just forget about workin' and sit right down and have some toast with you.”
My back hits the booth. “Believe me, you don't really want to know.”
Camille slides out of the booth. “Speaking of fashionâ” she brushes something from Holly's shoulderâ“these uniforms are pretty, but have you considered changing to a black dress with white apron?”
Holly scrunches her mouth before replying. “You mean not go with white on white anymore?”
Mel gives me a surreptitious glance and whispers, “More like blah on blah.”
“The contrast would be stunning!” Camille proclaims. “Or you could go with a savory sage or earth tone, something to give your outfits contrast and warmth.”
Holly giggles, reminding me of Camille. “Well now, that's what we needâa little more warmth around this place.” She peeks over her shoulder toward Peg. “She's still bein' ornery and it's gettin' old, if you ask me.”
“Well, maybe I can talk to her. I'll tell her about my fashion design classes. That oughta give me some credibility, don't you think?” A tap on the window makes us all spin around to find a handsome face pressed up against the glass. His dark, thick eyebrows appear Chaplin-esque and he wiggles them at Camille.
She tosses him a quick wave and looks back to Holly. “Don't you worry about a thing. I'll talk to your Aunt Peg when I get back in.” Camille ignores Mel and me when she adds with a low voice, “I've got to go meet someone.”
Mel and I gape at each other.
That was awfully fast.
That was awfully fast.
Holly shrinks away from the table, her shoulders taut. “Gotta go before Auntie comes by and gives me what for.”
We eat in silence, Mel and me. We haven't been alone since before that awful conversation yesterday when I hung up on her at the beach. She's not exactly handing out romance advice to our flirty sister, so it riles me that she has so much to say to me on the subject.
Not that I haven't mulled over what she said. I glance out at the busy room of diners, many ensconced in vibrant conversations. A tot twirls in the aisle as her parents attempt to finish their meal. Jorge laughs with a diner behind the counter, until Peg shoos him back to his post. The whole world, it seems, orbits around us, as we sit here dwelling on our own private thoughts.
“Have you thought about what I said?” Peg's sudden presence pulls me out of my reverie.
“Remind me.” Eliza wouldn't let someone like Peg bully her, so why should I?
Peg blows out an exasperated sigh. “It's really not the best place for you people to live, knowing what you know about that father of yours. People might talk, so I have an offer to make you girls.”
Mel's face hardens.
“And that is?” I ask, but I don't really care all that much.
“I pay your moving expenses. Must be terribly expensive to move all the way across country, so I'm here to help.”
Mel clucks her tongue, an eye roll away from laughing in Peg's face. “What is your problem, lady? You think the Sweets'll run just because of a few gossips? It's hard to believe that you and Holly are related. That girl's a sweetheart, but you”âshe shakes her headâ“you're cut from a different cloth.”
Peg's eyes narrow and she gathers wind in her lungs as if readying herself to let loose on us. Before she can, Camille prances through the door and slides up behind Peg, her old bounce back in her walk.
“Hey there, Peg,” Camille says, her voice earnest. “I just
love
your new hairdo. Are you growing it out?”
love
your new hairdo. Are you growing it out?”
Camille's compliment seems to knock the thrust from Peg's assault, rendering her speechless. Something in her face is unreadableâunlike the curse-filled expression she often darted our way all morning from across the diner. The tension that drove the lines in her face deeper, has let up slightly and I'm more than a little curious. Is this a simple case of catching more flies with honey?
Camille slides in next to me, her focus still on Peg. “And those earrings you're wearing are amazing. You have really good taste!”
Stunned, Peg fingers her right ear. Her eyes don't seem to know where to land. “They were ourâmyâmother's.”
Camille jostles her head side to side, her curls following along playfully. “Well, then, your mother had exquisite taste too.”
Peg runs both hands down the front of her apron, as if trying to right herself. “Th-thank you. More lemonade?”
Mel and I exchange a wide-eyed look. Is this the same woman who moments ago tried to pay us to leave town? The one Mel thinks may try to sue us for our father's supposed theft? The transformation is stunningâuntil she turns to leave and our eyes meet.
Something familiar smolders in them and let's just say, it's anything but the warm fuzzies.
IF YOU HAD SAID a year ago, or even last month that I could be found stepping into church on a Wednesday night, I'd have thought you had suckled the vodka bottle for far too long. Wednesday night. The end of hump day and the day before everything goes downhill. I've always been too busy on that night getting ready for the rest of the week.
Instead of my usual Wednesday night race, though, I make my way to the side aisle of Coastal Christian and take a seat about halfway down. In front would be too conspicuous and, come to think of it, so would being in the back. I settle in, watching churchgoers trickle in, some obviously from work, others from a day at the beach. I, too, worked much of the day, but I just couldn't bring myself to go home yet. Too many unsettled thoughts.
Instead of the quiet sanctuary I was hoping for, pockets of groups form in every corner, some, like the band, set up, while others fall into happy chatter. It's like an old-fashioned town meeting. Unfortunately I'm feeling more and more like the perpetual outsider and I sag into the pew.
To my far left, three men give each other shoulder slaps, reminiscent of the result of a game of pick-up basketball. One looks awfully familiar and after several quick glances, I realize it is Josh's father. He's livelier than when I saw him last week, but then again, we were visiting his son in the hospital. I marvel at how much he looks like an older, more seasoned version of Josh. The same handsome height, broad smile, though his are timeworn and gracious.
A guitar player tunes up on the stage, minor notes slicing through the crowd. Laughter from the far corner becomes more boisterous, causing me to flick a glance back and forth between those setting up for service and the posse of men who appear to have no plans to take their seats anytime soon.
Certainly not the impression I had of church as a child.
A crashing sound hurls from the corner and I stand to my feet. The men are bent over in a circle, calling out Pete's name. Josh's father has fallen from view. I leave my seat to see if I can help. Already several others have rushed to Pete's aid, but I can't help myself. I'm nearly there when Josh leaps in front of me.
His eyes implore me. “Stay here, Tara.”
“Where'd you come from?” I don't wait for his answer, but stretch a look over his shoulder. “Your father. Is he hurt?”
Josh walks forward, causing me to take a step back. “He's . . . he's fine. I'll go check. Just relax and take your seat. I'll handle it.”
“Josh!” A voice from the crowd calls out to him.
He turns to go and I follow until Josh spins around and looms over me. “Stay out of it, Tara.”
I shrink back, hurt, confused. Conflicting emotions skitter across Josh's face, as if mirroring my own. I flash on the day I first saw him, when he leapt the counter at the diner. Does he want to be the hero again? Or did that conk on the head last week cause him a long lasting bad temper?
He takes a step back, then stops. “Tara . . .”
“Go. Your father needs you.” I turn and head back to my seat. By now, the laughter has subsided and several in the group have helped Pete up. He looks disoriented and I'm worried for him, but Josh is on the case and it's not my business. He let me know that all right.
As if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, the worship leader cues the band and the music starts. I try to focus on the words of the song that are projected onto a large screen, but all I can think of is that something about Josh just isn't right.
Chapter Twenty-five
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