Bittersweet Homecoming (14 page)

I follow my nose toward the distinctive scent of bacon. I find Charlotte cooking breakfast in the narrow galley kitchen. On the other side of the Formica countertop is a dining room table where Amelia sits with a fistful of crayons and a piece of paper. She’s humming, carefree.

I’ve had my share of one-night stands over the years, but not enough to become an expert in morning-after protocol. Breakfast is very rare, let alone breakfast with my partner’s six year old.

Charlotte is torturing me with her white tank top and sweatpants rolled at the ankles. Her upturned breasts and nipples are just visible through the near-sheer material and she’s wearing the hell out of those dark grey sweatpants. The black-framed glasses are a surprise, but incredibly hot. If her daughter weren’t in the room, chattering about a friend who’s allergic to oranges, I’d have Charlotte pinned against the kitchen counter, tonguing her sensitive nipples through the material of her tank top.

Through my lust-filled haze, I’m vaguely aware that someone is talking, and I think they’re speaking to me: “Sorry, what?”

Charlotte twirls a spatula in one hand. “Amelia asked you a question.”

“Oh, sorry, Amelia,” I apologize, shaking my head hard. “What’s up?”

Amelia’s hair is curlier than usual, and when she smiles at me I notice for the first time the gap between her two front teeth. Her wide, blinking eyes are the same color as her mother’s. She’s about the same age as I was when my mother left. It’s a sobering thought.

“Do you have any food allergies?” she asks.

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Good. Mom can make you a peanut butter sandwich when we go to the beach today.”

Charlotte stumbles over her words before I can respond. “Sweetie, Abby can’t stay. She has to work.”

“On a Sunday?” Amelia questions, looking visibly displeased.

“I could, um, meet you guys at the beach after I get done?” I propose.

“You don’t have to do that,” Charlotte quickly dismisses. “It’s okay.”

“What if I want to?”

“Yeah?” There’s a ghost of a smile at her lips.

I look between mother and child. “Yeah.”

“There’s orange juice in the fridge,” Charlotte says. “Help yourself.”

I open a few upper cabinets before I find the glasses. “Amelia, would you like some juice?”

She doesn’t look up from her drawing. “Yes, please.” Her legs swing under the table. “But none for Reggie. He’s allergic.”

“Who’s Reggie?” I ask. I look to the floor, half expecting to see a dog waiting for food scraps.

Charlotte divides fluffy scrambled eggs onto three plates, the smallest plate and portion for Amelia. Bacon gets transported from the frying pan to a plate lined with paper towel to soak up the grease. “Reggie’s a friend of the invisible variety.”

“Ohhh,” I nod in understanding.

“Crayons away, Picasso. Breakfast time.” Charlotte’s voice is warm but direct. I can tell she’s a good mom; she carries herself with a quiet confidence that I find extremely sexy. “Have a seat, Abby.”

I reach for one of the empty chairs, but Amelia makes a noise. “That’s Mommy’s seat,” she informs me.

“Oh.” I touch my fingers to the top of a different chair. “How about this one?”

“That can be yours,” she allows. Charlotte catches my eye and raises an amused eyebrow. I wipe my hand across my forehead and pantomime an overly relieved motion.

Charlotte sets a plate in front of Amelia and then one in front of me before returning to the counter to get the third plate for herself. Amelia doles out a portion of her scrambled eggs to the empty place setting beside her.

“Amelia Bedelia!” Charlotte sharply scolds when she turns back to the table and sees what her daughter has done. “What have I told you about that?”

“But, Mom! Reggie’s hungry!”

“I have to agree,” I chime in. “Reggie shouldn’t miss out. These might be the best damn eggs I’ve ever had.” I glance in Amelia’s direction when the curse word inadvertently slips out. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Charlotte allows with a small smile. “She’s heard worse.”

“But seriously, this is really good.” I motion at my plate with my fork. “Do you ever cook at the bar?”

“Only when we’re shorthanded.” Charlotte sets her plate at the table and finally sits down. “I do better behind the bar than in the kitchen.”

If there wasn’t a six year old with wide eyes and open ears at the table, I would have made a remark about her skill in the bedroom, but I keep those remarks to myself.

It’s strangely comfortable having breakfast with Charlotte and her daughter. It’s clear they have a close rapport and that breakfast on a Sunday morning is part of their routine, but I feel like I’m a part of that, too, not an intruder. Amelia tells me all about Reggie and how excited she is for school in the fall. I sneak periodic glances at her mother as Amelia talks without taking a breath. The indulgent smile on Charlotte’s face makes my stomach flutter. Even the way she holds a coffee cup is sexy—long, thin fingers curled around the ceramic mug.

After breakfast, Charlotte disappears to fix Amelia’s untamable hair. In their absence, I fill the kitchen sink with hot, sudsy water. I’m not much of a cook, but I’m awfully skilled at washing dishes. Growing up, my sister and I had been responsible for all dirty dishes—I washed and rinsed and she dried and put them away. We used to bug our dad about buying a proper dishwasher but he’d seen no point, knowing he had our free labor readily available. The hardware store had been like that as well, child-labor laws be damned. But while I’d been more satisfied to sit with my head in a book and blindly hand my father the tools he needed at a job, Emily had been a far more apt student.

“You don’t have to do that,” Charlotte censures when she walks back into the kitchen.

“I don’t mind,” I insist. “I like earning my keep.”

“At least let me rinse.”

“Nope,” I refuse. “You cooked, so I have clean up duty. That’s the rules in the Henry family.”

She comes to stand next to me. I don’t look in her direction—my focus is on not breaking the juice glasses I’m cleaning—but I can feel her beside me. The sound of ceramic plates clunking around in soapy dishwater punctuates the silence.

Her hands join mine in the kitchen sink, submerged in the water. Beneath the sudsy water, she covers her hands over mine, causing me to momentarily pause in my task. She speaks in a low, quiet tone. “You really don’t have to come to the beach later. Amelia will be disappointed, but she’ll get over it.”

I pull away, frowning. “Do you not want me to come?”

“It’s a free country,” she shrugs. “You can do what you want. I don’t own the beach.”

“No. The Harvesters probably do,” I joke without humor. “But you know what I mean.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m expecting anything after last night.”

I twist away from the sink to face her. I don’t know what to say or how to react to her words. Instead, I touch a finger to the side of the frames of her glasses. “These are cute.”

“I normally wear contacts.”

“I like them. But they hide those gorgeous eyes.”

My hands are wet from the dishwater, but I carefully remove her glasses. When I’ve taken them off, she stares at me, blinking and unfocused.

“That’s not fair,” she complains. “Now I can’t see you at all.”

“Do you need to see me to do this?” I swoop my head low and press a quick, fleeting kiss to her pouting mouth.

She licks her lips. “I guess not.”

Her fingers take residency in the front of my tank top as they’d done the previous night. She leans her weight into me and her braless breasts press into own chest. I’m pinned between her body and the kitchen sink. The countertop is wet and my shorts soak up the mess, but I don’t mind at all.

“Mommy!” The sound of tiny feet pounding down the hallway registers in some part of my brain while the rest of my person is distracted by the color of Charlotte’s eyes. “I can’t find my swim suit!”

Charlotte jerks away like my body is covered in barbs. “Did you check the laundry room?” Her voice is high and tight. “There should be one hanging up in there.”

Amelia smiles brightly and races back down the hallway. Despite her small body, her feet beat loudly on the floor.

Charlotte releases a long breath.

“You okay?” I try not to feel too offended by her reaction.

“Yeah.” She rakes a shaky hand through her long blonde hair. “Sorry about that. I’m just not sure I’m ready to have that conversation with her yet.”

“The gay one?” I guess.

“No. The Abigail Henry one.”

+ + +

The days are starting to melt together, which makes me feel like I’m on vacation, but I know it’s the weekend when I see my dad sitting at the kitchen island with a thick stack of newspapers in front of him. Sundays at the Henry household were all about football and fighting over who got to read the comic strip first.

“Morning,” I greet.

My dad looks up from the sports section. His eyes scan my outfit—the clothes I wore yesterday. “Did you come home last night? Not that I’m keeping tabs on you,” he clarifies.

“No, uh,” I stand awkwardly in the archway. “I stayed at a friend’s house. I didn’t want to drive all the way out here after I’d been drinking at Roundtree’s.”

“Good thinking,” he hums. “I’m glad you’re being safe.”

I’d nursed two beers all night—not nearly enough to justify following Charlotte home and falling into bed with her.

It’s only when I step into the spray of a hot shower in the upstairs bathroom that I take full measure of what happened the previous night. There are small bruises on my collarbone that I didn’t notice before and a distinct soreness between my legs.

I cheated on my girlfriend with Charlotte.

After my shower I try contacting Kambria again. I don’t prepare anything to say because by now, I know she’s not going to answer her phone. Like the previous night, my call is forwarded straight to her voicemail. I turn my phone over and over in my hands after hanging up. If I hadn’t spoken to Claire and Anthony I would have thought there was something wrong with my phone or cell service in Grand Marais. I can only begin to imagine why I haven’t heard from Kambria in over a week.

I told Charlotte I would try to write today, and feeling obligated to honor my word to at least one person, I sit at the desk in my old bedroom where I used to do my homework. The corners of the desk are rounded and worn and there are deep grooves on the writing surface from years of use. I open up my notebook to a clean page. I shake out my hands at my sides. And I write.

ACT 1

Scene 1

SETTING:                                          A grove of willow trees. It’s                                                                       dusk and the sun has set.

AT RISE:                                          A young girl hides behind the                                                                       long, draping branches of a                                                                                     willow tree. Other children play                                                                       beyond its protective shelter.                                                                       They run around and shout and                                                                       laugh, unaware of the young girl                                                                       just out of their view. A                                                                                                   firefly sits in the wings,                                                                                     watching the scene play out.

A few hours later, I spy Charlotte’s green Jeep parked on the side of the county highway. Below the elevated road is the pebbled shoreline. The day is hot—about as hot as summer ever gets this far north—and the smooth rocks burn the bottoms of my bare feet as I make my way down to the lake where Charlotte waits on an oversized beach blanket.

Amelia wades in the water up to her knees, squealing every time a whitecap crashes against her. In the Pacific Ocean the waves would be sucking her out to sea, but the current and riptide are less fierce here.

Charlotte’s swimsuit leaves little to the imagination, a single scrap of white fabric horizontal across her chest and matching tiny white boi shorts. The white material of her suit contrasts deeply with her bronzed skin. She peers at me over the rims of her sunglasses, and her pink lips curl up on one side. “Nice suit.”

I self-consciously tug my bikini top higher on my chest. It’s one of those suits that’s more decorative than functional. I’ve only worn it a few times, and it’s never been in the water. “When I packed my suitcase, I wasn’t really expecting to go to the beach.”

The tip of her tongue skims across her top teeth as she continues to regard me. She’s seen me completely naked, but that was in her darkened bedroom. I feel like there’s a spotlight on me now. “I like it.”

I unfasten a button and work my linen shorts past my hips. “How’s the water?” I ask.

“Freezing. But Amelia doesn’t seem to mind.”

I can feel her continued gaze as I strip down to my bikini bottoms. “You guys go to the beach a lot, huh?”

“Almost every day in summer,” she confirms. “Amelia plays in the water, and I read until it’s time to head back into town for a quick rinse before my shift at the bar.”

I sit beside her on the blanket and rub my arms. It’s not cold, but I’m not sure what to do with my hands.

She digs into a canvas bag beside her and pulls out a sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag. “Eat,” she orders, shoving the food in my direction. “It’s peanut butter and jelly.”

“Such a mom,” I tease, but I gladly take it. My stomach reminds me that I worked straight through lunch, afraid that if I took a break I might lose my writing momentum.

Seagulls squawk around us, annoyed that I won’t share my sandwich. I’m not a rookie though—I know what’ll happen if I give up even a crust. I catch myself happily humming around each bite.