Bittersweet Homecoming (15 page)

“You’re in a good mood,” Charlotte observes.

“I had a really good writing day,” I admit.

A small smile, full of wisdom and mirth plays on her lips. “I wonder what has you feeling so inspired?”

“I think you probably know.”

I lean across the blanket to steal a kiss. Her lips are warm and slightly salty. It’s an instinctive action, one that I don’t toss around in my head for too long and risk the moment passing. She presses her lips back against mine, but I realize, too late, that she might not be so comfortable kissing me out in the open. We’re fairly isolated on the long shorelines of Lake Superior with few prying eyes beyond a scattering of tourists, but there’s still Amelia to consider.

“What did you write about?” she asks.

“It’s a secret,” I smile around my mouthful of sandwich.

“Do I get to read it?”

“Maybe, but not until it’s finished. I don’t let anyone read rough drafts, not even my agent, Claire.”

She whistles under her breath. “You actually have one of those?”

“I’m not important enough to really need one,” I shrug, “but she gives me a great deal because we’ve been friends since college.”

“Where did you go to school?” she asks.

“U of M. Same as you.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“And then I went to San Francisco State to get my MFA.”

“I wonder if I’d like California,” she muses aloud. “I’ve never been anywhere. I thought Minneapolis was the big city when I was in college. And before I could do any real traveling, Amelia happened.”

“They’re just cities. Tall buildings. Honking cars.” I grab a fist full of sand and let the gritty material slide through my fingers. “There’s nothing like this in LA.”

“I thought southern California was lousy with beaches?”

I hazard a glance in her direction. “Maybe I was talking about you.”

She gives me a shrewd look in return. “I’m almost convinced.”

“Of what?”

“That you’re a writer.”

“Mommy!” Amelia bellows from the lake. She scoops water into her hands and splashes it around. “Come into the water!”

“In a little while, sweetie,” Charlotte calls back.

“She’s a great kid,” I remark in earnest. “You did a good job with that one.”

“You think so?” She holds her hand up to her forehead like a visor to block out the high afternoon sun as she watches Amelia on the pebbled shoreline. “I worry about her sometimes.”

“Don’t all parents worry? Isn’t that your job?”

“I suppose so,” she frowns, still staring. “But the unorthodox outfits and Reggie are just the tip of the iceberg. I would never want to squash her creativity, but it can be so hard in this town if you’re different.”

I make a humming noise. “Preaching to the choir.”

She shifts on the beach blanket and regards me again. “When did you know you were gay?”

“Not until college, actually. But when I finally figured it out, a lot about my childhood suddenly made sense. I thought every straight girl had the same thoughts and feelings as I did, but it turns out there’s a reason why I never had a boyfriend that lasted longer than a weekend and why I held doors open for my girl friends.”

“Last night,” I begin with trepidation. “What was that? Curiosity? Boredom?”

She licks her lips. “Attraction?”

I swallow down the last mouthful of my sandwich with difficulty. “Has that ever happened before?”

“A few times,” she admits. “But I never acted on it.”

“Why now? Why me?”

Her eyes narrow as she continues to contemplate me and my question. The moment is interrupted by a high-pitched squeal and the sensation of cold water dipping on my face and legs.

“Mommy!” Amelia’s grown impatient and has abandoned the lake and returned to the beach blanket. Sand clings to her ankles and Lake Superior drips from her hair. “Are you coming in the water?” she asks.

Charlotte smiles at me. “You game?” she challenges.

I scramble to my feet. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

When the sun has dipped a little lower in the sky, I walk Charlotte to her car and help her load their beach bags into the back of her vehicle. Amelia is big enough to not need a car seat, but she still sits in the backseat with her Invisible Friend. Through the car windows I see her help Reggie with his seatbelt.

Charlotte lingers near the driver side door. “What are you up to tonight?” she asks.

I shove my hands into the front pockets of my linen shorts. “No plans yet.”

“I have to work tonight, but do you want to come over after I close the bar?”

I don’t have time to consider the question before she’s second guessing herself.

“I’m being clingy, aren’t I?” she vocalizes. “One night in my bed and I’m already expecting another. And I don’t even know what this is—this thing we’re doing.” She’s getting more agitated the longer she talks. “And it’s not like you’re sticking around town for much longer.”

“Hey, relax.” I snatch the hand that’s nervously raking through her wind-tussled hair. My free arm curls around her waist, and she doesn’t resist when I pull her close until I feel the press of her hipbones against me. “This doesn’t have to be anything if you don’t want it to be.” My lips brush against her temple. “Whatever you want to do though, I’m game.”

Her top teeth dig into her bottom lip. “I don’t know what I want, Abby. But these past few days have been fun. Is it selfish of me to want to keep having fun?”

I shake my head. She’s not the selfish one. That’s me.

CHAPTER NINE

A few feet down the shoreline on my dad’s property is a fire pit that Emily and I constructed when I was eight or nine. We’d spent the summer day collecting fist-sized rocks and arranging them in a neat little circle. When my dad had gotten home from work that day, we couldn’t wait to show him what we’d made. His enthusiasm had paled in comparison to our own, and I remember going to bed that night feeling disappointed that our hard work had gone under appreciation. The next morning, I went down to the beach, determined to cast each rock back into the lake, only to discover that the rocks had been mortared together. My dad never spoke of what must have taken him hours to complete and neither did we. He wasn’t an openly demonstrative man, but he showed his love for us in quiet, yet profound ways.

“I can’t believe that thing is still together.”

I look away from the bonfire to see the shadowy silhouette of my sister. The tide is high and waves crash noisily against the normally subdued shoreline.

“I brought you a blanket,” she says. “I thought maybe California living had thinned your blood.” Even though Emily is younger than me, in many ways she behaves like she’s the older sister. It had always been like that though. Even when she was young she’d been an old lady, cautious and conservative.

I turn my eyes back to the crackling fire. “Mark Twain said once that the coldest winter he’d ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”

Emily sits down on a log across the fire from me. “I thought he didn’t really say that.”

“He didn’t.”

“Speaking of Twain, how’s the writing going?”

I pick up a short stick and begin poking at the burning fire. Ashes shoot into the sky. “It’s laborious and disheartening and makes me wonder why I ever thought I could do this for a living.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I stare at the orange-red glow of the embers deep in the fire. “As much as I thought I was coming back to help you, I think I needed this trip home for myself,” I speak aloud.

“How so?”

“Don’t you ever need to stop and re-evaluate everything you’ve been doing? Kind of like an out-of-body experience where you can be reflective about life choices.”

“Everything seems to have worked out for you though,” Emily remarks with no malice. “You’ve made a career doing what you love. I know I’ve probably given you a hard time about it over the years, but it was probably just jealousy.”

“Jealous? Of me?”

“Sure. Why not? You might have done the risky thing by deciding to become a fulltime playwright, but what do I have to show for years of being cautious and practical? A job in Duluth, Minnesota that I couldn’t care less about.”

“You had love though. That’s a lot better than me.”

“Whatever,” she readily dismisses. “You’ve dated plenty.”

“That’s the key word:
plenty
. I’ve got numbers on my side, but no great love story. No one of substance in my life.”

“This girl you’re with right now—Kambria, right? You don’t think she’s
The One
?”

“No.”

“Wow. No hesitation,” she remarks, eyebrows rising to her hairline. “So if she’s not
The One
, then why are you still together?”

“Because I’m terrified of being alone?”

“That’s terrible, Abby,” she clucks.

“I know,” I say with a grimace.

“That’s not fair to either of you if you’re just biding your time until something or someone better comes along.”

“I know. And I plan on doing something about it as soon as I go back,” I vow.

“Which is when?” she asks. “You haven’t said.”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t booked my return ticket yet.”

“Are you procrastinating going back because you don’t want to face Kambria?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I breathe out a great sigh. “I thought I was sticking around for some noble reason, like you needing me. But now I don’t know.”

“We’re Henry’s,” she says, staring deep into the fire. “We’re survivors.”

“Yeah, and we also bottle up emotions and let them fester instead of letting them breathe,” I counter.

“That might be true. But I’m doing the best I know how.”

“Has Dad dated anyone since Mom?” I ask.

“I don’t know why you still refer to her as that,” Emily says sharply. “What kind of mom abandons her husband and two small children?”

“Fine,” I back peddle. “Has he dated anyone since
Linda
left?”

“Not that I know of.”

I pull my phone out and type in the security code to unlock the first screen.

“Can we have a civilized conversation without you playing on your phone?” Emily says in an annoyed tone. “I’m trying to open up to you.”

“Hold up. There’s something I have to do.”

“What can’t wait?”

“Breaking up with my girlfriend.”

“Right now?” Emily squeaks. “Over the phone?”

“You were right,” I say, pulling up Kambria’s number. “It’s not fair to either of us to keep dragging this out.”

The phone rings and like so many times before, Kambria doesn’t pick up. When her recorded message finishes, I leave a message of my own:

“Hey, it’s me. Listen, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days now; it’s like you’ve dropped off the planet. It’s pretty annoying, especially since I’m here for a funeral and you haven’t once called to see how I am. Anyway,” I say before I can become too tangential, “I’m calling to tell you that this relationship isn’t working out—I can’t do this anymore. When you get this, I don’t know, call me or don’t. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

It’s imperfect, and I owe her more than a voicemail, but I feel lighter once I’ve done it. I would have preferred talking to her face to face, but it’s the best I can do under my current circumstances.

Emily is still staring at me when I hang up the phone. “What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.

She shakes her head. I’m sure she has a lecture for me, but for now, she keeps it to herself and we continue to sit and stare at the fire in silence.

After we’ve piled a few more logs onto the fire, my phone rings. My heart leaps in my chest, thinking it might be Kambria, finally calling me after getting this most recent voice mail. But it’s an unknown number with a Grand Marais area code.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey,” the voice on the other end greets. “It’s Charlotte.”

“From the bar.” I smile into the phone. “I remember.”

“I, um, I’m all done with work now.” There’s slight hesitation in her voice. “I’m leaving for home in a few minutes.”

“Still feel like company?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

We hang up, and I stand from the fire. “You gonna stay down here or should I bury the fire?”

Emily looks up after me. “Where are you going?”

“To Charlotte’s house.”

“At this hour?”

I glance at the time on my phone. It’s a little after midnight. “I guess I am.”

For the second time that night I see my sister’s cheeks hollow as she holds back her judgment. Her glare moves away from me to regard the slowly dying fire.

Standing on Charlotte’s front porch half an hour later, I feel underprepared. I should have picked a bouquet of wild flowers in my dad’s yard or brought her a book or something. After I knock quietly on her front door, I also realize that I reek of campfire smoke. Before I can scurry away, however, the door opens. Charlotte smiles at me through the screen door.

“Hey,” I greet. I point to the flickering light bulb above me. “Your light’s still broken.”

“Are you offering to fix it for me?”

“My dad’s the handyman, not me.”

“I thought all lesbians owned tool belts.”

“Don’t rat me out,” I smile. “They’ll kick me out of the club.”

Her lips twist into a smirk. “Are you coming in or are you gonna stand on the front stoop all night?”

“Definitely coming in.”

It’s only been a handful of hours since I saw her at the beach, but it feels like much longer. She’s changed out of her work clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt.

I slide out of my shoes and leave them by the front door. “Did your mom leave already?” I ask, looking around the seemingly empty living room.

“Uh huh.”

I breathe a little easier. “I’m sure she’s great, but I’m kind of relieved to have escaped the Evil Eye two nights in a row.”

“I owe my parents a great debt,” she defends. “They basically raised Amelia after her dad and I split. I was too messed up to be a decent person, let alone a decent parent.”