Up at Butternut Lake: A Novel (15 page)

Wyatt looked unconvinced. And now that they could hear the party—the voices, the laughter, and the music—she could feel him slowing down. Resistance was setting in. She gave him a tug and kept going.

“You know who’s going to be here tonight?” she asked, as they followed the flagstone path that led around the side of Jax and Jeremy’s house to their backyard.

Wyatt shook his head.

“Frankie,” she said smiling, glad she’d saved her ace in the hole.

“Frankie is going to be here?” he asked, his eyes widening. He was fascinated by Frankie.

“Absolutely,” Allie said. “Who do you think is in charge of grilling the hamburgers and hot dogs and chicken? All your favorite foods, I might add.”

“Do you think he’ll need help?” Wyatt asked, hurrying to keep up with her now.

“Maybe,” she smiled, cocking an eyebrow at him.

They came around the corner of the house then and Wyatt let out a little gasp of surprise. Allie, surveying the scene, understood.

The backyard was awash in lights. Brightly colored Chinese lanterns hung from the trees, tiny white lights were strung on all the bushes and shrubs, and votive candles flickered on the tables scattered around on the dark, velvety grass.

“So pretty,” Wyatt breathed.

So much work,
Allie thought. But when her eyes scanned the crowd of partygoers and found Jax and Jeremy, encircled by a group of friends, neither one of them looked tired. Far from it. They looked relaxed, serene, and positively aglow with affection for each other. Jeremy, boyishly handsome, had his arm around Jax’s waist, and Jax, in an adorable maternity sundress, was gazing tenderly up at him.

Watching them, Allie felt a stab of jealousy. She looked away, guiltily.
It’s official, Allie,
she thought
. You’ve become a terrible person
.
You know how unhappy Jax’s childhood was, and you know, too, that she deserves every good thing that’s happened to her since, and then some.

But she still avoided looking at them again as she studied the scene before her. Jax hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it was the social event of the season. All of Butternut appeared to have turned out for the occasion, and Allie was surprised at how many people she recognized. There was Frankie, as promised, manning an enormous grill on the patio, and across from him, one of the clerks from the hardware store was tending a makeshift bar. And there, playing the banjo in the bluegrass band entertaining guests at one end of the yard, was the man from the gas station who’d changed the oil in Allie’s engine that morning.

But suddenly, in the midst of all this familiarity, she felt shy. Shy and something else . . . overwhelmed. She’d forgotten how to do this, she realized, tightening her grip on Wyatt’s hand. And what’s more, she didn’t
want
to remember how to do it. It was a part of her old life, her life before Gregg had died. But now, all of it—the crowd, the music, the dancing—all of it seemed wrong somehow. Loud. Jarring. Off-key. And, as if to drive this point home, there was a sudden burst of laughter from a nearby group.

That’s it, we’re going,
she thought
.
She’d make up an excuse to tell Wyatt on the way back to the car. But as she started to leave, she bumped right into Caroline Keegan.

“Well, hello you two,” Caroline greeted them, smiling.

Allie nodded, uncertainly, but Wyatt smiled shyly at her.

“Well, you probably want to leave those on the dessert table,” she said to Allie, nodding at the chocolate chip cookies. “And you, because you’re growing so fast, probably need something to eat,” she said, winking at Wyatt.

They followed Caroline over to a long picnic table that was practically groaning under the weight of the food on it, and Allie set the container of cookies down on the dessert end of it, and popped the lid off. She watched as Wyatt looked up and down the length of the table, practically salivating. There were deviled eggs and baked beans. Rhubarb pie and angel food cake. Slices of watermelon and mounds of coleslaw. And a tin plate piled high with buttermilk biscuits that Wyatt was staring at hungrily.

Caroline noticed him staring at them, plucked one off the plate, and gave it to him. He bit into it eagerly. “Honey, you can have as many of those as you’d like,” she said to him. “Seeing as how I’m the one who baked them.” And then she asked Allie, in a quieter voice that Wyatt couldn’t hear, “Were you leaving when you bumped into me?”

“No,” Allie said, automatically. And then, a little sheepishly, “Yes.”

“I thought so. No hard feelings, I hope, for interfering with your escape plan?”

“None,” Allie said, with a little smile.

“Good, I’m glad. But, Allie,” she asked, frowning, “is it still hard? Things like this, I mean?”

“Honestly, Caroline, there are days when
everything
is still hard. But, yes, this kind of thing is especially hard. Too many happy people, I guess,” she said, looking Caroline right in the eye. No point, she decided, in trying to hide her selfishness from her.

But Caroline didn’t look disapproving, only sad. “Happy people,” she said softly, looking around her. “Oh, Allie, you wouldn’t believe the things I could tell you about some of the people here tonight. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re good people. But to say their lives aren’t perfect, well, for some of them, that’s an understatement. But they’re here. Trying, I guess, to squeeze a little joy out of life.” She sighed, watching Wyatt help himself to a second buttermilk biscuit. “And, honestly, I think they might be onto something.”

“Maybe,” Allie said, considering this. She usually found it irritating when people tried to dispense advice to her. But for some reason, Caroline’s words didn’t grate on her. Maybe it was the gentle, no-nonsense approach Caroline adopted with friends and customers alike. Or maybe it was because she didn’t pretend to have all the answers. Didn’t pretend, either, she wasn’t still trying to find those answers herself.

And Allie knew she was right about this when Caroline asked, suddenly, “Do you think you ever get used to it? The being without somebody, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Allie said, simply, but in that moment Jade and Jax came rushing over to them, interrupting them.

“Wyatt,” Jade said, her blue eyes shining. “You’re here!” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go. Frankie said he’d save the best hot dogs for you and me. My dad turned up the grill too high, and some of them got burned. But we don’t have to have the black ones. Even though the black part doesn’t hurt you. I mean, you could eat like one hundred of them and not even get a stomachache.” She stopped talking, but only long enough to catch her breath. Then she asked again, “Are you coming, Wyatt?”

“Of course he is,” Allie said, giving him a little push forward. And she smiled encouragingly at Wyatt’s backward glance as Jade dragged him away in the direction of the grill.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jax said, hugging Allie with such genuine warmth that Allie felt a fresh prick of guilt at her earlier resentment of Jax. “And don’t worry about Wyatt and Jade,” Jax said. “Frankie will keep an eye on them. Not only is he an expert at the grill, but he is amazingly patient with children. Besides, if Caroline will let me steal you away, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Of course,” Caroline said.

But Allie was wary.

“Come on, it’ll be painless,” Jax cajoled, seeing her expression, and she led Allie over to the bar where an attractive blond woman of about sixty was sipping a glass of white wine, and, apparently, waiting for them.

“Sara,” Jax said, “this is my friend, Allie Beckett. Allie, this is Sara Gage.”

They shook hands with each other and then Jax said, meaningfully, “Why don’t you two talk while I get Allie something to drink.”

Allie started to object that Jax must have better things to do at her own party than get Allie a drink, but Jax seemed intent on leaving them alone, so Allie called after her, “Thanks, Jax. I’ll just have a Coke.”

Then she turned back to Sara Gage, who said to her, without preamble, “So Jax tells me you’re interested in art.”

“I am,” Allie said politely, wondering where the conversation was going.

“I don’t know if Jax mentioned me to you or not,” she said. “But I own the Pine Cone Gallery on Main Street. Are you familiar with it?”

“Of course,” Allie said. “It’s right across the street from Pearl’s.” She’d looked in its windows many times before, but she’d never felt comfortable taking Wyatt into a store that obviously had so many breakable objects in it. “It looks beautiful,” she said to Sara. “How long have you owned it?”

“I opened it about ten years ago,” Sara said, sipping her wine. “My husband and I had retired up here, and he was perfectly happy doing nothing, but I was bored to death. And I realized, too, that making the four-and-a-half-hour trek to Minneapolis every time I needed a culture fix was going to get old really fast. But that first fall we were here, I saw an ad for an art show sponsored by a local artist’s co-op. I was skeptical, to say the least. But I went, and I was absolutely stunned. Not just by the number of artists exhibiting there, but by the quality of their work.”

“Really? I had no idea Butternut had such an art scene,” Allie confessed.

“Well, I don’t know about an art
scene,
” Sara clarified, amused by Allie’s choice of words. “Still, if you thought, as I did, that there weren’t many artists living up here, you’d be wrong. Some of them are originally from up here, and others, like my husband and me, are originally from the Twin Cities but decided to retire up here. But they all have one thing in common. They need a place to sell their work year-round. So that’s where I come in.”

“And you’ve made a success of it, obviously.”

“I have,” Sara said, with satisfaction. “I mean, I’ll never get rich doing it. But I proved all the people wrong who said that Butternut wouldn’t support a gallery. It turns out that locals, and tourists, want a different kind of place to shop here. You know, a place that doesn’t just sell Christmas tree ornaments, or scented candles and potpourri.”

“Oh, judging from your windows, you’ve gone way beyond those,” Allie said, admiringly. “Your things look beautiful.” And they did. She’d seen watercolor and oil paintings through the gallery windows, but also ceramics, handblown glass, and jewelry.

“Thank you,” Sara said. “We showcase some very talented artists. And I’d like to find even more of them to represent, but that kind of legwork takes me out of the gallery. I need someone reliable to be there when I can’t be. Which is why Jax wanted me to meet you.”

“Me?” Allie repeated, not understanding.

Sara nodded. “That’s right. Jax stopped by the gallery last week, and when I mentioned I was looking for someone to work there part-time, she suggested you. She said you know a lot about art, and you have sales experience from running a business.”

“I . . . I don’t know what Jax told you,” Allie said, flustered. “I minored in art history in college, and my husband and I owned a landscaping company, but I’m not sure either of those things qualify me to work in a gallery.”

But Sara Gage seemed unfazed. “Look, there’s no special qualifications for the job, beyond interest and willingness. So why don’t you just come in and have a look around, and we can talk some more.”

“You mean, like an interview?”

“A very informal interview,” Sara assured her. “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added, frowning and looking away. “I see my husband sidling up to the buffet table, and I don’t think his cardiologist would approve of him having any more of those deviled eggs than he’s already had.”

No sooner had she left, though, than Jax was back, beaming at Allie as she handed her a Coke.

“Did she tell you about the job?” she asked, her blue eyes dancing with excitement.

“She told me,” Allie said. “But I wish
you
had told me about it before you introduced me to her.”

“Oh,” Jax said, her face falling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spring it on you. But I know you love art. And you said you’d need to work, eventually.” She added, a little self-reproachfully, “I guess I just forgot that it’s much easier to solve other people’s problems than it is to solve your own.”

“What problems?” Allie chided her. “Because from where I stand, your life looks pretty perfect.”

“I wish that were true,” Jax said, wistfully, and her expression, in that instant, struck Allie as almost unbearably sad. But the moment passed, and Jax looked like herself again. Her pregnant, radiant self—leaving Allie to wonder if she’d imagined Jax’s sadness. Or maybe just projected her own sadness onto Jax.

“Jax,” she said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Thank you for thinking of me. You’re right about my needing to work, sometime in the not-so-distant future. And working at the Pine Cone Gallery isn’t a bad idea; it’s just . . .”
Just what,
she wondered
.
But she couldn’t articulate it. Not to Jax. Not even to herself. She just knew she wasn’t ready to do all the things everyone expected her to do now. Work. Socialize. Even date. And she didn’t know why she wasn’t ready. Maybe it was because two years after Gregg’s death she still wanted to be left alone with Wyatt and her grief. Or maybe it was because keeping Gregg’s memory alive, in her head, and in her heart, was turning out to be a full-time job in and of itself.

Her eyes now instinctively found Wyatt in the crowd of partygoers. He and Jade were in front of the bluegrass band, holding hands and twirling in circles. Jade, as usual, appeared to be the instigator, but Wyatt looked like a more than willing partner. And as Allie watched, he flashed Jade one of his rare but unmistakable smiles.

Allie started to say something about it to Jax, but Jax was frowning, distractedly, at a nearby group of guests. “That’s odd,” she murmured.

“What?” Allie asked. Her eyes followed Jax’s own and settled, almost immediately, on Walker Ford. He was standing about ten yards away, drinking a beer, and talking to another guest. Allie felt an inexplicable twinge of irritation. She hadn’t counted on seeing him here. And, after their too-personal conversation when he’d driven her home, she hadn’t wanted to, either.