Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (17 page)

I could hardly force words past my sobs but caught my breath and then moaned, “I just need…to go home.”

“I'm driving you,” he said then, with certainty, controlling the panic in his tone. “There's no way I'm letting you go alone.”

Mathias,
I thought, aching for him to come with me.

But I said, “I just need…to be alone,” and fumbled for the keys in my purse, turning from him to attempt to unlock my pickup.

His voice shaking a little, he said, “Please,” and moved his left hand to the truck door, as though to keep it closed. The wind howled and my tear-streaked face was freezing. All I could see was his strong hand, fingers spread like a starfish against my window, his powerful forearm bare to the cold wind, as his shirtsleeve was rolled back. He said, “Camille, please.”

I shook my head, at last managing to unlock my door. I was so aware of him standing there, so close to me, that I could hardly breathe, but I refused to look at him as I said, “I've got to go.”

“Please don't,” he said and his voice was low and intense.

“I have to,” I said and my throat was so choked that the words were hardly more than harsh whispers.

Wordlessly he removed his hand from my door and I climbed inside as quickly as I was able. He didn't move from the side of the truck, watching me. I started the engine and drove away into the snow; I hadn't cleared the parking lot before sobs again came ripping up from my chest. I could see him in the rearview mirror, standing like a statue where I had left him. I turned left for Shore Leave and the streetlight shone through the image of his hand against my driver's side window.

I sat in the candle-glow of the
Christmas tree for an hour, nursing my daughter to sleep with the comforting background cadence of Grandma and Aunt Ellen in the kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting. At times like these I felt as though I was channeling Mom, picturing her curled in the same position, the exact age I was right now, holding me to her breast as she sat in this same living room and thought about where in the hell her life was going. I had gotten my sobbing under control but my heart was aching in my chest. It was absurd to feel this way, I kept reminding myself. I had only met Mathias a week ago.

A week ago, Camille. Jesus Christ. You can't let yourself feel this way. You know this. Better to just let him go now, before you like him more than you already do.

My eyes moved to the couch, where we'd curled up the past four nights to snuggle and talk, though Mathias had left for home instead of falling asleep with me as he had on Monday night; again tears came flowing hot and painful. My heart seemed shriveled and I refocused on my daughter, with all of my willpower.

Millie Jo, baby. I love you so much. Please don't ever know how much I resent being a mother. I wouldn't trade you, baby. It's just so hard. I don't know if I'm doing this right
.

I studied her little cheek, moving as rhythmically as a chipmunk's as she drew sustenance from my body. My breasts were as fully rounded as halved cantaloupes, my nipples the size of miniature marshmallows. I marveled at this almost every time I bared them; it was like looking at a stranger's body superimposed over my own. Millie's head wasn't quite so dwarfed by my breasts as it had been at first. Her eyes were closed, her lashes soft against her flushed cheek. I stroked the tip of my index finger into her downy hair, curling the same strand repeatedly.

Please come, please come over, Mathias. Don'
t listen to me. I'm just so scared. Oh God…

Millie Jo sighed and detached from my nipple, smacking her little rosebud lips. I bent to press a kiss to her temple, my tears falling on her face; I used the edge of my pajama sleeve to gently wipe her dry.

“I do love you,” I whispered to her, scarcely more than a breath of sound. “I want you to know that. I hope you always know that.”

I rolled gingerly to my knees and then carried her up to our bed, where we would continue to sleep alone together for the foreseeable future.

***

I put
on my bravest, most cheerful face all the next day, Christmas Eve. It was as picturesque as a snow globe outside, the house redolent with the constant baking. We had decided to celebrate Christmas Eve with everyone at Uncle Justin and Aunt Jilly's, but Grandma and Aunt Ellen were insistent upon bringing their specialties, olive-cheese bread and pecan pies. I couldn't think about eating a bite and only managed to dress and pretend to be fine because of my daughter. This was a huge day for any child, and she was so excited and dancing all over, thankfully claiming everyone's attention. If Grandma or Aunt Ellen noticed anything amiss with me, neither said a word; I was doing a great acting job though, unwilling to even think about explaining how short-lived my time with Mathias had been.

Grandma only mentioned him once, asking, “Will Mathias be joining us this evening?”

“No, he's got family stuff of his own,” I said with forced nonchalance. “Maybe tomorrow though!”

I survived the evening at Aunt Jilly's, forcing myself to laugh and play cards with the adults while the little ones ran wild, even though I'd had to sneak into the bathroom to throw away my plate of food. For a moment I bent over the toilet, thinking I might vomit, reflecting that puking had been how I'd first realized I was pregnant, once upon a time. By the time we got home and I managed to coerce my over-stimulated child into bed, I felt as though I might crumble apart at the seams, like an old ragdoll. Grandma helped me arrange presents under the tree as soon as Millie Jo was sleeping and then I begged off when she suggested we make some hot apple cider and talk.

“I'm just so tired,” I said, and retreated to my room. I lay in the darkness and caressed my phone, wanting to call him. Dying to hear his voice.

But at last I'd fallen asleep without managing to dial his number.

It must have been hours later that I woke to the hall light and Grandma asking, “What in the world?”

I sat up and then stumbled to my bedroom windows. Headlights were coming towards the house. From the living room I heard Aunt Ellen proclaim, “It's the Carters' plow pickup.”

Mathias.

I flew into my robe and raced down the stairs.

“It's Mathias,” Grandma informed, having joined Aunt Ellen at the window. They peered through the curtains and then looked back at me with almost comical unison. Grandma said with certainty, “I told you he was crazy.”

I heard the growling of the diesel engine as he drew near, the headlights beaming right into the front room. It was probably three in the morning, it was snowing buckets, and my grandmother and great aunt were bearing witness to everything.

“Is he drunk? Camille, if he's drunk I'm calling his father,” Grandma complained.

I swung open the front door just as Mathias climbed from the cab of the plow pickup, leaving it running. He was wearing his Carhartt overhauls and steel-toed snow boots, his gray stocking cap, and his cheeks were flushed with the cold. I guessed that he hadn't shaved since sometime yesterday and his hair was sticking out from beneath his hat. He pulled off his big gloves with his teeth, tossed them back on the seat, and then walked with determination, coming to a stop just in front of me.

“I came to tell you not to be scared. And that you can trust me,” he said softly, his eyes serious and intent upon my face. “And that the thought of not seeing you is more than I can bear.”

I couldn't speak, unable to describe the joy that was flooding through me; it was almost terrifying to feel it so blatantly. In that moment I understood that Tess had been lying.

And then he said, “I also came to ask you if you'll go on a date with me Monday night.”

“Matty Carter! Are you drunk?” Grandma bitched, coming up behind me. She had the afghan from the couch wrapped around her shoulders.

“No ma'am,” he said at once. “I apologize for waking everyone, but I had to ask your granddaughter something.” And then his blue eyes came back to mine and he asked quietly, “So, will you?”

“I will,” I said softly, and his dimple appeared as he smiled at me, his relief nearly palpable.

“Can I…is it all right if I hug you?” he asked and Grandma snorted. But I nodded and then absolutely leaped into his arms. He smelled of snow and winter, and of himself. He crushed me against his chest, which was almost twice as big with all of his winter gear in place. My feet came off the ground. My lips were just at his left jaw, and I kissed him there, where his skin was warm and prickling with stubble. He rocked me side to side and then let my feet back to the ground.

“It's freezing with this door open,” Grandma scolded then. “Camille, you're in your bathrobe for heaven's sake. Come inside.”

We couldn't take our eyes from one another. My heart was crashing against him and I asked, “Can you come over tonight for awhile too?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” he said. And then to Grandma, “I would love to come in right now but I have to finish my plow route.”

His arms were still locked around me. I reached up and cupped his cheeks, our breath making clouds in the freezing air. His blue eyes flashed directly into mine and his grin sent trails of heat pulsing through my body. I wanted to kiss his lips but was too chicken with Grandma right behind me.

I implored, “Be careful on the rest of your route.”

He hugged me tightly one more time, with exuberance, and then caught my hands into his and brought them to his lips, kissing the back of each. His face was chilly but his lips were warm and I shivered at the contact. He said, “I will, and I will see you later.”

“Yes,” I said, all tingling and mushy-gushy and not caring one bit.

“Here, for heaven's sake, take this,” Aunt Ellen said, bustling to the door with a thermos. “It's fresh coffee.”

Mathias accepted it and then kissed Aunt Ellen's hand too. He said, “Thank you kindly.”

And then he climbed back into his truck. The engine growled as he reversed and cranked it around. He rolled down his window and called back to us, “Merry Christmas!”

“Crazy,” Grandma muttered, wrapping her arm over my shoulders.

“Crazy for Camille,” Aunt Ellen corrected, and then my face about split with my smile, even as tears fell over my cheeks. Aunt Ellen put her arm around me from the other direction and squeezed.

***

I was
so buoyant that morning that Millie Jo said twice, “Mama, sit still! You gotta watch me open my pwesents!”

Grandma and I traded off with the camera, snapping Millie tearing into her Santa Claus gifts, eating pancakes shaped like Christmas trees. At least, that's what Aunt Ellen had been aiming for. Mathias texted me around 9:00, and for a moment I thought about how it was almost like getting a telegram, only without the word ‘stop' in place of end punctuation.

Merry Christmas. I can't wait to see you later. I have a present for you.

A present?
I wrote back.
I mean a present, exclamation point!!!

Haha. It's a good present. If I do say so myself. But I can't show you until Monday.

I can't wait that long.

I'll be over around 5:00. I'll bring us a picnic.

A picnic?? If you say so.

I could hardly wait until then, practically stalking the windows. Millie Jo fell asleep in the late afternoon and was still snoozing when I saw the plow pickup, its plow attachment down to remove the snow from our driveway. I watched as he spent minutes backing up and driving forward, in a rhythm, displacing the snow to the side. At last he parked and I swung open the door as he came hurrying over the snowy path through the darkness of this winter's twilight.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “And thank you.”

He stopped just in front me and replied softly, “Merry Christmas. And no problem.”

He was clean-shaven, his eyes bright as blue stars, wearing a black parka instead of his usual Carhartt work gear. The sight of him, the immediacy of him here before me, took my breath away. He'd left his gloves in the car, as his hands were bare and warm, and he reached and cupped my face, tenderly.

“I'm so glad you came this morning,” I told him, my body responding wildly to this point of contact.

“I would have come right away,” he said, tracing his thumbs over my chin. It felt so good. He added, “But I needed to gather my thoughts. And you needed to gather yours.”

I nodded, acknowledging this, and whispered, “Come inside.”

“Aw, did Millie have a fun morning?” Mathias asked, catching sight of the mountain of wrapping paper piled around the tree. It looked like the aftermath of a tiny tornado.

I smiled. “Yes, it was fun. She got a new train set that she wanted. And lots of doll clothes.” I saw that he was still wearing his coat and said, “Here, let me take that.”

“Wait, the northern lights,” he said, and I tipped my head at him, slightly mystified. He grinned and explained, “They're gorgeous. I saw them on the way over here. Plus I have a picnic for us. You want to get bundled and come see them with me? Is that terrible to ask? I mean, I know it's Christmas Day—”

“No, it's not terrible at all. Let me tell Gram and get my coat,” I said, interrupting him and five minutes later we were heading back down the driveway. At the end he turned the truck around, shifted into first and then second and the engine growled as it took us over the snowy lake road.

He said, “I'm just so glad to have you right there on the seat beside me, you don't even know.”

I studied his profile, crisply defined against the driver's side window. The sky was nearly pitch black even this early in the evening and my heart thumped harder as he looked right and held my eyes in his. I said, “I do know. I was so happy to see you this morning.” I paused, but then said softly, “I don't believe Tess. I want you to know that. She just caught me off guard.”

He said, “She's jealous. But that was cruel even for her. God, I'm so sorry that she said that. Please know it's not true.”

“I do. I just…the whole thing was so surreal, with Noah…”

“Yeah, what exactly happened there? I thought he hurt you and I was ready to kill him.”

“He actually stopped me from launching myself at Tess,” I said. “She called me a slut.”

“God, I'm sorry, Camille.”

“It's not your fault.”

“After you left White Oaks on Friday night, I drove around for hours. I almost came to Shore Leave about a hundred times. Camille…” he paused and drew a breath, before continuing, “I want you to trust me. I want that so much. I'm not Noah and I know you probably can't help comparing us. When I tell you things I mean them and I want you to know that.”

“I do, I do know it,” I whispered, so moved by his words. I was trembling all through my thighs and along my ribs, but I reached my left hand across the seat. He caught it within his and then lifted it to his lips, where he gently used his teeth to free my hand from the thick woolen mitten. Once bare, he curled his warm fingers through mine and then settled our hands between us on the seat. I sat there, struck to my core at how very much such a small gesture had the power to affect me. I tightened my fingers around his, loving how his hand felt within mine, hard and strong, and so warm.

“You look gorgeous, by the way,” he said then, tightening his fingers in response. “Shit. I wish I was better at giving you compliments. Like the way your eyes are green and golden at the same time. I can't stop thinking about your eyes.”