Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (9 page)

Without questioning my actions, I reached and tipped it face-down atop the nightstand, and then shuddered a little, again without understanding why.

December 2005

“Ho
ney, can you get the ten-top in
the bar?” Grandma asked as I clacked through the front door of Shore Leave, shivering and wishing I could manage to take orders wearing my mittens. She added, “Jillian is swamped in here.”

“Sure, Gram,” I told her. It was much busier than a usual Thursday night this close to Christmas, laughter and chatter filling the familiar space and serving to warm me a little. The decorated tree and twinkling colored lights strung along the counter were festive and also helped to ease my low mood.

Both White Oaks and Shore Leave had been jam-packed this entire week, as the annual ice-fishing (Bull and Dodge called it a ‘convention' but it was really just an excuse for men from across Minnesota and Wisconsin to gather and drink, all the while sitting on tiny stools in their icehouses on the lake) was in its third day, and subsequently in full swing. Flickertail resembled a community of refugees, dozens of icehouses of every conceivable color clustered near its center. I felt a lightening in my shoulders as I hung my jacket on the hook behind the door, the party-like atmosphere working a little magic, and brushed snow from my hair. Knotting my pale-blue Shore Leave apron over my jeans, I asked Grandma, “Have they been here long?”

“No,” she said, leaning forward to kiss my cheek as I walked to the counter to grab a few pens. She added, “It's Eddie and some of the other fisherman. They're cold and it's one fish story after another in there. I don't know how Ellen stands it.” Then she added, “And Jake's in there, with a couple of his friends. I thought I better let you know.”

Jake. Dammit.

I knew he was home, as Tish and Ruthie kept me informed; though we had emailed a little, I hadn't seen him since our kiss on the dock last June. But I didn't let Grandma see any of my discomposure. I straightened my spine and smiled at Aunt Jilly as she breezed past with a tray of beer.

“Hi, sweetie, can you manage Eddie's bunch?” she called.

“No sweat,” I muttered, too low for anyone to hear.

“Hi, Camille!” chirped Clint, coming from the bar. He was clutching a mug of hot chocolate in one hand.

“Hiya, Clinty,” I said. No doubt Clint had been pestering Jake and those guys; probably Tish wasn't far behind, and just as I had the thought, my younger sister came bounding around the corner from the bar, flushed and giggling. If I didn't know any better, I'd figure she was drunk.

“Hurry, Milla,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “The ten-top is thirsty. And they want food.”

“I'm hurrying,” I said, quickly twisting my hair into a knot high on my head, using the rubber band I had slipped around my wrist before leaving the house to secure it. I looked a little sloppy, probably, since I'd just washed my hair but hadn't done anything in the way of styling it this evening; it had grown long and unmanageable. The one beauty salon in town only seemed to be open when I was at work and I had not yet taken up Aunt Jilly on her offer to trim my hair. I was wearing a soft red flannel that hadn't fit me since before I was pregnant, a pretty, fitted one from J.Crew in Chicago. I had been rather elated at the fact that it buttoned again, though it was a touch snug over my breasts. And wonder of wonders, in the last few months I had been able to zip into a couple of old pairs of jeans.

Light at the end of the tunnel
, I thought. When I stood naked after showering these days, giving myself a critical once-over, at least parts of my body resembled their former selves.

“Milla, for real! I was about to take their order and I'm not even on shift!” Tish nagged, pausing before the jukebox that Grandma had been so pumped to find at a discount this last September. Tish dumped a couple of quarters into it and “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree” came joyously blaring forth.

I rolled my eyes at her as I entered the bar, which was glowing with mini twinkle-lights in red and green, the spruce that Blythe had cut down festooned with edible ornaments in the far corner; as usual, Grandma had gone a little wild with the tinsel, draping it all along the edge of the bar and then this year hanging fake icicles on its entire length. Tish had said it looked like Christmas barfed all over in here and I smiled at the thought. Jake was at a high top with two of his friends that I recognized from Landon High; he broke into a huge grin at the sight of me and I waved, trying to appear really busy and distracted.

“Kiddo, how are you?” boomed Eddie as I neared their table, rowdy with at least ten pleasantly-drunk ice fishermen.

“So you didn't get the plaid shirt memo?” I teased Eddie, noting that he was the only one not wearing some version of checkered flannel. I indicated my own shirt with my pen and added, “Even I did!”

Eddie and everyone near him laughed and he dramatically opened his Carhartt jacket, the way a flasher would, to reveal a green-and-black check on the shirt beneath.

“Gotcha,” I said drily, shaking my head at him before I flipped open my order pad and I asked, “Are you guys eating or just drinking this evening?”

“Honey, bring us two baskets of onion rings—” Eddie began.

“Shit, Ed, that's not near enough,” said someone down the table and my eyes flickered instantly towards the sound of a voice I didn't recognize. I thought I knew everyone in Landon by now, especially anyone who would be sitting at Eddie's table; Eddie and his little bar on Fisherman's Street were such fixtures in Landon that guidebooks probably listed them as landmarks. This guy was holding a menu, regarding me with a lazy half-smile, and for the length of two heartbeats our eyes held completely still and steady. I was only aware of my heart at that moment because it delivered a solid punch to my breastbone. I blinked and looked immediately away from him, back to Eddie, though I also realized that my right hand, holding the pen, trembled a little.

What the hell?

I refocused all of my attention with real effort, injecting as much good nature into my tone as I could manage as I addressed the table at large, asking, “What else, guys? A couple more pitchers too?”

“Give us two more of the High Lifes and then five baskets…” Eddie paused here and made a point of asking the stranger who had spoken up, giving him a grin, “Is that all right there, buddy?” And then to me, “Five baskets of onion rings, sweetie, and how about one fried mushroom?”

“Coming right up,” I told him, smiling at Eddie as the rest of them went back to their conversations, laughing and joking about all of the dumb shit that amused guys. I tore off their order and retreated to the kitchen, where Rich and Blythe were busy keeping up with the unexpected crowd. I didn't notice Jake until he caught up with me at the counter.

“Hey, Camille,” he said, enveloping me in a hug. I hugged him back, glad to see him but wishing that he wouldn't feel compelled to hug me. He added, drawing back, “You look incredible. Don't be mad at me for saying so.”

I shook my head, smiling in spite of myself. I said, “Thanks, Jake. It's good to see you too. How's school been this fall?”

“Great,” he said, as I went to the pass-through window to give Rich the order.

I called, “Rich! Couple of appetizers!”

Rich winked at me as I handed him the ticket and Blythe ducked down to say hi to both Jake and me.

“How's your mom?” I asked Jake, guilt stalling my feet. I turned to face him as he straddled a stool at the counter; he was tall enough that with him sitting, we were nearly the same height. Like usual I felt an acute stinging in my heart for liking him enormously but not the way he wanted. I hated even worse that he wouldn't seem to give up on me; surely there were girls at university who would be thrilled to date him. I had never asked.

Jake leaned on his elbows and said, “She's doing well. She says hi. And it's good to be back.” He studied me intently before he asked, “How have you been?”

“Good,” I said noncommittally. The stupid thing was, I knew he really cared about my answer.

“How's Millie Jo? I've missed you guys,” he said, again with so much sincerity that I squirmed, rolling to my toes and then back down.

“She's getting bigger all the time,” I told him, and just the thought of my daughter made my nipples prickle and swell as though to feed her; I thanked the powers that be for the padded nursing bra that Mom insisted I still wear. And then, “I better get that beer for Eddie's table.”

“You need help?” he asked immediately.

“No thanks,” I said firmly. And then I tried to tease him a little, saying, “I'm the server here. You're supposed to be relaxing.”

He flushed and said, “Right.”

My gaze flashed upwards at that second, some instinct sending an alarm bell clanging in my mind. The breath I had been about to release lodged itself in my throat and I suddenly found myself trying desperately to behave normally, which was a sure-fire sign that attraction was rioting like a drug through my bloodstream. It had been so long since I'd experienced it that it was almost surreal.

Quit it right now
, I told myself furiously. Before I could stop them, my hands lifted to fuss with my hair. To my surprise, the stranger from Eddie's table stopped right beside Jake and clapped him on the back in a companionable if slightly drunken fashion. He grinned at me and I felt the intensity of it like a burst of sunshine, before he looked back at Jake and said, “Hey there, McCall. Long time no see.”

“Hey,” said Jake distractedly. He added, “I heard you were home.”

“I would love an introduction to you,” the guy said, looking back at me. He had very blue eyes and still I hadn't spoken. I realized he was pretty drunk as he added in a teasing way, “But first I gotta use the pisser.”

The pisser
. Jesus, Camille, this is who draws your attention like a train wreck?

Jake gave him a look that clearly asked,
You're talking this way in front of a girl?

I heard myself pipe up sarcastically, “The little boys' room is that way,” and jerked a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the direction, earning another grin from him rather than the look of embarrassment I had been secretly hoping for.

Dammit.

He was probably a few years older than Jake and me, with the kind of build you'd expect on maybe a construction worker or a firefighter, one who handled large, heavy things on a regular basis. His flannel shirt was a blue-on-black check, rolled back at the sleeve so that I could clearly see the cords of muscle along his forearms, along with a lot of dark hair. The navy blue of his shirt almost exactly matched his eyes. He had thick black hair and what was probably a good day's worth of scruff on his jaws and he was, as Grandma would say, handsome as the devil. There was a dimple in his right cheek.

For fuck
's sake, Camille
.

“Thank you,” he told me politely, and when I shrugged in my best attempt to convey slight disdain, his grin only deepened, along with his dimple.

My heart kicked the shit out of my ribcage at the sight of this and so I said, “Excuse me,” and moved around them to let Aunt Ellen know I needed two more pitchers. Or at least, it was a good excuse to get the hell out there.

“Two High Lifes,” I told my great aunt.

“You want to grab them, hon?” Aunt Ellen called over from where she was pouring Jim Beam into a steaming mug of coffee.

“Sure thing,” I told her; I was ashamed at myself for not immediately recognizing how busy she was, rather than ridiculously woolgathering over a stranger. I moved behind the bar amid the chatter and laughter of a roomful of customers, collecting two pitchers and tilting one after the other beneath the beer tap. When I turned around, Tish was elbowed up to the bar.

“You foamed those perfect,” she said, nodding at the pitchers with a perfect inch-and-a-half of froth at the tops.

“What's up?” I asked her and then groaned as the jukebox kicked in with Bing Crosby crooning ‘White Christmas.'

“How many times do I have to hear this song this week?” I groaned.

“Like we're dreaming of a white Christmas around here,” Tish joked.

“Are those for us?” And there he was again, obviously back from the bathroom, this time leaning beside my sister with that same grin and indicating my full hands with a tilt of his head.

“Hey,” Tish said cheerily, as though they were longtime buddies, so totally Tish. She asked him, “Are you dreaming of a white Christmas?”

“Experiencing one,” he corrected, teasing her back. “I just played the song though. I love this one.”

I almost had to smile at that. I bit the inside of my cheek.

“So, I'll take one of those off your hands,” he offered me.

You are really, really sexy
, I told him without saying the words; our gazes held again, perhaps no more than a few seconds, but it was enough time for my heart to begin pulsing and I almost believed that he knew what I had just been thinking. I reminded myself, taking no prisoners, what had happened the last time I had been so stupid about a guy, and so with determination I insisted,
And I will not notice that from this moment forth
.

“I got it,” I said as casually as I could and carried both pitchers to the table where they were received with extreme gratitude. I collected a tray of empty glasses and on the return trip to the kitchen I didn't even make eye contact with him.

It's for the best
, I told myself again. But…

“So, who's that?” I heard myself casing Tish not fifteen seconds later, back at the bar.

“Who, Mathias?” she asked loudly, looking over her shoulder at Eddie's table.

“Don't look!” I hissed at her.

She whipped around to give me a look, her eyebrows lowering. She said knowingly, “He's got a girlfriend. And it's Tess French. At least, that's what Clint and Liam told me.”