Wild Flower Read online

  “Grandma, we’re here for some ice cream!” Rae announced, running ahead.

  “I love this time of night,” Justin said, swinging our joined hands, walking to accommodate my slower pace. He nudged my shoulder as we passed my old apartment, where we made plenty of love during past nights. “It reminds me of making out with you on that little landing up there. And then down on the dock.” His voice took on a reverent tone. “God, I was so happy to find you that first night. I was praying as I drove, praying like I’d never prayed before, that you would be down there, alone…”

  I giggled, vividly recalling. He’d confessed this more than once before. I teased, “I’m so flattered.”

  Justin was grinning, his teasing, naughty-demon grin that made fire burn along my skin, and would until the day I died. As we were closing in on hearing distance, he lowered his voice to whisper, “Dammit, my sweet, sexy little woman, it’s all I can do keep from carrying you down there this minute.”

  Clint caught sight of us and angled his bike our way, and I bit back the reply I’d been intending to give my husband. Clint braced one foot on the ground and asked, “Mom, after dessert, can me and Jeff ride back to town? There’s a bonfire out at the field.”

  “That’s fine, honey,” I said. “Just don’t stay out too late.”

  “Justin, Jillian, you two want ice cream?” Mom called from the porch.

  “Hell yes,” Justin whispered fervently in my ear, and I shivered and then giggled more as he murmured, naming my favorite, “As long as it’s caramel, with pecans,” a sticky dessert he’d licked from my lips and various other parts a little farther south on my body, on many past occasions. And then, in a tone of voice that suggested he had never before harbored a dirty thought, he called over to Mom, “Thanks, that would be great!”

  Up on the porch, I bent to hug Rich, as I hadn’t seen him a few days. He patted my back and asked, “How’s the baby, honey?”

  Rich was my second surrogate father, Dodge being the first; I’d known both my entire life. Rich smelled of tobacco and his aftershave, which was nearly as familiar to me as the scent of my mother’s shampoo; she had used nothing but Prell since before Jo and I were born. I straightened and regarded Rich with both fondness and concern; he was looking tired these days. The baby kicked and I reached for Rich’s hand.

  “Feel,” I offered, cupping his palm against the sudden frenzy of activity behind my belly button.

  Rich’s bushy white eyebrows lifted. “What have you been eating to get him so worked up?”

  “He’s just a night owl,” I explained.

  “Here, honey, have a seat,” Rich said.

  “I got a place right here,” Justin, already sitting, offered, angling his right thigh for me to claim.

  “I’m going to go help Mom,” I said. I could hear Rae’s chirping voice through the open windows, directing operations, and smiled. I told Justin, “Save my spot.”

  “Jillian, slice up a few more strawberries, would you?” Mom asked as I pushed through the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen.

  “Sure thing,” I said, fetching a paring knife. The strawberries were washed, gleaming brilliant red in the wire colander on the counter. Rae stood on a chair, spooning whipped cream onto slices of pound cake; every other spoonful went into her mouth. Mom set forks in the first two bowls.

  “Little one, bring these to Clinty and Jeff,” Mom said, handing them off to Rae, who climbed carefully down from the chair. There was whipped cream in her bangs.

  I’d wanted to talk to my mother alone and asked as casually as I could manage, “What do you think about that Zack guy?”

  “Who?” Mom asked, busy slicing pound cake.

  “That Moorhead student who barged in here today,” I elaborated.

  “Oh, he seemed nice enough,” Mom replied, shrugging. “I got the impression he’s a city kid.”

  I wanted to ask if he bothered her at all, if she sensed anything strange about him. I’d felt slightly off all day; again I experienced a sense of having been severed from something.

  It’s Aubrey, I justified again. She’s unsettling you more than you’ll admit. And Camille—you’re worried about her, too. There’s so much on your mind.

  “Just wondering,” I muttered, letting the matter drop, finished slicing the strawberries.

  Back outside under the ivory moonglow I claimed my seat on Justin’s lap and relaxed against him, resolved to chill out from this moment forth.

  I woke to the thrumming of steady rain on the roof, a sound that would have been much more cozy and insulating if my husband wasn’t getting up to go to work, rather than snuggling with me under the covers.

  “Don’t go yet,” I murmured, still half-asleep, and then smiled as Justin thumped back onto the tangled sheets for one last kiss.

  “You rest more, baby,” he said tenderly. “I’ll see you guys at lunch.”

  Our bed was deliciously warm and I drifted back to sleep after Justin left, curled around a pillow.

  That’s strange, I thought. Summer shouldn’t be over yet…

  But Shore Leave was decorated as though for autumn.

  October probably, as the sky shone like polished cobalt, made all the more vivid by the contrast of the scarlet maples, the yellow-gold of the birches decked in their fall colors. The cafe was bustling with activity as I stood watching from the far edge of the parking lot. Somehow I knew I was supposed to be a part of the flutter but my feet wouldn’t obey my wish to walk forward. For a while, on the outskirts, I admired the scene in the afternoon light. Dead leaves rustled around my ankles; I could smell their musty, damp-earth scent. People seemed to be dressed up for an occasion and then I sensed my niece behind me, and understood.

  Camille’s wedding.

  I turned to smile at her and was instantly submerged in an icy wintertime lake, the freezing water closing over my head and stealing my breath. I floundered, helpless and terrified, unable to process the sight of Camille sitting on the grass with her spine curved like a wilted stem, wedding dress torn to shreds, the agony on her face catching me like a hammer to the heart. Beyond tears, beyond anything, her golden-green eyes ravaged by pain.

  What could hurt me now? She choked on the words. He’s gone.

  I whirled toward Shore Leave, sick with desperation. But I spied the groom and a ribbon of relief twirled around me.

  He’s not gone, honey. He’s right there. But then I squinted against the bright glare of the autumn leaves, and really saw.

  Noah Utley leaned over the porch railing, fair and handsome in his black tuxedo, hands curled over the top, looking out to us. His happiness was apparent enough that I needn’t be near him to see it; joy lit his face.

  Milla! It’s almost time, he called to my niece.

  Camille was at my shoulder then, her breath on my cheek. Aunt Jilly, don’t let it happen. Oh God, wake up!

  Wake up!

  “Mama! Wake up!” Rae blasted, almost in my ear, and I jerked to a sitting position.

  “Mom, you all right?” Clint was in the doorway, eyebrows arched high. He was fully dressed, toting his work boots, and I remembered that he started his new job today; Mathias had put in a good word for him and Clint was going to be training with the township forest fire crew.

  I pressed a hand to my clubbing heart.

  Just a dream. Not a Notion. That wasn’t real.

  “I’m just fine,” I told my son. Rae knelt on the bed and rested both palms against my belly.

  “Can we call the baby Mickey?” she asked, fond of choosing names for her little brother.

  Clint leaned on one shoulder in the doorframe, looking unconvinced despite my assurance.

  “Honey, do you still have to go even when it’s raining?” I asked, in an attempt to redirect his concern.

  He didn’t answer right away, still studying me with his blue eyes somber. “Of course. Rain or shine!”

  “I suppose,” I responded, catching Rae for a hug, blowing on he
r neck to make her giggle. Clint shoved off the doorframe and continued down the hall. I called after him, “Breakfast at the cafe if we hurry!”

  As it was Tuesday, I wasn’t scheduled to work lunch but Mom asked if I could pick up a shift almost the moment we clacked through the screen door. I shook out the umbrella, leaning outside to do so, while Rae shimmied out of her yellow raincoat. Jo and Matthew were already at table three, Jo sipping coffee and Matthew in his booster seat with a bowl of oatmeal. Blythe wasn’t working at Shore Leave today, as he would have joined them; when not helping out in the cafe, he worked several days a week in a cabinet-making shop on the outskirts of town, learning the trade.

  Clint thumped up the porch steps behind us. Almost before he sat down, Aunt Ellen set a plate of maple syrup-drenched pancakes, with a side of bacon, on the table in front of him. Clint was so spoiled; thank goodness his personality had never reflected that.

  “Thank you,” he said sweetly, digging in, and Aunt Ellen rested her hand on the back of his neck, bending to kiss the top of his head. Rae squirreled onto Clint’s lap and stole a piece of bacon, crunched a loud bite, and then dangled it at little Matthew, teasing him.

  “Rae,” I scolded, taking the final empty seat at their table. I helped myself to a strip of bacon from Clint’s plate, too, and he playfully stabbed at my hand with his fork. I leaned to kiss Matthew’s plump cheek and appropriated Jo’s coffee mug, stealing a sip.

  “Morning, Jills,” said my sister. Her hair was twisted up in a loose knot and she sat chewing on the end of a pencil, frowning at an open notebook on the table in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Homework?”

  “Making a list,” Jo said, and then looked up to meet my eyes. She heaved a little sigh and elaborated, “Tish and I are driving down to the Cities to shop for college stuff today.”

  “Oh,” I said, my eyes drawn to my own college-aged child, who sat shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Clint was usually in tune with my moods, even if he often appeared oblivious. But he was a good listener, an observer. Both he and Tish had been accepted to the University of Minnesota, and as happy as I was that they would be near one another and at a good school, I dreaded the thought of their looming absence from Shore Leave. I said to my son, “I suppose we’ll have to do the same here one of these days.”

  He nodded, watching me carefully, as though afraid I might burst into a frenzy of weeping.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Mathias heralded with characteristic cheer as he, Camille, and Millie Jo hurried through the door and out of the rain. Camille’s long hair sparkled with raindrops and the image of her from my dream, broken and despairing, came rushing back, unbidden. To distract myself I went to pour a cup of coffee.

  “I’m nervous,” Clint told Mathias, turning in his chair.

  “You’ll be fine,” Mathias reassured him, helping settle Millie Jo on a stool at the counter before claiming the one beside her. Camille paused to kiss the side of Mathias’s forehead before heading back to the kitchen to lend Mom a hand. Mathias held Camille’s gaze, a smile soft on his lips, and the heat between them sparked almost visibly. The sight hurt my chest.

  It was just a goddamn dream. It was not a Notion.

  “I was really nervous my first summer,” Mathias said, while Clint ate, listening avidly. “But you’ll do great. Just pay attention and be ready to work hard.”

  “Hey!” Rae yelped, as Matthew succeeded in snatching the bacon from her hands, stuffing it in his mouth with glee.

  “Serves you right,” Clint told her.

  “Matty-Bear, that wasn’t nice,” Jo scolded, but Matthew grinned around the bacon in his mouth, looking just like Blythe, and Jo melted like ice cream left on a sun-drenched picnic table.

  “Yeah, he knows how to work his mama,” I observed, stirring sugar in my coffee.

  “Jilly, can you work for your sister today?” Mom appeared in the ticket window to ask.

  “Sure, as long as Ruthie can watch Rae,” I said, lifting my eyebrows at Jo.

  “I’m sure that’s fine,” Jo said. “I suppose I better call them. They weren’t even out of bed when I left.” She caught up her phone.

  Fifteen minutes later my nieces arrived, Ruthann to watch the girls while Jo, Matthew, and Tish left for their day of shopping. Clint was hitching a ride to work with Mathias, but he caught me for a hug before leaving.

  “I know something’s wrong,” my son said, bending way down to put his chin on my shoulder. “You don’t fool me.”

  Clint looked so much like his father, and always had, but it was the sound of his voice that caught me off guard; if I wasn’t looking directly at Clint, I would have sworn that it was Christopher speaking just now.

  Aw, Chris, I thought, holding my long-ago husband close right along with Clinty. I hope you can see our son. He’s such a good boy, and you would be so proud.

  “I’m all right,” I whispered, even though normally I told him the truth. I added, as though justifying, “It’s this whole pregnancy thing.”

  But I could never fool Clint; he was right on that count.

  “It’s that lady who was standing there when I came to get the keys last night, isn’t it?” he asked. “That’s who Dad used to be married to. I remember her from when I was younger.”

  Surprised, I nodded confirmation of this.

  “Well, she looks legit skanky,” Clint said, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “What did she want anyway?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, realizing he needed to get going. “I backed the work truck into her car in the parking lot at Farmer’s Market and she wants Dodge to fix it up for her. She’s making a bigger deal than necessary.”

  “Did you hit her car on purpose?” Clint grinned at the prospect.

  “Of course not!”

  Mathias called, “C’mon, buddy, we gotta go!”

  I hurried to say, “Good luck today, sweetheart, be careful, all right?”

  “I will, Mom.” He kissed my cheek. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry. See you later!”

  I watched him and Mathias hurry across the parking lot in the sheeting rain, shoulders hunched, and reflected that sometimes it took a teenager to put things back into perspective.

  Chapter Six

  Rain, rain, go away, I THOUGHT AS I CLEARED A FOUR-TOP near the windows, hooking coffee mugs on my fingers, balancing plates. The pewter-gray sky had been weeping steadily all morning and I worried about Mathias out there in the downpour; the forest fire crew practiced and trained no matter the weather, and I hated the thought of him chilled and shivering without me there to warm him.

  Oh for the love, Ca-mille, I scolded myself, separating my name into two distinct syllables, as Mom did when upset with me. He’s just fine.

  But I let my imagination run wild with the countless ways I would warm him tonight, in our bed.

  “Milla, can you take the back booth?” Grandma asked, coming up behind me with a pale blue menu, laminated and single-sided, in her hands. “Jilly has her hands full at the counter.”

  “Sure, I’ll get right over there,” I said.

  A minute later I flipped to a new page in my order book, looking down at it as I paused at the booth to get a drink order.

  “Isn’t this Jillian’s section?” a male voice asked.

  I glanced up and realized it was the grad student from Moorhead, the one who’d barged into the cafe so rudely yesterday, when we were closed. He sat alone, wearing a Cardinals ball cap and a t-shirt with rain-drenched shoulders, stirring creamer into his coffee; clearly Grandma had been here with a pot already. His gaze flickered behind me, in the direction of the counter, where Aunt Jilly was working.

  “Nope,” I said, trying to hide the impatience in my tone. He seemed like an asshole, which was maybe an unfair assumption, but something about him reminded me of the boys with whom I’d once attended private school back in Chicago, in another life I had absolutely no interest in revisiting, even in memory. A sense
of entitled arrogance hovered about him. I all but snapped, “You need a minute?”

  He looked up at me, clearly amused. Watching my face like a scientist anticipating a big reaction, he observed, “You’re pretty young to be someone’s mother. Got started early, huh?”

  A frown drew my eyebrows together but I could tell my obvious shock only increased his amusement. For sure an asshole. This time refusing to disguise the acid in my voice, I announced, “I’ll come back when you’re ready.”

  “No, I’m ready now,” he said, with what was meant to be a teasing tone, I could tell. “Number five, please, with fries.” His eyes dropped from my face to my breasts and he leaned forward on his forearms. I took an immediate step away and he clarified, “I’m just trying to read your name tag.”

  “Well, don’t,” I muttered, wishing I could pour hot coffee right onto his lap. Without another word I turned from the table.

  “Thanks, Camille,” he called after me, emphasizing my name.

  Behind the counter I caught up with Aunt Jilly and said, “What a jerk.”

  Aunt Jilly, in the process of making coffee, looked my way and raised her eyebrows, asking without words what I meant. For a second I admired the true blue of her eyes. She was so pretty; she and Mom looked very much alike but I’d always thought of Aunt Jilly as a pixie, probably because she was petite and always used to keep her golden hair short, like Tinkerbell. Her face was delicate, tiny freckles skimming her tanned cheekbones, her soft lips shaped like a pink rosebud.

  “That guy from yesterday, I think his name is Zack,” I elaborated, thumbing over my shoulder. “He’s rude as hell.”

  Aunt Jilly’s expression changed, just subtly, but I knew her well enough to see something negative cross her features. She obviously sensed something off about him, too. She asked, “What did he do?”

  “He’s a garden-variety asshole, that’s what,” I said, reaching for a fresh coffeepot. “He reminds me of the rich kids I went to school with back in Chicago, needing to feel superior to everyone else.”