Winter at the White Oaks Lodge Page 2

  I nodded, hugging both of them before collecting the afghan from the back of the couch, wrapping it over my shoulders and then climbing carefully up to the second floor. Grandma’s room was dim in the early morning light, so I clicked on the bedside lamp. This space was comforting in the same way that smelling the scent of my mom’s robe would be, familiar way down deep in my soul. Grandma’s bed was made with her favorite old quilt, a tattered patchwork that her own grandmother, Myrtle Jean, had pieced together decades ago. Grandma’s mother, Louisa, who we had all known as Gran, had passed away last summer, and I missed her deeply. I still hadn’t gotten used to being at the café without seeing Gran sitting at her usual table, drinking coffee or an occasional cocktail, motoring around with her cane and giving all of us the best advice we could imagine. A word from eighth-grade vocab came flashing back to me. Unflappable. The ability to maintain composure in all circumstances. That had been Gran all right.

  I saw the trunk near the foot of the bed, centered on the braided rag rug that adorned the otherwise bare wood floor. I felt a beat of anticipation; it looked old, and I lowered myself with care, settling so that my lower back didn’t ache too terribly. My baby was currently elbowing me. As I watched, I could see the tiny point under my belly, moving along as though she was trying to break free. I would never get over how incredible it was to feel a living person inside of me. With a smile lifting one corner of my mouth, I pushed gently upon the little elbow, easing it into a more comfortable position. As in, not poking me.

  “Look here,” I spoke to her, as I liked to do, but only if no one else was around. “It says ‘Davis’ on this trunk. That’s our family’s name.”

  With wonder, I ran my fingertips over the word, which had been carved into the leather buckling strap as though with a knifepoint. The hinges creaked and once the lid was open the scent of leather was released like a genie from a lamp. With a growing sense of wonder I studied the contents, contemplating what to touch first. Pictures, I decided. There were several small frames, one lying upside-down and cracked with age. I was drawn to that one in particular for whatever reason, and when I lifted it and parted the sides of the old hinged frame, a shiver spiraled up my back.

  Immediately I turned the frame over in my hands and searched for a way to free the photograph. I released the tiny metal clasps and slid loose the image, slightly alarmed at my haste. I only knew that I wanted to see it again as fast as possible. There was a date scrawled on the back, and the words Me & Aces. Beneath that, Carter and 1875 were written with the same strong hand.

  “Holy shit, this is old,” I said to the baby. And then, apologetically, “I don’t mean to swear, but this is pretty awesome.”

  I flipped over the picture, which was so fragile that the edges were yellowed and curling up on themselves; there had been no protective glass in the frame. I would be sure to find a dictionary or some other equally weighty book in which to press it tonight, see if I couldn’t flatten it out a little. And then I was studying the image at close range, my heart suddenly thumping hard and insistently. I felt an unexpected flash of excitement mixed with intrigue, the way I used to as a little girl when Tish and I were into Scooby Doo and had tried to find mysteries to solve every other second.

  “Is Carter your first name, or last?” I wondered softly, tracing his face with gentle fingertips.

  The picture was beautiful, sunset somewhere in 1875. Here? Near here? It was tough to pinpoint a location; I was only certain that it was evening, as the long beams of a gorgeous mellow sun were backlighting both man and horse. Something about the way he was smiling made my heart simultaneously throb hard and ache with something I could not begin to articulate.

  “And your horse,” I murmured, my fingers still lingering on him.

  Perhaps five years older than I was right now, he stood with his left arm hooked over his horse’s neck, looking at the animal with a smile that was both fond and unconsciously sexy. Hatless, sleeves rolled back over lanky forearms, a casual-seeming grace that was apparent even in the photograph. Though the image was in black and white, with the yellow tint of age, I painted in the colors from imagination. Dark hair, blue denim, his horse a lovely auburn. As my eyes lingered on the man’s face, I felt a jolt of what could only be acknowledged as physical attraction.

  Wow, Camille, that’s just great, I thought sarcastically. The first time you feel drawn to someone in months and it’s a man from 1875, possibly even more unreachable than Noah Utley.

  “Who are you?” I wondered aloud, reluctant to set down the image. At last I gave in, wanting to continue exploring the contents of the trunk. If anyone would know who he was, Grandma would, and so I set aside the photograph with utmost care, angled so that I could look over at him and Aces, his horse, posing at sunset on that long-ago evening. Who had taken the picture? What was happening just outside the edges of the image? Who had been with him as the sun sank? I was overwhelmed with curiosity. My baby kicked a few times, as though to insist that she was besieged with the same desire to know more.

  “Let’s look some more,” I told her, patting my belly. With my free hand I rummaged carefully, my heart increasing in tempo as I withdrew a letter, folded three times as though to slide into a business-sized envelope. The paper was heavy, also soft and browning with age, though the ink appeared crisp. I didn’t think I was imagining that the handwriting looked the same as that on the photograph. Heart hammering, I unfolded it.

  “Oh no!” came flowing from my lips and I was startled at the level of distress in my voice. The entire middle of the letter had been spilled upon, creating a pinwheel of indecipherable black ink. I held it up and tried to read what I could anyway.

  July, 1875

  Bozeman, Montana

  Dear Lorie-Lorie,

  I cannot begin to tell you how terribly I miss everyone. I’m thinking of when we rode on the wagon from Missouri, sitting there talking about hoop snakes and how hard you laughed at my stories. It seems like yesterday. Aces is familiar at least, my boy, and I’m right glad he’s with me, far as I am from home. I just wrote Boyd as well, but give kisses to everyone for me, please do. I’ll be home by next summer, I do believe. I’ll do my best. What I’m hoping for seems within reach for the first time since

  “Since when?” I gasped. “Since what?”

  The letter was a blurred mess after this word, until the very bottom, where he’d written his name with such a flourish that try as I might I couldn’t tell what followed the letter M except loops and swirls.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” I asked the photograph, not feeling foolish for addressing him in this way. It seemed natural. “It’s you and you were far from home. Why? What were you doing? Who’s Lorie?”

  “Milla! Your hot chocolate’s ready!” Grandma called from downstairs.

  “Coming!” I called back, rolling awkwardly to my knees and then using the edge of the mattress to stand. I imagined myself unflatteringly resembling a penguin as I collected the photograph and letter and proceeded back to the kitchen. The trunk was full of other things, but I had the two I wanted most at the moment.

  Grandma was frying bacon and I could smell toast. Aunt Ellen was on the phone, sitting at the kitchen table with her feet propped on the adjacent chair. I waddled up to the stove and almost begged, “Tell me who this is.”

  Grandma tipped her chin and squinted, her lips pursing again as she regarded the image. She said, “Cute, that’s for sure. I have no idea under the sun, sweetie, sorry. Does it say on the back, maybe?”

  Eagerly I showed her the words and then presented the letter, tucking the photograph under my chin to do so.

  “I can’t make out his name,” I said. “Something with an M…”

  “It says ‘Carter’ on the back,” Grandma mused. And then, “You know who to ask is Dodge. He’s cousins with some of the Carters around here, who’ve been in Landon area for generations. Bull Carter, you know, who runs White Oaks across the way. Next time they’re here, ask them.�
�

  “But that might not be until next week!” I protested, and Grandma raised her eyebrows at me. I took my voice down a notch and added, “I’m just really curious is all.”

  “We’ll see Dodge tonight when he brings the triplets. We’ll ask him,” Grandma said, referring to Dodge Miller, Uncle Justin’s dad, who had run the filling station around Flickertail Lake since before I was born. He also helped out at Shore Leave, performing of a number of the heavy tasks that proved too much for Grandma and Aunt Ellen, such as mowing and hauling the dock out of the water before the lake froze. Although these days Blythe and Uncle Justin took care of most of those things.

  I spent the day helping Grandma bake snickerdoodles and banana bread, of which I ate half a loaf spread with butter before it had even completely cooled. No wonder I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. (Having just recently watched Ghostbusters, he was on my mind.) Before evening I changed from navy blue sweats into gray ones, tugged a clean maternity t-shirt over my double-D bra, as I’d accidentally dribbled grape juice onto myself earlier, and collected the bristle brush from my nightstand, right beside where I’d propped the picture of M-something Carter and his horse. For the hundredth time today, I paused to study them, and then ran my fingertips over the letter, likewise lying near. I sighed a little and then wandered to find Grandma and asked if she’d braid my hair.

  “Of course, sweetie,” she said, pausing in her task of wiping down the counter. She seated me at the kitchen table and worked the brush through my curls. Her hands were gentle and the touch sent prickles along my nerves, relaxing me. I loved being touched this way, so tenderly. She said, as she always did, “You have such lovely hair.”

  Grandma was so dear. She never bitched at me for eating too much, or suggested that I refrain from drinking a mug of coffee in the mornings. She brushed my hair almost every night and told me stories about when Mom and Aunt Jilly were little. Outside the sky had darkened from a silvery tin to pewter gray as evening came creeping. Snow was mounded along the house and the café in great rounded drifts, taller than me in some places, with no sign of retreat anytime soon. Flickertail was a solid blue-white expanse of ice and Pam Tillis was singing on the radio. I had never spent the winter in Minnesota; it was harsh and we were basically snowed in all the time, but I found it oddly peaceful. I was either acclimating to my new surroundings or I was slowly losing my mind.

  No more crying, I ordered myself harshly as Grandma braided with skillful fingers. Everyone will be here soon and you can’t act like a child.

  Another part of me whined, But you are a child, really. You’re not a mother, not by a long shot. You fooled around last summer and this is what happened. And you’re stuck with it. And that son of a bitch is off at college in Madison as though none of this has happened.

  It stung like hell, I couldn’t pretend otherwise. Despite that fact that Noah’s parents were kind to me and made an effort to stop out to Shore Leave at least twice a month, I had not heard a word from him. After I’d told him the news last summer, he had shown signs of instant retreat. In one of the most cruel and cowardly displays I’d ever been forced to experience, he’d told me he would pay for an abortion.

  “I’ll kill him for you,” Clint, ever chivalrous, had told me then. “Seriously, Milla, I will. I’ll find a way.”

  Tish had been in on this vengeful plot as well, chiming in with, “We can figure out a way. No one will ever know the difference.”

  Now, eight and half months into pregnancy, I found myself wishing that I had perhaps taken them up on their offer. Although it wouldn’t get me any closer to providing my child with a father.

  She has you. You’re who she needs, not him. Fuck him, I reminded myself, but it was cold comfort, at best. At least my own father had stuck it out with my mom for years. He’d married her.

  “Your mother’s here,” Aunt Ellen called then, peering out the windows as headlights came beaming down the driveway. Grandma patted my head, finished braiding, and went to welcome everyone. Moments later the house was inundated with Mom, Tish, Ruthie and Blythe. My sisters came running to me at once, Ruthie patting my belly and Tish hugging me around the shoulders. They always acted like they hadn’t seen me in ages, which melted my heart, even though I pretended to be annoyed as Tish inadvertently stepped on my toes. Tish is the only one of us who doesn’t have the golden-green Davis eyes. Hers are like Aunt Jilly’s, electric-blue and thickly lashed. She had grown out her hair since last summer and it touched her shoulders now, curling like coiled springs. Ruthie, my youngest sister, crouched near my chair and smiled up at me. Her summer freckles had faded away and she was adorable as ever, would always be my baby sister despite the fact that she had just turned thirteen in January.

  “Milla, you look pretty,” she said, and I rolled my eyes in pretended exasperation.

  “As if,” I said. “I look like a whale with zits.”

  “Jake came too,” Tish leaned close to murmur, and immediately I felt my teeth go on edge.

  “Seriously?” I yelled in a whisper. I knew Mom liked their neighbor boy Jake McCall, but these days it was as though he’d been inducted into our family. Tish joked that he was our personal Theodore Lawrence, like from Little Women, but I didn’t share this opinion or find that funny. The worst thing was, I knew he liked me and nothing, including my pregnancy, my terrible attitude and my habit of working to discourage any such feelings, had dissuaded him yet. I raged, still quietly, “Where’s Mom?”

  I meant to accost my mother in private, but when she came into the kitchen to hug me, all of that drained away. Instead I marveled at her, this woman I’d known my entire life, looking totally gorgeous, even dressed as she was in a big black parka with a furry hood. Her golden hair spilled softly over her shoulders and she was wearing a short green skirt and high black heels.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said, rocking me side to side in her puffy coat arms. She drew back and smoothed a stray hair from my face, asking, “How are you today? I like how Grandma braided your hair.”

  “Fine,” I said, and had opened my mouth to bitch about Jake when he came barreling into the kitchen carrying a LIFE game box, grinning widely at me.

  Jesus Crimeny, I thought uncharitably.

  “Hey there, Camille,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said quietly.

  “How are you doing?” he asked next.

  “Fine,” I replied shortly, without an answering smile.

  Tish, facing away from everyone else, sent me a message with her eyes, saying clearly, Lighten up!

  Blythe came into the kitchen behind Jake just as the front door opened again, emitting a blast of cold air along with Aunt Jilly, Uncle Justin and Clinty. Clint threw his stocking cap to the side and darted into the house to grab a handful of snickerdoodles.

  “Hi guys,” he said with a full mouth.

  “Hey there, little buddy,” Blythe said, catching Clint around the neck and knuckling his head with affection. Everyone loved Clint. Blythe towered over all of us, despite Clint’s recent growth spurt. Blythe was wearing faded jeans and an indigo-blue coat and was growing out his hair because Mom liked it that way. Of course his eyes were on Mom, admiring, though he managed to pull his gaze away to say to me, “Hi, Camille.”

  “Hey,” I responded, as the door slammed open once more and the final guests arrived, Uncle Justin’s little sister Liz, her husband Wordo, and their triplets, Fern, Linnea and Hal, who were Ruthie’s new best friends. Dodge, Justin and Liz’s dad, was with them, roaring like a bear about something in the entryway. I had to smile, despite everything.

  “Camille, I had a dream about you last night,” Aunt Jilly said, squirreling through everyone and into the kitchen, moving gracefully in spite of her protruding belly. Aunt Jilly was smaller than Mom, though otherwise they resembled each other closely. She was adorable, pink-cheeked and with her silky golden hair nearly to her shoulders these days, same as Tish. She took my face lightly in her warm hands and I felt a little jol
t. She said with certainty, “You’ve met someone. Or…” she tipped her head and narrowed her eyes as though in speculation. “Or, you’re on a course to meet someone. Something’s changed.”

  “I don’t exactly get out much,” I reminded her, though my pulse had already started increasing. Immediately I thought of the photograph. I considered replying, Yes, I’ve met the perfect man. Problem is, he’s been dead for probably eighty years. If not more.

  Aunt Jilly pursed her lips just like Grandma and said, “Doesn’t matter.” For a second I wasn’t sure whether she was responding to my unspoken response or not.

  “Honey-love, I can’t find the tickets,” Uncle Justin said then, coming behind Aunt Jilly and catching her around the waist. He planted a big smoochy kiss on her cheek before saying to me, “Hi, Milla. You look ready to pop.”

  “So sensitive, this one,” Aunt Jilly responded, smacking his ass though her blue eyes were fond. “But I love him anyway.”

  Uncle Justin had been burned really badly in an accident in his mechanic shop years ago, leaving his face terribly scarred all along the right side, but I had been around him long enough that I barely noticed it anymore. Like Blythe, he too was a good guy, and I could only dream of finding a man who looked at me the way that he looked at my Aunt Jilly. I could almost feel the residual heat from his gaze as he regarded his wife with a lazy grin.

  “Heaven knows where I’d be if you didn’t, baby,” he said.

  “We’ll see you in the morning,” Mom said then, coming to kiss my forehead. “Have fun tonight.”

  Tish and Ruthie gave her and Blythe hugs good-bye before all the adults other than Dodge, Grandma and Aunt Ellen proceeded into the snowy night to enjoy Valentine’s Day. They were driving into Bemidji for dinner and drinks. And apparently something that required tickets.

  “Who wants to play?” Jake asked the room at large, hefting the LIFE box high into the air.

  Clint, Ruthie and the triplets all galloped after him, setting up the board on the kitchen table while Grandma began loading cookies and banana bread onto snack trays. Dodge followed Aunt Ellen into the kitchen and boomed, “Camille, sweetheart, haven’t you had that baby yet?”