Wild Flower Read online

  “Is Millie Jo staying with you or at Mom’s?”

  “At Mom’s,” Jo confirmed. “Camille said they plan to be back within a week. I hope that’s enough time. I think if she could find out exactly what happened to Malcolm Carter, she might rest easier.”

  “It’s important, I don’t know how exactly, just that it is.” I gazed into the darkness of the woods. The lantern threw a sphere of light that was broken by its impact against the house. The spruces rustled as though offering suggestions I didn’t understand; we both were startled as a crow called from somewhere near, raspy and insistent, invisible in the dark. I rolled my eyes at my jumpiness and changed topics. “It’s pretty wild that our ancestors might have actually known the Carters. Why else would something of theirs be stored in a Davis trunk in our attic?”

  “Wasn’t that interesting?” Jo reflected. “I’m so glad Mom found all that stuff. Seeing those pictures from the Civil War. And the letters.”

  “I know, I just wish there were more of them. Most must have been lost, or destroyed, or what-have-you. It’s crazy that our relatives migrated all the way from Tennessee back then. God, I wish I knew that whole story. How long would that have taken?”

  “Months, at the very least,” Jo said, tucking hair behind her ears. She abruptly straightened. “Shit. Before I forget, Dodge was at Shore Leave earlier. Did you by any chance break off someone’s headlight today? I should have called you right after supper, when I found out, but I got busy. And then Dodge was going to call you guys, but I said I would take care of it.”

  “What?” I’d almost forgotten that particular incident. “How did you—”

  “It was Aubrey’s car,” Jo interrupted me to explain and I stared at her in disbelief, surprised into silence. “Apparently she’s in town for a few weeks, without her hubby, and she was all in a tizzy, stopping out at the filling station and bitching at Dodge. He calmed her down, but she was demanding to see Justin.”

  “That bitch! What the hell? Where does she get off? Demanding to see Justin?”

  “She wants him to fix her car. She was acting like you’d done it on purpose.” Jo shook her head. “Dodge told her he’d fix it and basically to shut her trap, but you know how she is.”

  My skin prickled with restless irritation; I forced myself to relax the fists I’d unconsciously made. I all but growled, “Well, she can fuck right off. Dammit, I wish I would have flattened her stupid car. And here I was all nice in that note.”

  Jo laughed, unconcerned by my bristling anger. “Jilly Bean, calm down. I know it sucks, but what do you do? What about your car?”

  “I was in the work truck.” I sighed. “I don’t know if Mom even keeps that insured.” Normally it was only ever driven on Shore Leave property; I’d borrowed it to drive into town for groceries because the trunk of my own car was loaded with cast-offs I’d been meaning to donate.

  “Dodge will take care of it,” Jo said. “Don’t worry.”

  I was sure she was right. There was no reason to feel an additional swell of uneasiness.

  Chapter Two

  JUNE, 2006

  “OH, I LOVE HOW THAT LOOKS,” I TOLD MATHIAS, WHO was leaning over the schematics spread all over table three at Shore Leave. He looked up and winked, taking a sip of his root beer at the same time, then grinned as I flushed.

  “I love how that looks,” he said, his familiar voice full of suggestion, and I flicked his shoulder with one finger. I would not be distracted by him, no matter how sexy his lips, with their cupid’s bow curve and flanked by a dimple in his right cheek. His eyes were the same color as the deep-blue irises growing in profusion around the porch outside, flecked with gold, his black hair flattened from having been tucked under his fishing hat all day. His stubble was thick, a good three days past shaving.

  It was a lazy Sunday three weeks into the sunny, humid month of June and we felt justified in taking it easy today, after a crazy-busy week. Mathias had been working weekdays at the township forest fire station while I did lunch duty at Shore Leave, leaving us evenings and Sundays together; late yesterday afternoon, he’d helped me hang a hammock between the two oaks growing a few yards from the front porch of our cabin. Simply the words ‘our cabin’ filled me with promise and possibility; Mathias had obtained a permit from Beltrami County to start renovation on the little homestead back in May and we’d spent nearly every free moment there since, working our asses off. One of the first Carters to arrive in Minnesota had built the original structure in the late 1860s and it was our greatest hope to make the little place livable year-round—for the both of us, my two-year-old daughter, Millie Jo, and any babies that may join our family in the future.

  “Honey, you’re giving me those eyes,” Mathias said, and I moved around the table, unable to resist him; he shifted so that I could sit on his right thigh, hooking an arm around my waist and resting one hand against my belly. I looped my elbow around his neck and kissed his bearded jaw.

  “I’m just thinking of what we talked about last night.”

  “Me, too.” His lips were against my neck. “I haven’t thought of anything else all day. You can’t know how happy it makes me, honey.”

  “To have a claw-foot tub and a king-sized feather bed?” I teased. We’d also discussed these things, hoping to acquire them for our cabin before our wedding night, but what I truly meant was the way we’d decided that as of this week I would stop taking birth control pills.

  Mathias shook his head, a smile deepening the dimple in his cheek. “Yes. A king-sized feather bed. Where I plan to lay you down and make you my wife. That thought makes me the happiest man on the face of the earth, yes.”

  I slipped my hands down along his sides. “That sounds so traditional, almost biblical. ‘Make’ me your wife. As in, by brute force?”

  Mathias tried for an innocent tone. “I don’t think force will be required. If this morning was any indication, you seem fairly willing… excited about it, actually…”

  I giggled and stole a kiss.

  “God, you guys, get a room,” my younger sister, Tish, complained, coming up to our table. “You have a room, now that I think about it.”

  As of early spring, Mathias, Millie Jo, and I had been living in the apartment above the garage, which had been Aunt Jilly and Clint’s place before they moved across town to live with Justin Miller, back in 2003. Since then, Uncle Justin had built them a new house closer to Shore Leave, just around the lake, near the service and filling station where he worked with his dad, Dodge Miller; the service station had long been the Millers’ family business. Much like Mom and Blythe’s cabin, Aunt Jilly’s wasn’t large in scale; instead, as Aunt Jilly said, it was thoughtfully laid out. According to her, there were certain things you should never compromise on, such as an accessible laundry room, in which you could move with a laundry basket and avoid bumping your hip.

  Mathias grinned, acknowledging the way my sisters, Tish and Ruthie, and his—Tina, Glenna, and Elaine—often complained about our public displays of affection. He squeezed my waist before we turned to face my younger sister, who stood watching us with an air of long-suffering, arms folded. Tish’s thick, curly hair was stuffed into a messy bun and she lifted one dark eyebrow to emphasize her sarcastic statement. She was wearing a dark blue, halter-style bikini that exactly matched her eyes, but I knew she hadn’t intended that; Tish could not have cared less about clothes or cosmetics, barely knew the difference between her hair straightener and the hot-air dryer. Despite my best efforts to persuade her otherwise, she still wore sports bras, embarrassed by her breasts that wouldn’t seem to stop growing.

  I dearly loved my sisters and could not help but smile at her obvious irritation, earning another eye-roll.

  “Mom made me come get you guys,” Tish complained. Behind her, the screen door clacked as our youngest sister, Ruthie, and our cousin, Clint, followed in Tish’s footsteps.

  “Pontoon’s heading out!” Clint announced, resettling his baseball cap over his da
rk hair, shaved military-short for summer. “If you two are coming, that is.”

  “God, I can’t believe you guys graduated high school this year,” I said. We’d held the celebration just last weekend here at the cafe, for both Clinty and Tish. My dad, a successful lawyer named Jackson Gordon, and his pretentious second wife, Lanny, even flew in from Chicago; it hadn’t been the most pleasant experience for either Dad or my mom. At first, Dad had been his usual charming self, making smooth conversation and smiling at everyone (everyone except Blythe, that is), but as the evening wore on, he continued drinking and things took a gradual turn for the worse.

  Uncle Justin had stepped in and led him outside after Dad started slurring and referring to Blythe as ‘Jo’s ex-con.’ Probably to save face, Lanny collected their things and hustled Dad to their rental car.

  “Lanny’s clearly had her breasts enlarged again,” I’d told Mathias in an undertone that afternoon, before Dad proceeded to get drunk.

  In response, Mathias started humming our favorite Dolly Parton song from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; he adored finding any excuse to break into song, and did so whenever the urge overtook him. People thought he was crazy, and he was, a little. But he was also mine, and I loved him so much, so totally insanely completely, that it still stunned me. But nothing in my entire life had ever felt more right.

  “We’re coming,” I told my sisters, but didn’t budge, reluctant to move from Mathias’s lap.

  “It’s so pretty out, you guys should hurry,” Ruthie said, though she came near and began playing with my hair. “Uncle Justin is taking the motor boat, too.”

  “Dad said we could waterski for a while before full dark,” Clint explained.

  Everyone seemed to have a soft spot for Clinty, well deserved; he hadn’t an inconsiderate bone in his body. Over the past year he’d grown another four inches or so, edging up on Blythe, who was the tallest in our family. At present, Clinty’s frame was so lanky and lean he resembled a heron, all elbows and knees. Hearing him call Uncle Justin ‘Dad’ made my heart melt; I knew it meant a great deal to Justin, who wasn’t actually Clint’s father. I wished for Millie Jo to be able to call Mathias ‘Daddy’ but understood that it wouldn’t be fair to Noah Utley—as much as I truly resented considering the concept of fairness when it came to him.

  Three summers ago, Noah had been my first real boyfriend. I understood clearly, despite precautions intended to discourage it, that I was just as much to blame for getting pregnant. What I was unable to accept was the way Noah instantly retreated after I’d told him the news; for all practical purposes, he had abandoned me and our baby. I was not being overdramatic in that statement, as Noah wanted nothing to do with either me or Millie for nearly the first two years of her life. It was only since last Christmas, after dropping out of college and being forced into a rehabilitation center for his drinking that Noah began trying to see his daughter more regularly. But lately I was suspicious that he was drinking again; I’d told his mother last week, wondering if I would feel a spurt of retribution at this revelation, only to realize I felt nothing but pity and disappointment that my child’s biological father was choosing to make his life into a train wreck.

  “Hell yeah, that sounds great,” Mathias said at this announcement about waterskiing.

  “I get first dibs!” Clint said, earning a snort from Tish. She cried, “No way, you went first last time!”

  Ruthie was still busy braiding a few strands of my long, tangled hair, slim fingers flying. Ruthann was the baby of our family (not counting Matthew, Mom and Blythe’s son). It startled me sometimes to realize that Ruthie was hardly a baby anymore, having outgrown her preteen awkwardness. At fifteen, she was sweet-faced and softly beautiful, her gentle demeanor the exact opposite of Tish’s. Ruthie possessed the same hazel eyes as most of the Davis women, a cross between cedar-green and dusty gold, and the brown curls that all three of us had inherited from our dad.

  “When you get married your name will be Camille Carter. That sounds like a country-western singer,” Tish observed, as though just stumbling to this conclusion. She snapped her spearmint gum, hands planted on hips in an unintentionally belligerent pose, as though facing off with a jury. She demanded, “Don’t you guys think?”

  “I think it sounds like all my sweetest dreams coming true,” Mathias said, low and sincere.

  “Oh, barf,” Tish said.

  “No, it’s so sweet,” Ruthie countered, her tone adoring and wistful at once. She bent and kissed the top of my head, as though she was the big sister. “You guys are adorable. But we gotta go!”

  At that exact instant, Dodge blew the air horn down by the dock, sounding two elongated honks. The noise drew Tish, Clint, and Ruthie like the Pied Piper; seconds later I was alone with my man, and a second after that I was in his arms and we were kissing in a furious rush of need to be joined as closely as two people are able.

  “The bar,” I gasped between kisses, and he made his throaty, lovemaking sound in agreement, catching me up into his arms, my bare legs threading around his waist. Clumsy, stumbling against chairs, he carried me through the arch and into the semi-darkness of the bar, settling me atop a stool that was the perfect height for such things, skimming my swimsuit bottoms down my thighs; I was wearing a sundress over my bikini, and I freed one leg without breaking the contact of our lips.

  “Hurry,” I commanded, gasping as he slid all the way inside with the first thrust.

  He groaned, “You’re so wet, oh my God, you’re gonna make me come already—” and held himself deep, unmoving.

  He felt so good and I could never get enough of him; the hunger, the onrushing need, only increased with every touch. He drew out and plunged back within, and I moaned; he muffled the sounds with his kisses. I clutched his powerful shoulders and held fast. He growled against my neck as my body tightened convulsively around his and seconds later he came in a hot rush that could have very well led to our second child. My heart swelled at the joy of such a notion; Mathias was thinking the same thing, I knew; and he nuzzled my neck, whispering, “I’m so excited.”

  His tone was one of reverence but I could not resist the urge to tease, whispering, “You are so excited, love. I can feel it all through me.”

  His eyes opened and flashed into mine; his laughter threatened to uncouple our bodies and I giggled all the more, clinging tighter.

  “Camille!” Mom called from the porch, her footsteps rapidly approaching, and I squeaked, fumbling as we raced to scrape our clothes back into place.

  “I feel like such an animal,” Mathias muttered hoarsely, kissing me one last time. His blue eyes, flecked with gold, caressed mine as he thumbed a stray strand of hair from my lips. “No control whatsoever. Jesus, honey, I love you so much.”

  “Camille! Mathias! We’re leaving!” Mom insisted, inside the cafe now, and I tried to appear as not-guilty as possible as we reentered the dining room. Though she gave us a knowing look, Mom politely refrained from commenting on what was exactly what it looked like. Instead she announced, “Final warning!”

  Outside, the air was calm and perfect. Flickertail Lake lay like an unwrinkled silk tablecloth under the peach-tinted evening sky. I paused on the porch and observed the scene just down the incline from Shore Leave, where my family was gathered at the dock and in the water. Mathias stood behind me and hooked his arms around my waist, bending to tuck his chin against my shoulder. For a flicker of an eyelash I felt once-removed from time, struck with a sense of knowing even deeper than instinct, a sense that I was on the right path and, for this one moment, the universe had allowed me to glimpse it.

  But at what price?

  I shoved that icepick of a thought from my mind. I hated feeling like I couldn’t trust my own happiness. Was there a limit to the amount any one person was allowed? I couldn’t help but wonder. And what happened when the limit was reached, the tally marks totaled?

  Mom walked along the dock boards toward the pontoon, leaving wet footprints. Her lo
ng, golden hair hung in a thick braid; in her cut-off shorts she looked about twenty-five or so. Dodge, Grandma (corralling Millie Jo and Rae into their lifejackets), Aunt Ellen, Aunt Jilly, and Blythe were already on board, ready to chug around the rim of Flickertail at a top speed of about five miles an hour, a summer Sunday-evening tradition. Blythe was toting their son, my little half-brother Matthew, in a baby sling against his chest, and he caught my mom close for a kiss as she climbed aboard. Blythe’s hair was long again, because Mom liked it that way, and he had grown a goatee; we all teased him that he just needed to learn to play acoustic guitar to complete the look. (So far he’d progressed to strumming the G-chord that Eddie Sorenson of Eddie’s Bar had taught him). Blythe was my stepdad but I never thought of him that way. I considered him the man who made my mom happier than I’d ever seen her in my life, and though he wasn’t my father, I did love him for that.

  Aunt Jilly looked as pretty and pixie-like as ever despite being nearly seven months pregnant, curled into a lawn chair on the pontoon; she caught sight of us and waved, blowing a kiss. Uncle Justin, shirtless and darkly tanned, a red bandana tied over his black hair and his hands stained with motor oil, knelt to monkey with the outboard motor on his boat, which was anchored about thirty feet off the dock. Two pairs of water skis stuck out like misplaced branches from the stern. Ruthie, Tish, and Clint were in the process of swimming out toward it, their hair slicked back, laughing as their pale arms, not yet bronzed with summer tans, cut through the water like trout.

  “Carter! You want to ski you best get your ass down here!” Dodge yelled in his big roaring voice, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand, clutching a silo-sized can of beer in the other. His aviator sunglasses were settled like a headband over his bushy hair, as usual, and I sensed Mathias’s grin. We linked hands as we made our way down the lawn to the lake, Mathias lifting mine to kiss the ring on my third finger, the slim gold band that functioned as my engagement ring, engraved on its inner rim over one hundred and thirty years ago. Both of us believed the words inscribed there were originally chosen by Mathias’s ancestor, Malcolm Carter, though to whom the ring was originally intended to belong, we had not yet discovered.