Winter at the White Oaks Lodge Read online

  “Motherhood is tough,” Mom said. “No one can explain that to you. It’s something you just have to sink or swim at, sadly.”

  “Do you think I’m swimming or sinking?” I asked through a throat that was only a little choked.

  Mom dropped the bundle of silverware she was holding and immediately reached for my hand. Curling her fingers around mine, she said, “You are swimming and then some, sweetheart. Believe me.”

  “Sometimes I miss Chicago so much,” I said. Tears overspilled and I used my shoulder to swipe at them. “Sometimes I really miss Dad, too.”

  “Oh sweetie,” Mom said, coming around the table to engulf me in her arms. I clung to her unselfconsciously and breathed in her familiar scent, the peach-scented lotion she favored, Prell shampoo and what I could only describe as her skin. I thought about how my own daughter was learning my scent as I held her close while she nursed, absorbing these memories of me through her senses; someday I may be comforting her if she became a pregnant teen.

  Jesus Crimeny. Don’t get ahead of yourself now, I thought.

  Mom’s arms felt good and I tipped my forehead to her shoulder. She rubbed my back and murmured, “Your dad wants to come and visit next month. Or you and Millie could always go there to see him too. He’d love to have you, I know.”

  Mom and my dad didn’t talk regularly, instead choosing to communicate through email. I knew she was right, but the idea of driving all the way to Chicago with a crying baby made my stomach hurt.

  “I know,” I said at last, drawing back and scrubbing at my face. “I just get so emotional.”

  “It comes with the territory,” Mom said. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Grandma told me that you cry at night.”

  “Crap, I didn’t think she could hear me,” I said, as Mom took her seat again. I assured her, “It hasn’t been as much lately. Millie Jo has been sleeping more and more each night. I feel a little more human when I get at least four hours in a row. Not so much like crying.”

  “I still can’t believe that my baby is a mother,” Mom said. “But you are doing a wonderful job, I promise you I wouldn’t just say that.”

  “Thanks, Mama,” I told her, and she smiled at the name, straight out of my childhood.

  ***

  It was late evening and I was wrapped in the afghan from the back of the couch, alone on the dock. Alone with Malcolm Carter’s picture, that is, sitting and staring off to the left, in the general direction of White Oaks, which was built on the opposite shore of Flickertail. If I had one of our canoes handy, I could paddle over there and see it firsthand, the old log cabin in which he may actually have lived. I’d thought continually of that as Bull had taken me around their property, marveling that Malcolm might have pressed his palms to the same porch railing and had surely walked along the porch boards, slept within the same walls. I imagined him sitting on the shore of the lake and watching the moon rise over the water, the ivory path it made across the surface, rippling with the slightest motion on or below the water. Somehow I was sure he had admired it just as much as I did.

  I stuck one toe in the black nighttime water and swished a disturbance into the otherwise silken surface. Mosquitoes were thick as strawberry jam around me, so I withdrew my foot and tucked it back under the afghan.

  “It’s so pretty here,” I said aloud, though softly, as I could hear Mom and Aunt Jilly up on the porch of the café, talking and laughing about something. I reflected that I really did love it here in Minnesota, when just a year ago I had never conceived of living anywhere outside of Chicago. I’d considered myself a city girl, but a piece of my heart had always been here, in Landon, a result of all the summers spent at Shore Leave as a little girl. And now it seemed that this little boondocks town would be my home for the visible future.

  “It’s not so bad,” I whispered then. For at least a few minutes I set aside all my fears, the gnawing doubts about what I would do when Millie Jo started asking about who her father was, wondering why he wasn’t a part of her life. And what about finding a father for her, eventually? Though the thought seemed mildly repulsive now, given my appearance and my current living conditions, probably someday I would want to date someone. But what man in his right mind wanted to chance a relationship with a single mother? I knew it was a terrible thought to even articulate in my mind, but I couldn’t help but wonder. Men my age were starting their first year of college and probably weren’t even worthy of the title of ‘men’ anyway; ‘guys’ seemed more appropriate. Guys just turning nineteen were worried about who would buy them beer in their dorms at school, what hot girl would pay attention to them at a house party, possibly that they had a research project due. They wouldn’t look twice at a girl with a baby of her own, unless it was to speculate that they might get laid, because probably it meant that she was easy.

  Jeez, Camille, I reprimanded myself, as I was fond of doing these days.

  I brought Malcolm Carter’s picture to my lips and kissed him good-night, before tucking it under the afghan and then climbing the little incline back up to the café. It was late and my daughter would be waking for her first nighttime feeding in just a little while, back at the house with Grandma.

  ***

  “Noah’s here,” Aunt Jilly said, bending to my ear as I sat at table three with Clint, Tish and Ruthie the next morning.

  A flash of what felt like boiling water hit my heart and then proceeded to churn through my body, but I kept everything I was feeling from my face. Clint and my sisters were staring at me as though I was about to turn into a werewolf, with lots of writhing and bursts of hair and snarling. I felt like I could start foaming at the mouth and immediately cursed myself for even giving a shit.

  “He could have called first,” Tish said for me.

  “What a dick,” Ruthie contributed, and Aunt Jilly laughed in one surprised huff at this unexpected comment.

  Clint cracked his knuckles and said, “I’ll take care of him. Seriously.”

  Aunt Jilly raised her right eyebrow at Clinty and said, “That’s a nice thought, son, but he’s not worth getting in trouble for.”

  “You want me to tell him to get lost?” Tish asked me, rising from her seat, scraping the chair along the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard; or maybe things just seemed amplified because my adrenaline was rushing.

  “No, I’ll talk to him,” I said, rising unsteadily. At least I had showered last night, so my hair was relatively tame this morning, held back loosely on my neck with a large tortoiseshell barrette. I was wearing baggy faded jeans and a Twins t-shirt that used to belong to my dad, so I looked as fabulous as usual, but what did I care what Noah thought? I ignored the part of me that cried out in shame, wishing that his first sight of me in nearly a year involved me resembling a supermodel, complete with lots of tempting cleavage, giving him only enough attention to suggest my utter disdain. I saw him then, as I stood to my full height, crossing the parking lot with his hands in both front pockets of a pair of khaki-colored shorts. He was clad in a pale yellow, short-sleeved polo shirt and my first thought was, What an asshole. He even looks like one, a privileged jerk who borrows Daddy’s golf clubs.

  What had I seen in him in the first place?

  Oh, yeah. Possibly the fact that he’s handsome and charming?

  Aunt Jilly put her hands on my shoulders, lightly, and said, “Why don’t you meet him outside, hon, have a little privacy?”

  I nodded wordlessly and moved quietly through the porch door; he looked up at me as he approached the porch, the thick clouds in the alternately gray and white sky reflecting in his sunglasses. Slowly he removed them and offered, “Hi, Camille.”

  “Hey,” I said, and my voice was embarrassingly hoarse. I cleared it unobtrusively and then said, “What’s up?”

  “Can I see her?” he asked. “Mom and Dad have told me all about her. I’ve seen a bunch of pictures…”

  His voice trailed into nothing and my first instinct was to tell him to get lost. I studied his pale-
blond hair and familiar face, lightly tan and preppy-looking. He was lean and lanky, built like a tennis player. At last I said, “Sure. She’s at the house with Grandma.”

  We walked in silence, a good two feet between our bodies. He smelled the same, like the expensive cologne he favored; I couldn’t remember which brand. Like it mattered anyway. The scent turned my stomach now.

  “Come in,” I said, actually fairly relieved that he hadn’t attempted to apologize for anything. I wouldn’t have known how to respond anyway.

  Grandma was in the kitchen with Millie Jo; hearing me, she called, “Camille, just in time! Guess who’s hungry?”

  “Noah’s here with me,” I said in response, and I could actually hear the bubble of startled silence that instantly swelled over the kitchen at my words.

  Noah looked a little green in the gills, but I invited, “Come on,” and he followed me dutifully. Grandma was just lifting Millie Jo from her high chair; Millie was wearing a pair of bright green corduroy bibs, her dark hair beginning to curl these days. Noah stopped dead and stared at her; I moved forward and Grandma passed her to me. Grandma’s eyes were more eloquent than any words, but she refrained from offering commentary, only saying quietly, “Hi, Noah,” and then leaving us alone with our daughter in the kitchen.

  I carried Millie near, holding her up on my left shoulder, keeping my eyes from Noah’s face. I didn’t want to see what was present there, for better or worse.

  “She’s really cute,” he said, and his voice was a little deeper than normal. He cleared his throat and added, “Dad and Mom told me about how cute she is, and they really love seeing her.”

  What about you? I wondered silently, but didn’t respond, not about to offer him any assistance or support right now. He reached tentatively and patted her back.

  “Thanks for letting them see her,” he added.

  I gaped at him for a moment, so thoroughly disgusted that I could hardly respond. At last I said, cuttingly, “They’re her grandparents.”

  He shuffled uncomfortably; I clearly understood that he wanted to be anywhere but here. My, how times had changed.

  “Hi, Millie,” he said uncertainly at last, studying her as she stared right back, solemnly. For a second I wanted her to spit up all over him. Her diaper needed changing, as it felt squishy beneath her bibs, propped on my forearm. I debated passing her to Noah and suggesting that he give it a whirl.

  “She’s growing really well,” I said, to fill the dreadfully awkward silent void.

  “Does she crawl yet?” he asked, attempting to do the same, it was obvious.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I’ll be home this summer,” he said then, a paltry and pitiful offering. “I’d like to see her now and again, if that’s all right.”

  Even though I didn’t believe him, I said, “Sure.”

  And that was that; anti-climatic, ridiculous, probably even a little heartbreaking. I couldn’t fairly claim that my heart felt broken. Rather, despite how much I loved Millie Jo, my heart seemed asleep, in a state of hibernation, closed off somehow. Still holding Millie, I stood with her in my arms on the porch and watched as the taillights of Noah’s car flashed once in scarlet as he braked momentarily, before turning right and driving back towards Landon.

  Chapter Three

  December 2004

  “Do you care if Jake comes to our Christmas party?” Tish asked.

  I was helping her decorate the Christmas tree that Dodge had cut down to adorn the bar in Shore Leave. It was already decked in candy-colored twinkle lights; Tish and I were hanging popcorn strings, pretzels tied with red ribbons, and hardened gingerbread men. I’d already warned Grandma and Aunt Ellen that drunk people were going to try and eat our decorations, but they had just laughed.

  “No, why should I care?” I asked my sister.

  “He’s home from school and has been asking me about you until I told him to just call you for heaven’s sake.” I felt her censuring gaze but kept my own away, dutifully wrapping the popcorn-strung ribbon around the spruce tree, which smelled fantastic, pungent with the scent of sap and wintertime. At last Tish asked, “Why don’t you give him a chance?”

  I sighed, wondering how to answer that. The real bitch of it was, I knew Jake was a good guy. He cared about my family, he cared about me. Last spring he had made an effort to come and visit me frequently, hang out, let me talk unceasingly about Millie Jo, all without a single complaint. And all this last autumn he’d written to me on a regular basis, via email, wondering how Millie was doing and how things were back in Landon. He refrained from mentioning how much fun he was surely having as a freshman at university, instead lamenting politely that he missed me and wished I could somehow be there too. That I would love it, he was certain.

  Why, then, couldn’t I make myself like him more? Even just enough? Honestly, he was cute too. Cute and tall, nicely built. Undoubtedly he would make a far better father for any child than Noah Utley, despite the fact that the last thing Jake was considering right now was being someone’s father. As was his right.

  “I like him a lot,” I said honestly. “I just don’t like him like that, you know what I mean?”

  “I guess,” she said, though she was even more inexperienced than I had been at her age, content to be friends with boys but nothing more as of yet. I had heard about guys she “kind-of liked” over the years, but no one who stood out. She went on, “Just maybe like go on a date with him or something. I know if you asked him he would be so excited.”

  How to explain that I didn’t want to be the one asking? It seemed vaguely sexist to expect him to ask me rather than the other way around, but that’s what I wanted of a guy. I finally settled with, “If he asked me, I might consider it. But it’s hard for me to get away anyway. Millie Jo is still nursing and I leave her alone enough with Grandma or Ruthie when I have to work. I miss her.”

  “Just because you’re in love with a picture of a horse,” Tish said then, teasing me, but my heart thudded against my ribcage at her words.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m just interested in finding out more about him. And his horse. There doesn’t seem to be much information anywhere. It’s like being at a dead-end.”

  “What about all those letters Grandma found? Like from the Civil War?”

  “Those were incredible,” I said, and they really were, a dozen or so letters written between our own ancestor, Sawyer Davis, and his parents back in 1864. He’d been in the Civil War. Grandma thought he was the first Davis in Minnesota, and there was also a picture of him, an old brown-tone tintype, in the trunk. He had been handsome as hell and, surprisingly, a Confederate soldier, further stimulating my fascination. And somewhere along the lines there was a connection between him and the Carters, as Malcolm’s picture and a part of Malcolm’s letter was in the Davis trunk in our attic. Had they been friends? Neighbors? Bull Carter, who stopped out to Shore Leave especially for me last July, bringing a bunch of photographs he had unearthed, was not entirely sure either.

  “Camille, you want a job out at White Oaks, you just let me know,” Bull had told me last summer, on that visit. He was balding and not much taller than me, but stocky and with a very muscular torso, making it clear just where his nickname had originated. His real name was Brandon and in addition to running White Oaks with his wife Diana, he was a volunteer fireman for Beltrami County. Like Dodge, Bull had a roaring voice and joked a lot, but I could sense that he had a kind heart.

  “Maybe sometime,” I’d responded. “Thanks for the offer.” Then I added, half-jokingly, “Maybe I could rent that old log cabin from you.”

  “That place is a rat trap these days, sweetie,” he said. “You’d have to be as crazy as the boy to stay there.”

  He never referred to his son by name; it was always ‘the boy.’ Apparently the boy was getting a business degree and planning to settle in Minneapolis. Bull made it clear that he was upset at this decision.

  “The boy thinks he wants to stay in
the city. He doesn’t have the sense I raised him with,” Bull told me. “’Course, he’s always had an independent streak a country mile wide. I just hate that he’s so far away.”

  “The Cities aren’t that far,” I said, referring to Minneapolis and St. Paul, which everyone around here called the Cities and expected you to know what they meant. “It’s less than, what, six hours?”

  “You be the first to tell the boy that,” Bull said. “He can’t even make it home in the summers to see his mother! Busy at his job, he says.”

  I got the sense that the youngest Carter was maybe a little bit spoiled, and Tina, Glenna and Elaine had all referred to him as crazy at one point or another, but affectionately so.

  “Milla, are you paying attention?” Tish bitched at me, drawing me from my woolgathering. The country station we always tuned in on the radio behind the bar was playing ‘White Christmas.’

  “Sorry, what did you say?” I asked, refocusing on my sister.

  “Mom is planning this Saturday night for the party, here at Shore Leave. Grandma’s going to close the café. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Tish was actually gushing a little.

  “It does,” I said, mostly to pacify her.

  “Wear that red sweater that Dad just sent you for Christmas,” Tish insisted and I gave her a suspicious look, narrowing my eyes.

  “Why is that?”

  “You look so pretty in it. And you’ve lost a bunch of weight since last winter. You almost look like yourself again,” my sister told me.

  At least I could count on her honest opinion at all times. I realized that she meant this as a compliment and said, “Thanks.”

  “Except for your boobs. They’re huge! You look all out of proportion.”

  “Oh my God, Tish,” I said, shoving her shoulder. “Seriously? I’m nursing my child.”

  “Just wear the red sweater,” she insisted, taking a bite of a stale gingerbread cookie without thinking, then spitting it right out onto the floor. I laughed at her expression.