Barefoot Summer (6 page)

She swallowed her pride. When a McKinley was wrong, she apologized. “Sorry. I guess fear brings out the worst in me.” Might as well call it what it was. She wasn’t fooling anybody.

She felt his eyes on her, felt a wave of heat climb her neck at his continued appraisal. She wondered what he was thinking. If he was remembering the night he’d kissed her, or if it had been such a trivial event he’d forgotten it long ago.

“Everybody’s afraid of something,” he said softly.

Not him. He hadn’t been afraid of the teachers or principal in high school. He hadn’t feared the police or the juvie center. She’d watched him run speedboats on the river at a pace that made her palms sweat. And he sure wasn’t afraid of what people said.

She turned toward him, suddenly realizing how little she knew of grown-up Beckett. “What are you afraid of?”

His eyes fastened on hers. Something flickered there for an instant, something that made her look deeper. Something she was suddenly desperate to understand. But then he blinked and it was gone.

A shadow passed over his jaw as he turned away.

He stood, drops of water falling onto her shoulders. The wave of water pushed and pulled at her torso, and she braced herself.

He was looking into the clear blue sky, squinting at a hawk as it swooped down and landed on a high branch of an oak tree.

“You’ve probably had enough for today.” He stepped onto the shore.

Madison stood, only too glad to leave the water.

He threw the towel over his shoulder and snatched his clothes from the ground. She shouldn’t have asked a personal question. But she was feeling vulnerable and wanted company—was that so awful?

“Look,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t going to work.”

Not work? But what about the lessons she’d paid for? He’d said he wouldn’t teach her to sail until she was over her fear.
And clearly,
she thought, looking over her shoulder at the water,
I’m not over my fear.

Who else could teach her to swim? Her friend Cassidy would just tell her to jump in and get it over with. Mom was as afraid of the water as she; Dad had his hands full with the farm; Ryan was helping out every spare moment he had. PJ would be home for the summer soon, but she was flighty and impulsive—not the person Madison wanted holding her life in her hands.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, and if you’d rather not . . . I guess I’ll just . . . find someone else or something. But you seem to know what you’re doing, and I’d really appreciate it if you hung with me a few weeks. I can do this.”

She wasn’t sure if she was assuring him or herself.

He studied her in that quiet, thorough way of his. His gaze
warmed her clean through. She gathered her towel around her shoulders, making herself hold eye contact.

If she could just put aside their somewhat rocky past and focus on the present, she could get through this, and then she’d have what she ultimately wanted. That was the important thing. She just needed to keep the goal in sight.

He looked away, gave a deep sigh. “All right. See you next Saturday then.”

“Okay.”

He disappeared into the copse of trees, and then there were only the soft footfalls of his bare feet on the bed of pine needles.

CHAPTER SIX

B
ECKETT HAD BEEN A SENIOR WHEN HE
’
D FIRST NOTICED
her. It was a chilly September night, and Chapel Springs High School was playing the Columbus Bulldogs. Beckett, somewhat of a loner, had never attended a football game. But tonight his friend, crushing on a new junior, had dragged him along.

He and Pruitt hung out behind the bleachers, trying to decide whether to crash a party after the game or redecorate the old Weineker place with the can of blue spray paint in his trunk. Just before halftime they hit the concession stand for a snack. The crowd cheered as someone made a play, and a cowbell rang out. The air was full of smells—autumn leaves and mown grass—but it was the popcorn that tugged at Beckett’s senses now.

He saw her in the concession line, a few students ahead. She was laughing with a friend, a melodic sound that made him wish her friend would say something funny again. Her wide smile displayed a perfect set of white teeth set off by full lips that were made to kiss. She tossed her head, and her glossy brown hair shimmied over her slender shoulders. Her red sweater hugged her frame in all the right places, and a pair of trendy jeans made the most of her long legs.

“Who’s that?” Beckett nodded his chin toward her.

Pruitt followed his gaze. “The brunette? You know her—Madison McKinley. She’s a sophomore. Turned out pretty hot, huh?”

Beckett frowned. Last time he’d seen little Madison McKinley, she’d been in braces and little girl shoes. She’d grown up. Boy, had she.

He couldn’t seem to look away, especially when she laughed again. She had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. When it was her turn at the window, she leaned her elbows on the concession counter. His throat went dry. He’d have to spring for a pop now too.

“Don’t even go there, man. She’s a McKinley. Honor student, student council, class VP . . . You don’t stand a chance.”

“What, did you memorize her yearbook entry?”

He shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

Beckett might have a bad rep, but some girls were drawn to him. Probably just the rebellious ones though. Probably not a girl like Madison. Her family was solid. Shoot, her dad was the Charles Ingalls of Chapel Springs.

She stepped aside with her pop, slurped from the straw as her eyes flitted past him, then returned. She released the straw, staring back, and he felt her gaze down to the holes in his socks. She was way out of his reach, just like Pruitt said, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. She held his gaze for one long moment, until her friend elbowed her and whispered something. Madison turned and walked away without a second glance.

Once Beckett had noticed her, he saw her everywhere. She passed him between second and third hours in front of the biology classroom. He passed her locker before lunch, and if he took extra long at his locker before seventh hour, he saw her as she entered the gymnasium. Sometimes she’d see him too, and a pretty blush would bloom on her cheeks.

He didn’t know why he didn’t just make a move. He didn’t get shot down much, and even when he did, he didn’t really care.
But the thought of Madison turning up her pert little nose at him made his blood run cold.

One mid-September night his dad announced he’d found them some extra work. A felon, his dad took what he could get, and Beckett pitched in too. He worked on engines sometimes in the summer, but lately he’d had trouble finding part-time work. Seems his reputation preceded him.

When his dad pulled into the McKinley farm early the next Saturday, Beckett froze.

“This is where we’re working?”

His dad shot him a glance. “You too good to be a hired hand?”

His eyes scanned the house up the driveway. It was the kind of home you saw in movies, the happily-ever-after kind: a white two-story on a grassy knoll, a wraparound porch complete with a wooden swing and swaying ferns. Shade trees with low, thick branches, heavy with fall foliage, dotted the front yard.

Please don’t let her be home.

They worked all day in the hot sun, but he would’ve worked twenty-four hours straight if only Madison didn’t have to see him here working with migrants for minimum wage.

He scoffed at himself as he and his dad returned to their truck at the end of the day. Had he really thought he’d run into her out here? Like she’d be working side by side with the hired hands or something? She was probably in the house painting her nails or polishing up her acceptance speech for the honor society.

A few minutes later his dad turned the truck toward the house.

“Where you going?”

“The McKinleys feed the hired hands supper. Part of the deal—ain’t that nice?”

Beckett went cold inside. “Up at the house?”

“Backyard, I guess. Can’t fit us all inside, even in that mansion.”

Beckett balled his hands into fists, suddenly antsy. “I have to get home.”

His dad shot him a look. “Got time for supper. Not missing a good home-cooked meal—and I hear Mrs. McKinley does it up right.”

Beckett squirmed in his seat. He was ten kinds of sweaty. He flipped the mirror down. He had corn silk in his hair, for crying out loud. He pulled it out, wiped his face with dirty hands, and slapped the mirror back in place, his breath suddenly ragged.

When they entered the backyard, he scanned it for Madison but only saw the same men he’d worked with all day. Two picnic tables, set with checkered cloths and plasticware, were the nucleus of the yard. Around it a garden flourished with flowers, vines, and evergreens, and a cobbled walkway meandered through. Even in the yard he felt out of place in his muddy boots and dirty clothes.

He sank onto a bench between his dad and a big quiet guy he’d met only today. The screen door squeaked open, and Mrs. McKinley appeared carrying a pot. Behind her flowed other McKinleys. Ryan, the oldest, carrying a larger pot. The two younger girls—he couldn’t remember their names—the gypsy girl and the bubbly one with a ponytail.

Please, no. Not Madison. Not here. Not like this.

Despite his pleas, she appeared next, her twin brother on her heels. Beckett barely took in her navy T-shirt and white shorts before he looked away, tried to shrink behind his dad.

Maybe they’d leave the food and go. He watched Madison from beneath his lashes. She set the bread basket on the other table. Mr. McKinley stood, cleared his throat, and said grace.

After the prayer the McKinleys began serving the food. To
his horror, Madison turned toward his table. He put his elbow on the table, cupped his forehead. Maybe she wouldn’t notice him. She came around, serving each worker a roll or two.

She was behind his dad now. Beckett was next. His heart beat up into his throat. Someone said something, and he heard her melodic laugh.

Then she was beside him, brushing his shoulder with her elbow. “Would you like a—”

He clenched his jaw. Great. Just great.

He dropped his hand, then turned. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. Heat crawled up his neck. “Two, please.” He managed to keep his voice strong. No sign of the tremor that was spreading through his core.

“Hi,” she said, all breathy.

He nodded in her general direction, hoping the dirt on his face at least hid the flush.

She paused an awkward second before moving on. He looked nowhere but his plate for the rest of the meal, but he knew where she was every second.

It was a nice bit, serving the help, but it somehow only cemented the fact that she was different from him. He’d been a fool to dream of asking her out. A stupid fool.

From then on he tried not to notice her. But the more he tried not to, the more he saw her. Saw her laughing with friends, helping someone with her combination, giving an eloquent introduction at a pep assembly. And the more he saw, the harder he fell.

Then the next year he’d gone and sealed his fate. If there’d been a glimmer of hope of a future with Madison, it had vanished in an instant that hot summer day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
ADISON HANDED THE TREMBLING COCKER SPANIEL TO THE
middle-aged woman after she paid Cassidy.

“Bye, Princess,” Madison said to the spaniel, then addressed her owner. “Don’t forget the cotton balls when you bathe her.”

“Will do. Let’s go, sweet’ums.” The woman made her way toward the door.

“Don’t forget this,” Cassidy whispered to Madison, handing her the ear drops.

Good grief, she was losing it. She caught up with the woman and handed her the medication. “Let me know if she’s not better in a few days.”

Princess’s mommy said good-bye, then waddled out of the clinic, soothing the dog with baby talk. Her red wavy hair blended in with the dog’s shiny coat.

Madison turned to Cassidy. “Thanks. I can’t seem to remember anything these days.” She lowered her voice. “Dr. Richards asked me to cover for him tomorrow, and I forgot.”

“Whoops.”

“He saw the schedule this morning, and knew I spaced it. Can you call and reschedule some of my appointments?”

“Sure thing.”

Cassidy Zimmerman had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. Today the humidity had caused Cassidy’s
hair to form a mass rebellion against her straightening iron. She’d gathered it in a ponytail at lunch and now it stuck out like a bushy chow’s tail on the back of her head.

“Oh, and my grandpa has an appointment Friday at ten,” Madison said. “So when you make the reminder call, don’t forget to subtract an hour.”

“You and your wacked-out family.”

“I never claimed we were normal.”

When daylight saving time had been forced on Indiana, Grandpa refused to fall in line. While everyone else set their clocks ahead in the spring, his stayed right where they were. During the winter they all attended the late church service, but during the summer he showed up just in time for the early one. And for some reason, everyone else, including the clinic, accommodated him.

“Your last appointment’s in room two.” Cassidy put the check under the cash drawer and closed the register, arching a brow. “Guess who?”

“Not Bernie Schmidt . . . ,” she whispered. He was fifty-five if he was a day, and he hit on her every time he brought Flossy in—which was way too often.

“Nope.”

“Well, long as it’s not him, I don’t care.” Madison took the chart from Cassidy and felt her smile droop as she read the info sheet.

“Uh-huh.”

Madison arranged her features in a confident smile. “Good. Rigsby was overdue for his shots.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, McKinley,” Cassidy called as Madison walked away.

Around the corner she drew a deep breath, notched her chin upward, and entered the exam room.

She caught a glimpse of Beckett reading a wall chart on heartworm before Rigsby clambered toward her, claws scraping the tile floor.

“Down, boy!” Beckett grabbed the leash just in time. He nailed her with those dark eyes. “Sorry.”