Sweet Waters (16 page)

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Authors: Julie Carobini

BOOK: Sweet Waters
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“Mel, I work for Nigel at the inn next door. We met right here in the diner, when he was playing a game of solitaire.”
Camille cuts in. “Nigel asked Tara for some advice, and the next thing I know, she's working for him.” She giggles.
Nigel's nodding. “And doing a mighty fine job, I must say. Betty says you've made her job easy. We have other systems that are in need of a makeover, so when you come in tomorrow, perhaps we can discuss them.”
Mel leans her head to the side. “Tara's efficient all right.”
Camille takes a sip of her water, as all the rest of her dishes have been cleared away. “It was Nigel who first told Tara and me that Josh was a fireman. You even said he was one of the bravest, didn't you?”
Nigel stirs his coffee. “That I did.”
Mel twiddles with her napkin. “He must be if he saved a woman from a burning building.”
Nigel savors his coffee, his bland expression masking his thoughts. “The bravest souls understand the fears that drive them, and they attack those fears. Relentlessly.”
Mel stills. “So you're saying that Josh is actually afraid of fire, but that he faced that fear when he ran into a burning house. Am I reading you right?”
I frown. “I don't think that's what Nigel meant. Maybe he just meant that Josh—that all firefighters—are afraid of losing what—or who—they are supposed to protect.”
Mel's forehead wrinkles. “And so . . . ?”
Camille takes her twelfth sip of water, her eyes constantly darting between the window to the outside and back to us. “And so his fear of letting someone die inside a house is bigger than his own fear of fires!”
We all got quiet, and look to Camille. Nigel continues to nod. “Lovely. Each of you has a very good head on your shoulders. Such a rare treasure to find, especially with television and computers taking up so much of young peoples' attention in these times.”
Oh, no, you don't.
No dodging the issue. “So which one of us is right about what you said?”
Nigel creases his brow. “That's not for me to say. I will say that you girls all appear to be quite brave, quite brave indeed.”
“Or stupid.” Mel gives me the bug eye, but Nigel's unfazed.
“On the contrary. Not many young women would pack up and move across the country to a strange place, such as you have done. It's charming that you all want to see the land your family once knew, and to experience it fully. I do hope you enjoy Otter Bay.”
Mel and I exchange a look, but neither says anything. Camille, on the other hand, is swooning over the beach life. “Never had views like this in Missouri,” she's saying, her eyes riveted on a surfer who's standing next to his old square-back VW and peeling a wet suit from his skin.
Mimi appears with Nigel's oatmeal and the check. Nigel furrows his brows. “Are you in need of this table?”
Our waitress keeps her eyes down while wiping our table with a rag. She applies so much elbow grease that beads of sweat appear on her cheeks and forehead. “Peg says she's expecting a crowd.” Mimi straightens up, then bends backward to stretch, and several joints pop. “But I'm not so sure.”
Mel crosses her arms. “A crowd? In Otter Bay?”
“Oh yes.” Nigel offers affirmation with a lifted coffee cup. “We have had our share of traffic, especially on art-show weekends. Wine tasting festivals often bring out the crowds as well. I'm not aware of any particular event this week, however.”
Holly careens toward us. “That's it!” She unwraps the apron from around her waist and tosses it onto our newly shined table. “She's more ornery today than a squirrel at feeding time. I'm supposed to be off now, but Peg thinks we're suddenly gettin' a crowd. She wanted me to work overtime—and it's only Monday! I just don't know what's gotten into her lately, but I'm not stayin' to find out. You ladies ready?”
Camille brightens. “For shopping?”
Holly nods. “Naturally.”
The girls say good-bye to Nigel, and file out. I linger a moment, and thank him for joining us. “You don't mind us leaving you here alone, I hope.”
“Not at all, my dear. Enjoy every minute with your sisters.”
I turn to leave, and just as I reach the front door an inkling draws me to take one more look at my new friend and boss. He doesn't notice me, though, because Peg stands over him, one crooked arm on her recently healed hip, her lips moving faster than one of those hammer-head rides at the county fair.
To dear Nigel's credit, his face shows as placid as ever.
I've got to ask him to teach me how to do that.
SIMKA'S SHOP RESIDES IN a pink-stucco cottage off Main Street on Alabaster Lane. Unfortunately, and despite its eye-drawing color, it's difficult to see because the road bends so that if you're standing at one end and looking up, her shop's tucked into the curve.
Inside, I immediately notice the smell. Oranges, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeate the place, as if we'd just walked into an out-of-the-oven winter pie. The second thing to stand out—and why I missed this I'll never know—is color. Everywhere. Come to think of it, the colors remind me of an array of desserts of berry and citrus, pumpkin even. So maybe the whole aroma thing was not by accident.
“Hey, girl!” Holly waves at a woman whose deep-purple dress contrasts stunningly against her porcelain skin. “I brought you some fresh customers.”
“Hello, ladies. Welcome to Simka's. How may I assist you today?”
Three index fingers turn my way. I twist my chin left, then right. “What? I don't really need anything . . . I'm really just window shopping today. Camille's the one who likes to shop.”
Holly puts both hands on my shoulders, and nudges me forward. “Tara needs some color. She has a date with Josh-u-a.” She draws out his name, her voice sounding both sultry and teasing.
Simka claps her hands together. “Oh how I love a mission! Let me see, let me see. Turn around now.”
I feel silly as I twirl.
Simka walks around me counterclockwise, one finger on her chin as all eyes in the room examine me like I'm an art project gone bad. “Why do you dress like a winter when you are clearly a summer?”
Camille rocks on her toes, obviously thrilled by the direction of this conversation. “Darn, I wish I had a pencil. I should take notes.”
Mel grabs a pad and pen from her purse and hands them to her. “Go crazy.” She turns to Simka. “Now I've always thought that with Tara's fair coloring she should go with brighter colors. She always wears such—”she fingers my sleeve—“such blah clothing.”
“Ironically, if the palette she wears is too bright she will appear horribly dull.”
Mel laughs, and I glare at her.
Simka cuts back in. “I was referring to her skin tones. Tara needs colors to complement her beautiful but pale tones. Mellow, but not blah—like beige or ecru, which hardly anyone wears anymore anyway—and definitely not black.”
Both Mel and Simka run their gazes along the lines of my black pedal pushers, which until now I thought slimmed me down. Camille's scribbling notes like I'm some sort of science experiment. She stops, rests the eraser end on her chin, then returns to her pencil scratching.
Simka roams the main showroom of the store gathering blouses, while the telltale sound of hanger metal chirps against display rods, then settles with a clink in her arms. Camille shadows her, and Holly trickles off to a scarf-laden room that probably once held a dining room set. Mel strolls around near me, her arms folded neatly.
She speaks quietly. “Funny. After your little announcement last night about going back, I'd never have guessed that you had a date set up with Mr. Wow. Maybe you're not all that into him.”
I browse through a rack of camisoles too sheer for comfort. So much for the proper foundation Holly went on about. “Guess I've had a change of heart.”
“What's he look like?”
I pause. “He's strong. And tall. His hair's usually messy, not like it's uncombed, but like he's just been out at the beach and only had time to give it a quick shake. Um, and he's got eyes that I can't explain exactly. Lots of color in them instead of just one. They're flecked in fall colors, like a kaleidoscope.”
Mel stares at me, her shoulders taut and her arms still tightly crossed. “You make him sound positively perfect. You're really into him, then.”
I shrug, unable to hide the hint of a smile. “Nobody's perfect, Mel. There's just something special about him, and he's easy to talk to so that's a plus. Please don't make more of this than it is, though, okay? I'm kind of nervous.”
She softens her stance, her arms now loosely folded. “You'll do fine. Dating takes practice, and you just haven't had much of that. Might as well practice on this guy.”
I stare after her.
What's that supposed to mean?
“Here we go!” Simka's arms hold a mountain of clothing. “I've chosen a plethora of outfits in hues to complement your skin, Tara. Simply a plethora! Lavenders and yellows, crisp whites and powder blues. And do not underestimate pink. Dusty pink, especially, would look marvelous on you.”
“There! You see?” I lift up one pinkly manicured foot and wave it for the whole room to see.
Camille's nodding and writing. “Score one for Tara. When you're right you're right, big sis.”
I'm ushered to a dressing room that's nothing more than a couple of curtains hung from the vaulted ceiling. But inside there's a narrow upholstered chair that oozes elegance and comfort, and calls to me for a respite, reminding me just how much I detest trying on clothes. Is there anything worse than being forced to examine your body as strangers watch your feet from beneath a swath of fabric?
I puff out a long breath, and remind myself this is all for a good cause: my date with Josh. Eliza Carlton never passes up the chance to go on a good power shop, so I rally, and dig into the pile finding denim. Unfortunately I don't share the world's enthusiasm for jeans. Oh, I love the way they look on other people, but me? They sag or hang or don't button. And the process of trying them on could put an otherwise positive soul into a deep, dark depression.
Instead I opt for a knee-length dress in silk, its fabric sliding over me like it's butter and I'm toast. Shoving the curtain aside, I step out in my bare feet.
Simka's nodding, Holly's cooing, Camille's bouncing on her toes, and Mel, dear Mel, wears an actual smile.
“Well?”
“That sunflower yellow is divine on you, simply divine!” Simka's clapping her hands, encircling me. “Those braided straps, that high waist . . . it's you.”
“Oh, it's super feminine, Tara,” Camille says. “I love it on you.”
Holly steps closer. “You would look so good in jeans with a pretty top, Tara. Try on the jeans and maybe that lavender one.”
She's so hopeful to find me in denim that I can't let her down. Back behind the curtain, I rehang the dress, silently giddy to find something that looks that good on me. Never would have chosen that for myself. Never, ever. Still skeptical, I tug on the jeans, surprised by how easily they wear. With a shrug, I slip the lavender blouse on over my head, thankful that it doesn't get stuck somewhere between my elbows and my head. Been there before, and let's just say, it wasn't pretty.
“Okay”—I step into the room—“this wouldn't be my choice but—”
“Tara has a butt!” Camille's giggling and bouncing again, declaring to the whole shop (thankfully we're the only ones in it at the moment) that, yes, I can claim ownership of at least one curve.
Even Mel appears surprised. “Tara's got her groove on all right. And look at your legs—they're so long and lean.”
“It's a miracle!” Camille is almost dancing. “I hope they teach me how to do that in school.”
I hold up both palms. “Okay, all right already. You've had your fun, let's move on, shall we?”
Holly and Simka laugh, their heads together as they watch us. “Now try the blue blouse with those denims, Tara. It's less billowy than the lavender, and I want your sisters to see how spectacular you'll look with a little more skin and a lot more cling!” She shimmies her chest when she says that, and I hope she didn't hurt herself. “And here.” She hands me a skin-colored lacey bra with underwire and padded cups. “You'll want to give the fabric something divine to cling to!”
I step back into the makeshift dressing area, a strange mixture of hope and trepidation filling my mind. While the girls continue to hoot and chatter from just beyond the thin curtain, I can't help but wonder who has higher expectations for my date with Josh. Me . . . or them?
Chapter Sixteen

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