Sweet Waters (4 page)
Authors: Julie Carobini
My seatmate laughs, the hearty sound doing what the noise of wheels landing on tarmac could not seem to manage: wake Camille. Claire and I look over at my groggy cousin, and Claire has the grace not to mention the trail of drool staining Camille's chin.
“I wouldn't think of judging you! That would invite all sorts of trouble, now wouldn't it?” She laughs again. “Jesus says I'd have to take the plank out of my own eye first!”
I shrug. “If you say so.”
The voice of our pilot alerting the flight attendants that we're about to taxi to our gate slices the air above us. Silence settles over us as the plane's belly rumbles beneath our feet. Soon that familiar bell rings to let us know that we've arrived, setting off a cacophony of sounds: clicking metal, the crank of overhead bins being opened, children asking a myriad questions, a lone baby's cry.
As I roust Camille, Claire touches my arm. “I've enjoyed your company, Tara. Very much. Have a blessed trip together, you and that precious cousin of yours.”
Camille stifles a burp as she yawns. She hunches her shoulders and gives me a guilty grimace.
“Thanks, Claire.” I smile at her, as she gathers up a stack of books she never had a chance to read. “I've enjoyed talking to you too.”
Outside I breathe in the smoggy LA air, its smoky haze a sign that we're just a few short hours from our destination. I settle my sights on the concrete garages stacked like government housing. They hold cars for thousands of people just like me, people traveling to far-off places in search of something better or a long ago memory, or just something
else.
Like I imagine them to feel, I can't wait to see what lies at the end of this road.
else.
Like I imagine them to feel, I can't wait to see what lies at the end of this road.
Chapter Four
Nothing has changed. Well, almost nothing. More inns than I remember line the meandering road that abuts the beach, and I don't recall ever seeing that sculpture of frolicking otters nestled in among the pines as we entered Otter Bayâyou'd think that as a six-year-old I would have taken note of such a thingâand the area appears much smaller than I had envisioned it . . .
But otherwise, nothing has changed.
It's Sunday morning, and the ocean beyond me rolls and stretches as if it slept in late too. Camille still slumbers beneath a pile of blankets in our cozy room at the inn, but I couldn't wait and headed out for a walk at the first burst of light. The air surprises me with its sharp chill, and yet mingled scents of pine and scrub and ocean wrap themselves around me like a welcome-back hug, comforting me. I stop and rest against a wooden railing, the only thing standing between me and a rocky cliff hanging over the sea.
My cell vibrates against my bum, where I've stored it in my pocket, and a quiver of guilt creeps in. I realized on my walk this morning that I should've been straight with Camille about this trip. She may act young and seemingly directionless, but she deserves to know that while we always have Missouri to fall back on, now that I'm finally here, well, I don't want to leave.
Being here again after so much time away, immersed in the familiar smells and the warmth of the town of my birth, makes me want to pull out the yellow pages and find someone, somewhere, who remembers the Sweet family. Mother was vague about that prospectâtoo many years had passed, she saidâbut I suppose that a woman in love who is about to embark on the adventure of her life with a man as vigorous as Derrick might have other things on her mind.
Don't go there.
I open my phone. “Good morning, Camille.”
I open my phone. “Good morning, Camille.”
“Hey,” she says, her voice groggy. “I'm kinda hungry. You coming back soon?”
“I could.”
“Okay. Hurry, 'cuz I'm starved.”
I slide the phone into the pocket of my windbreaker. She went from hungry to starving awfully fast. She can eat six square meals a day and not gain an ounce. Definitely unfair.
After one last look at the water, I head back along the narrow boardwalk to the old inn we checked into last evening. Betty, the elderly clerk at the Bayside, as the lodge is known, couldn't hand us the key fast enough. We should have been here by afternoon, but Camille had wanted to “star” watch in Malibu, then splurge in some of the shops and grab some Chai on the famed State Street in Santa Barbara. By the time we made it this far north, we had eaten our way through much of Southern California, and I for one had little energy left for anything but sleep. I awoke this morning, tucked into crisp sheets wearing nothing but my undies, proving once again that I'm doing all sorts of new things these days.
Camille stops me at the door of our room. “Yippee! You're here. Let's eat.” We walk back outside and around the corner to a small diner attached to the inn. Inside, the Red Abalone Grill gleams.
As I glance around for the hostess, Camille grabs my wrist, her eyes wide and dramatic. “Do you smell that or what! This place is my new best friend, Tara. C'mon, let's find a seat.”
We slide into a padded booth, and a waitress with strawberry blonde spirals flits by carrying a coffee pot and a contented smile. She pauses just long enough to drop off two menus before sliding from table to table in our row, pouring coffee and refilling creamer bowls with stash from the front pocket of her apron.
Camille shuts her menu. “So I'll have the large stack with the Texas scramble . . . and two crêpes with the silky cherry sauce.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the crêpes aren't on the menu, but I saw them on the board when we came in. Over there.”
She points at a white board situated above a counter that's one part retro, one part country, and one part diner dive: Formica top with aluminum trim, oak-trimmed stools, and the customary red and yellow condiment bottles for accent. The eclectic décor hasn't done a thing to dissuade customers, as nearly every stool is filled. A portly woman moves fast, like an overstuffed hummingbird, delivering meals and shouting orders to the cooking crew behind another taller counter.
Our waitress appears with pad in hand, and Camille's ready. While she rattles off her man-sized order of carbs, I glance out the window in time to see a spray of surf ricochet off a collection of boulders. Some of the droplets land in spots on the flat dirt pad at the edge of the street and some on a jogger running by, who tries without success to dodge them. He's about the same height and build as Trent and, for just a moment, I think I'm homesick.
A silence-shattering crash of dishware, followed by a string of words fit for cable TV startles us. Our waitress yelps, shoves her order pad into a pocket, and quickly excuses herself.
Camille grunts. “That didn't sound good.”
I nod, distracted by the noise, and it's then that I notice him. Has he been in here all along? Just as our waitress flies kitchenward, the man springs from his stool and in one leap lands behind the counter, his black T-shirt molded to his back and pulled taut between his shoulder blades. When he squats below the counter, a few wavy tufts of golden hair peek out over the top.
Camille leans across the table until I can smell the citrus fragrance of her shampoo. “Hot guy alert. Is he some kind of superhero, or what?”
I shake my head, still aware of the growing commotion going on behind that counter. “Maybe someone's really hurt back there.”
When I move to stand, Camille places a hand on mine. “C'mon, don't, Tara. We're on vacation. Let someone else help out for awhile.” She glances toward the kitchen where a group has gathered, their faces focused downward. “Looks like they've got plenty of help over there anyway. We'd just be in the way.”
I chew the inside of my lip. Camille still thinks we're just visiting. Enjoying a long respite. This is not
my
intent, of course, and I do want her to take part in the decision to make Otter Bay our new home. Eventually. Anyway, until we decide this for certain together, she's right, we
are
just on vacation. Still, what could it hurt to walk over and just make sure that whoever's on that floor right now will be able to get back up?
my
intent, of course, and I do want her to take part in the decision to make Otter Bay our new home. Eventually. Anyway, until we decide this for certain together, she's right, we
are
just on vacation. Still, what could it hurt to walk over and just make sure that whoever's on that floor right now will be able to get back up?
“Be back in just a second, Cam.”
She blows out a stream of air. “All right, but while you're over there, at least grab the coffee pot for me, 'kay?”
There, sprawled out behind the counter in her comfortable shoes, is the dear little old lady I'd seen bustling about earlier. Poor thing.
Superhero man's face hovers over hers. “Stay still, Peg. The guys are on their way with the ambulance.”
She reaches upward, and I think she's about to whisper that she's in pain, or maybe cough out a thank-you. Instead, her voice surges from the chaos. “You tell those lamebrains not to track sand all over my restaurant. And Jorge? Jor-
ge!”
ge!”
Our waitress leans across the taller counter and calls to a stocky cook, who scurries toward the woman on the ground. “Yes, ma'am?”
“What are you waiting for? A tsunami? This isn't the entertainment hour! Get those orders outâand don't let Holly mess with my recipes!”
He salutes. “Yes, ma'am.”
Our waitress, whose tag announces she's the Holly with a penchant for dabbling with recipes, dabs her eyes with a napkin.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask.
“Oh, would you? Here.” Holly hands me the coffee carafe, and I think I can hear Camille whooping it up from across the diner. “Would you refill customers' cups?”
I blink and glance around. “You want me to . . . ?” I've never worked in a restaurant, or any other service-oriented business. Ever. Not that the idea hadn't ever appealed to me. I've been told that like other little girls I once owned a plastic cash register and regularly borrowed cereal boxes and canned goods from my mother's cupboards, all to supply the store set up in the living room on school-free days. Yet whenever I applied for a job, even as a teenager, management would point me toward a desk and phone, or an inventory sheet, or toward empty shelves that needed stocking. They told me I was reliable, hardworking, sturdy. Always wanted to question that last one, but figured it was a compliment so I never did say anything.
The waitress smiles at me, hope in her eyes, so I take the pot from her hand. “Sure, I can do that.”
She sniffles. “Thanks.”
I'm not even two steps along before finding a plain white mug thrust toward my face. “Oh, okay, here you are.” I pour and manage not to splash on the man's hairy hand.
“You new here?” Several days of uneven gray stubble blanket the man's face.
Is he kidding? I hesitate, and glance over my shoulder. “Did you see . . . ? Are you aware of what's going on back . . . ?”
His tiny, colorless eyes have not left my face and it occurs to me that he's single-minded. From behind him, among the booths, a hand raises. I glance over at a rambunctious family of six squished around a table for four. The father of the group gives me a weary smile and raises his cup, and I move to give him the refill he so obviously needs.
“Whoa now”âthe old man stops me againâ“don't be gone long now, you hear? You just keep that hot pot comin' . . . along with that smile o' yours.” He bares teeth that are yellow and uneven as a homemade haircut.
Oh, brother. It's not that I can't handle him or this pot of coffee in my hand, unfamiliar as the sensation may be. I've dealt with plenty of blustering customers in my jobâin my
old
jobâas the accounts receivable rep for Hudson's Auto Parts back in Dexton. By the time I have to give them a call, their accounts are more than forty-five days past due and they're in no mood to talk with me.
old
jobâas the accounts receivable rep for Hudson's Auto Parts back in Dexton. By the time I have to give them a call, their accounts are more than forty-five days past due and they're in no mood to talk with me.
So why does my face feel as hot as a sizzling fry pan at the moment?
Camille appears at my elbow. “What are you
doing?”
she hisses in my ear. I smile and nod at an elderly man in a felt beret who's playing solitaire in a corner booth. Camille skips along to keep up with me as I slosh coffee into waiting cups as if I've been doing this my entire life. “Just helping. Go sit until . . . oh look, the ambulance is here.”
doing?”
she hisses in my ear. I smile and nod at an elderly man in a felt beret who's playing solitaire in a corner booth. Camille skips along to keep up with me as I slosh coffee into waiting cups as if I've been doing this my entire life. “Just helping. Go sit until . . . oh look, the ambulance is here.”
Camille's eyes perk as two boyish paramedics enter the restaurant. “Gotta go . . . help.”
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