The Space Between Sisters (8 page)

So she tried again. “Do you think it would be okay, Sam, if I coached Cassie once or twice a week?” she asked him. “I wouldn't charge anything, obviously, and we could work around her schedule.”
Especially since I don't have a schedule of my own.

He looked uneasy. “I'm pretty busy here in the summertime. Cassie knows that. I can't be driving her around all day.”

“You won't have to,” Poppy assured him. “I can come here.”

“Please, Daddy,”
Cassie said, looking up at him beseechingly. “We won't get in the way. We can go out back. Or in the storage room.
Please
.”

“We could just try it and see how it goes,” Poppy interjected.

Sam wavered, and Cassie, sensing victory, began jumping up and down.

“All right,” Sam said, looking like a man who'd been beat. “But Poppy and I are going to have to set up a day and a time.”

“Okay,” Cassie said, still jumping. “But can I borrow your cell phone, Daddy?”

“What for?”

“So I can call Janelle and tell her I have a tutor,” she said, beaming at Cassie. “A
pretty
tutor.”

W
in was taking the lasagna out of the oven when Poppy breezed into the kitchen. “What took you so long?” she asked her.

“I got a job,” Poppy said.

“That was fast,” Win said skeptically. She set the pan of lasagna down on the stovetop, and reached for the bottle of wine Poppy was holding.

“Well, it doesn't actually pay,” Poppy admitted. “But it comes with some fringe benefits.”

“Like . . . ?” Win asked, examining the bottle. Why was it so dusty? she wondered. She looked, surreptitiously, for a price tag, but she couldn't find one.

“Like spending time with an adorable six-year-old. Do you know Cassie? Cassie whose dad owns Birch Tree Bait?”

“I know Cassie,” Win said.

“I'm going to tutor her in baton twirling.”

“Really?” Win said. And now Poppy had her attention. “You haven't twirled since high school.”

“Well, it all came right back to me,” Poppy said blithely. “But what's up with Cassie's dad?”

“Sam? What do you mean?” Win asked, putting the suspect bottle of wine down and reaching for a knife to cut the lasagna with.

“He was kind of rude to me.”

“He was?” Win said, surprised. She sliced into the browned and bubbly lasagna. “Maybe he was having a bad day,” she mused.

“Yeah, okay,” Poppy said. “But what's his glitch?”

“He doesn't have one,” Win said, with a slight frown. She was trying to ensure that all eight slices of lasagna were exactly the same size. “He's divorced. Three kids. And he's a nice guy. A nice guy who half the single teachers I work with have a crush on.”

Poppy made a face as if to say,
Him?

“What? You don't think he's good-looking?” Win said, looking up.

“If you like that type,” Poppy said, breaking off a piece of the lasagna's browned crust and nibbling on it.

Win was amused. “You mean the good-looking type?” she said, as she reached up to the cupboard for two plates.

“Oh, let's not use plates,” Poppy objected. “Let's just take the whole pan and a couple of forks down to the dock and watch the sunset.”

But Win shook her head. “No, I already set the dining room table,” she said.

Poppy was aghast. “Win, nobody
eats
at the dining room table. You know that. It's like . . . the first rule of cabin living. The dining room table is for jigsaw puzzles, not
food
.” And Win laughed, because Poppy had a point. Even in their grandparents' day, the cabin's dining room had rarely, if ever, been used
for dining. Their grandparents had preferred to eat at the cozier kitchen table. But tonight was different. Tonight, Win had set this little-used table—complete with cloth napkins and just-bought flowers—because she wanted to drive home to Poppy the seriousness of the conversation they were going to have over dinner. It was time, once again, for Poppy to make a plan. A plan she would stick to. A plan that was more ambitious than her current plan of spending the summer sunbathing on the dock.

“Look, it'll be fine,” Win said, using a spatula to place a generous wedge of lasagna on each of the plates. “It'll be very civilized. We can talk about your new non-paying job, and we can talk about some other things, too. Now, take these to the table,” she said, handing the plates to Poppy. “I already put out the salad and the bread.” Poppy left with them and when she came back Win was struggling with the corkscrew.

“Here, let me do that,” Poppy said, reaching for it, but at that moment they heard a car drive up outside. Win went to the kitchen window, pulled back the curtain, and let it fall closed again.

“It's Everett,” she said, turning to Poppy.

“Everett?”

“Did you know he was coming tonight?” she asked.

“No,”
Poppy said. “I had no idea. Maybe . . . maybe that's why he called this afternoon, though. I let it go to voice mail, and I haven't listened to his message yet. He texted me, too, but I . . .”

“But you didn't read it?”

She shook her head, guiltily.

“
Poppy
. How could you be so rude? He
drove
you here.”

“I know.
I know
. But I thought that was
it
. I thought that was
the end of it. Then, today, when he tried to get in touch, I thought maybe I'd been wrong. And he wanted it to be, you know, something more.”

“And you were surprised?”

“Yes.”

There was a knock on the front door, but neither of them moved. Finally, Win said, “Well, don't just stand there. Let him in and ask him if he likes lasagna.”

“Win, no. I can't,” Poppy said, helplessly. “It'll be awkward. I'll have to give him the speech.”

“What speech?”

“You know, the one where you tell someone you just want to be friends with them?”

Win sighed, exasperated.
She
didn't know. She'd never had to give anyone that speech before. But for Poppy, obviously, it was different. She probably had it memorized by now. Everett knocked again.

“Poppy, you can't just ignore him,” Win said, lowering her voice. “He knows somebody's home. I mean, my car is in the driveway.”

“He knows
you're
home,” Poppy said. “He doesn't know
I
am. You can—”

“No, I can't.
I won't
. I've been doing that for you my whole life, and I—”

“Shhh,” Poppy said, holding a finger to her lips. They listened to the sound of Everett's footsteps going back down the steps. “He's going,” she whispered, with obvious relief.

“No, he's not. Not yet,” Win said. She started to leave the kitchen, then turned and said to Poppy, in a tone that brokered no compromise, “
You,
go to your room.
Now
. And don't come
out until I give you the all clear.” They left the kitchen together, Poppy scurrying down the hallway to her room and Win going to open the front door.

“Everett!” she called out, right as he was getting into his car.

“Oh, hey,” he said, getting out again. “You're home.”

“I'm home,” Win said, coming down the steps. “But Poppy's not.”

She steeled herself for his disappointment, but Everett seemed to take this news in stride. “Oh, that's fine. I didn't need to see her. It's just, I left her a voice mail and a text—”

“She's really bad at checking her cell phone,” Win interrupted. “I've tried to get after her about it, but . . .”

He shrugged. “That's all right. I just wanted to tell her she left a box in my car.” He pointed to a shoebox beside the front door that Win hadn't noticed. “I don't know how we missed it that night. It was dark out, I guess. And the next morning . . .”

“The next morning you left in a hurry,” Win finished for him. He'd been gone when she and Poppy had woken up. He'd left a note on top of his neatly folded bedding, thanking Win for the grilled cheese sandwich and wishing Poppy good luck with her move.

“Oh, no, I wasn't in a hurry,” Everett said now. “I'm just an early riser. Force of habit, I guess.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, in a gesture that Win only now remembered.

“Everett,” she said, almost gently. “You didn't . . . you didn't come all the way up here just to deliver that box, did you?”

“No,” he said. “I'm on my way up to Birch Lake. It's about an hour north of here.”

“I've never been there,” Win said. “But I've heard about it. It's supposed to be very pretty.”

“It is. My cousin's got a cabin there he's letting me use for the rest of the summer. He and his wife have six-week-old twins, and
I think all that rusticness isn't as appealing as it used to be.” He smiled, a little shyly. “Anyway, it's nice to get out of the city in the summertime.”

“That's true,” Win said, and then surprised herself by asking, “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No,” Everett said. “I was going to get something up there.”

“Have something here. I just took a lasagna out of the oven, and Poppy had to go out at the last minute. I'd hate for it to go to waste,” she said, one corner of her mouth quirking up mischievously at the thought of Poppy having to hide in her bedroom while she and Everett ate in the dining room.

“Are you sure?” Everett said. “Because I'm starving. I'd love some lasagna.”

“Good,” Win said. And after letting Everett into the cabin and pointing him in the direction of the dining room, she went into the kitchen, and texted Poppy, who texted her right back.

       
Win:
So, guess what? I invited your sleepy-eyed friend to dinner.

       
Poppy:
Whatttttt?

       
Win:
Don't worry. I told him you were out. He won't stay long.

       
Poppy:
So I have to stay in my room while you two eat??!!

       
Win:
Exactly. Check your voice mails next time.

       
Poppy:
But I'm hungry.

       
Win:
You'll survive.

       
Poppy: ☹

Win put her cell phone back in her pocket, and started to open the bottle of wine that Poppy had bought, then changed her mind. She actually had another bottle of red wine—a nicer bottle, she was sure—in the cupboard. She took that out, and after a brief skirmish with the corkscrew, managed to get it open. When she
came into the dining room, Everett was standing there, looking as if he didn't know quite what to do with himself.

“Thanks,” he said, again. He sat down, a little hesitantly, at the table.

But his hesitancy vanished once he'd tried the food. “This is
so
good,” he said, of the lasagna. Win smiled and fiddled with her wineglass. She tried to think of something they could talk about. “So, how did you get into the web design business?” she asked him, finally, when the silence between them threatened to get awkward.

“I grew up in rural Nebraska,” he said, “where my family owned a feed store. I started working there, part-time, when I was in high school. But I was never really interested in the feed side of the business. I was more interested in the advertising side of it. You know, the signage and the flyers and the circulars we used to design and print. I started doing those, at first, and then my senior year I designed a website for the business. A very
basic
website,” he added.

“Still, your parents must have appreciated that,” Win said as she poured wine into his glass.

“They did,” he said. He went on to tell her that his parents were thrilled when he chose to major in computer science at the University of Minnesota, but they were
less
thrilled when, after graduation, he opted not to find a job as a programmer but to get a second degree, this one in graphic design. Still, when he'd gone to work for a website design firm after graduation, and his first pro bono job had been for the family business—he'd completely redesigned and updated the feed store's website—they'd stopped complaining. He'd liked his job, he told Win, but he liked his independence, too, and a couple of years ago, he'd struck out on his own. “There were some slow months in the beginning, months
when I lived mainly on Kraft macaroni and cheese,” he admitted. “But lately, things have started to take off. I've gotten so busy I've had to turn down a couple of projects. Everyone keeps telling me to hire people and expand, but I like working for myself. It gives me the freedom to take on the smaller, quirkier projects I might not consider if I was trying to make payroll for anyone but myself. What about you?” he asked after Win served him a second helping of lasagna. “You're a social studies teacher, aren't you?”

“Uh-huh. I teach seventh and eighth graders at the K-8 school here,” she said, watching with pleasure as he helped himself to more salad and garlic bread. It was fun to be cooking for someone other than herself.

“That must be challenging sometimes,” Everett said. “Teaching twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. I mean, I remember being that age, and what I was thinking about in class most of the time wasn't in my textbook.”

“It can be challenging,” Win agreed, “but I love it. And, believe it or not, I've found ways to keep even thirteen-year-olds interested,” she said. She told Everett then about how, the winter before, she'd been teaching her seventh grade class about the American Revolution and she'd given her students a list of extra credit options they could choose from if they wanted to improve their grades. A group of boys in her class—none of whom were particularly good students—had chosen to make a movie for their project, and they'd worked exhaustively on it, writing the script, casting the actors, and scouting locations in Butternut that they hoped would resemble Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. The only problem, she told Everett, was that on the freezing cold day of filming, which she was present for, the student director insisted that the actors depicting the ragged, blanket draped colonial sol
diers, actually go barefoot in the snow, as their historical counterparts had done.

“I was dead set against it,” Win said. “I had visions of parents of frostbitten children suing the school district. But I did some quick research on how long it took to get frostbite at the current temperature, and I gave the director three minutes to film the barefoot scenes.”

“Did that authenticity pay off?”

“It did.” She smiled and sipped her wine. “The movie was a huge success. So many people wanted to see it, in fact, that we had to have a screening at the Butternut Community Center. The only fallout from it came from one of the mothers of a boy who'd played a soldier: the “blanket” he'd brought from home and gotten wet in the snow had actually been a valuable antique quilt.”