Up at Butternut Lake: A Novel (14 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked, opening the door and shading her eyes against the still-scorching afternoon sun.

He looked up from the menu and smiled. “Oh, I was just looking for a place to get something cold to drink. And maybe a sandwich to go with it.”

“We close at three,” Caroline said matter-of-factly.

He glanced at his watch. “Is it three fifteen already?” he asked, surprised. “I completely lost track of time. Do you know anyplace else I could get lunch at this time of day?”

Caroline hesitated. The Corner Bar was right down the block, and, in a pinch, you could get a decent hamburger there. But it was the kind of establishment that catered mainly to drinkers, and even on a bright, sunny day like today, it was apt to be dark and gloomy inside. Then there was the gas station on the outskirts of town, which sold the usual selection of rubbery hot dogs and shrink-wrapped burritos. But she couldn’t, in good conscience, send him to either of these places.

She gave the man a quick once-over. He was middle-aged, maybe fifty or fifty-five, clean-cut, and neatly dressed in a polo shirt and khaki pants. And if she wasn’t mistaken, he was military or ex-military. His ramrod straight posture told her that. So did his only slightly longer than regulation salt-and-pepper crew cut.

He wouldn’t give her any trouble, she decided. He might even provide some pleasant conversation. And he’d leave a decent tip. Men like him always did.

Besides, staying open late was better than going back to her apartment, which these days had all the personality and excitement of a mausoleum.

“There are a few places I could send you,” she told him now, still shielding her eyes against the sun. “But I couldn’t live with myself afterward. So come on in. I can stay open an extra fifteen minutes for you.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, politely. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No worries,” she said, opening the door wider and gesturing him inside. “There’s plenty of work I can be doing while you’re having your lunch.”

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it,” he said, coming inside.

“My cook went off duty at three,” she explained, locking the door behind him. “The grill’s already turned off, so you can’t have anything hot. Not that you’d necessarily
want
anything hot, the weather being what it is. But I made some fresh lemonade this afternoon, and I can make you a cold sandwich.”

“Thank you. That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he said, bypassing the tables for one of the swivel stools at the Formica-topped counter.

“Now, what can I get you?” Caroline asked, ducking behind the counter and reflexively tying her apron back on.

“What’s good?” he asked, looking up from a menu.

“Everything,” she said, automatically. Which, in her not-so-humble opinion, was true.

“Well, what’d you have for lunch?”

“A chicken salad sandwich.”

“Then I’ll have one of those.”

“And a lemonade?”

“And a lemonade,” he smiled.

Caroline nodded and reached for a glass and a pitcher of lemonade. She liked his smile, she thought, liked the way it made his blue eyes crinkle pleasantly at the corners. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. Far from it. His suntanned skin, for instance, was pleasantly weather-beaten, and his nose, which had obviously been broken a few times, lent him a rough-and-ready masculinity.

She poured him a glass of lemonade, put an extra sprig of mint in it, and set it down on the counter in front of him. Then she started to assemble his sandwich.

He took a sip of lemonade, then said, appreciatively, “I can’t remember the last time I had lemonade from freshly squeezed lemons. And the mint is a nice touch, too.”

Caroline smiled, slicing his sandwich in two and putting it in front of him. “Oh, I’ve learned a few tricks,” she said. “We’re not a complete culinary backwater here in Butternut.”

“That’s good to know,” he said, “seeing as how I just put in an offer on a cabin here.”

“Really?” Caroline asked. “A vacation home?”

“No, I’m planning on living up here full-time. As of now, I’m officially retired.”

“From the military?”

He nodded. “Very observant,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Did you see any . . . action?” she asked, thinking with a pang of Allie’s late husband.

He shrugged. “Sure. I saw some. I was a pilot. But not a fighter pilot. A transport pilot.”

“Did you like it? Being a pilot, I mean.”

“I loved it,” he said.

“But you retired?”

“I did. I was ready for a change. Besides, I’m still a pilot. Only I have my own plane now, a Cessna, and I’m hoping to start a business with it.”

“How so?” Caroline asked.

He took his wallet out, took a business card out of it, and slid it across the counter to Caroline.

She picked it up and read it.

At the bottom of the card was his cell-phone number and e-mail address.

“What do you think?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Honestly?” Caroline asked.

“Of course.”

“I think most people in Butternut prefer to drive,” she said bluntly, and then immediately regretted her bluntness. She hadn’t meant to be rude.

But he only laughed, seemingly unperturbed. “Well, that may be. It was just a thought. I don’t need the money—I have my military pension—but I am hoping to stay busy. And I thought working, at least a little, might help me do that.”

“Nothing wrong with staying busy,” Caroline said, with a smile. Right now staying busy was the only thing keeping her sane.

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you ever fly anywhere?”

“Oh no,” Caroline said, suppressing a little shudder. “I’ve never flown anywhere. But I imagine for you and your family, it’s the preferred method of transportation.”

“Actually, I’m widowed,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline murmured.

“So am I,” he said, smiling sadly. “But I have two beautiful daughters,” he added, brightening. “They both live in the Twin Cities. Of course, they’re all grown up now. They have lives of their own.”

Caroline frowned, thinking about his words.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“No, of course not,” Caroline said quickly. She busied herself with refilling his glass of lemonade. “I was just thinking about my own daughter. She has a life of her own now, too.”

“How old is she?” he asked, with interest.

“She’s eighteen. She just left this summer for the university.”

He smiled, gently. “I imagine that’s been hard,” he said, finishing his sandwich.

Caroline sighed. “You have no idea. I mean, it’s just been the two of us all these years. My ex-husband, Daisy’s father, left when she was three.” She paused, surprised that she’d revealed so much to a man who was still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

And now it was Buster’s turn to say, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Caroline shrugged. “No need to be. I’ve had plenty of time to adjust to single motherhood. It’s the empty nest I’m struggling with now. And do you know what the worst part is?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“How quiet our apartment is. I had no idea how much noise she made, all those years.”

“Some people get to like the quiet,” he mused.

She sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be one of those people.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “In which case, you can learn how to play the drums. That’ll definitely raise the noise level.”

Caroline laughed and was still laughing when the back door to the coffee shop opened and Frankie came in. She’d been leaning, companionably, on the counter, but now she instinctively straightened up and took a step back. Which was silly, she realized too late. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“Are you still here, Frankie?” she asked, a little self-consciously.

He nodded. “I was scrubbing out the trash bins.”

“And I was talking to Mr. Caine,” she said, recalling his name from his business card. “And by the way, Mr. Caine, I’m Caroline. Caroline Keegan,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. “And this is Frankie. Frankie Ambrose.”

But Frankie was in no mood to be social. He stared at their guest, unsmiling. It was a look Caroline knew well. Calculating. Ruthless. And unforgiving. He generally saved it for unruly customers or rowdy teenagers. But she’d never seen him level it at someone before who she didn’t think deserved it.

She glanced at Buster Caine, half expecting him to put a handful of money on the counter and hightail it out of there. It wouldn’t be the first time a single look from Frankie had accomplished as much. But Buster met Frankie’s look head-on, without blinking. And he didn’t so much as budge on his stool, either.

“Well, then,” Caroline said, a little too loudly. “Frankie should probably be getting home.” She looked at him pointedly. “And you, Mr. Caine,” she said, turning back to Buster, “you’d probably like your check.”

Frankie said nothing, but he turned away, slowly, and started to scrub up at the sink.

“I’ll take the check, if you don’t mind,” Buster said pleasantly. He seemed completely unfazed by his encounter with Frankie.

Caroline exhaled. The tension had been broken. But she needed to speak to Frankie about his behavior. Because there was protective. And then there was
overly
protective. She didn’t want him scaring customers away.

As she was writing up the check, Frankie let himself out the back.

Buster Caine gave a low whistle. “That is one big man,” he said.

“I know it,” she agreed. “But the truth is, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, skeptically, picking up the check and sliding his wallet out of his back pocket. “Those tattoos are prison tattoos.”

“I know that,” Caroline said, a little defensively. “But Frankie’s a gentle giant, really. Besides, I’m a big believer in second chances.”

He smiled. “Well, that’s good. Because we all need them sometimes, don’t we?” he said, standing up and leaving a bill on the counter. “By the way,” he added, “it was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Keegan.”

“Caroline,” she corrected.

“Caroline,” he repeated. “And you can call me Buster. Thank you again for staying open late and for making me the best chicken salad sandwich I’ve ever had.”

“Anytime,” she said lightly, and she was glad she hadn’t sent him to the gas station for lunch.

She watched him leave, then went over to clear his plate away. He’d left a crisp twenty-dollar bill on top of the check. She’d been right about him being a good tipper, she thought, slipping the bill into her apron pocket. She felt something else in that pocket, too, and fished it out. It was his business card. She started to throw it away, then stopped herself. It seemed a shame, somehow, to just toss it away. So instead she opened the cash register, lifted up the bill drawer, and placed the business card beneath it. The chance she’d ever need it was slim to none, she knew. But for some strange reason, she liked knowing it was there.

CHAPTER 13

W
hen Allie saw how many cars were parked on the street outside Jax and Jeremy’s house the evening of their third of July party, she almost kept driving.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Wyatt asked, noticing her expression in the rearview mirror.

“Nothing, honey. Why?” Allie asked, slowing the car.

“You look frowny,” Wyatt said.

Allie sighed. She still forgot, occasionally, how observant Wyatt was.

“I’m not
frowny,
” she corrected him, gently. “I’m just looking for a place to park. I didn’t realize there’d be so many people here.”

She ended up parking two blocks away. As they walked back to Jax and Jeremy’s house, she forced herself to be positive for Wyatt’s sake. After all, she reminded herself, Jax was right. Parties
were
supposed to be fun, weren’t they? She’d certainly believed that herself at one time. Now, of course, she viewed every social occasion with a mixture of fear and dread. The problem was, if she wasn’t careful, Wyatt would, too.

“This is going to be fun,” she said brightly, squeezing his hand with her free hand. The other hand was holding a Tupperware container full of chocolate chip cookies.