Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (5 page)

“Oh wow, it's really old,” Glenna said, crowding behind her sister. Elaine leaned the other way to catch a glimpse of the back.

“1875,” she said. “And ‘Carter'? That's interesting. You know who would know is Dad.”

“Let me call him,” Glenna said, fishing out her cell phone.

“He's adorable,” Tina said, giving me a sassy smile over her shoulder. “He must be a relative!”

“He makes me miss Matty,” Elaine said.

“Our baby brother,” Tina explained, looking back at the picture. “He moved to Minneapolis to go to college and all of us are afraid the big city is going to steal him away for good, aren't we, girls?”

“He has more sense,” Elaine said, though there was a note of doubt in her voice.

Glenna was talking to Bull on her phone.

“Oh look, and his horse was named Aces. I love it. What a great find. I hope Dad knows something about it,” Tina said.

Glenna hung up and told us, “Dad says that it might be from the original Carters here in Minnesota. They got here in the late 1860s and a couple of them built the original lodge. And you know, their original homestead cabin is about a half-mile from there, still standing.”

“That's so cool,” I said. “What a great piece of history.”

“Remember how Matty used to sleep out in that old cabin when he was a kid?” Elaine asked her sisters.

“Come out and see it when it starts to thaw,” Tina told me. “I'll give you the grand tour.”

“Dad says to bring the picture when you get a chance,” Glenna said. “He would love to see it and he has a bunch of old things from our ancestors. Shit, he'll talk your ear off, I'm just warning you.”

“No, I love history,” I told them. “I always thought I might be a history teacher one day.”

Tina's eyes flickered over my shoulder and she said, “I think your fella is headed this way with the baby.”

My heart absolutely punched my ribcage at these words; I thought she meant Noah Utley. But it was just Jake, carrying Millie, who was fussing. My nipples prickled with milk at just the sound.

“Oh, let's see her,” Glenna said. “Can I hold her a minute, Camille?”

Jake reached us and smiled apologetically. He said, “Millie misses you.”

I collected her and kissed her forehead, settling her over my right shoulder. I asked Glenna, “Do you mind if she's crying?”

Glenna rolled her eyes, though she smiled as she said, “I have three daughters, all of whom were colicky as hell. So, no, it's fine.”

All of the Carter girls took a turn cuddling Millie; Aunt Ellen was busy behind the bar, and so I darted back there to grab drinks for them.

“What would you like?” I asked.

“A pitcher of Honeyweiss will do nicely,” Tina told me, lining her forearms on the edge of the bar. She said, “Camille, seriously, you have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen.”

Her words were heartfelt and I replied, “Well it's nice of you to say so.”

“You really do,” Jake seconded, from behind Tina's shoulder, and she faced away from him to wriggle her eyebrows at me, suggestively this time. I felt ribbons of heat flare in my cheeks and I turned away to fill up their pitcher of beer.

June 2004

“Noah is home from college,” Mom told me as we rolled silverware. School had let out a day earlier, and the atmosphere at Shore Leave since had been one of pure chaos, undiluted joy at the prospect of three months of freedom. The weather, by contrast, had been a complete downer, as it had rained intermittently for the past three days; currently it was drizzling, the most passive-aggressive kind of weather possible, according to Aunt Jilly. She and I were sharing shifts these days as their baby girl had been born in early April. I was already envisioning Rae as Millie Jo's future best friend.

“Good for him,” I finally said, avoiding Mom's gaze. Lunch rush was over for Saturday, the café empty of all but us and Rich, who was running a load of dishes.

“I just thought you ought to know,” Mom told me quietly. Her hands were motionless above the stack of silverware and napkins.

I swallowed and looked out the window, where Flickertail was pockmarked with droplets. The whole gray color scheme out there perfectly reflected my mood upon discovering this information. I lifted my right hand almost instinctively to my mouth to chew at my nail.

“I thought you grew out of that habit,” Mom said.

I withdrew my hand with a sigh and met her eyes at last. She was worried and trying not to let it flicker too overtly over her face. I said, “It's all right, Mom, I don't care.” My tone indicated that I might be lying just a little.

Mom let that slide, to my relief. She said instead, “So, I heard from Grandma that Bull Carter gave you the full historical tour of White Oaks last week.”

“It was really incredible,” I said, a small, candle-sized flame brightening my heart as I recalled. “When I showed him the picture back in March, he told me he would do a little research and that I should come back when the weather was nicer for the tour.”

“That's what you said,” Mom replied, again rolling silverware with her fingers flying. “I remember being out there for parties now and again in high school. Tina was pretty wild back when. White Oaks is such a beautiful old building. How many rooms do they rent these days?”

“Only five,” I said. “Bull told me that the main room, where the check-in desk is, was built just after the Civil War. His great-something grandpa, Boyd Carter, and his wife built it originally and raised their kids there. And that possibly the picture is of a little brother. Malcolm is what Bull thought his name was.” At least, that's what I had called him ever since. His picture was still propped on my nightstand and surely I was compromising the integrity of the old paper with my constant touching of its surface, but I couldn't help myself. I continued, hearing actual enthusiasm in my voice, “But Bull didn't know what had become of him. I would love to find out, Mom, maybe do a little research.” I didn't mention that I was practically obsessed with discovering. I went on, “And then he showed me the old homestead cabin down the road from White Oaks. It's in pretty decent shape, considering how old it is, and so pretty. It's surrounded by pines and has this adorable little porch. Really peaceful. I just love putting my hands on something that was built so long ago. I like to think about all of the people in the meantime whose hands have touched the same things.”

Mom studied me intently for a moment and then said, “It's so good to hear you excited about something. I've been worried about you, Camilla-billa.”

Rather than being irritated at her words, I said softly, “I know. I've been pretty low.”

“Motherhood is tough,” Mom said. “No one can explain that to you. It's something you just have to sink or swim at, sadly.”

“Do you think I'm swimming or sinking?” I asked through a throat that was only a little choked.

Mom dropped the bundle of silverware she was holding and immediately reached for my hand. Curling her fingers around mine, she said, “You are swimming and then some, sweetheart. Believe me.”

“Sometimes I miss Chicago so much,” I said. Tears overspilled and I used my shoulder to swipe at them. “Sometimes I really miss Dad, too.”

“Oh sweetie,” Mom said, coming around the table to engulf me in her arms. I clung to her unselfconsciously and breathed in her familiar scent, the peach-scented lotion she favored, Prell shampoo and what I could only describe as her skin. I thought about how my own daughter was learning my scent as I held her close while she nursed, absorbing these memories of me through her senses; someday I may be comforting her if she became a pregnant teen.

Jesus Crimeny. Don't get ahead of yourself now
, I thought.

Mom's arms felt good and I tipped my forehead to her shoulder. She rubbed my back and murmured, “Your dad wants to come and visit next month. Or you and Millie could always go there to see him too. He'd love to have you, I know.”

Mom and my dad didn't talk regularly, instead choosing to communicate through email. I knew she was right, but the idea of driving all the way to Chicago with a crying baby made my stomach hurt.

“I know,” I said at last, drawing back and scrubbing at my face. “I just get so emotional.”

“It comes with the territory,” Mom said. “Don't be hard on yourself. Grandma told me that you cry at night.”

“Crap, I didn't think she could hear me,” I said, as Mom took her seat again. I assured her, “It hasn't been as much lately. Millie Jo has been sleeping more and more each night. I feel a little more human when I get at least four hours in a row. Not so much like crying.”

“I still can't believe that my baby is a mother,” Mom said. “But you are doing a wonderful job, I promise you I wouldn't just say that.”

“Thanks, Mama,” I told her, and she smiled at the name, straight out of my childhood.

***

It was
late evening and I was wrapped in the afghan from the back of the couch, alone on the dock. Alone with Malcolm Carter's picture, that is, sitting and staring off to the left, in the general direction of White Oaks, which was built on the opposite shore of Flickertail. If I had one of our canoes handy, I could paddle over there and see it firsthand, the old log cabin in which he may actually have lived. I'd thought continually of that as Bull had taken me around their property, marveling that Malcolm might have pressed his palms to the same porch railing and had surely walked along the porch boards, slept within the same walls. I imagined him sitting on the shore of the lake and watching the moon rise over the water, the ivory path it made across the surface, rippling with the slightest motion on or below the water. Somehow I was sure he had admired it just as much as I did.

I stuck one toe in the black nighttime water and swished a disturbance into the otherwise silken surface. Mosquitoes were thick as strawberry jam around me, so I withdrew my foot and tucked it back under the afghan.

“It's so pretty here,” I said aloud, though softly, as I could hear Mom and Aunt Jilly up on the porch of the café, talking and laughing about something. I reflected that I really did love it here in Minnesota, when just a year ago I had never conceived of living anywhere outside of Chicago. I'd considered myself a city girl, but a piece of my heart had always been here, in Landon, a result of all the summers spent at Shore Leave as a little girl. And now it seemed that this little boondocks town would be my home for the visible future.

“It's not so bad,” I whispered then. For at least a few minutes I set aside all my fears, the gnawing doubts about what I would do when Millie Jo started asking about who her father was, wondering why he wasn't a part of her life. And what about finding a father for her, eventually? Though the thought seemed mildly repulsive now, given my appearance and my current living conditions, probably someday I would want to date someone. But what man in his right mind wanted to chance a relationship with a single mother? I knew it was a terrible thought to even articulate in my mind, but I couldn't help but wonder. Men my age were starting their first year of college and probably weren't even worthy of the title of ‘men' anyway; ‘guys' seemed more appropriate. Guys just turning nineteen were worried about who would buy them beer in their dorms at school, what hot girl would pay attention to them at a house party, possibly that they had a research project due. They wouldn't look twice at a girl with a baby of her own, unless it was to speculate that they might get laid, because probably it meant that she was easy.

Jeez, Camille
, I reprimanded myself, as I was fond of doing these days.

I brought Malcolm Carter's picture to my lips and kissed him good-night, before tucking it under the afghan and then climbing the little incline back up to the café. It was late and my daughter would be waking for her first nighttime feeding in just a little while, back at the house with Grandma.

***

“Noah's here,”
Aunt Jilly said, bending to my ear as I sat at table three with Clint, Tish and Ruthie the next morning.

A flash of what felt like boiling water hit my heart and then proceeded to churn through my body, but I kept everything I was feeling from my face. Clint and my sisters were staring at me as though I was about to turn into a werewolf, with lots of writhing and bursts of hair and snarling. I felt like I could start foaming at the mouth and immediately cursed myself for even giving a shit.

“He could have called first,” Tish said for me.

“What a dick,” Ruthie contributed, and Aunt Jilly laughed in one surprised huff at this unexpected comment.

Clint cracked his knuckles and said, “I'll take care of him. Seriously.”

Aunt Jilly raised her right eyebrow at Clinty and said, “That's a nice thought, son, but he's not worth getting in trouble for.”

“You want me to tell him to get lost?” Tish asked me, rising from her seat, scraping the chair along the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard; or maybe things just seemed amplified because my adrenaline was rushing.

“No, I'll talk to him,” I said, rising unsteadily. At least I had showered last night, so my hair was relatively tame this morning, held back loosely on my neck with a large tortoiseshell barrette. I was wearing baggy faded jeans and a Twins t-shirt that used to belong to my dad, so I looked as fabulous as usual, but what did I care what Noah thought? I ignored the part of me that cried out in shame, wishing that his first sight of me in nearly a year involved me resembling a supermodel, complete with lots of tempting cleavage, giving him only enough attention to suggest my utter disdain. I saw him then, as I stood to my full height, crossing the parking lot with his hands in both front pockets of a pair of khaki-colored shorts. He was clad in a pale yellow, short-sleeved polo shirt and my first thought was,
What an asshole. He even looks like one, a privileged jerk who borrows Daddy
's golf clubs
.