Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (6 page)

What had I seen in him in the first place?

Oh, yeah. Possibly the fact that he's handsome and charming?

Aunt Jilly put her hands on my shoulders, lightly, and said, “Why don't you meet him outside, hon, have a little privacy?”

I nodded wordlessly and moved quietly through the porch door; he looked up at me as he approached the porch, the thick clouds in the alternately gray and white sky reflecting in his sunglasses. Slowly he removed them and offered, “Hi, Camille.”

“Hey,” I said, and my voice was embarrassingly hoarse. I cleared it unobtrusively and then said, “What's up?”

“Can I see her?” he asked. “Mom and Dad have told me all about her. I've seen a bunch of pictures…”

His voice trailed into nothing and my first instinct was to tell him to get lost. I studied his pale-blond hair and familiar face, lightly tan and preppy-looking. He was lean and lanky, built like a tennis player. At last I said, “Sure. She's at the house with Grandma.”

We walked in silence, a good two feet between our bodies. He smelled the same, like the expensive cologne he favored; I couldn't remember which brand. Like it mattered anyway. The scent turned my stomach now.

“Come in,” I said, actually fairly relieved that he hadn't attempted to apologize for anything. I wouldn't have known how to respond anyway.

Grandma was in the kitchen with Millie Jo; hearing me, she called, “Camille, just in time! Guess who's hungry?”

“Noah's here with me,” I said in response, and I could actually hear the bubble of startled silence that instantly swelled over the kitchen at my words.

Noah looked a little green in the gills, but I invited, “Come on,” and he followed me dutifully. Grandma was just lifting Millie Jo from her high chair; Millie was wearing a pair of bright green corduroy bibs, her dark hair beginning to curl these days. Noah stopped dead and stared at her; I moved forward and Grandma passed her to me. Grandma's eyes were more eloquent than any words, but she refrained from offering commentary, only saying quietly, “Hi, Noah,” and then leaving us alone with our daughter in the kitchen.

I carried Millie near, holding her up on my left shoulder, keeping my eyes from Noah's face. I didn't want to see what was present there, for better or worse.

“She's really cute,” he said, and his voice was a little deeper than normal. He cleared his throat and added, “Dad and Mom told me about how cute she is, and they really love seeing her.”

What about you?
I wondered silently, but didn't respond, not about to offer him any assistance or support right now. He reached tentatively and patted her back.

“Thanks for letting them see her,” he added.

I gaped at him for a moment, so thoroughly disgusted that I could hardly respond. At last I said, cuttingly, “They're her
grandparents.
”

He shuffled uncomfortably; I clearly understood that he wanted to be anywhere but here. My, how times had changed.

“Hi, Millie,” he said uncertainly at last, studying her as she stared right back, solemnly. For a second I wanted her to spit up all over him. Her diaper needed changing, as it felt squishy beneath her bibs, propped on my forearm. I debated passing her to Noah and suggesting that he give it a whirl.

“She's growing really well,” I said, to fill the dreadfully awkward silent void.

“Does she crawl yet?” he asked, attempting to do the same, it was obvious.

“Not yet,” I said.

“I'll be home this summer,” he said then, a paltry and pitiful offering. “I'd like to see her now and again, if that's all right.”

Even though I didn't believe him, I said, “Sure.”

And that was that; anti-climatic, ridiculous, probably even a little heartbreaking. I couldn't fairly claim that my heart felt broken. Rather, despite how much I loved Millie Jo, my heart seemed asleep, in a state of hibernation, closed off somehow. Still holding Millie, I stood with her in my arms on the porch and watched as the taillights of Noah's car flashed once in scarlet as he braked momentarily, before turning right and driving back towards Landon.

December 2004

“Do y
ou care if Jake comes to
our Christmas party?” Tish asked.

I was helping her decorate the Christmas tree that Dodge had cut down to adorn the bar in Shore Leave. It was already decked in candy-colored twinkle lights; Tish and I were hanging popcorn strings, pretzels tied with red ribbons, and hardened gingerbread men. I'd already warned Grandma and Aunt Ellen that drunk people were going to try and eat our decorations, but they had just laughed.

“No, why should I care?” I asked my sister.

“He's home from school and has been asking me about you until I told him to just call you for heaven's sake.” I felt her censuring gaze but kept my own away, dutifully wrapping the popcorn-strung ribbon around the spruce tree, which smelled fantastic, pungent with the scent of sap and wintertime. At last Tish asked, “Why don't you give him a chance?”

I sighed, wondering how to answer that. The real bitch of it was, I knew Jake was a good guy. He cared about my family, he cared about me. Last spring he had made an effort to come and visit me frequently, hang out, let me talk unceasingly about Millie Jo, all without a single complaint. And all this last autumn he'd written to me on a regular basis, via email, wondering how Millie was doing and how things were back in Landon. He refrained from mentioning how much fun he was surely having as a freshman at university, instead lamenting politely that he missed me and wished I could somehow be there too. That I would love it, he was certain.

Why, then, couldn't I make myself like him more? Even just enough? Honestly, he was cute too. Cute and tall, nicely built. Undoubtedly he would make a far better father for any child than Noah Utley, despite the fact that the last thing Jake was considering right now was being someone's father. As was his right.

“I like him a lot,” I said honestly. “I just don't like him like
that,
you know what I mean?”

“I guess,” she said, though she was even more inexperienced than I had been at her age, content to be friends with boys but nothing more as of yet. I had heard about guys she “kind-of liked” over the years, but no one who stood out. She went on, “Just maybe like go on a date with him or something. I know if you asked him he would be so excited.”

How to explain that I didn't want to be the one asking? It seemed vaguely sexist to expect him to ask me rather than the other way around, but that's what I wanted of a guy. I finally settled with, “If he asked me, I might consider it. But it's hard for me to get away anyway. Millie Jo is still nursing and I leave her alone enough with Grandma or Ruthie when I have to work. I miss her.”

“Just because you're in love with a picture of a horse,” Tish said then, teasing me, but my heart thudded against my ribcage at her words.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I'm just interested in finding out more about him. And his horse. There doesn't seem to be much information anywhere. It's like being at a dead-end.”

“What about all those letters Grandma found? Like from the Civil War?”

“Those were incredible,” I said, and they really were, a dozen or so letters written between our own ancestor, Sawyer Davis, and his parents back in 1864. He'd been in the Civil War. Grandma thought he was the first Davis in Minnesota, and there was also a picture of him, an old brown-tone tintype, in the trunk. He had been handsome as hell and, surprisingly, a Confederate soldier, further stimulating my fascination. And somewhere along the lines there was a connection between him and the Carters, as Malcolm's picture and a part of Malcolm's letter was in the Davis trunk in our attic. Had they been friends? Neighbors? Bull Carter, who stopped out to Shore Leave especially for me last July, bringing a bunch of photographs he had unearthed, was not entirely sure either.

“Camille, you want a job out at White Oaks, you just let me know,” Bull had told me last summer, on that visit. He was balding and not much taller than me, but stocky and with a very muscular torso, making it clear just where his nickname had originated. His real name was Brandon and in addition to running White Oaks with his wife Diana, he was a volunteer fireman for Beltrami County. Like Dodge, Bull had a roaring voice and joked a lot, but I could sense that he had a kind heart.

“Maybe sometime,” I'd responded. “Thanks for the offer.” Then I added, half-jokingly, “Maybe I could rent that old log cabin from you.”

“That place is a rat trap these days, sweetie,” he said. “You'd have to be as crazy as the boy to stay there.”

He never referred to his son by name; it was always ‘the boy.' Apparently the boy was getting a business degree and planning to settle in Minneapolis. Bull made it clear that he was upset at this decision.

“The boy thinks he wants to stay in the city. He doesn't have the sense I raised him with,” Bull told me. “'Course, he's always had an independent streak a country mile wide. I just hate that he's so far away.”

“The Cities aren't that far,” I said, referring to Minneapolis and St. Paul, which everyone around here called the Cities and expected you to know what they meant. “It's less than, what, six hours?”

“You be the first to tell the boy that,” Bull said. “He can't even make it home in the summers to see his mother! Busy at his job, he says.”

I got the sense that the youngest Carter was maybe a little bit spoiled, and Tina, Glenna and Elaine had all referred to him as crazy at one point or another, but affectionately so.

“Milla, are you paying attention?” Tish bitched at me, drawing me from my woolgathering. The country station we always tuned in on the radio behind the bar was playing ‘White Christmas.'

“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked, refocusing on my sister.

“Mom is planning this Saturday night for the party, here at Shore Leave. Grandma's going to close the café. Doesn't that sound like fun?” Tish was actually gushing a little.

“It does,” I said, mostly to pacify her.

“Wear that red sweater that Dad just sent you for Christmas,” Tish insisted and I gave her a suspicious look, narrowing my eyes.

“Why is that?”

“You look so pretty in it. And you've lost a bunch of weight since last winter. You almost look like yourself again,” my sister told me.

At least I could count on her honest opinion at all times. I realized that she meant this as a compliment and said, “Thanks.”

“Except for your boobs. They're huge! You look all out of proportion.”

“Oh my God, Tish,” I said, shoving her shoulder. “Seriously? I'm nursing my child.”

“Just wear the red sweater,” she insisted, taking a bite of a stale gingerbread cookie without thinking, then spitting it right out onto the floor. I laughed at her expression.

“You're cleaning that up,” I told her.

“I will. Wear the sweater.”

“We'll see,” was all I would settle for.

***

Saturday night
there was a blizzard watch in effect until Sunday morning for greater Beltrami County, but that didn't deter anyone from showing up to the Christmas party. In the past, the big deal party at Shore Leave was in August, for Mom and Aunt Jilly's birthdays, which were a day apart. This August Mom was pregnant and Aunt Jilly nursing Rae, and neither of them claimed to be in the mood for a blowout summer occasion. Though Mom was still pregnant, she had agreed to let Grandma host a Christmas party instead. Shore Leave dazzled with holiday decorations, from the trees in both the dining room and the bar (the dining room tree was adorned with silverware wrapped in red and green ribbons, candy canes and tin cookie cutters) to the glittery red and silver tinsel that Grandma had draped along the edge of just about every horizontal surface in the place.

The crowd was boisterous, Eddie Sorenson and Jim Olson, who were called upon to provide music at nearly every local occasion, were situated in the bar, at the moment strumming out “Jingle Bell Rock” on their guitars, while everyone in the vicinity sang along. Drinks were flowing and serving dishes of every conceivable shape and size lined the counter, along with serving spoons and oven mitts. The party was a potluck and I had already helped myself to a large paper plate, loading it with green bean casserole, tater-tot hotdish, au gratin potatoes, baked chicken with wild rice, and three kinds of Christmas cookies, including the ones where you make a green wreath with corn flakes and marshmallows. I had shed a lot of the pregnancy weight since last February, but I was planning to pig out tonight; eating good food was one of the few pleasures in my life. And I didn't mean to sound like a whiny baby; it was just the plain truth.

I situated myself in the corner booth, the windows near it blotted out with swirling snow, content for a moment to just watch everyone. Mom and Blythe were at table three with Rich, Liz, Wordo and Aunt Jilly, who was holding Millie Jo. Mom was sitting on Blythe's lap, his arms wrapped protectively around her growing belly; she was due with their first baby in March, and I had never seen Bly so excited. He and Mom were planning next spring to begin building a new house a few hundred yards into the woods from the café, still on our property, though not lakefront. Bly went on and on about having six or seven bedrooms and filling them all with kids, until Mom was forced to sit on him to contain his emotion. Literally, she would plop onto his lap and cover his mouth with both hands, teasing him.

“I'm glad you're so willing, sweetheart. Do you want to carry each of them for nine months, too?” she joked.

“Baby, if I could, I would,” he said right back.

Aunt Jilly was eating an enormous piece of chocolate ribbon pie, which was just a less snooty way of saying French silk, which I had made. Millie Jo was helping her, reaching her chubby hands for the fork with each bite, and Aunt Jilly obliged her about every other. Uncle Justin was toting Rae around; both girls were dressed in matching red velvet footie pajamas that declared
Baby's First Christmas
across the front. I'd already taken a hundred zillion pictures but there was Dodge snapping a few more of Millie Jo with chocolate all over her chin.

Tish, Clint, his best friend Liam, Ruthie and the triplets were crowding the bar stools to listen to Eddie and Jim play. The Carters were here, Bull and Diana, Tina and Glenna along with their husbands and kids; Elaine and her family were on a cruise. Jake was around too, chatting with Grandma and Aunt Ellen behind the counter, where Grandma couldn't relax long enough to stop making coffee and checking to see if food was still warm enough, and that everyone had plenty to eat and drink.

Jake looked good, I had to admit. He was wearing a maroon sweater with a turtleneck collar, his dark hair had been cropped short, and he seemed slightly more mature than when he'd left for the university in August. He had given me a big hug when he'd arrived; I saw Tish and Ruthie observe this from afar, elbowing each other. I hadn't worn the red designer sweater from Dad but instead a baggy old North Stars sweatshirt, my faded jeans and mukluk boots. At least I'd combed my hair and borrowed a little mascara from Mom, fishing out the one in her purse. I couldn't remember the last time I'd even considered using make-up; I was so exhausted these days, and puffy-eyed, that make-up would not be flattering anyway, I was certain.

Glenna and Tina came from the bar with martinis in their hands and zeroed in on me sitting alone.

“Camille, whatcha doing over here all by yourself?” Tina asked, sliding across from me. Her martini sloshed just a little over the edge of the glass and she grumbled good-naturedly, “Shit.”

“Hi guys,” I said, giving them a smile and sitting a little straighter. “I'm not trying to be a party pooper, truly. I just like to watch what's going on.”

“Dad is so excited that someone is finally giving a shit about our family history,” Glenna told me, nodding in the direction of the bar, where Bull and Diana were listening to the music. She used her cocktail napkin to help Tina wipe up the spilled gin.

“He's been so nice,” I said, still stuffing my face. I swallowed before elaborating, “I love history. I used to think it might be a career for me, maybe teaching or researching.”

“Hon, you're talking as though you're retirement age,” Tina said, stabbing an olive with her toothpick. She continued, “You're so young. There's plenty of time to get a degree. Shit, BSU is close enough that you could commute.”

“That's true,” I said, though I couldn't imagine having the energy for college-level classes anytime in the next few years.

“Your little one is adorable,” Glenna said. “But that's not her dad, right? The tall kid talking to Joan?”

I glanced over at Grandma and Jake; he looked over at me at the same instant and flashed a wide grin. I smiled wanly in return and told the girls, “No, he's not her dad. Her dad is Noah Utley.”

“Ben's little brother?” Tina asked in surprise. “So where the hell is he?” After a split second she answered her own question, concluding, “He didn't stick around for you, did he? Coward.”

“He's in Madison at school,” I said, looking out the window; it was so thickly covered in snow that Shore Leave might as well have been pressed up against an igloo. I sensed more than saw Tina and Glenna exchange the kind of sisterly look that says a thousand things without a sound.

“You know, my oldest, my Beth, has a different father than my other two girls,” Tina said, setting her drink to the side and leaning intently towards me. I looked over at her, sensing her concern and the desire to make me feel better. Her eyes were a rich navy blue. She said, “And her dad lives in Vancouver now. Sees Bethy maybe twice a year. It took me a long time, but I don't hate him anymore. Best thing he ever did was walk out on me, because otherwise I might still be with the son of a bitch. A few years later I met Sam, and he's the best thing that ever happened to me, besides my kids.” She reached and squeezed my forearm, then patted it; her nails were at least an inch long and painted a cheerful holly-berry red.