Butternut Summer (25 page)

“Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Really.” And then, “When was the last time you slept late?”

“I can't even remember,” she admitted, stifling another yawn.

“Come on, let's go,” he said, moving her gently away from the door and flicking off the light switches beside it. Then he led her up the stairs to her apartment and, taking the keys from her, opened the front door. She followed him in, as compliant as a child.

“I'll just get a pillow and blanket, if you don't mind,” he said, going to the closet in the hallway and helping himself to both. “Good night, Caroline.” Jack left her standing in the hallway as he headed for the living room, where he sat down on the couch in the dark and tried not to think about her proximity to him. Then he remembered something and hauled himself up and returned tentatively to the hallway. Caroline wasn't there anymore. She had gone into her bedroom and closed the door. He could see the bar of light visible beneath it as he passed her room, then went into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and opened the medicine cabinet. He found the Advil, unscrewed the lid, and shook a couple tablets into his hand. Then he went down the hall to the kitchen and poured her a glass of water, stopping to look for a moment at a gelatinous mass of ice cream melting in the kitchen sink.
Strange
, he thought, before he carried the glass of water and the Advil to Caroline's bedroom and tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in,” he heard her say, and he opened the door. She had changed into her nightgown already, he saw, and was sitting on the edge of her bed. It was like one of the nightgowns from his dreams, he realized, only better. Better because it was real. It was white and sleeveless, with an edging of lace around the collar. And in the soft glow from the bedside table lamp, she looked impossibly young in it, and impossibly pretty.

“Here,” he said, crossing the room and handing her the glass of water and the Advil. “Take these. And drink that whole glass,” he said, sternly. “Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning.”

She nodded and obediently swallowed the capsules with a gulp of water. And then, surprising himself, Jack knelt down in front of her and looked directly into her bright blue eyes.

“Caroline, you were right,” he said. “There were a lot of women. But there was never anyone like you.” With that, he kissed her gently on the forehead and left the room, closing the door behind him.

T
he next thing Jack knew, his watch alarm was going off and he was jerking awake on the living room couch, feeling as if he'd been asleep for about fifteen minutes. But no, it was six
A.M.
, and he'd promised Caroline he'd get the coffee shop ready to be open by seven. He dragged himself up, folded the blanket, and left it and the pillow neatly stacked on the couch. Then he headed down the short hallway to the front door, meaning to go straight to the coffee shop. But he stopped abruptly halfway down the hallway and turned to look at the pictures hanging on its walls. They were a virtual photographic tour of Daisy's childhood, he realized, leaning closer to study a few of them. There was Daisy, looking about four years old, wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat and riding a pony at a county fair. There was an older Daisy, maybe six or seven, perched on a stool at Pearl's, her broad smile revealing two missing front teeth. And there was Daisy in high school, wearing a volleyball uniform, holding a trophy, and already, at fifteen or sixteen, the confident, poised young woman he knew today. And here was one of Caroline, too, posing with Daisy, last year or the year before, in front of a Christmas tree in the apartment's living room. He reached out, almost unconsciously, and touched Caroline's image with his finger. Had that kiss meant anything to her last night? he wondered. Was it any indication of her feelings for him? Or was it just the product of a drunken, impetuous moment?

He took his finger off the picture and took one final look around the wall, quickly taking in the other pictures. He was nowhere to be found here. Nor should he be, he reminded himself, feeling that sharp, but familiar pain.

Jack went down to the coffee shop then and did all the things he knew Caroline did every morning before it opened without ever complaining about having to do any of them. He was taking the chairs off the tables when he heard the rattle of keys in the front door and turned to see Frankie, the cook, letting himself in.

“Good morning,” Jack said, aiming for friendly. But Frankie didn't return his friendliness. He just stared at Jack impassively and then went about his business. The two of them avoided each other for a while, but when Frankie came around behind the counter with Jack, it was close quarters for the both of them, especially given Frankie's size, and Jack could practically feel the hostility emanating off Frankie's body.

“Look,” Jack said, turning to Frankie when he felt like he couldn't take it anymore. “I know you don't like me, and that's fine. You don't have to like me. But I told Caroline I'd open for her this morning, and I'm doing it, and while I'm doing it, I'd appreciate a little civility from you.”

Frankie, who was standing only an arm's length away, stopped what he was doing and fixed Jack with another stare. Jack returned the stare and tried not to think about the fact that according to Walt Dickerson, his sponsor, Frankie had already killed one man.

“I know you care about Caroline,” Jack said finally, hoping to ease the tension. “But, believe it or not, so do I. And if you don't like having me around, well, that's too bad, because I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon.”

Frankie seemed to consider this, and then he took a step closer to Jack.
God help me
, Jack thought, and he tensed his stomach muscles. He knew it was unlikely he'd survive a direct punch from this man, but he was determined to improve his odds if he could.

But Frankie didn't punch him; instead, he held out a huge hand to Jack. For a moment, Jack stared down at it, unsure of what he was supposed to do, until he realized Frankie was waiting for him to shake it. Surprised, he took hold of Frankie's gargantuan hand and shook it as best he could.

“Caroline's a big believer in second chances,” Frankie said, shaking his hand back. “She gave me one when no one else would. So if she's willing to let you back into her life again, Mr. Keegan, it's not for me to say she's wrong.”

“Call me Jack.”

“Okay, Jack. But there is one thing I don't understand,” he said, letting go of his hand.

“What is that?”

“I don't understand how you could have left those two, left Daisy and Caroline. I mean, they're both, they're both pretty special, don't you think?”

Jack sighed. “Yeah, I do think.”

“Huh,” Frankie said, studying Jack for a moment longer. His look this time wasn't one of hostility; it was one of pity.

“Well, good luck,” Frankie said then, and he went back to work.

Yeah, good luck
, Jack thought grimly. Though really it was a little late for that. And thinking about that wall full of pictures, and about what Frankie had said to him, he slipped out the front door of the coffee shop and onto the quiet street. Then he slid his cell phone out of his pocket, punched a number in, and waited.

“Walt,” he said, when the caller answered. “I know it's early. I'm sorry. But I need to meet with you, as soon as possible.”

I
t was bright, too bright, Caroline thought, squeezing her already closed eyes shut even tighter, but the yellow light continued to pound unrelentingly against her eyelids. When she finally opened one eye, just wide enough to see what the source of the light was, she saw it was the sun, streaming in through the bedroom curtains she'd forgotten to close the night before. She tried to open both eyes all the way then, but she winced from the brightness and pulled a pillow over her head instead.

From under the safety of that pillow, she tried to take stock of how she felt. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper, her head was aching dully, and her stomach . . . her stomach felt kind of queasy. She sat bolt upright in bed, wondering if she'd have to make a run for the bathroom, but after a moment the queasiness passed and she lay back down again.

Working at Pearl's wouldn't be easy today, she realized, thinking with reluctance about the bowls of gooey oatmeal and the plates of runny fried eggs she'd have to serve customers for breakfast. Maybe she could take refuge in the office, at least during the morning rush. She pulled the pillow off her head and looked at the clock on her bedside table. She was shocked to see it was already ten thirty. Ten thirty? The morning rush had already come and gone without her. Unless it hadn't. Had Pearl's even opened this morning? she wondered. But then she remembered Jack's promise last night that he'd open for her this morning, and she relaxed a little. At least she relaxed until she remembered the rest of the night: Jack's confessions to her, both about his alcoholism and about why he'd come back to Butternut, and her own rather clumsy attempt to seduce him.

She groaned and put the pillow back over her head. What had he been thinking, telling her all those things? And what had she been thinking, inviting him up to the apartment to spend the night? She reached under the pillow to massage her faintly throbbing temples and tried to sort it all out. But she couldn't; it was too much, especially on a morning like this morning, when she felt this way. She kicked irritably at the covers and thought about getting up to get a glass of water, but even the thought of drinking water made her stomach clench uneasily. Was this how Jack had felt all those mornings when he'd still been drinking? Because if it was, she could almost muster up a little sympathy for him.
Almost
.

But if she couldn't exactly feel sympathy for him, she could at least feel something else for him, she realized—gratitude. Gratitude to him for being the adult last night, for knowing that the two of them going to be bed with each other would have been a mistake. Because while Jack might say he'd changed—and maybe, when it came to the drinking, he
had
changed—he still couldn't change the past. He couldn't change what had already happened to her, and to Daisy: the hurt, the loneliness, the disappointments large and small. She'd be crazy to forget those things, and crazy to open herself up to them again. Wouldn't she?

It was worrisome, though, having his feelings for her—or what he'd said were his feelings for her—out in the open like that. Caroline was worried, too, to know that when he'd told her about those feelings, and she'd recovered from her initial surprise over them, she'd also felt something she hadn't felt in a long time, something she'd thought she'd already closed the door to. Excitement? Joy? Wonder? She wasn't exactly sure what it was. And, truth be told, she didn't really want to know.

But if the emotional side of last night was something of a mystery to her, the physical side of it was not. Her attraction to Jack, obviously, was still there, still as strong as ever. She'd hoped it had dissipated over the years, disappeared even, but it had apparently only gone into hiding, and last night she'd been perfectly willing to let a few drinks coax it out again.

Her mind wandered for a moment back to that kiss. Jack could kiss like nobody's business. When she considered how many opportunities he'd had to kiss in his lifetime, though, this was perhaps not very surprising. Still, his obvious abilities aside, it was a good thing he'd stopped her when he had. With his help, she'd dodged a bullet last night. They both had.

She sighed. She'd have to see him again, and probably sooner rather than later. Even if he didn't come into Pearl's, this town was too small for them to avoid each other forever. Maybe, when Jack had last lived here, he'd been right to hate Butternut, she thought now, and, in a sudden explosion of movement, she lifted her pillow off her face and threw it violently across the room.

S
o no Daisy tonight?” Jason asked, sipping his beer. It was a Friday evening in late July, and Will and Jason were sitting at the bar at their favorite dive, the Mosquito Inn, on the outskirts of Butternut. The place had a nice, broken-in feel to it, and it had the added advantage of being rough enough around the edges to keep the summer people away. The same tourists who wanted to experience the local color of crafts fairs and fish frys, it turned out, thought this place, with its burly ex-cons and bearded bikers, had a little
too much
color. But even regulars like Will and Jason would have to clear out soon, since the later they stayed at the Mosquito Inn, the more likely they were to get hit by a punch thrown in somebody else's fight.

“No. No Daisy tonight,” Will said. “She's with her dad at a fish fry.”

“The dad who left, like, twenty years ago?” Jason asked.

Will nodded.

“Why does she even want to see him?” Jason asked, a little disgustedly.

“It's complicated,” Will said. “But basically, I think, she likes him.”

“And she forgives him, for walking out on them like that? I couldn't do that. And I don't think most people could either.”

“Daisy's not like most people,” Will said.
She's better than most people
, he almost added, but didn't.

“Well, she can't be like most
girls
,” Jason agreed. “Because you've never been like this with a girl before.”

Will didn't say anything. He didn't have to; they both knew it was true. Besides, he didn't like talking to Jason about Daisy. Partly this was because he knew Jason was a little miffed about how much time he'd been spending with her, and partly it was because he liked keeping Daisy to himself. The things he felt about her, and the way he felt them, were so new, and so unfamiliar, that he didn't want to share them with anyone yet, least of all someone like Jason, who considered any strong emotion that wasn't about sports or video games to be immediately suspect.