A Sweethaven Summer

by Courtney Walsh

  “But she was one of my best friends, Tom.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “You know how close we all were.”

  “I know. But I also know how long it’s been since you last saw her.”

  She stared at him. She and Suzanne had their differences, as all friends did. They’d come from two different worlds, and a part of Lila envied Suzanne her carefree ways. She’d only realized how jealous she’d been of Suzanne when it came up in therapy.

  First Suzanne had stolen Jane from her. Doting Jane who’d been her best friend since second grade. Losing Jane’s undying attention annoyed Lila, but not worse than the realization that Suzanne had won her over too. While Lila envied Suzanne’s low-pressure, I-can-do-anything-I-want-to attitude, she couldn’t deny that Suzanne had drawn her in from the moment she gave her a hand mirror she’d found at a flea market.

  “Just imagine how many other beautiful faces have looked in this mirror,” Suzanne had said. “It made me think of you.”

  “Looks old.” Lila took the mirror and turned it over. The glass had brown stains around the edges.

  “But it’s neat, right?” Suzanne’s eyes widened.

  Lila fought the urge to toss it off the way she brushed off every other kind gesture. “Thanks,” she said. “It is really neat.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Suzanne said. “Even though it’s old.”

  Lila held the mirror in front of her, catching her reflection. Suzanne pushed her face next to Lila’s and grinned. “Yep. We’re stunning,” she said.

  When Lila laughed, the pain of the morning skittered away. A morning of trying to please Mama. No one else had ever done that for her before.

  Had Tom forgotten that?

  She glanced down at the card. It got her thinking about the long summer days they’d spent at the beach. Lila smiled at the memory. Suzanne had always been the fun one—the first one to explore Old Man McGuffrey’s barn. The first one to jump in the lake in spite of frigid water. She’d always been daring and audacious, and the rest of them took their cues from her.

  Suzanne had given her the courage to stand up to her mother. One simple question was all it took.

  “What do you want, Lila?”

  Lila stared at her.

  “You’ve never even thought about it, have you?” Suzanne shrugged as if she’d just stated the obvious, but the question sent Lila’s mind reeling.

  Suzanne grabbed her hand. “You’ve gotta figure out what you want to do, and start doing that.” Suzanne flashed a smile and squeezed her hand.

  Suzanne’s words gave Lila courage she’d never had before. Enough courage to confront Mama later that afternoon.

  “Mama, I’m sorry I can’t go to the Harbortown interview this weekend.” The pageant had been on Mama’s radar for years.

  Mama’s eyes darted up from her magazine and settled squarely on Lila’s face. The shock of it was enough to scare Lila back into the pageant spotlight, but she tried to appear brave. “I don’t want to do pageants anymore.”

  Mama’s glare shook Lila to her core. One penciled-in eyebrow peaked higher than the other, and she stood straight and grand like the oldest oak tree in Sweethaven.

  “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  “I’m not going. I wasn’t making that up, Mama.”

  Her mother inhaled, her nostrils flaring. “You will go upstairs, change into something presentable, and we will drive to the Harbortown interview without another word of this nonsense.”

  The evenness of Mama’s tone sent a shiver up Lila’s spine. “I’m through discussing it,” her mother said. “As long as you live here, you’ll do what I say. Now get upstairs and put your dress on. The pink one with the thick straps.”

  That was that. Lila would compete in the Harbortown Festival Pageant. She would then compete in every other pageant Mama entered her in, leading all the way up to Miss America. It’s what Mama wanted.

  It’s what she would do.

  Lila held Suzanne’s card in her left hand, her right hand now massaging her forehead. As if she could knead the sorrow away.

  This could be her last chance to say good-bye. Surely Tom would understand.

  “I’m going to go,” she announced as she stood from the table.

  His face fell.

  “These are my oldest friends.”

  “Your friends are here.” Tom crossed his arms.

  “I need to do this, Tom. Why can’t you just understand that?”

  He threw the empty water bottle in the garbage and walked out of the room.

  She stared at the card then walked into the bedroom and caught Tom’s eye in the bathroom mirror. He stood at the counter, shirtless.

  “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  He pulled a gray T-shirt over his head, walked past her into the bedroom, and sat on the end of the bed to put on his running shoes.

  He looked up from his shoelaces, and for a second she thought he might challenge her—give her an ultimatum or argue why she should stay. Instead, he shook his head and she watched him walk out of the room and heard the front door slam.

  Lila sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the closed door of her walk-in closet. Behind it, she knew her floral luggage sat on the top shelf.

  She heaved her suitcase down and dropped it to the floor. If she hurried, maybe she could be gone before Tom returned from his five-mile run.

  SIX

  Campbell

  If the map on the old scrapbook page was still accurate, I-94 North would take her straight to Michigan and deposit her almost directly in Sweethaven, but it wouldn’t answer all the questions swirling around in her head.

  Her decision to leave town the day after her mother’s funeral might have been a rash one, but she needed the distraction to shake the image of her mother’s flower-covered casket. To stop the replaying of “It Is Well,” which had been running through her mind since Tuesday morning.

  She glanced at the open book on the passenger seat as she drove in the direction of the little town.

  The pages of the scrapbook showed four inseparable girls who lived for their summers in these cottages. One of the pages outlined the history of Sweethaven, but instead of reading like a page from a school book report, this layout gave a colorful description of the small town where her mother spent her summers.

  Photos of the Sweethaven landmarks were arranged on the right-hand side of the page in a vertical line. A lighthouse. A carousel. A diner with a red and white awning. The beach. To the left, various samples of handwriting shared interesting facts about the little town.

  Sweethaven became a village in 1834 and a city in 1891. In the early 1900s, people started the tradition of spending their summers in the cottages and houses to be near Lake Michigan. Some of the relatives of those earliest founders still live here today—either year-round or during the summer. Someday our parents will pass their cottages to us and we’ll all bring our kids here to grow up on the banks of the lake just like we did.

  Campbell smoothed a hand over the page. If her grandparents had a cottage, who owned it now? Did these girls—now women—still spend their summers in Sweethaven? Had they stopped the scrapbook altogether because of Mom’s pregnancy?

  Because of her?

  She knew she’d ruined her mother’s life back then, but she never considered that she might have stolen her friendships too.

  The most pressing question of all, though, still begged an answer. Who was the boy—the man, now—her mother had loved? Who was the one she could claim as her father?

  And why hadn’t he claimed her as his daughter?

  Campbell glanced in the rearview mirror at the large bag she’d crammed in the back seat beside Mom’s trunk. Apparently, she’d packed for a week, though she had no idea why or what would keep her in Sweethaven that long.

  A father. A father could keep her there forever.

  She scrolled through her iPod till she found Norah Jones. Mom had loved her as much a
s she had. They’d bonded over the cool, jazzy sounds and long discussions of art and photography and their future as gallery owners.

  Now, Campbell had no reason to dream that dream. She had no desire to make it come true without Mom at her side.

  The time passed more quickly than she expected. Just after 11 a.m., she saw the sign: Sweethaven—Two Miles. According to the directions, she got off at Main and turned left.

  She opened the car window and inhaled. The sweet, distinct scent of lilacs, Mom’s favorite, filled the car. Springtime, a time of new beginnings, begged to burst forth, and Campbell felt inclined to let it.

  As she entered the small town, her tires clunk-clunk-ker-plunked over the brick road beneath them, almost as if she were entering a third dimension. Old-fashioned street lamps lined either side of the street separated by oversized bushes, blossoming with bright pink flowers.

  “Wow.” Their beauty nearly took her breath away.

  It wasn’t until that moment she realized she should’ve called Adele and let her know she was coming. In her excitement, she hadn’t even remembered to bring the woman’s phone number. Thankfully, her address was in the scrapbook, assuming she still lived in the same cottage.

  Brick buildings flanked both sides of Main Street. Striped awnings advertised Sweets in Sweethaven, a quaint bakery, The Sweethaven Art Gallery, and at the end of the block, The Main Street Café.

  Odds were good they had coffee.

  Campbell pulled into a parking spot and stopped to stare at two old men sitting on a black park bench. Their faces showed a valley of wrinkles, and on their heads were bright green John Deere baseball caps. A woman walked a dog down the sidewalk. Two children zipped by on bikes.

  Perched inside her car, she held her camera to her eye and snapped a string of photos. Everything in Sweethaven seemed worth documenting. She’d been in town for two minutes and already this place had bewitched her with its beauty—its ability to transport her back in time.

  A bell over the door rang her arrival at the Main Street Café, and the guy behind the counter glanced in her direction.

  Her heels clicked on the knotty pine floor as she took in her surroundings: exposed brick on two of the walls and a tall, wooden counter at the right.

  “Be right there,” the guy said.

  “No rush.”

  As he steamed milk in a metal cup, she looked around the café. Original artwork lined two of the orange walls, and shafts of natural light poured in from windows encased in thick white molding.

  “What can I get you?” He snapped a lid on the drink he’d just finished and set it on the counter for the woman waiting in line. Now his attention rested on her. She noticed his dancing green eyes. Eyes that expected her to answer—not stare.

  “Oh, sorry,” she stuttered. What she wouldn’t give for a calm and collected version of herself. “I’ll just have a medium vanilla latte if you’ve got it.”

  “Whipped cream?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He grinned and punched numbers on the register.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Just a guess.” He hit enter on the cash register. “It’s $2.50.”

  “Seriously?” She’d pay almost twice that much for that drink at the coffee shop on her corner back home.

  “Sweethaven blood isn’t as rich as Chicago’s.” He grinned again.

  “Chicago?” She handed him a five-dollar bill.

  “Am I right?” He made her change and then moved away from her to start on the drink. “I know you’re not local. The scarf thing on your neck is a dead giveaway.” The noisy machine shot back to life as he steamed the milk for her latte. No sense responding. He’d never hear her anyway. Instead, she glanced at herself in the mirror behind the counter. The black scarf hung loosely around her shoulders. It did look a little pretentious in the casual environment of the Main Street Café.

  She moved underneath a sign that read PICK UP HERE just as he covered her cup with a lid and set it in front of her.

  “Is that a medium?”

  “Large.”

  She pushed the drink back in his direction. “I ordered a medium.”

  “You look like you need a large.” He took a bar rag and ran it over the nozzles of the steamer, cleaning off the milk from her drink. “Don’t worry, I didn’t charge you for a large. It’s on me.”

  “Really? Thanks.” She took a sip. “Whipped cream.”

  He smiled again. Perfect teeth sparkled in her direction.

  “Yeah. You looked like you needed that too.” He winked and walked back to the counter.

  Caught off-guard, she stood in the same spot for at least a minute. He hadn’t insulted her, but his implication that he knew what she needed twisted her insides. No one knew what she needed—not even her.

  “You can’t assume the worst about everyone, Camby,” Mom’s words rushed back. “I know so many genuinely nice people. Why not start off your next relationship trusting the person instead of forcing them to prove themselves to you? Believe the best, Cam.”

  Mom had meant well, but she’d also been burned one too many times believing the best about people. She hadn’t dated many men, but the last guy—Joe Pancini—had scammed her into a pyramid scheme that claimed a good chunk of her money. She’d been too trusting. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t ended up needing her retirement after all.

  But maybe Campbell had swung too far in the opposite direction. Possible? Maybe.

  And this guy probably didn’t mean any harm. He was just a little cocky. Or was that confidence? She couldn’t quite tell.

  Campbell walked to the end of the counter and waited for his attention.

  “How’s your drink?”

  She set the cup on the counter. Curiosity got the better of her. “What’d you mean by that?”

  “By what?”

  “I look like I need a large. I look like I need whipped cream. Do I look that bad?” She scolded herself for asking. Her insecurity bled through like a wound through gauze.

  He shrugged. “My mom always says ‘sometimes it’s a whipped cream kinda day.’ ”

  Her face warmed into a smile. “And you think I’m having that kind of day?”

  “If I had to guess.” He opened the cash register and shuffled some bills around. “Do I have to guess? Or do you want to just tell me?”

  She took a sip of the whipped cream–covered latte and then propped herself on a tall stool at the counter.

  “Good, isn’t it?” He closed the register and ran a towel over the same spot he’d wiped only moments before.

  “It is good, actually, but I’ll be cursing your name when I’m doing an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill tomorrow.”

  “Ah, but you’d have to know my name in order to do that.” He grinned.

  “True.” She took another drink. It really was better with whipped cream.

  “It’s Luke.” He held out a hand in her direction.

  “Campbell.” She took his hand and squeezed. An innocent handshake shouldn’t cause stomach gymnastics.

  “Campbell, huh? Like the soup?” He let go of her hand and tucked the towel back in his apron.

  She rolled her eyes, laughed. “Yeah, like the soup.” She’d been hearing that since kindergarten—usually sung to the tune of the commercial.

  “What brings you to Sweethaven?”

  Mystery. Intrigue. Trying to figure out where I came from.

  “Oh, just needed to get out of the city,” she said.

  “Do you want something to eat? It’s on me. First time in Sweethaven discount. We’ve gotta do what we can to get people to come back.” He smiled again. Could she resist?

  “No thanks, just the coffee. I should run.”

  Disappointment ran across his face and then disappeared.

  “I’ve got people to find. Well, one person anyway. I’m hoping it’ll lead to more people.”

  “Can I help?” He looked sincere.

  “Ma
ybe.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the pages of the scrapbook.

  She set them on the counter and glanced at him. His eyes had zeroed in on her. Something about his expression set her off-balance. Could be the sparkling green of his irises or the wave in his sandy blond hair. Or the compassion she seemed to find waiting in his gaze.

  He broke the stare and she straightened her scarf, suddenly self-conscious of her attire.

  “I found this.” She drew his attention to the pages.

  He turned the scrapbook around and looked at the pictures. Recognition crossed his face.

  “You know them?” Hope filled Campbell’s chest.

  “Sure. Well, I know of them. And I recognize the cottages.” He pointed to the one on the end. Redheaded Meghan stood in front of a tidy house with sprays of flowers planted on both sides of the stairs leading to the porch. A black lab lazed at her feet. “This one on Elm Street is where I grew up.”

  Campbell frowned. “Where you grew up?”

  “That’s my sister Meghan.”

  “Adele is your mom?”

  He smiled. “You know my mom?”

  Campbell shook her head. “She called my mother yesterday. Do any of them still come here?”

  “Where’d you say you found this?”

  Hope started to trickle away. How much should she risk telling him—a perfect stranger with kind eyes?

  “It belonged to my mother.” That much shouldn’t hurt.

  His eyebrows lowered. “Which one is your mother?”

  She pointed to Mom’s picture. “Suzanne Carter.”

  “I’ve heard people talk about her over the years. She hasn’t been back here since before I can remember.”

  “I’m guessing twenty-four years.” She ran a hand through her hair. “That’s when I was born. I think that’s when she stopped coming. Stopped seeing her friends. Stopped being Suzanne and started being Campbell’s mom.”

  He leaned across the counter. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Uh-oh. Grief, like a sneaky devil, had slithered in. Nipped at her. Hissed. Whined. Expected a response. She swallowed the bulge that had grown in her throat, hollowed her belly, and she looked away.