Something Blue (Happy Endings Resort Series Book 28)

by Erin Lee

  Something

  Blue

  a Happy Endings Resort Series novella

  Book 28

  ERIN LEE

  Something old.

  Something new.

  Something borrowed.

  Something blue?

  This book is the full-length novella version of Erin Lee’s short, “Little Blue Lies.”

  Dedication

  For all who still make wishes on dandelions. Ya’ll make the world a little brighter.

  For M, J, M, N, M, T, R, B, PP, and D, without whom this book would have been completed months sooner. Thank you for reminding me to that the ending is not the most important thing.

  Chapter One

  2003

  How am I supposed to know what a hippie is? I’m eight years old. I have to pee. I squirm, trying to hold it in as I follow Pappy up a windy gravel path toward the Lazy Lodge, past trees and hand-carved wooden signs that read “This Way to the Lodge,” and “Rock Stars Stay for Free.” He grumbles about flamingos and “nonsense, Callalily.” He tells me, for the hundredth time, that my grand momma, Francine, has “lost her God-dammed mind.” “Woman’s madder than a wet hen.” He tells us that we best be on our top behavior, as though we’d have the nerve to argue.

  I lower my eyes when I spot another sign in the shape of a big, ugly leaf that says “Bear’s Place, No Trespassing.” I imagine an angry brown bear hibernating behind the rusty trailer door. I think that bears are herbivores. I can’t be sure, and I’m glad we aren’t staying in a tent.

  Pappy grunts and tells my brother “only cowards dodge the draft.” I have no idea what that has to do with bears. I keep my mouth shut as Pappy goes on and on and on. “We’re not cowards, son. I lied about my age to go to war.” He turns to me, “and don’t you dare think about dating one. I don’t care how much like your momma ya are. Ain’t no Johnson never been a coward. No way, no how. ‘Cept your dammed momma.”

  My brother, John, rolls his eyes and tells Pappy there is no draft anymore. Pappy grunts again and puffs on his third cigarette, blowing smoke rings to the sky. They float, like bubbles, toward a massive peace sign that hangs above a plum-crazy-purple door. I want to catch them, trap them in my hands, and remind Pappy that smoking causes cancer. I say nothing, wrinkling my nose at a burst of patchouli that seeps through the Lodge door. It reminds me of Grandma.

  A hippie, it seems, is a lady with Strawberry Shortcake hair from a rock band named after a jet-powered bomber. Or, it’s who she wants to be, at the very least. This one calls herself an impersonator. I’ll have to look that up if we ever get out of here. A hippie has a “partner”—which Pappy says “isn’t natural, Callalily”—and a giant bulldog named Stinky who snores, louder than Grandma, on a polka-dot pleather couch.

  A hippie, this one anyway, calls herself Rainbow and has a smile brighter than the fluorescent green Lodge walls. I love her tall boots, speckled with yellow butterflies. I forget I have to pee and wonder if she’ll let me pet Stinky. I don’t ask. I reckon it would make Pappy mad. He’s always grumpy lately. He says it’s Momma’s fault—“making us raise her God-dammed kids. Acting like we don’t have anything better to do while she runs off with you-know-who. Useless as tits on a bull.”

  Pappy mumbles through paperwork, telling us Grandma’s “off her rocker, sending us to a place like this.” I don’t look at him. I shrug. It’s just how Pappy is. I can’t keep my eyes off Rainbow. She winks at me with glittery eyelashes so thick I’m sure they’re butterfly wings. I want to ask her if she blinks hard enough, can she fly? I bet she can.

  We follow her out of the Lodge, down a zigzag trail, this time with less trees, plastic garden trolls and metal signs that remind us to get our “groove on” and make ourselves at home. Apparently, we’re looking for our rental cabin, something Rainbow doesn’t seem to have a map to. I hope Momma’s a hippie, too.

  I stay ten steps behind, taking long breaths of daytime campfire smog, marshmallow and pine. Kids laugh and call “you’re it!” in an above-ground pool, bouncing on blow-up animals so giant I don’t know how there’s room for water. I decide, right then and there, that I’m going to love it at Happy Endings Resort. In fact, this may be the best vacation ever.

  Rainbow stops to pick a wilting dandelion. She puts it close to her lips and blows its fragile seeds across the sky. I want to catch them, too, like Pappy’s smoke rings. Instead, I pick one of my own and make a wish. I wish Momma would come home. I reckon she’d love a place like this. And Grandma and Pappy could get on with their lives.

  “Everyone gets a hammock and a grill. Check out is at noon, ya’ll. We don’t mind, though, if ya sleep in a bit. Besides, you’re here a week, so you don’t have to worry about it. Worry about nothing, doll. No worries, here. It’s cool, ya’ll. Breakfast is in the Lodge, in the back room. But only for guests, not residents.” Rainbow twirls, arms straight out to each side, like she’s hoping to catch the sun, and smiles. “Any questions, ya’ll?”

  “We’re here to fish,” Pappy growls. “We ain’t got any interest in a tour or free breakfast. We’ll eat what we catch. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Okay then. Let’s get ya’ll settled,” Rainbow says. “Follow me, dolls.” She winks at me again. I hope it means she won’t tell Pappy when I sneak over the Lodge come morning time for breakfast. I hate fish.

  We turn twice—first left, then right—down the twisty path before we arrive at our fuchsia-stained log cabin. It waves at us between pine trees and a stump carved into a lively totem pole. I push my fingers in its jagged grooves, touching its rough, square belly and poking it in the nostril. Pappy tells me to hurry up and “stop screwing around.” I suck bitter sap off my hands, jogging to catch up.

  My Hello Kitty backpack bounces, dancing to woodpecker drums playing from somewhere up above. I wonder if they, the birds I can’t see, saw the bubble smoke rings and dandelion seeds. I wonder if they could hear my wish. I plop down in the hammock, kicking off my flip flops. I swing side to side, tuning out Pappy’s mumblings about perch, “no such thing as gator-free freshwater,” bass and missing home. Little do I know, I’m already here. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch a fish. John can eat it.

  ***

  Present day

  Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that was nearly twelve years ago. It seems like yesterday that John and I first visited Happy Endings Resort on a last-minute fishing trip with Pappy. It was a trip that never would have happened, had Grandma not wanted us out of her hair for a while, while she worked on her pottery “in silence without that miserable man around to tell me I’m making a mess of things.”

  I still miss Rainbow and how she recognized us each year when we returned—always with Grandma after that first trip—for the annual fishing derby. Each Labor Day weekend, as we packed our things to return to Raleigh, she’d say, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?” She never did tell Pappy how I managed to stay alive on a diet of spat-out catfish and marshmallows. Hippies don’t kiss and tell. I reckon he figured it out, eventually, but never thought to ask about it until now.

  Grandma told me once that it was Bess, the nosey lady three trailers down from Bear’s that finally drove Rainbow out of here. “She was always getting into everyone’s business,” Grandma said. “You have to avoid people like that. Up to no good. Drama, drama, drama. Just like your momma, dear. Bless her heart. Remember: Keep your nose to yourself and mind your own business, ya hear?”

  It never occurred to me that Grandma wasn’t much good at minding her own business either. She and Maggie—we’ll get to her soon enough—had their own share of gossip sessions. They talked
in hushed voices over campfires. They whispered about smoldering love affairs on Maggie’s front porch for hours, until the sweet tea got warm and Pappy and John were due for supper. Later it was moonshine. Thinking back, maybe Grandma was talking to herself, reminding herself. And, maybe it’s also why my grand momma loved this place the way she did—that it never was about the “gator-free lake” at all. I reckon that was just her way of getting Pappy there, year after year. I wish I could ask her now, but I can’t. She’s been gone for just about two years.

  My name is Callie, short for Callalily. Apparently, my momma was a hippie, like Rainbow, too. I wouldn’t know, even still. Now that I’m older, it doesn’t seem so cute. She left my brother and me when I was a toddler. John and I were raised by Pappy and Grandma. They say Momma, whose name is technically Suzanne but I wasn’t allowed to refer to her that way, ran off with “the first guy who caught her eye.” They, my grandparents, called her a “gypsy” and “a problem child.” They called her a lot of other things, too, but I don’t care to think about it anymore. A lot has changed since then. So what if I was left at Grandma’s house by a flower child? People have bigger problems than that. It’s easy to get over something you don’t really remember. At least, that’s the way it was for me. I’m not so sure about my brother. I guess that’s neither here nor there now.

  Mostly, I’ve had a great life. Aside from Grandma and Pappy dying—him of cancer, her of a broken heart—my biggest struggle was when my mutt, Peanut, died. I think I cried for three months straight and remember wanting to punch the cashier at the Dollar General—bless her heart—when she told me to “have a good day” without even looking up to see the expression on my face.

  I picture Momma off “finding herself” in the clunky blue Volkswagen van she called Martha—the very thing she encouraged me to do in a letter she sent home the year I turned ten. “Do what makes your heart sing. Don’t listen to anyone but yourself, Lily. You only have one life and you should live it to the fullest,” she’d written. “And, for the love of the Goddess, travel. There’s more to life than the Carolinas.” I haven’t heard from her since, so I guess she’s sort of irrelevant. And me, to her, too. Oh well. I wish her the best.

  Anyway, back to Happy Endings, the place where my—our—story really began. Like I was saying, a lot has changed since those first few summers with Grandma and Pappy. Rumor has it that Rainbow ran off some woman with a fancy guitar and the voice of an angel. Her not being at the Lodge to greet people is probably the biggest change. There was just something about her. Grandma always said she was “happier than a dead pig in sunshine.” Can’t argue with that. I just wish she could be here now. This place could use a little sparkle. I’d love to have her back for the wedding. I guess you can’t have everything you want. But still…

  The log cabins we once summered in are now used as storage sheds for Brice, the park’s lead handyman. One is used as storage for his long-lost daughter, also named Callie. Others were knocked down when new owners came in. They were replaced with trailers for year-long residents so Rory—the owner—can collect a check in December. The place just looks, well, sadder somehow. Bright colors are muted by neutrals to give it the rustic feel currently in demand by summer-only residents. I miss it the way it once was before everything seemed so serious and people stopped wishing on dandelions.

  Other things haven’t changed a bit. The fishing’s still the best around and, well, there’s Austin. Austin Rivers: He’s the main reason I came back every summer without complaint all those years. He’s the reason I’m here now too. Pappy, who loved Austin like the son he wished he had, always joked that I’d caught the biggest fish in all of Endings when I hooked Austin. We’re getting married in just under eight weeks, here, at Happy Endings, where the whole thing started.

  I can’t say I loved Austin the first time I met him. For starters, I was super young, ya’ll. I wasn’t exactly looking to pick out a husband. He was just another kid at the campground who was too loud, too rough, and who thought he’d invented the world’s fastest way to light a campfire. Plus, he was an only child and thought he should be the center of attention. In short, he was annoying. Mostly, I tried to avoid him. But, because he was friends with John, I sort of had to tolerate him. And, over time, we became friends.

  I was in seventh grade the year I first noticed Austin’s smile. His teeth reminded me of tiles I’d just helped Pappy put in in Grandma’s new Raleigh kitchen—perfect squares, glossy white. I remember looking twice, the first time I noticed how his top lip stuck to his front teeth right before he smiled. Then, when he did, his smile was so big it carved huge dimples perfectly symmetrical into his cheeks. I found myself concocting ways to make him smile, just to see how deep his dimples went. Answer, after three seasons of silent study: Austin’s dimples were bottomless.

  To Austin, I was John’s baby sister. I doubt he looked at me twice before his parents’ accident. When I ask him about it now, he denies everything, saying he always thought I was pretty but didn’t dare ask me out; thinking Pappy would go after him. I reckon Austin just likes to give me a hard time, or, maybe, argue with me.

  These days, I live with Austin’s grandmother. Maggie Rivers is pretty much the best replacement for a grandmother I could get. Grandma’s best friend, I’ve known Maggie since my early days at Happy Endings, back when I was sneaking pictures of her grandson behind fat trees near the lake.

  Sadly, Maggie’s had a run of bad luck. Two strokes and a mild heart attack later, she isn’t able to take care of herself. It was about when Austin was set to leave for boot camp that he asked me if I’d mind moving in with his grandmother to watch over her. With my eyes set on a nursing degree and a love for Happy Endings anyway, the decision was easy. It’s been almost a year, and I’ve managed to become a paid direct support provider to Maggie. I’m also her legal guardian, not because she can’t make her own decisions, or that she’s any less capable of solving a Sunday crossword puzzle.

  That choice was made so Maggie could keep the state off her modest trailer, one she’s put her heart into, at the park. And, so I could get paid. Basically, we made it a win for everyone. Mostly, Maggie and I get on well. She’s known me all my life. Sometimes, when she calls me an “old soul” and tells me to “live a little,” I swear she’s Grandma, reincarnated. It makes me smile when she tells me not to be naïve and reminds me that my momma was “a poor decision maker” who missed out on a great thing. It’s these times where I think the rumors about Maggie and Grandma could be true. And, it’s these moments that make me believe in soulmates, too.

  It’s quiet at Maggie’s house. She made it clear, years ago, that all socializing is to be done on the front porch only. She rarely invites anyone in the house since Grandma passed and is the best secret keeper I know. She takes her tea black and listens for hours as I run color swatches or nursing school applications by her. Usually, she nods, and tells me I’ll make the right decision. I can see why Grandma loved her the way she did.

  The downside to living with Maggie is that I don’t have as many friends as I used to. For the six months after Pappy died, Grandma and I rented a trailer three streets down. It was then that I got to know Callie, Stixx, Julie and Izzy. I don’t see them as much as I’d like anymore. If I want to visit, per Maggie’s rules, I have to go to their houses.

  It’s okay, though. Callie’s so tied up in the dance studio she doesn’t have much time. Stixx is probably literally tied up to something I don’t want to know about by her boyfriend, and Izzy, well, that friendship sort of just faded out. I do still see Julie. I don’t know what it is about her. We don’t have much in common. She’s older than me with a son with special needs. Her husband, a guy she rarely talks about, is in jail, and she’s constantly stressed out, juggling jobs and appointments with specialists.

  Austin says I’m close to her because she’s what I would have wanted for a momma, had I had one. He doesn’t like when I talk about Julie all that much. It’s not that he’
s jealous. It’s that she reminds him of his momma. I guess it’s just complicated. Men can be strange creatures. Grandma always said so, too.

  Austin’s currently up north, in Richmond. He’s on a base where he’s studying to become an army mechanic. He hopes to use the National Guard and the certifications he’s earning to pay for college. Eventually, he wants to open an auto body shop. He says it won’t be in Endings. I don’t believe it. There’s no way Austin could leave his grandmother behind and he’s never lived anywhere but South Carolina. Besides, when he used to visit us in Raleigh, he was like a deer in headlights. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Austin Edward Rivers talks a good game, but he’s an Endings, South Carolina lifer: “While I breathe, I hope. Ready in soul and resource.” I’ve learned to humor him, like Maggie, and like the state motto.

  Austin will be home in less than seven weeks. We will be married in eight. I can hardly believe how quickly his training is going by. My days are filled with taking care of Maggie, college registrations, and planning the wedding. This week, Julie and I are going to a cake tasting. I plan to ask her to be my Matron of Honor. Normally, I’m not about labels but I reckon this will be important to Julie. She needs something positive in her life right now, and she’s done so much for me. I hope she agrees. I reckon she will. She, and my sister-in-law Sonya, will be the only ones standing up for me. I’m not into big crowds, fusses and being the center of attention. The wedding will be casual, small, and right here, at Happy Endings. Catfish and oyster fries…

  With Austin gone, I’m making wedding decisions mostly alone. Maggie thinks WiFi Internet is a waste of money and all of mine is going back into the wedding. Austin and I trade text messages but we have to watch the data on my phone, which leaves out Skype and other ways of communicating. It’s okay. It’ll be worth it. In just about two months, I’ll be Austin’s bride: Callalily Meadow Rivers. Wow, talk about a hippie name. I bet my momma would be in heaven. And Pappy? He’s rolling over in his grave. Zero doubt about it. At least Austin didn’t dodge the draft. At least Austin’s not a coward. And Pappy did love Austin. So, there’s that. I guess he could forgive it.