Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

by Abbie Williams

  “You need a drink, Joelle?” Blythe asked, his voice a study in innocence, and I seized the opportunity with both hands.

  “That sounds great,” I said, and then asked Rich, “How about you?”

  “No, I’m fine, sweetie,” he told me.

  I followed Blythe through the crowd, feeling slightly conspicuous, but no one paid us any mind, too busy enjoying themselves to observe. Instead of heading for the coolers, though, we made our way around the back of the café and into the velvety July darkness, where we could be together and blessedly alone.

  “Come here,” Blythe commanded, his voice melting over me like the humid night air itself, and I went, up and close where we kissed and kissed, until he was breathless and I was practically gasping.

  “The house,” I managed to say, my lips a fraction of an inch from his, and he wasted no time, hauling me along as we ran over the lake path, drunk with each other’s presence. The house was silent and dark, the sounds of the party now distant and sweet, like a movie playing at a drive-in theater across the way. I led him inside, where he’d never been; too afraid of getting caught to take him upstairs to my room I said, “Kitchen,” desire rendering me startlingly inarticulate.

  It was incredibly dark in there, with no moon or streetlight available, and though we were well away from anyone I was too worried about someone noticing any lights on over here. But I was very familiar with this space, and pulled him to the center island, where I made short work of discarding my panties before hopping up to sit on the counter, where he moved between my thighs with a throaty sound of appreciation, skimming his fingers under my skirt. I created a perfect space for him there, working hard with my hands to get his jeans undone.

  “Joelle,” he said against my lips, clutching my naked hips and plucking at my lips with his incredible mouth. I shivered with pleasure, and he shifted his own hips and let his boxers fall. I could feel him, so hot and hard against my right thigh, and yet he teased and held back, clutching me inescapably around the waist with one hand while stroking me deftly with the other, lightly and then with more intensity, and at last inside. I moaned, biting the side of his neck. He made a sound low in his throat, a noise that made me shudder even more powerfully.

  “Wait,” he said, his voice sounding like he’d just run a 200-meter dash, full bore. “Condom.” And so saying, he bent and fumbled for his jeans pocket. Seconds later he was back against me, also now shirtless, and I clutched his hips, pulling him into me with force. We were a perfect height, with me on the countertop, and he slid home with another groan, holding himself deep within as I arched backward and braced my hands behind myself, moving swiftly against him as he gripped my hips and impaled me, again and again.

  My body responded so much to his that again I seemed to lose track of time and space, at least for those moments. I curled forward as I came, hard, and yet he didn’t stop. I clutched his shoulders now and held tightly; he was slick with sweat, as was I, and he kissed my neck, my jaw, my lips, his voice strained as he spoke my name. My body was pulsing with both pleasure and pain at the continued, driven assault, but still I locked my ankles around him in case he even considered stopping. I convulsed for a second time, panting, and then he came, crying out, his fingers certainly leaving imprints on my hips.

  After a few minutes of being held, my head on his chest, I floated slowly back to myself. Blythe made a sound that was close to laughter, then kissed my left temple and murmured, his deep voice so very sweet, “God, Joelle, I can’t believe what you do to me.”

  “You’re an animal,” I muttered, my voice muffled against him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk for a week.”

  He laughed again, moving me gently back so he could haul his jeans into place. My legs were still jelly-like, and I was glad when he found my panties and was kind enough to slip them as far as he could, to about my knees.

  “Thanks, honey,” I told him, the endearment rolling from my tongue.

  From a foot away, he grinned, bent to kiss my bare thighs one after the other, and then replied, “I like that. It sounds damn good.”

  “I will never be able to be near this kitchen again without thinking of this,” I told him, as he helped me from the counter; I was a bit unsteady, but I managed to get my undies back where they belonged.

  “Well I’m glad to make an impression,” he teased, his dimples flashing in the meager light, and my body responded with a rush of heat. Despite the fact that he’d only just left, I craved him back inside me with an intense desire. It was like a torch that flamed hotter the more we touched; I was as moved as I was caught off guard. He brought my knuckles to his mouth and kissed them, softly. “We better get back there, baby, before someone misses us.”

  And I knew he was right; I already missed him more than words could express.

  Chapter Fifteen

  July melted along, the hottest month of the year, the humidity up past ninety percent most days. Blythe and I met every night that I could sneak away, in the late night hours, his truck our sanctuary. There we would talk and make love, make love and talk, listen to the radio and snuggle together. It was total living in the moment, and as much as I craved and hoarded our time together, each passing night brought August closer. I dreaded August, tried my best not to consider it, put off conversations about what I planned to do then until one night near the end of the month Blythe, who’d seemed on edge all day, would no longer allow evasiveness.

  “Joelle, I want to tell everyone about us,” he whispered against my hair. I lay sprawled on top of him, boneless and content, listening to his heartbeat beneath my left ear. I blinked, pulling myself out of the blissful drowsiness that our lovemaking induced, and then tipped my chin against his chest. He was regarding me with serious eyes, one elbow tucked beneath his head.

  “My girls won’t understand,” I said for the countless time, but for the first wondered if I was conveniently hiding behind that excuse.

  “Why not? They love you and they want you to be happy, don’t they?”

  How to explain this to someone who was not himself a father? He couldn’t possibly understand the subtleties, the intricacies of the parent-child relationship. I said, “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?” he asked, and there was a layer of anger in his tone, one I hadn’t heard before this moment.

  My heart thumped harder as I floundered for a response. “It’s everything. They’re still adjusting to being away from their dad, and our separation. It’s all so new still.”

  “They seem pretty happy to me,” he went on. “I’ve never seen such happy kids, Joelle. They worship you, and they have their grandma, and Ellen, and Louisa.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “But what?” he interrupted. “When were you planning on telling them anything?”

  “I don’t know, I…” I was ashamed when, again, I couldn’t justify myself. My heart was quaking in my chest, fully awake now. Not yet, not yet, it was pleading. Not yet, when there was no good place for any of this conversation to go.

  “Joelle,” he said, and his voice quavered just slightly with emotion. He shifted and drew me gently with him, until we were sitting, my knees bent over his lap. “Where do you see this going? Be honest with me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, aching, feeling tears spring to my eyes as his own grew tortured. I wanted to bury my face in my hands, but I couldn’t look away.

  “What have I been to you this summer?” he asked me, anger again in the undertone. “Sex, nothing more? A good lay?”

  “You know that’s not true,” I whispered, a sudden husk caught in my throat, aghast that he would think that.

  “Well, I love you, Joelle, and I fell in love with you the moment we met, even if I didn’t realize it until later.” It was the first time he’d actually spoken what I knew hummed between us.

  Tears streaked over my cheeks, and I caught his hands in mine, imploring him, “Blythe, I love you so much it hurts. I can’t tell you ho
w much I love you.”

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath through his nose. I released my grip on his hands and cupped his face, whispering, “I am so scared to lose you, but I don’t know what to do, Blythe. I don’ t know.”

  His eyes opened instantly and flashed into mine. “Don’t go back to Chicago, Joelle. Stay here. Stay with me.”

  My heart constricted.

  “I mean it,” he went on, fire in his voice now, conviction.

  “Blythe,” I said, closing my eyes as more tears gushed over my face. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do, you think I don’t because I’m young and stupid, but I know what I’m asking you. I love you, and I won’t let you go. Hell, I can barely make it through the day waiting to be with you.”

  I hugged him close, burying my face against his huge shoulder as his arms crushed me close. He went on, his voice low and passionate, “Give me a chance, you’ll see.”

  My heart seemed to crack along a fault line as I whispered, “I wish I could, Blythe, you don’t know how much I wish I could.”

  He grew totally still. We were both naked, clinging to each other, and I was breaking up with him. But I had to do it; I was older, and wiser, and the bottom line was I loved him too much to let him do something he would come to regret when he was older, after he’d been through the strain of being in a relationship with someone who had three daughters, the stress that is inherent in any relationship that involves kids in the equation. I couldn’t do that to him, and my heart was breaking into pieces in my chest.

  Then he spoke earnestly, “We can make this work, Joelle. I know it.”

  I held back the sobs that wanted to rip up my throat. I managed to say, my mouth dry as dust, “You don’t know, Blythe, you couldn’t know what it means to be a parent. It’s so much hard work, it will drain you dry. And I love my girls, I would do anything for them, and I still feel that way. How could I expect you to take on all of those responsibilities when they’re not your own? I won’t do that to you, I won’t. You’re so young. You’d end up hating me.”

  His eyes were blazing into mine, fierce and blue. “Don’t say that. Never would I hate you.”

  I couldn’t stop the sobs now, even though I was trying. The sound that was huffing out made it seem like I was choking. Blythe pulled me back against him and said, “Don’t cry, Joelle, please, don’t cry.”

  But still I sobbed, until his chest was wet. Then I pulled away abruptly, so angry at myself I could hardly bear it. I groped around for my bra, my shirt, my hands shaking.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said, again and again. “Please take me home.”

  “Joelle, don’t do this,” he begged me, and the pain in his deep voice sent razors into my soul.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying and failing to hook my bra with such trembling hands. I left it, pulling on my shorts instead.

  Blythe seemed to turn to stone; I couldn’t handle the expression in his eyes. Without another word he pulled on his own shorts, his t-shirt, his movements tense and short. He turned the key and shifted into gear as I sat with my face in my hands as he drove me back to Shore Leave.

  Less than five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot and he put the truck into park with deliberate movements. He sat very still, his hands hanging on the steering wheel and gaze fixed out the windshield into the darkness beyond. Oh God, this was it. This was the moment I was leaving him behind. My stomach was heaving, my hand shaking; as I wrapped my fingers around the door handle he looked towards me. The expression in his eyes punched a hole into my chest. But as I hesitated, he bit his bottom lip and turned resolutely away. I clung to my conviction and forced myself to climb out of his truck. For a moment I thought he would peel out of the parking lot, waking the entire family, but he drove away slowly, and I watched until the red glow of his brake lights disappeared around the lake. Tears gushed over my face again as I headed for the dock, barefoot, my bra unhooked and my shorts unbuttoned. I probably looked like the victim of a crime, with my mascara-streaked face and tangled hair topping the whole look. A small part of me acknowledged that the end of our relationship was coming eventually, and that I would have had to bear it sooner or later…

  I made it about three steps onto the familiar old dock boards before I saw Jilly, sitting on the bench with a cigarette. At my approach she turned and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Joelle, I am so sorry.”

  “Oh, Jill,” I moaned, and moved to sink beside her, tipping forward at the waist until my forehead was on my knees. I sobbed so hard my head pulsed. Jilly rubbed my spine lightly with her left hand, over and over; I kept repeating, “I love him, Jillian, I love him so much.” Her empathy transferred to me through her gentle touch, though she wisely said nothing. But then again, there was nothing left to say.

  ***

  Morning dawned gray and cheerless. Tish, Clint and Ruthann took out one of the canoes under a heavy sky; Camille had not emerged by ten, and was sleeping soundly when I poked my head in to check on her at ten-thirty. Crap, that meant late nights with Noah Utley, though I was hardly one to talk, despite the fact that my own late nights were very much over. Right now, I could not think more than a few hours ahead; somewhere in the back of my mind I was planning and packing our gear, loading our car and preparing to drive home to Chicago. We’d just be a week earlier than I’d intended, and I was running away because if I stayed here I would not be able to keep myself from Blythe, of that I was certain.

  I spent the day hiding in the house, watching reruns (I hadn’t actually turned on the television once all summer) but it hooked my attention like crack to a stoner all day, as I sprawled on the couch and listlessly flipped from channel to channel. We’d never had cable in my high school days, but Gran enjoyed it now, especially in the winter, and so I was able to watch the cooking shows and entertainment junk I’d missed for months. It seemed mind-numbing given my current emotional state. Around one in the afternoon Camille came down the steps in a long t-shirt and fuzzy slippers, shadows under her eyes. She took one look at me and asked, “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  I straightened up immediately at the suspicious edge in her voice, and said, “I just have a headache, sweetie.”

  She bought this and continued to the couch, and I reoriented my focus upon her face. “Are you sick, honey?”

  She shook her head and then got back up, though she’d just settled into the cushion. Without another word she made for the kitchen, leaving me to stare after her and wonder whether I should follow and feel her forehead, as I would have years ago. She was prone to headaches, I knew, just as I used to be at her age.

  “There’s aspirin in the cupboard beside the stove, Milla,” I called to her, and flipped to a new channel.

  ***

  Evening rolled around, and I felt like hell. My head actually did ache by now, and I made an excuse to get out of dinner, even though Dodge and Justin were doing steaks for us. Instead I curled into a ball of self-pitiful tragedy in my bed, covers drawn to shut out the mellow, peach-tinted light that was streaking in through the window.

  Tomorrow would be July 28. I planned to take a few days to pack, say our good-byes, and then head home. The girls would be disappointed and I was already devastated, but I couldn’t stay any longer, even though everything within me rebelled against leaving, both Shore Leave and Blythe, but especially him. He hadn’t called, nor been out, though I had seen Rich’s car arrive earlier in the afternoon. I curled around my stomach and pressed my forehead again to my knees, thinking of last night, the way his eyes had looked when I had ended us. Oh God…if only I were unmarried, and twenty-three, how different things would be…he would understand in time. There could be no other choice, as much as my heart was wounded. I thought back to May, arriving here crushed by my husband’s betrayal, and how much my viewpoint about Jackson had altered since then. I had felt happier in the last two months, despite everything, than I’d felt since I was young and unfettered and
hopeful. And Blythe was the reason. Tears stung my eyes as I cried again, until there was nothing left and I slept.

  It was fully dark when I woke, though a quick glance at my cell phone indicated only a few hours had passed. My mouth was parched, and I was starving, and sat up, wincing as my temples pounded in response. I pulled shorts over my pajama shirt and ventured downstairs, and then outside, where the air was sticky with humid warmth under a still mostly-overcast sky. The crickets seemed to be a million strong, and I strained to listen over their singing for voices on the porch. I couldn’t hear anyone, but the parking lot was empty except for our vehicles, so at least Dodge and Justin were gone for the night, and Rich was nowhere to be seen. My shoulders relaxed incrementally. I could see the candle lantern going as I grew closer, and made out Gran and Jillian sitting around one of the tables; Jilly’s face was lit with the glow, Gran at a right angle. Chief and Chester galloped over to greet me, tails wagging, and Gran turned to study me as I climbed the steps slowly to join them.

  “Joelle, what is going on?” my grandmother demanded as I gave in and sank into the chair opposite my sister. Jilly took a long swallow of her beer, regarding me with somber blue eyes.

  “Nothing, Gran,” I said, unable to look away from the candle flame.

  “Don’t ‘nothing’ me, girl,” she said. “You’re as blue as I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Where’s everyone?” I hedged, my voice crackly. Jilly slid her beer across the table for me.

  “Gone to bed,” Gran told me, and then unmercifully added, “It’s Blythe, isn’t it??”