The Light in Summer

by Mary McNear

  “It is a big deal, Cal. You loved it. That building you designed . . .”

  “It’s still there. I just don’t want to design any more of them. You should see the building the firm is putting up next. It looks like an electric razor. I mean, how many more ugly buildings does the world need?”

  “No one’s saying you have to design ugly buildings. But there must be other things you want to design.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well, obviously, there was a reason you got into this field,” Allie prompted.

  “Yes. There was. I wanted to build houses, I think. Places where people actually live.”

  “So do that.”

  “Maybe I will. Right now, though, I don’t want to do anything.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. “And how long do you think this will last? Your doing nothing?”

  “A summer. Maybe longer.” Granted, this would be a new experience for him. He’d been working for as long as he could remember, through high school and college for his dad’s construction company, and in graduate school interning at architectural firms. Then, before he’d known it, he and Guy had been out on their own. The work, far from letting up, had only intensified.

  “Cal,” Allie said, shaking her head. “You’re incapable of doing nothing.”

  “Maybe in the past. But this time is different. I’ve made plans to do nothing. I’m developing a system for doing nothing. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to take that rubber raft I saw in the boathouse, tie it up to the end of the dock, get in it and just . . . lie there. All day. If I get hot, I’ll jump in the water. Thirsty? I’ll grab a beer. Bored? I’ll read a book.”

  Allie rolled her eyes. “Cal, it’s not going to happen. You have the strongest work ethic of anyone I’ve ever known. Mom likes to tell people you started your first business at three. Your pet turtle feeding business.”

  “That was not a success, as I recall.”

  “No, but everything else you’ve done has been.” This was not technically true. His was not a perfect record. There’d been bids he’d lost, clients who’d left for other firms, projects that had come in behind schedule or overbudget. Overall, though, he had to admit his career had followed a steady upward trajectory. And no one, he knew, had been prouder of this than Allie, who was looking at him now with a gently quizzical expression on her face, as if he were a much-loved puzzle whose pieces had suddenly been scrambled in a newly bewildering way. And then she sighed, sipped her tea, tried to put an escaped strand of her hair back into the loose bun she favored while working, and finally smiled, a little wearily, at him.

  “I just realized something, Cal,” she said. “You’re having a midlife crisis. A full-blown one. A divorce, a sports car, a job change, you name it. Only you’re having this crisis about ten years early. I’ve got to hand it to you, though. You really are precocious, aren’t you? Mom always said so. By the way, have you told her about this, Cal? Her and Dad?”

  “No.”

  “Not any of it?” She meant the divorce, too.

  “Nope. They think I’m here just to get some rest. I’m not that worried, though. I think they can handle my getting divorced. They never liked Meghan, did they?”

  Allie raised her shoulders noncommittally. She was loyal to the core, Cal thought. If her parents had told her this in confidence, she would never repeat it. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “They won’t like the part about you leaving the firm, though. They’re so proud of you, Cal. They had that feature from Seattle Magazine blown up and framed. It’s hanging on their living room wall. What was it called? ‘Forty under Forty’?”

  “Those lists don’t mean anything,” Cal said. “Except that you have a good publicist or you’re photogenic, or, preferably, both.”

  “What about that award you got?” Allie pressed, but Cal didn’t want to talk about that, either. “You’re going back to it, though, aren’t you?” she asked. “Architecture? I mean, you can work for another firm, right? Or start your own?”

  “Sure,” he said, more to end the conversation than because he actually believed it.

  Allie chewed her lip, something she did when she was worried, and stopped only because someone knocked on the gallery’s door. “I’ve got to reopen,” she said, standing up. “You’re welcome to stick around, though.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to get going.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a phone conference soon.”

  “Lawyers?” Allie asked.

  “Lawyers,” Cal agreed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hi, Ms. Harper. Are you here for dinner?” Joy Johnson, the Corner Bar’s hostess asked Billy when she came in on a Saturday night during the last week of June. Whenever Billy saw Joy—she was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Jax and Jeremy Johnson, the owners of the local hardware store—she immediately saw the covers of the novels in the Divergent series. When, she wondered, would she be able to meet people in town without automatically identifying them with the books they checked out of the library? Probably never, she decided, looking around the crowded room.

  “I know,” Joy said apologetically, seeing the expression on Billy’s face. She’d hoped to have a quiet dinner here tonight, but with the garrulous patrons filling the tables and booths, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, and the strains of “Brown Eyed Girl” blaring from the jukebox, there was nothing quiet about the Corner Bar tonight. “It’s the tourists,” Joy said, lowering her voice.

  “Are they driving you crazy?” Billy asked.

  “Yes and no,” Joy said. “They complain about the service more than the locals, but they leave bigger tips, too, so it’s a toss-up. There’s one table left, though,” she said, selecting a menu for Billy and pointing to a table for two against a wall and wedged between an arcade video game and the swinging doors that led to the restrooms. “Do you want it?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll just get something to go.”

  Joy took a check pad out of her apron pocket. “The Cobb salad?” she asked of Billy’s usual order. It was one of the only entrées on the menu with a “heart-healthy” symbol beside it.

  “Actually, tonight, I think I’ll get the cheeseburger, medium rare, and fries.”

  “You got it,” Joy said, scribbling on the check pad. “I have to warn you, though, the kitchen staff is short-handed. It could be half an hour or more. Do you want to come back?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll wait at the bar,” Billy said, thinking that since it was drizzling outside, she could have a glass of wine here tonight instead of on her back porch.

  “Great. You can pay Marty when you’re ready,” Joy said, grabbing a couple of menus and greeting the couple who’d come in behind Billy. Billy scanned the bar and took the only unoccupied stool, at the far end. She tried to catch the eye of Marty, the bartender, but he was busy, so she decided to engage in some people-watching instead. She looked, discreetly, at the man on the stool next to hers. “Cal?” she said a little louder than she’d intended.

  He turned to her. Yes, it was definitely Cal Cooper. He looked the same, only . . . only better. He was minus the jacket he’d worn to the wedding, but the casualness suited him. He wore a light blue button-down shirt and jeans—the same jeans he’d worn in the Seattle Met Magazine spread? she wondered—and his curly hair looked a little less tamed, his complexion a little tanner. She’d expected him to meet her with a blank stare, but he smiled and said, “Billy. Billy with the freckles.”

  “That’s me,” she said, blushing. Without knowing it, he’d zeroed in on the one feature she was most self-conscious about.

  “I didn’t . . . know you were still in town,” she said.

  “Apparently I am,” he said with a trace of a smile. “I’m coming up on two weeks in Butternut.” He raised a glass of what looked like whiskey to his mouth and took a sip. “I decided to make my vacation open-ended.”

  She smiled politely, but there was something disorienting about seeing him here tonight. He
didn’t belong at the Corner Bar, she decided, remembering the articles she’d skimmed on the Internet.

  “Is there anything wrong?” he asked her now, over the noise of the bar.

  “What? No,” she said, shaking her head. “You just . . . you just seem a little out of place here.” As soon as she said this, she blushed again. She hadn’t meant it to sound rude, but it was hard to imagine it sounding any other way.

  “I do?” he said. He didn’t look offended, though. “Is there . . . a dress code I don’t know about?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “No, there’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing,” she told him, raising her voice to be heard over the room’s noise. “You just seem like you’re probably used to a different kind of establishment. You know, someplace that doesn’t have snowshoes mounted on the wall above the bar, and macaroni and cheese curds on the menu.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, leaning closer, probably so he didn’t have to shout at her. “It’s funny you should say that, though. Because I was just thinking how nice it was to be somewhere they don’t have a mixologist on staff. When I ordered a scotch from Marty over there, he didn’t ask me which one of seventeen different brands I wanted. He just said, ‘Dewar’s?’ and poured me one. And speaking of Dewar’s,” he said, draining the last of the scotch from his glass, “I’m going to ask Marty for another one. Can I, uh, get you something, Billy?”

  “Oh, I’m just waiting for my dinner.”

  “Well, can I buy you a drink while you wait?”

  She hesitated. “I can pay for my own drink,” she said, thinking of the woman she’d seen in the pictures with him.

  “I’m sure you can,” he said, amused again. He seemed incapable of being offended. But he also seemed, Billy thought, like a nice guy. And this didn’t feel like a pickup. Not when she was the one who’d sat down next to him. Still, why wasn’t his wife with him? And since when did an award-winning architect take an open-ended vacation in the Northwoods? And, while she was at it, what the hell was he doing sitting here in this bar when he had that amazing life waiting for him back in Seattle?

  Billy wanted to ask him all of these things, but what came out of her mouth first was, “Aren’t you married?”

  He seemed surprised.

  “Small town,” she lied quickly.

  “Right,” he said. “Technically, yes. I’m still married. But I’ve filed for divorce. And I’ve moved out of our apartment.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. What she was thinking, though, was, You moved out of that apartment? That gorgeous apartment? Are you crazy?

  It was at this moment that Marty materialized in front of them. “Hello, Billy,” he said. And then, including Cal in his look, “What can I get you two?”

  “I’d like another Dewar’s,” Cal said. “And Billy would like . . . ?”

  “A chardonnay,” she said.

  Marty nodded and moved off down the bar.

  “How’s your son?” Cal asked.

  “My son is visiting his grandmother in St. Paul for the weekend,” Billy said. She’d driven him down there after work yesterday and spent the night, then had driven back this morning. Tonight he and her mom were at a Minnesota Twins game. This break from each other had seemed necessary to Billy; it was becoming increasingly clear to her, and to Luke, presumably, that weekends under Billy’s vigilant watch were a strain on both of them. She’d joked to Rae at the beginning of the summer about Luke being under house arrest, but in truth, that was what it was starting to feel like. And sometimes she wondered whom this was harder on—the jailer or the jailed?

  “His grandmother, huh?” Cal said now. “That sounds . . . very wholesome.”

  “That’s the idea,” Billy said. “And next month, he’ll be on a longer but equally wholesome trip with North Woods Adventures.” After having done her due diligence—she’d spoken to the program director, one of the counselors, and a couple of parents whose children had gone on past trips—she’d sat down with Luke a few days ago and shown him their Web site. She’d focused on all the “cool” aspects of the program, especially those activities she already knew he liked. And she pointed out that one of the counselors—whose nickname was Mad Dog, according to his bio—was an avid skateboarder and a BMX competitor. She’d mustered all of her parental charm and persuasion. And Luke had finally agreed, albeit grudgingly, to go on the trip.

  Marty brought their drinks over now, along with a little bowl of pretzels he set down between them. Billy immediately popped one into her mouth—she was starving, as usual—but Cal ignored them and took a drink from his new scotch. Was he drunk? Billy wondered at the slight wobble she saw in his hand as he put his glass back down. She couldn’t tell, though. She didn’t know him well enough. But when he spoke to her again, he seemed perfectly sober.

  “The day of the wedding, your son didn’t get in any real trouble, did he?”

  “No, he got off with a warning.”

  “I thought so. I got one of those, too, when I was around his age. Some of my friends and I used to try to blow things up in a field near my house. Finally someone complained about it, and the police brought us down to the station and gave us a little talking-to. You know, tried to put the fear of God in us.”

  “Did it work?” Billy asked, sipping her chardonnay. It was delicious. Sad to say that the Corner Bar, with its limited selection, was still serving better wine than Billy served at home.

  “More or less.” Cal smiled. “I don’t know how much of it was the talk, though. Not long after that, we discovered girls. They were a lot more interesting, it turned out, than blowing things up.”

  “I’ll bet,” Billy said. “I don’t know if Luke is there yet,” she added, selecting another pretzel. She’d wondered once if he liked Annabelle that way, but that was before they’d stopped talking to each other.

  She watched while Cal downed almost half his drink at once. Yikes, she thought, he was drinking fast. Was that why his marriage had ended? Somehow she didn’t think so. He didn’t look like a drinker. Then again, he did seem awfully comfortable with Marty.

  “Have you, uh, been coming here often?” Billy asked, gesturing around the bar. Like, every night?

  “Nope, first time here.”

  So, you prefer to drink alone? she almost asked. Instead she said, “So, what have you been doing in Butternut?”

  “I’ve been spending time with my sister and her family,” he said. “But mainly, I’ve been trying to relax. And you know what I’ve discovered about myself?”

  “What?”

  “I’m really bad at relaxing. Like, terrible at it.”

  “Not everyone can do it. What have you tried?”

  “To relax?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, yesterday, I tied a raft to the end of the dock, got into it, and just lay there in the sun, bobbing up and down on the water. I left my iPhone and my laptop in the cabin. I had my watch on, but I told myself I wouldn’t look at it. What was the point? I was going to stay out there all afternoon. So I waited, and when I thought I’d been relaxing for at least an hour, I looked at my watch.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Fifteen minutes. A little less, actually.”

  Billy laughed. “I get it. I do. Relaxing is hard work. Have you tried reading? That helps.”

  “I have,” Cal said. “The selection at the cabin, though . . .” He shook his head. “It’s heavy on Hardy Boys mysteries, light on just about everything else.”

  “Come to the library, then,” Billy said without thinking. “Making book recommendations is my favorite part of the job. Oh, and we also have a section on architecture. It’s pretty small, but I can get you almost any book through interlibrary loan.” She stopped, conscious that she’d sounded like a public service announcement for visiting your local public library.

  Cal only smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll come in sometime. Reading would help. But I did find this TV show I like. It’s called Forensic Files. Ha
ve you ever seen it?”

  “Of course. Haven’t you?”

  “No. Not before I came up here.”

  “Really? You can’t even turn on the television without stumbling across it. I think it’s on at least sixteen hours a day.”

  “I’ve never watched much TV. But this show . . . it’s totally addictive.”

  Billy smiled. “It is, except it’s always the same, isn’t it? If the wife was murdered, it turns out to be the husband who murdered her, and if the husband was murdered, it turns out to be the wife.” As soon as she said this, though, she regretted it; he’d just told her about his own presumably unhappy marriage ending. “I mean,” she added, quickly, “that’s obviously an extreme response to a marriage that isn’t working.”

  “Obviously,” he said, his mouth quirking up in a half smile. He took another drink of his scotch.

  “What about you?” he asked, his hazel eyes resting on her.

  “Me?”

  “Do you have a husband stashed in a freezer somewhere?”

  Billy laughed in spite of herself. “No husband,” she said. “Murdered or otherwise,” she joked. “It’s just me and Luke.”

  “His dad . . .” Cal paused. “He’s not in the picture?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking back down into his drink, or what was left of it. “It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Billy said. “I asked you about your marital status. Luke’s dad has never been in the picture,” she explained. “In fact, Luke’s dad doesn’t even know he’s Luke’s dad, as far as I can tell.”

  “Ah, the plot thickens.”

  “It’s pretty thick,” Billy agreed. “But, you know, it’s an old story.”

  “Tell it to me,” Cal said, leaning closer, and Billy had the strangest feeling, crowded bar aside, that the two of them were alone.

  She took another sip of her wine, formulating her response. “Well, you know the story where the teenage girl goes on a fishing trip with her dad, and one night at this lodge where they’re staying in Alaska, she tells him she’s going to be reading Wuthering Heights in the lobby, but in fact she ends up having a fling with one of the guides who took them out on the river that morning?”