It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (35 page)

He swallowed and reached for her, but she backed away. “Okay, yeah, I know maybe I went a little too far. It’s just . . . I wanted to impress you.”

“By being rude to me?” She shook her head, started to brush by him, but he stepped in front of her.

“I’m not always going to be small-town,” he said. “You have to know that.”

She frowned. “But being small-town is what I like about you.”

“But I don’t want you to. I’m headed for big things. I’m going to play professional football . . . and well, I might never come back here.”

She frowned at him. “Of course you will.”

He shook his head. “Don’t you get it? I have to leave, or I’ll be stuck here forever. Running the resort like my dad. I don’t want that.”

“I get it,” she said softly, so much sadness in her eyes, he realized that no, she didn’t get it. Not at all.

She brushed past him then, and he let her go. He could find a dozen girls at the dance who might want to watch the stars with him on Honeymoon Bluff.

He parked the bike and headed over to a group of girls. He knew one of them, a regular from the rental cabins down the shore. A short blonde, she smoked a cigarette, and he reached for it, took a drag, then handed it back to her. She smiled at him, so he pulled her onto the dance floor.

He danced with each of her friends, watching for Ingrid to return. When she did, her face looked chapped under the streetlights, as if she’d been crying. He turned away, smiled at the girl he was dancing with, and gave her a long kiss.

She tasted of an ashtray. She tried to pull him to the beach, but he shook his head and disentangled himself.

He spied Ingrid talking to Nate. She was rubbing her arms, and Nate slipped off his jean jacket and put it around her shoulders. John’s gut tightened.

Why did he care so much about this stupid girl? Sure, she was a babe, and yeah, she’d kissed him like he meant something to her. But he didn’t have time for a girlfriend, not with football camp starting in a week.

Maybe we could write.
Yeah. Like he would remember her name in a year.

Still, he sat on a rock, settled in the shadows, watching as she let Nate buy her cotton candy. She laughed, but he decided it could only be fake.

To his relief, she left early, long before the band stopped playing. He got on his motorcycle and followed her home at a distance, just to make sure. He turned off his lights, and after she’d parked and found her way to her cabin, he pulled in, parking the bike behind the house, and headed out to the end of the dock.

He couldn’t swallow away the lump lodged in his throat as he sat and leaned back on his hands, staring at the stars. He’d destroyed something tonight, and it bugged him that he even cared.

He’d just been trying to have some fun like every other guy down at the festival.

He didn’t see his father’s shadow until it loomed over him, until the scent of his Old Spice seasoned the breeze. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his pop standing behind him, wearing a flannel shirt, an old cap, hands in his jean pockets.

“What are you doing out here?” John said.

“I thought I’d take the canoe out, see if I couldn’t get a better look at the stars.”

John frowned at him but shrugged and got up, following his father to shore to help put their canoe in the water. They’d spent the better part of the last four years building the wooden canoe from scratch. They’d found and cut the wood, molded the pieces to fit, from the ash gunwales and the cherry decks to the caned seats and even the cedar strips that comprised the body. His father had carved their names into the smooth maple yoke and kept the canoe protected from the guests.

Now, they toted it to the water, letting it slide into the dark, murky surface of the lake, the moonlight icing the waves with a soft gleam. His father climbed into the bow, picking up a paddle on the way, and John took the stern.

They slipped out onto the lake, quiet, soundless. A loon mourned over the surface of the water. His father kept paddling until they reached the center, then set the paddle across the bow to drift.

John brought his paddle to his knees. The exertion of paddling had eased the knot from his chest, but something inside him still ached.

“Seeing the sky spilled out like this brings a hymn to mind.” His father began to hum, and John heard the words in his head.
“O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder consider all the worlds Thy hands have made . . .”

He didn’t join in, just listened to his father hum, consumed with the terrible urge to tell him about tonight. But despite their hours together, working the resort, building the canoe, he’d never quite found the right time
 
—or the courage
 
—to tell him the truth.

John took a breath. “I’m not coming back, Dad.”

His father stopped humming, but he didn’t turn.

“If you’re expecting me to take over the resort . . . I’m planning on playing football.”

He saw the old man’s profile as he nodded. “I know.”

John hadn’t expected that. Nor the way his father went back to humming as if he didn’t care that John was throwing away his legacy. Their legacy.

“Isn’t it interesting that, against the darkness, God provided light for us to find our way home?”

“So you’ll have to find someone else to run this place. Because it’s not what I want.”

His dad nodded again, still humming.

“I was made for bigger things.”

“I have no doubt you’ll be a success at whatever you do,” his father said quietly, unruffled. He picked up his paddle, began to move them through the water.

John had expected something more
 
—protests, anger
 
—from his father. A cool whoosh of relief inside at releasing the truth.

Nothing. Fine. If his father wanted to live in denial, then that was his problem. John dug in, paddling hard. But he
would
be someone
 
—and he’d do it without Evergreen Resort, without Deep Haven. Without Ingrid Young. Really, he’d already forgotten her.

“Son, you’d better ease up or we’ll ram the shore.”

“It’s cool, Dad.” John maneuvered them past the dock, toward shore. Above, the moon dipped behind a cloud, turning the shoreline dark.

“To the left, John!” His dad put out his paddle, steering them hard, but not quite fast enough. The canoe slid over a boulder under the water just a foot offshore, and John heard the sickening crunch of wood, then splintering as the rock tore at the shell of the boat.

His dad jumped out, picking up the bow of the canoe to rescue it, but as John clambered out, he saw water filling the boat.

He muttered a curse that soured the air. His father said nothing as he towed the canoe through the water to shore.

John helped him turn it upside down, then ran his hand over the wound. They’d have to tear off the cedar strip, remake it, refasten it, reseal it
 
—hours upon hours of work.

His father sighed deep and long. Then, “I guess we’ll have to repair it.”

“No, it’s not worth it.” John dropped the paddle onshore. “Just turn it into firewood.”

He heard his father pulling the canoe farther onto shore, out of the way, but he couldn’t bear to watch. Maybe it was for the best. Nothing to draw him back to this achingly small town, their backwoods resort.

His gaze drifted over to cabin 12, where a thin light burned on the deck. He thought he heard a screen door whine, thought he saw a shadow cross the light.

Yes, he’d leave this place and these memories and finally be the man he was meant to be.

1979

“Aren’t you going to town tonight?”

Ingrid looked up from where she sat on the Adirondack chair, her feet propped up on the wide arm, and stuck a thumb in her book while she answered her father’s question. “Nope.”

The sun had ducked behind the trees on the far side of the lake, the buzz of moths flirting with the deck light a hum behind the slurp of the lake on the shore, the far-off cry of a loon across the water.

She’d miss Evergreen Resort next year
 
—she could admit it, despite the memories that dogged her as she’d driven north, the air cooling. Along with her resolve to face John.

And tell him what?

Something. Anything to prove that she wasn’t the love-struck teenager from last summer
 
—no, every summer. She’d spent the year sorting out the churning emotions wrought from last year’s train wreck of an evening. She might have overreacted.

After all, John hadn’t treated her like she owed him something, not like Michael did at this year’s pre-prom date.

In fact, compared to Michael, John might be considered gallant. Especially the way he’d followed her home that evening as if making sure she returned to Evergreen Resort safely. And she’d seen him watching her as she tried to lose herself in Nathan’s easy friendship. But she’d failed miserably, and it hadn’t helped that John seemed to dance with half the girls in Deep Haven.

But he’d taught her a valuable lesson, and she’d realized that Kari was
right
 
—boys only wanted one thing. Well, they wouldn’t get it from her, and frankly, the thought helped her scrape John from her heart.

She was so over John Christiansen. So over being naive and stupid.

“Are you sure, honey? I know how you love the street dance.”

“I’m fine here, Daddy.” Ingrid opened her book, finding her place, reading the sentence three times before he walked away. Or not. Her dad pulled up another chair and perched it front of her.

“What?”

“You could talk to him, you know.”

“What
 
—? Who?”

Her father frowned. He’d aged more than the two years since Kari left, since she returned home and dismantled their lives with her drug abuse, her anger, her string of live-in boyfriends. How they could grow up in the same family and turn out so differently confused Ingrid. Still, the age, the worry, only deepened his frown.

“I’m not blind. You’ve been pining for John Christiansen since the first day you saw him, swinging into the lake from the rope on that big oak.”

“I wasn’t pining. Just . . . just wishing he saw me and not Kari.” In fact, she had a terrible nagging suspicion that’s exactly who he might have been holding in his arms last year. At least in his mind. “But those days are behind me.”

“You know he’s here, right? Showed up yesterday, leg brace and all.”

She lifted her book, her shoulder.

“He might never play football again with an injury like that. He could use a friend.”

Then he could choose from any of the girls he’d danced with last year. She wasn’t wowed, not anymore. “We’re not friends, Dad.”

Again he frowned. “Funny. That’s not what you said three years ago, when you covered for him after his accident.”

“I was a stupid girl, with stupid dreams.” Like the idea that a guy like John might see her, plain Ingrid, instead of flashy Kari.

Oh, see, just the mention of his name stirred up old hurts. She stared at her book, the lines blurry.

“Of my children, Ingrid, you are not the stupid one.” He leaned forward, met her eyes. “But you are the compassionate one.” He patted her knee and got up. Turned to glance at the lodge.

In the glow of the light cascading over the lodge porch, she saw John sitting on the picnic table, his crutches leaning against it, his hands clasped, head bowed. Defeated.

Shoot.

She put her bare feet into the cool grass, let the blades find her toes. Became again the girl holding John’s wounded head as Nathan drove him to the ER.

No, not that girl. Because she was over John Christiansen. And all men for that matter, at least for now. But her dad was right; maybe he needed a friend.

And because she was over him, she could be that.

She tucked the book under her arm and headed down the grass to the lodge. The night was cool on her skin, her tan rich after working as a lifeguard all summer. She wore her cutoff jeans, her red staff shirt. Down at the fire pit, she spied John’s mother, Eva, and his dad, Chester, building a campfire. Her parents would spend the evening roasting marshmallows, their own Saturday night tradition.

John didn’t look up as she stepped onto the deck, stood at the edge. She tried not to stare, not to wince, but his knee seemed three times its normal size, inflamed and red, evidence of the hyperextension injury. If possible, he’d filled out even more this year, his body thick and strong, proof of a year of conditioning. He wore a pair of maroon football shorts, a white gopher-emblazoned T-shirt, his hair shorter than she ever remembered, just over his ears. It still fell in a long, tempting lock over his eyes.

“John?”

He looked away, and the pain on his face speared her heart. She came over to sit beside him on the picnic table. “I heard about the accident.” She didn’t add that, in fact, she’d followed his first year at the University of Minnesota, knew he’d gotten into a couple games near the end of the season.

“How’d it happen?”

He still hadn’t looked at her. Now he shook his head. “Stupid accident. My spikes got caught in the wet grass, and I was slow coming off the ball. The center dove low, for my knees, and I just felt it pop. And then I was down.”

“Did it hurt?”

His mouth tightened in a grim line. “It hurts more to know I might not get another chance to show what I have to offer. That it’s over before it even began.”

“You went in a couple times last season
 
—”

He shot her a look, his eyes wide, and oh no, she hadn’t wanted to give that away. But she forced a smile, shrugged. “My father follows Gophers football.”

He nodded like that made sense.

“But why is it over? Can’t you come back? After surgery, after you heal?”

“I’ll be away from the game for a whole season. What if I can’t come back?” He closed his eyes as he spoke, too much vulnerability in his words.

“Really, John? This from the guy who tried to pound all the dents out of his truck after he rolled it. And convinced me to catch a slimy trout
 
—”

“Northern, and as I remember, that was your idea.” But she’d coaxed the slightest smile from him.

Oh, she’d forgotten how much she’d missed it.

“And what about the chain saw competition? That guy doesn’t give up.”

He said nothing. Then, “And what about the guy who totally blew it last summer?” He met her gaze, serious now, his eyes so blue it could take her breath away. “I’m really sorry, Ingrid. I thought . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Her throat thickened, and she looked away. So maybe she had pined a little for this version of John Christiansen, the one she knew was locked inside all that small-town swagger.

But she wasn’t stupid, so she found a just-friends smile. “It’s okay, John. I probably overreacted. We were both just kids.” Translation: young, immature, and not going back there.

She stared out at the lake, at the cracking fire, the sparks vanishing into the sky.

“Are you going to college?”

“Peace Corps. Peru or maybe Ecuador. And then I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be a teacher. Or a missionary.”

He frowned at that.

“What?”

“I just thought . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “For some reason I thought you would move to Deep Haven.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why. It’s silly
 
—I mean, everyone is trying to get out of here, right?”

Not right. “I’d love to live in Deep Haven someday. I love the simplicity, the way everyone knows each other like a family. I love the beauty of the north shore, the blue of the lake against the cloud-streaked sky, the smell of campfires, the crunch of pine needles under my shoes. It’s a life I want. I’ve always dreamed of living here. I can’t understand why you’re so desperate to leave.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Then rubbed his hands together. “All my life, I’ve been trapped here while tourists roll through the resort, bringing with them the life in the city. New cars, movies
 
—stuff we don’t have up here. Deep Haven is caught in a time warp, Ingrid. Nothing exciting ever happens here.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That’s why people come here
 
—”

“And that’s why people leave. I want more than Deep Haven, than this resort. I want a bigger life. A better life.”

“I guess we have different definitions of what is better,” she said softly.

The silence shifted between them, and in it she felt his gaze on her. She refused to turn, to let him see the sadness in her expression.

“Ingrid, I gotta know. Did I wreck it so much that . . . that I can’t come back? That I can’t fix things between us?”

The question startled her, and she stared at him, wide-eyed. Her throat filled, her words gone.

She had no choice but to get up, glare at him, and flee.

So much for not being stupid.

He’d made her run away. Again. John watched Ingrid stride off the porch into the darkness, and he wanted to shout with frustration.

Come back.

In fact, he’d wanted to shout that all year.
Come back.
Or maybe he just wanted to reel back time to the night when things felt simpler, easy.

When he’d believed in himself. When he stood at the crest of his future and longed to dive in.

He ran his hand down his leg to where the swelling started, pressed it with his thumb and fingers, feeling the fluid, wincing.

He hadn’t wanted to return to Evergreen, but he was short on options after his injury. The docs in the Cities said that maybe it would heal on its own, but after three weeks, he thought he heard the word
surgery
muttered in the doctor’s quiet words to his coach.

Surgery, rehabilitation, and maybe, someday, football.

He might end up in Deep Haven after all. A life almost lived.

Down by the lake, the campfire spit into the night, tiny red embers snuffed out by the darkness. Laughter lifted from the night, his parents, and a few of the guests in their Saturday night ritual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed the Saturday street dance. If ever.

He stared after Ingrid. She’d missed it, too. Why had she stayed home tonight?

The thought stirred a fading hope and he got up, reaching for his crutches, and headed out into the darkness after her. He didn’t remember the path being this rocky and nearly fell twice, but he made it to cabin 12. The light over the deck pressed out over the lawn, the empty Adirondack chairs. He’d started for the stairs when he saw the figure just inside the glow of light, down by the shoreline.

She had her knees up, her arms clasped over them, her head buried in her arms like she might . . . be crying?

His chest thickened for a moment, but he couldn’t bear to leave her there, even if he’d caused her tears, so he limped toward her.

She didn’t even lift her head. “Go away, John.”

“Please, Ingrid
 
—”

She looked up at him, her expression in the wan light incredulous. “Seriously?”

“I know I blew it
 
—I . . . Maybe we could just be friends?”

Her gaze, in the glow of the porch light, looked right through him, and he nearly turned around. Then she sighed, long, painful, and turned back to the lake.

She hadn’t said no. Which gave him the courage to sit next to her, stifling a groan as he went down.

“Friends, huh?”

“We could write.”

She let out a burst of laughter, short and harsh. But her expression softened and the knot in his chest loosened. “Listen, John, just so you know, I’m not interested in dating. Anyone.”

“Ever?”

She looked away.

“Why are you crying?”

She blew out another breath. “Because I don’t want to be stupid. Again.”