Moonlight on Butternut Lake (13 page)

The two of them were silent for a minute until Mila bent down and picked up a stone. It was a flat, round, smooth stone, and the beach and the beach grass were littered with other stones just like it.

“That would be a good skipping stone,” Reid said absently, watching Mila examine it.

“Would it? Here,” she said, reaching over and putting it in his hand. “Try it.”

Reid held it in his palm and ran his thumb across the top of it. He didn't really feel like skipping stones right now, but this one was so perfectly suited for it that he couldn't resist. He adjusted his wheelchair so that its left side was facing the lake, and then he swung his arm, a little awkwardly, and, flicking his wrist, let go of the stone. It splashed a little too hard off the water, skipped once, and sank.

He was going to ask Mila for another stone, but she was already gathering up more of them. She handed him another one and he tried again. This time he got some power behind the stone, and it skipped, three times, barely skimming the surface of the water.

“Very good,” Mila said, smiling, and she gave him another one.

He skipped several more of them, and then stopped, marveling that something that involved so little exertion could make him so tired.

“Why don't you try it?” he asked Mila.

But she shook her head. “It's another thing I don't know how to do,” she said, still holding a few of the stones in her hands.

“I'll teach you then,” he said, surprising himself. He was not, as a general rule, good at teaching people how to do things. He had no patience for it, and he didn't take any pleasure in it either. But he led Mila through the steps of skipping a stone, showing her how to stand, how to hold the stone, how to swing her arm and flick her wrist. She tried a couple of times before she got one to skip, but when she did, when one skipped twice over the lake's surface, she laughed delightedly and turned to him.

And when he looked up at her he saw it again, saw the light in her eyes he'd seen that morning when she'd been so angry at him. And, just as it had that morning, it transformed her completely, and, in doing so, it disarmed him completely. It was the reason he'd let her push him in his wheelchair out to the van
without any protest. He'd been too surprised by the way her anger had transformed her to offer any real resistance. But she wasn't angry now. She was just . . . alive. Present. In the moment. And, if he were honest with himself, she was something else, too. She was pretty. Very pretty. Her eyes, which he'd thought were a plain brown, were actually, he saw now, brown flecked with a very pale gold. And her hair, which had seemed to be brown too, was really more of an auburn color, its red highlights shining in the sun. A breeze blew, then, and a strand of her hair escaped from her ponytail and blew against her smooth, pale cheek before she caught it and tucked it back behind her ear. My God, he thought, she was lovely. And it suddenly seemed incredible to him that he'd spent the last several weeks living with her without actually realizing it. Or
had
he realized it? And was it the reason he'd wanted to come here with her today, not because he hadn't wanted to go back to the cabin, but because he'd wanted to see that light in her eyes again?

“You're pretty good. Here, try this one,” Reid said, holding out to her one of the stones she'd given him to skip. As Mila reached for it, though, Reid brushed at a lazy black fly that had landed on his arm, and when it bit him anyway, with a sensation more annoying than painful, he slapped at it, hard, without even thinking.

Mila let out a tiny yelp, though, and jumped back so suddenly that she almost tripped over some tall beach grass behind her. She recovered her balance quickly, but even so, Reid was stunned to see fear in her eyes.

“Hey, it was just a fly,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“No, that's okay,” she said, and Reid saw that she wasn't afraid anymore, just embarrassed.

“Mila,” he said, understanding something. “Did you . . . did you think I was going to hit you?”

“What? No. Of course not,” she said. But she wouldn't look at him, and he knew she was lying.

“Yes, you did,” he persisted. “You thought I was going to hurt you.”

“Reid, I don't know what you're talking about,” she said abruptly, twisting the hair that had worked itself loose from her ponytail back into place. “But we should be getting back,” she added. And he saw that the light in her eyes was gone, and so, in a way, was she. Well, not
gone
. Just back inside of herself somehow. And as they made their way back toward the van he saw her familiar wariness return.

They were both quiet on the drive to the cabin, Mila concentrating on the road and Reid looking out the window. And by the time they got back, they'd both settled so far inside themselves again that Reid almost wondered if any of it—the picnic, the conversation, the skipping stones—had actually taken place. Except that he knew it had. He'd pocketed one of the stones Mila had given him, and he found it later that night. He started to put it on his dresser, but he stopped and held it in his hand instead, running his thumb over its lake-washed smoothness. And looking at it, he felt another piece of the puzzle fall into place. He knew why Mila was afraid. She'd been hurt. But who had hurt her, Reid wondered, and what had ever possessed them to do it?

M
ila met Brandon Stewart at a time in her life when she was surviving on black coffee, hope, and not much else. She was twenty-three years old, and completely on her own. Her mom, who'd had enough of Minnesota winters, had moved to Florida with her boyfriend as soon as Mila had graduated from high school. She'd told Mila that she could come with them, but Mila had stayed put. She didn't mind the cold, but she did mind her mother's drinking, and her mother's boyfriend, too—the way he looked at Mila had always made her feel uncomfortable.

So she'd found a walk-in-closet–sized apartment in a slightly sketchy neighborhood and enrolled at a local community college. Because she had to work full-time while taking classes, it took her four years, instead of two, to complete her community college degree. By day, she took classes, and by night she worked any number of jobs. In her last year of college, she was working the graveyard shift at a coffee shop where everything—the food, the dishes, and even the counters—seemed to be covered in a thin layer of grease. Still, working there wasn't that bad. It was slow during the early morning hours, and if its lack of customers was
bad for tips, it was good for answering Heather's letters, and for studying for her classes, many of which were prerequisites for nursing school.

She was studying for one of those classes one night, sitting at the counter, her organic chemistry textbook propped open in front of her, when she met Brandon for the first time.

“Um, excuse me, miss?” she heard him say. “Do you think maybe you could take my order sometime tonight?”

And Mila, unaccountably annoyed by the interruption, glanced up from her textbook and looked at him. She'd been concentrating so hard she hadn't even noticed him come in and sit down at the counter, just three stools away from her.

“You do work here, don't you?” he asked, seeming more amused than annoyed.

“I
do
work here,” Mila said, and, using a spoon for a placeholder in her textbook, she slid off her stool and walked around to the other side of the counter.

“I'm sorry about that,” she said, reaching into her apron pocket for a check pad and a pencil. “What can I get for you?”

It was only then that she looked—really looked—at this customer. He was tall, and broad shouldered, with dark brown hair shaved into a buzz cut, and wide brown eyes set in a face that was tanned the year-round tan of someone who worked outdoors for a living. Which he did, judging from the flannel shirt, blue jeans, and work boots he was wearing.
Construction worker,
Mila decided, putting him neatly in his slot. But in the next second he surprised her. Most construction workers were hungry. All the time. They wanted to eat first and flirt later. This guy was different. He wanted to flirt first and eat later.

“Don't be sorry,” he said. “I'm the one who's interrupting you,”
he added, gesturing at her textbook. “And that looks like pretty important stuff, Jody.”

“Jody?”

“That's what it says on your name tag,” he said, pointing to it.

She glanced down at it. “Oh, no, that's not my name. I lost my name tag, actually. But the owner makes us wear them, so I borrow Jody's.”

“So, mandatory name tags, huh?” he said, glancing around. “I knew this was a classy place.”

And Mila laughed, because under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, the coffee shop looked like exactly what it was. Which was a dump.

He smiled at her now. “Seeing you laugh was worth waiting for,” he said. “If I could keep making you do that, I wouldn't care if you ever took my order.”

Mila blushed now. She was used to customers flirting with her. But there was something about the way this customer was flirting with her that was different. He was doing it with an intensity, and a single-mindedness that was new to her.

“So what can I get for you?” she asked him again, indicating the menu that was sitting on the counter in front of him. But he didn't look down at it. He looked at her instead. Looked at her in a way that made her think he wasn't particularly interested in the day's special. Unless, of course,
she
happened to be the day's special.

“What's good here?” he asked finally.

And Mila blushed again. “Honestly? Not much. A cup of coffee's always a safe bet. And if you're really hungry, I can get our fry cook to scramble you up some eggs. It's hard to ruin those. But I think he's on a smoke break now.” She glanced back at the
empty kitchen behind her. “So if it's eggs you want, you may have to wait a few minutes.”

“Uh, no thanks. I think I'll pass on the eggs,” he said, still not taking his eyes off her. “But what about the pie?”

“The pie?”

“There's a sign outside that says ‘Try Our Pie.'

“Oh, that,” Mila said. “That sign's been there forever. But the pie . . . the pie is actually not that great.”

“So ‘don't try our pie'?” he suggested.

She laughed. “You can see it if you want to.” She brought him the pie in its plastic-domed pie cover and set it down on the counter in front of him. “What do you think?” she asked, removing the cover.

“Hmmm,” he said, studying it, and probably thinking, like Mila, that it didn't look very appetizing. The crust, for one thing, looked kind of soggy, and the filling, which was some kind of gelatinous red substance, was just sort of leaking out of it.

“What kind of pie is it, exactly?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. “Red, maybe?”

He laughed, and Mila laughed, too. “You know what?” he said. “I don't think I'll try your pie. But how about that cup of coffee?”

So Mila covered up the pie again and slid it down the counter. Then she went to get the coffeepot, relieved to have a moment to collect herself. Her face felt warm, and her stomach felt funny. She wished he would stop looking at her in that way he was looking at her. But then again, she would have been disappointed if he had.

She carried the coffeepot over to him and flipped over the cup sitting in front of him on the counter. Then she filled it up and pushed the cream and sugar over to him.

“Thanks,” he said, looking away from her long enough to pour cream in his coffee. “Are you going to have a cup, too?”

“Me?”

He nodded, looking at her in
that
way again.

“Um, we're not allowed to socialize with the customers,” she said, flustered. “I mean, not any more than is strictly necessary.”

“No?” he said, amused. And then, “You know, there are a lot of rules here. Kind of surprising, don't you think, given the quality of the food?”

“Maybe,” Mila murmured. But now
she
couldn't look away from
him
.

“So what do you say? One cup of coffee with me?”

An hour later, Mila was sitting on the stool next to his—his name, she'd discovered, was Brandon—drinking her third cup of coffee. She'd probably never sleep again, she thought, but right now, that was just fine with her. Because as long as she kept talking to him, sleep seemed completely inconsequential. And Brandon didn't seem to be in any hurry to get to bed either. He'd gotten off work from the late shift at his construction job, and now he seemed perfectly content to sit here with Mila all night. Luckily for them, no one else had come into the coffee shop, and Javier, the fry cook, was in the kitchen, talking on his cell phone to his girlfriend in Guatemala.

“What was that book you were studying when I came in?” Brandon asked now, placing a hand lightly on one of her bare knees, which were just visible below the hem of the ugly pink uniform she was required to wear while waitressing there. (Another rule.) The way she was behaving tonight was totally out of character for her, she thought. She'd never crossed the line with a customer at work before. And now, she'd not only crossed it, she didn't even
care
that she'd crossed it.

“Um, I'm sorry. What . . . what did you ask me?” she said, as his hand lightly caressed her knee.

“I asked you what you were studying” he said, gesturing with
the hand that wasn't on her knee to where her book was still sitting, a few feet away, on the counter.

“Oh, that,” she said, following his eyes. “That's my organic chemistry textbook.”

“Organic chemistry,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. I'm only taking it because I have to. And it's killing me.”

“So don't take it,” he suggested.

“Oh, no, I have to take it,” she said, marveling at how nice his slightly rough hand felt on her knee.

“Why do you have to take it?”

“It's a prerequisite for nursing school.”

“You want to be a nurse?” he asked skeptically.

She nodded.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked. “I mean, isn't that just, like, changing people's bedpans for a living?”

“No, it's not,” Mila said, not bothering to conceal her annoyance. “Most nurses, in fact, don't change bedpans at all. But for the ones who do, it's only a small part of their jobs.” She moved her knee then, out from under his hand.

“Oh,” he said, looking surprised and contrite at the same time. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I obviously don't know a lot about nursing.”

Her irritation waned, a little. “You're not alone,” she said. “There are a lot of misconceptions about nursing.”

“Well, then, maybe you can educate me about them,” he said seriously.

“Maybe,” she said, softening a little.

“Like tomorrow, maybe. Or should I say ‘today,'” he added, glancing at his watch.

Mila shook her head. “Not today. I don't get off work until five
A.M.
Then I have to go home and go to bed. Then I have to wake up and go to class. And then I have to start all over again.”

“That doesn't sound like very much fun,” he said, glancing down at her bare knee like he wanted to put his hand on it again.

“It's not supposed to be fun,” she said. “It's supposed to get me into a good nursing school.” But she swayed a little bit closer to him. Even under the coffee shop's fluorescent lights, he looked good.
Really good.

“So, ‘work,' ‘sleep,' ‘study,'” he said, putting his hand back on her knee so softly that she had to look down at it to confirm it was actually there.

“That's my life,” she agreed, and she suddenly felt too warm in her hideous polyester uniform.

“Do you think you could make time in your life for one more thing?” he asked, giving her a smile that almost made her fall right off her stool.

“Maybe,” she said softly.

“Good,” he said, giving her knee a little squeeze.

M
ila made time for Brandon, but seven months after she'd met him at the coffee shop that night, she was locked in her bathroom, wishing she could get that time back now.

“Mila, please. Unlock the door,” he said, from the other side of it.

But she shook her head violently, even though Brandon couldn't see her do this.

“Mila, please. Open the door,” he pleaded. “Just for one second. I need to see you. I need to know you're all right.” The anger was gone from his voice now, and the blind fury that had erupted from him had apparently subsided as quickly as it had
boiled up. He sounded remorseful. Tender, even. But still, it was impossible to ignore what he'd done to her, especially when she had the fat lip to prove it.

“Go away,” Mila whispered to the bathroom door, and she choked back another sob.

“Mila, sweetheart, please. I won't hurt you. I promise. I won't even
touch
you, if you don't want me to. But I need to come in,” Brandon said gently. Cajolingly. “Look, I know there's no excuse for what just happened. And I don't blame you for being angry at me. But I need to talk to you, Mila, face-to-face.
Please.
”

Mila didn't answer him. Instead, she walked over to the mirror that hung above the bathroom sink and looked into it. She flinched. Her lip looked even worse than she'd imagined it would. One half of it was already swollen to twice its normal size. There was no way she'd be able to go to class tomorrow, and that went double for work. Nobody wanted a fat lip with their dinner order, she thought, as fresh anger welled up inside her, and new tears burned in her eyes.

She reached for a washcloth, ran it under cold water, wrung it out, and held it up to her lip. She winced. It hurt like hell. But she kept it there anyway, hoping it would bring down the swelling. After a few minutes, though, she gave up. The washcloth wasn't cold enough. What she really needed was a bag of ice, and she couldn't get that unless she was willing to leave the bathroom. And she wasn't willing to leave the bathroom. She was planning on staying there, in fact, until Brandon gave up and went home.

“Mila, say something, please,” he said now. “Just so I know you're all right.”

But she ignored him and sat down on the bathroom floor, resting her back against the side of the bathtub. She was tired. Beyond tired, really. And she wished, desperately, that Brandon
would go just home so she could crawl into bed and have a good cry. As far as she was concerned, this was the end of their seven-month relationship. It could never survive this. Though even
before
this, she had to admit, it had been far from perfect.

In the beginning, she hadn't been able to see this. Everything was happening so fast. One minute, Brandon was flirting with her over a cup of coffee, and the next minute . . . well, the next minute stretched into hours, actually. Brandon wanted to be with her all the time, whenever she was free, and sometimes even when she wasn't free. Before she'd met him, she'd never missed a class or called in sick to work. But after she met him, she did both of those things occasionally. She knew it was wrong to shirk her responsibilities, but Brandon's feelings for her were so insistent, so passionate, and so all-consuming that sometimes she had trouble thinking clearly, trouble thinking
at all,
really, except, of course, for when it came to thinking about Brandon. Brandon, who'd told her he was in love with her—crazily, madly, wildly in love with her. And she believed him too. How else could she explain the complete single-mindedness with which he'd pursued her? Or the absolute devotion he'd shown to her after she finally gave in to him?