Skinny Dipping Season (10 page)

“We aren't going to have any summer shenanigans this year, are we?” Nestor asked J. D.

“I hope not,” he said, his eyes flickering my way.

I pretended to fold my napkin while I asked, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, we have so many summer residents, the population of Truhart practically triples each year,” Nestor said. “The problem is, they think our town is like one giant playground. Lots of parties, lots of noise, and lots of illegal fireworks.”

“Imagine that,” I teased.

“Well now, don't feel too much pressure, J. D. Even Sheriff Howe had trouble with the FIPs and FOPs,” Nestor said.

“FIPs and FOPs?” I asked.

“Well, it isn't a nice term. Let's just say it refers to our Illinois people and Ohio people . . . add the pejorative term of your choice at the beginning of the acronym,” Nestor said, wagging his scraggly white brows. He grabbed my hand. “And yes, you are from Ohio. But because your grandmother is from Truhart, you are completely exempt, my dear.”

J. D. leaned back in his chair and looked at me like the curtain had just been pulled away. “So you are from Ohio? I guess I didn't realize that.”

“Oh yes, her father is a well-known congressman from Toledo. Have you heard of Thomas Lively?” asked Nestor.

I panicked and started rubbing the table with my napkin. “Oh, no one knows Dad outside of Toledo.”

But Nestor kept talking. “Of course, your grandma tried to ignore the fact that her only child moved south and became a FOP. But I know she would have been proud to know you can wrestle a fish, honey.”

I was grateful to deflect the subject. “Grandma would have caught twice as many as I managed today.”

“Perhaps. But she enjoyed it twice as much when you and your little brother did the catching.”

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance and I felt a heaviness rise in my throat.

“What was she like?” J. D. asked. His elbows rested on the table and he seemed to be weighing every word with new interest.

I didn't know where to begin. But Nestor did. “She was never afraid to enjoy life and made every moment count. She was probably my dearest friend in Michigan. She could play cards like any Las Vegas regular. She loved her sports, especially when Ernie Harwell gave the play-by-play for the Tigers. Her favorite drink was a Manhattan, although whisky sours were a close second. And she never once belittled or looked down on anyone.”

I stared down at my plate, remembering all the things that made her special.

“She loved her grandkids to pieces,” Nestor added.

“Did you see her often?” J. D. asked with a softness to his voice that was new. I raised my head and realized he was looking at me.

“Every summer.” Nestor's description of Grandma made the words stick in my throat.

“I remember each time your mother dropped you all off before gallivanting around the globe. You were so young. But you clung to your grandma like a burr on wool.”

“My parents had to travel the state and meet constituents,” I explained lightly.

Nestor leaned back in his chair. “Your mother wouldn't even spend the night. She would whisk in, unload your luggage, and be gone within the hour.”

“My mom moved out of Truhart as soon as she was old enough and hardly ever returned.”

“That's an understatement,” laughed Nestor. “Your mother was not a fan of this town.”

Nestor reached out a hand to my own. I realized I had been polishing my fork. He turned to J. D. “But Elizabeth and her little brother spent several summers here. And from what I can tell, they loved it.” He turned my way and raised his big brow. “Your grandma made it her mission to show you kids what she called the good life. She made sure you had plenty of freedom and lots of fresh air. Your sister was another story.”

“Alexa came just one summer and spent the whole time on the phone, begging my mother to come get her.”

“I seem to recall that when she wasn't calling your mother, she was calling her friends. She racked up your grandma's phone bill and got mad when she couldn't watch her programs on TV.”

“Grandma didn't have all the cable stations,” I explained. “After that, Alexa preferred another camp.” It was actually a joke. Elliot and I nicknamed her camp Camp Pay-a-lot. A lot of kids from Chicago and other cities in the Midwest loved it.

“But you and Elliot seemed to thrive here. Am I right?”

I looked across at J. D. I could see his mind working. “Grandma Dory used to take all of us out in her old rowboat and let us swim off the back with an inflatable raft for hours.”

“I remember well,” Nestor said. “I joined you sometimes. She would bring the most god-awful cheap beer and drape it over the side in a net to keep it cool.”

I forgot myself and laughed. “Is that what was in there? Why didn't I think of that today when I was catching these bluegill? I only remember her producing cans of pop for us when we came out for a sugar break.”

Nestor chuckled. “She didn't want to be a bad influence on you children.”

“Why did she care? She smoked a pack of cigarettes every day and had no problem swearing when the Tigers lost.”

“Those things she couldn't help. They were old habits she hated for you kids to witness.” Nestor's hands shook as he placed his folded napkin on the table. “I don't know how many times she tried to quit smoking and swearing. When you visited one time she made me hide her cigarettes and told me to disconnect her antenna if she swore during a Tigers game. Of course, she always swore when they lost. I got up on her roof to disconnect that antenna, but hell, you know how mechanically challenged I am. I ended up cutting her telephone line by accident.”

“But why would Grandma Dory care? Those are all the things we loved about her. She didn't have any need to show the world she was high-quality and better than everyone.” I had forgotten about J. D. as I tried to understand my grandmother.

Nestor looked up. “Your grandma
was
high-quality despite that, my dear. . . .”

“Well, thank God she wasn't caught up in trying to prove anything. She did what she wanted and lived her own life. No glitzy suburban home, no responsibilities.”

Nestor's eyes turned upward, studying the light fixture.

“Hmmm. Maybe, Elizabeth, you didn't know your grandma as well as you think.”

“Nestor, you were a big part of the reason we loved it here. I'll never forget evenings on your back porch playing euchre. Do you still play?” I was acutely aware of J. D. watching me like a detective connecting the dots of my life.

“Well, now I'm a little rusty. But I could be persuaded. But we don't have a fourth player.”

“I figured you were a cardplayer, Elizabeth,” taunted J. D. He was having fun now. And I knew when I was being teased.

Still, I had to keep up the image. “Oh, I love poker,” I lied. “We could play that too!”

“A game of Texas Hold'em?” he asked.

“Well, I kind of like poker better. You might need to remind me of the rules for Texas Hold'em,” I said.

J. D.'s eyes took on a holy glint that made me feel like he had won a game already. We hadn't even played yet. How dare he assume he would win!

Nestor put a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. “Maybe we should stick with euchre, J. D. We can play buck euchre for three.”

 

During the third round, J. D. and I waited for Nestor's bid and realized his eyes were closed and he was nodding off. I put my finger over my lips and signaled to J. D. We crept into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

I stood at the sink, washing the dishes, and thought about my grandmother. Here she was, in the middle of nowhere her whole life. She didn't care what people thought. Yet, she was a much better person than I could ever hope to be.

I was so lost in thought that I had forgotten what I was doing.

A throat cleared nearby, and I looked up. J. D. stood next to me, staring at the dishes in my hands submerged in the dishwater. “Do you think they're clean?”

I froze as I realized I had been washing the dishes over and over in the scalding water. I quickly emptied the drain, refusing to meet his gaze. He said nothing, but I could feel a question on the tip of his tongue. He took the dishes from me and dried them.

Being with him in close proximity was unnerving. When the last dish was put away, I touched my hand to my cheek and pointed to the clock above the kitchen door. “It's later than I thought! Oh, wait. You probably think I'm used to partying all night.”

Folding the towel with an exaggerated patience, J. D. placed it over the handle of the oven. “The jig is up, Elizabeth. I'm on to you, and you aren't half as bad as you pretend to be. Come on. Confess.”

I leaned against the sink. “Now that you know my family belongs to a country club, you're going to change your mind?”

“Maybe.” He was directly in front of me. So close I could see the fine lines wrinkling at the outer end of his eyes and feel the heat of his breath on my face. “Or do you still want to convince me you're a party girl? If so, I might need more proof.”

“You already have proof. I was twerking and drinking and—and smoking—when you first saw me.”

“Twerking? Oh yeah, that's what you were doing in the middle of the living room.”

I nodded my head. He leaned toward me and I had nowhere to go unless I wanted to land in the sink. I barely had time to catch my breath before his lips descended.

I wasn't prepared and I stiffened up.

His lips only just touched mine when he pulled away, shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable. I don't know why I did that. You just bring out the worst in me.”

Humiliation washed over me. I waited for him to accuse me of being cold.

He ran his hand through his hair. “It's just that I can't figure you out—”

“Try harder!” I hissed. I grabbed J. D.'s collar with both fists and brought his lips back to mine. I opened my mouth and thought to give him the kind of kiss a party-girl FOP would have given.

But all teasing intention disappeared. A surge of adrenaline and longing shot through my veins like a drug. The kitchen melted away. So did thought. I was addicted before I took a single breath.

My hands were all over him. And his were setting fire to my skin. It could have been seconds, but I suspected it was longer. Either way, there was no faking my reaction this time. I was all over him like every bad cliché I'd read recently. If I'd had a bodice on, I'd be ripping it off and making him howl at the moon.

Nestor's snoring from the dining room broke through the haze. I paused to catch my breath and realized I was pinned against the refrigerator with my hands buried in J. D.'s hair. How the hell did that happen? He looked just as stunned, because he removed his hands from underneath my shirt and held them in the air as if he was under arrest. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I smoothed my shirt and wondered what would have happened if Nestor hadn't snorted in the other room.

I was the first to recover. I tapped J. D. on the sternum. My voice shook, but I managed to say, “Well . . . that was a good warm-up for the rest of my night.”

He shook his head and frowned. “Lose the act, Liz. It's getting really boring.”

I said nothing. To be honest, I felt so blown away by what we just shared that I couldn't come up with any more lines. The “act” was starting to exhaust me. Maybe I didn't have to act anymore.

I glanced through the doorway at Nestor, who still napped, and nodded in his direction. “Should we wake him up before we go?”

“I suppose it
is
the proper etiquette, even for you.” His hand smoothed a wayward curl from my forehead.

I turned my back and moved into the dining room to Nestor's side. If I wobbled slightly, J. D. didn't seem to notice. He was walking strangely himself.

Laying his hands on Nestor's shoulder, he said softly, “Time for me to be heading home, Nestor.”

“Thanks for the delicious meal,” I said, kissing Nestor on the cheek.

Nestor tilted his head and opened his eyes. “What? No more euchre?” he asked.

“Sorry, Nestor, it's past my bedtime,” J. D. said gently as he helped him rise from the chair.

A few minutes later J. D. and I waved at Nestor from the driveway. He stood outlined in the doorway with the glowing light behind him.

“Do you want a ride?” J. D. asked, unlocking the doors and triggering the lights to his SUV.

“I have a flashlight in my purse and besides, it's not raining anymore,” I said without enthusiasm. The moonlight peeked through the evening cloud cover. Even with the evening shadows on the road, part of me was a little creeped out at the prospect of walking by myself at night.

He opened the passenger door and said, “Come on.”

I didn't want him to know I was that easy. I threw my head back before climbing in and said, “All right, if it makes you feel better.”

J. D. backed out of the driveway and turned toward me as he shifted into drive. “Thanks for making me feel better . . .”

“My pleasure,” I said in a soft voice.

He laughed and stretched a hand over the back of my seat.

With shadows of the night on him, his long, straight nose and his square jaw reminded me of the vampire I had just read about: Dangerous and oozing with something that made a girl want to offer her neck up for tasting.

A few minutes later, J. D. pulled into my driveway. The evening wasn't overly warm, but the inside of the car was steamy. I kept thinking about what we had been doing in the kitchen. For the first time I understood why people took cold showers when they were frustrated. At the very least, I planned on putting ice on the part of my neck that craved his bite.