Skinny Dipping Season (5 page)

I loaded the conveyer belt with my groceries and smiled at the greasy-looking girl behind me as if we had known each other for years. The sullen expression I received from her in return made me regret everything. What did I do to deserve that? I had just saved her from the wrath of the law. It wasn't too late to yank the troublemaker by the arm and take her back to Officer Hardy.

The checkout girl smacked her gum and scanned the first few items on the belt as I pulled forward to the digital card reader. Through the automatic glass doors I could see the sheriff's SUV pulling out of the parking lot. I tamped down my guilt. The girl might be a shoplifter, but she didn't deserve time in the county jail, or whatever punishment Hardy had planned.

“Paper or plastic?” the checkout clerk asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Reaching into my purse, I shoved aside the pack of cigarettes I had thrown in earlier, hoping no one saw them. Then I pulled out three perfectly folded green Mylar grocery sacks. Cherry let out a huff and rolled her eyes, but said nothing as she waited, impatiently tapping her foot.

Several customers and the checkout ladies leaned in closer. They smiled at both of us, as if they were relieved by my rescue.

“Do you have a Family Fare super-shopper card?” asked the young checkout girl as she scanned the magazines Cherry had tried to pilfer. Looking down, I realized that although two of the magazines were teen-gossip rags, one was a craft magazine.

“No, I'm new here,” I said, puzzling over the craft magazine.

My words got the cashier's attention. Her head came up and her eyes widened. “You mean you're new—as in you are going to live here?”

I nodded.

“You mean you're not passing through, you actually live here?”

“Well, yes. I just moved into my grandmother's old house on Crooked Road. I plan on staying a while.”

“Really?” Yelling across two vacant checkout lines, she said, “Hey, Marva, we've got a new lady moving into town who needs a super-shopper card.”

Now everyone in line gathered around. The large woman at the front desk stood up. She seemed to be in charge. Her teased brown hair surrounded her head like a halo and her pink rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. I couldn't help thinking that she looked like John Travolta in drag.

She picked up her clipboard and walked over. “New to town?”

“I hate to hold up the line. Do you want me to fill it out later?” I asked, handing the magazines to Cherry, whose head hung so low her hair covered her face. It would be nice to chat with the women, but maybe I could come back later. My young accomplice and I needed to have a little talk.

“Oh no, don't worry about holding us up. Nobody minds waiting. Do you?” The lady smiled excitedly as she peered around and nodded at the people behind me. A young mother, pushing a plastic race-car shopping cart with a redheaded little boy in the driver's seat, waved. And another middle-aged lady, wearing an oversized man's hunting jacket, shook her head.

Taking a wad of brochures from the bottom of her clipboard, the manager continued: “My name is Marva O'Shea. I am the manager and these are for you. You should know there are some really special deals that will help you meet the ladies in town. It's hard being new. And this summer, the usual town gatherings leave a lot to be desired.” She leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “The sheriff and his wife are out of town, and the mayor's wife is trying to take over. The priest has retired and the young one in Vernon only comes every other week. Things are just a little off, if you know what I mean. So I'm keeping things together all on my own. These little home-selling parties are a great way to get to know people around town. It would be perfect for a newcomer like you.”

The lady in the oversized coat leaned in and said, “Marva is kind of the unofficial CEO of home-based businesses in Truhart.”

“More like the pimp,” the cashier mumbled. Someone in the other aisle laughed, and Marva sent them a withering look.

Pointing to the first piece of paper, Marva pushed her glasses farther up her nose and continued. “This here is for Cozy Candles. I am a Cozy Candle representative and if you host a party I can sell you anything you want at a ten-percent discount. If I sell up to a hundred dollars' worth of merchandise you get a free candle. And believe me, these are the best things you could ever want. They make your house smell wonderful and give such a beautiful glow on a cold winter night. Don't they, girls?” The ladies standing behind me in line were all nodding their heads.

“Don't forget to tell her about Bountiful Beauty Makeup. Carla's got a free introductory offer for anyone who lets her give a full makeover,” shouted the lady two carts back in line. “She has some colors that would really bring out your lips.” Cherry suddenly stiffened and covered her eyes, then she moved around me to stand at the end of the register.

“And I am an authorized personalization specialist. Anything you want monogrammed I can embroider. We have a special on boxers this week for the man in your life,” said the young mother, who tapped her little redheaded boy on the hand as he reached for a candy bar.

He smiled toothlessly. “Wanna see my undies? They got my name, Andwew, witten all over 'em.” I laughed before turning back to Cherry.

She was gone. The magazines were gone too.

“Where did she go?”

“Don't know who she is . . . the kids are all off school today,” Marva said, looking down at her clipboard and biting her lip.

Several others just shrugged. Marva eyed my groceries and her eyes grew bigger. I opened my mouth, ready to explain about the junk food, when Marva reached her meaty hand into one of my Mylar bags.

“Oh, do you know Nestor?” she asked, holding up the Twinkies. Then she grabbed the book with the dreamy vampire on the cover. “And hey, I absolutely loved this one!”

Instead of heading back to Crooked Road, I drove past a modern ATV dealership and a hardware store and turned toward town. I didn't have a clue where I was going, but some sort of internal compass had taken over. Hugging the wheel with both hands, I drove slowly, keeping an eye out for any old landmarks. In a clearing on my right was a marina where a boat launch and a dock extended into the shimmering water of Echo Lake. A half-mile away was Echo's smaller twin, Reply Lake, one of dozens of lakes that dotted the county and connected in a series of rivers that fed the larger Au Sable River. Grandma once told me that Truhart had been a boomtown during the glory days of the Michigan logging industry. But logging was just a history lesson in Michigan now. And Truhart looked like it hadn't changed since the last log was pushed down the river. Basically, it was a town gone bust.

A handful of false clapboard buildings lined the center of Truhart. A sign that was strung across the road was coming loose. I tried to read it, but the corner flap was in the way. Something about
Timber —
. The ice cream store that was still boarded up for the winter, and a Laundromat across the street from a dry cleaner's looked familiar. A bookstore in the middle of a cluster of buildings had peeling paper over its windows and a torn awning. The sign over the vacant corner grocery store was still gone, making it anyone's guess what the name had once been. When we drove by on our way to the Family Fare, Grandma always apologetically told me that no one had wanted to put the last owner of the small-town grocery store out of business. But the cheaper prices and bigger variety of the Family Fare were just too tempting.

I was about to make a right turn at the only stoplight in town when I noticed a familiar neon sign that read
Cookee's
. Impulsively, I made a U-turn and drove into the small parking lot.

Moments later, I heard the familiar chime of the bell as I stepped inside. I was back to my childhood.

A soothing aroma of coffee and the haze of fried food from the griddle filled the diner. The sun was glaring through the front window, where three large booths were covered in faded blue vinyl. I glanced up at a sign above the counter,
Large Booths for 3 or More
, and smiled when I saw two people sitting at the largest booth. Good to know customers still ignored that.

Grandma Dory had been a regular patron at Cookee's and I always sat at the counter. I had vivid memories of my grandma smoking her cigarettes and drinking her coffee while she chatted with the other regulars. I used to sit on the stools and spin in endless circles until my grandmother told me I would spin the top right off and the cook would make me bus the tables. That had always done the trick. Touching someone else's dirty dishes grossed me out, even back then.

Of course, the best thing about going to Cookee's with Grandma Dory was that I was allowed to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted—as long as I let Grandma Dory talk to her friends without interruption. Therefore, I had many milkshakes for breakfast at that counter. Grandma used to laugh and call it “backwards day” when I did that.

I sat down on a stool by the cash register and let a sense of well-being sink in. I had to suppress an urge to spin. Propped against the counter stood an older woman who stared at the TV in the corner. She wore a gray-collared shirt with
Cookee's
written on the left side of her chest. Her bleached-blond short hair didn't quite match her darkly penciled-in eyebrows and weathered face.

“Can I help you?” said the lady as a commercial came on.

“Do you have a menu?” I asked, noting the old Hamilton Beach mixer against the back wall.

“Yeah, I know I have one around here somewhere, but mostly Mac, the cook, fixes regular meals. You want something, he can make it, unless it's something fancy like them quiche or linguine-type dishes.”

I wasn't sure if I was being teased or not. It didn't matter. I couldn't stop smiling.

“The hash browns are great for a hangover, I hear.”

And just like that, my bubble of joy popped.

Life was truly unfair sometimes! Of all the people to run into twice in one morning, why did it have to be him? I had been so distracted by my walk down memory lane that I had missed Officer Hardy sitting in the shadow at the end of the counter.

“You probably wouldn't know what a hangover feels like,” I said.

One of the men at the booth started laughing. “Party Hardy? Is she kidding?”

Officer Hardy reached up to readjust his collar, and I noticed a flush of red creeping up his cheek. “I'll forget last night if you think before you cover for someone again,” he said in a low voice.

I corrected him, “Officer Hardy—what happened earlier was a simple misunderstanding—”

“Is that what you call it? Before you apologize, let's at least get the story straight.”

“Excuse me, you must be under a misconception.” I turned toward him and was relieved to see my professional-spokesperson face reflected in his sunglasses. Hooded eyes. Professional smile. The facade I had thought I wouldn't need again had slipped into place. “I never intended to apologize.”

“Don't you realize that you just made things worse for that girl?”

“Really? You think it would have been better for her in jail? Another notch on your badge?” I looked away from my reflection and straightened my hair. “You have no interest in helping someone like her. You just wanted to scare her.” The lady behind the counter frowned and grabbed a dirty plate before heading toward the back.

“More like warn her. Some kids shoplift for fun the way other kids play arcade games. If we catch them, we can notify their parents and get the family help before they commit a bigger crime. Catching that young lady is actually the only thing we can do to help her. Better now than when she does something a lot worse than steal a few magazines.”

My hand wandered to the small pot that held sugar packets. My brother came to mind. From the moment I was arrested I had protected him. Doubt surfaced. But I forced it back and shook my head. Looking down, I realized that I had just reorganized the sugar packets. Officer Hardy noticed too. He gave me a funny look.

I pushed the sugar away and shrugged my shoulders. “You could have handled the situation differently. Or maybe, you could explain the whole thing before getting all high and mighty. You turned on me like I was some sort of criminal too.”

“As far as I was concerned, you
were
a criminal. You were aiding and abetting—not to mention putting yourself in the middle of something you knew nothing about. Listen closely, Miss Lively.” I felt the heat of his body as he moved closer and I turned back to him, once again faced with my own reflection mocking me in his sunglasses. “Lots of people think they can come here and lose themselves in the north woods. They think there's no such thing as the law and rules up here. I know the type. The north woods are full of hicks who don't care how they behave, right? Maybe that is what you think?”