Skinny Dipping Season (8 page)

“Oh, J. D. won't be driving. Bob will. J. D. says if he is in the parade, people will probably throw tomatoes at him. But everyone likes Bob.”

“I don't,” Cherry mumbled.

“That's because he likes Mom and you can't stand anyone who wants to take Dad's place.”

“Shut up!” Cherry said, before moving away to tackle a weed that I was pretty sure was a wildflower.

Ellie was still talking, unfazed by her sister's outburst. “It won't be the first time I've rode in a sheriff's car, you know. J. D. used to let me and Cherry play in the empty police cars behind the station all the time. I still like to do it, but it isn't much fun playing cops and robbers without Cherry.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, J. D. and Cherry are always arguing and she seems too interested in trying to be with the cool kids this summer. Cherry won't come by the sheriff's office anymore. “

“That's not why I don't go,” Cherry mumbled.

“Well, it's true. Everyone's always arguing there, anyway. You should have seen it the other day. Mrs. Bloodysomething—you know, the mayor's wife—got so mad at J. D. that she said she was going to quit her job running the Timberfest.”

“Really?” As I put a stack of papers by the screen door, I thought about the file cabinets she wanted to unlock. Cherry crouched outside the back corner and rolled her eyes as her sister chatted away, moving on to a new subject.

“You know that place in this newspaper?” Ellie pointed to an advertisement for
BOOTIES
in big block letters. I bit my lip, as I stared at an image that belonged in a men's magazine.

Cherry looked over at her sister as if she was the most annoying human on the planet.

“My friend Sarah's sister tried to get a job there last spring. But she said they wouldn't hire her 'cause her cha-chas are too small! Isn't that funny, Elizabeth? Why do you think they had to be bigger?”

“Ellie! Enough about cha-chas. That's a stupid thing to call them anyway,” said Cherry.

“What am I s'posed to call them? Boobies?”

I smothered a laugh.

Cherry stood up and rubbed her lower back. “Technically, they are breasts, Ellie. Mom says you should call the parts of the body by their accurate name.”

“Well, that's not half as fun a word as
cha-chas
or
kahunas
. What do you think, Elizabeth?”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Ellie, I am going to stuff your mouth full of weeds. You've talked constantly since we got here.”

“I'm just asking a question.” Ellie stuck out her tongue at her big sister.

“I think your mom is right,” I said before they escalated the argument, then looked over at Cherry and took pity. “If you're finished with that, Ellie, I have some popsicles in the freezer. You can grab one and sit out here with it if you want.”

Ellie skipped off to the kitchen, returning moments later to plop down on the plastic lawn chair that was the only piece of furniture on the porch. She swung her feet back and forth, loudly smacking on the popsicle.

“Cherry, I need some help sweeping out the garage, if you don't mind.”

“Of course. I can't wait to follow another one of your commands, Miss Lively.”

I hid my smile. Never had a shoplifter been so punished. Perhaps next time Cherry would give herself up to J. D. Hardy. I was pretty sure she was thinking that the punishment might not fit the crime, especially if J. D. intended to deal lightly with the girl like I was beginning to suspect he would have. The more I was learning about him from Ellie, the more I realized he was too fond of the girls to have locked Cherry up in a cell. A drop of perspiration wandered down my backside. I wasn't sure if it was the thought of J. D. Hardy that made me hot, or simply the weather.

Cherry followed me, kicking the largest stones in her path as she trudged along. When we reached the garage, out of Ellie's earshot, I turned around and crossed my arms in front of me. “I know you would love to hit me with one of those stones you're kicking, Cherry. So let's just say what's on our minds, shall we?”

“Just like an old person. You guys always want to have big discussions and talk about things.” She reached for the broom against the wall and began to swipe it back and forth as if she was sweeping a hole to China.

I stared at her back. “Don't want to talk? Fine—you sweep and I'll talk.”

Cherry ignored me.

“I think your sister's cute.... Your mom's really nice too,” I said brightly.

Dust motes filled the air and danced in a stream of sunlight. Cherry moved the broom spastically, adding to the frenzy.

“I don't know your friends, but they sure know some funny pranks. Was that your idea to take the Y off Colony Cleaners or theirs?”

Cherry increased her vigor with the broom as if she were purposely attempting to sweep the dust upward . . . toward me. I couldn't help but admire the girl's spunk. But I was cautious.

“Of course, most kids don't even know what a colon is . . . they don't mention colons much in teen magazines.”

“They don't mention them much in your reading material either, I'd say.
Fifty Fangs of Grey
seems like it would be focused on other parts of the body.”

“Well, I haven't read too many books like that, so I wouldn't know.”

“I doubt that,” Cherry mumbled.

I put my hands in the pockets of my cutoff jeans and crossed one leg over the other. “It was my first vampire romance.”

“You know vampires were for kids first. It's just another thing old people stole.”

“Some people back in Bram Stoker's era might disagree.”

“Who
ever
!” she said in that irritating teen-speak.

“You have a point, though. Stealing things isn't good, is it?”

Cherry swept the carcass of a dead bug toward my feet. But I stepped aside and walked over to lean against the side of the garage-door opening.

I gazed out at the road. “Officer Hardy wasn't happy with me for covering for you.” Cherry's eyes opened wide as if she were surprised by my candor. “I'm not usually so impulsive, but he and I don't seem to get along too well.”

She snorted. “I know what you mean.”

“I think he was madder at me than he was at you.”

“Oh, I
know
he was. He looked like he wanted to arrest you tons more than me.” Cherry paused for a moment. “What did
you
do to get on his bad side?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “I suppose it had something to do with the fact that I tried to clobber him with a soup ladle once. It was a misunderstanding. After that, he just seemed to make up his mind that I was public enemy number one.”

She was staring at me now, as if I had just gone up a notch in her estimation. “Welcome to my world,” Cherry said, nodding her head. “If you're number one on his wanted list, I'm number two.”

“Somehow I think he would have arrested me if he could. But I have a feeling he would have given you just a warning. Your mom works with him, right? So why didn't he say anything to her about what happened?”

“I don't know. Probably just to torment me. I'm sure he plans to hold it over my head for the next ten years. Kind of like bribery, you know? Sound familiar?”

I ignored her jibe. “Well, if a failed attempt at shoplifting is all he has on you, then consider yourself lucky.”

“I can't believe you mentioned
Fifty Fangs of Grey
to him!”

I felt the heat rise up my neck. Every time I read about the vampire with dark good looks and bulging muscles, I pictured J. D. Hardy. I tried hard to insert Hugh Jackman as Wolverine into my imagination. But it didn't work.

“
Fifty Fangs
or not, it was shabby of me. But not as funny as the one about the bargain-size box of tampons. How old are you, anyway?”

“Fourteen, almost fifteen. And it's not like I've never heard about how the body works or anything, Miss Lively. We get sex ed in school these days, you know.”

“Wow, school sure has changed since I last stepped inside one. We never learned anything like that,” I said with exaggerated speech. Cherry's lips quivered and I saw a smile twist at the corner of her mouth. Maybe my little shoplifter wasn't so tainted by life that she didn't have a sense of humor. “And call me Elizabeth. Miss Lively makes me feel like my moth—well, never mind.”

“I know that trick. Lure kids in by having them call you by their first name and act like one of them before starting the adult moralizing.” I raised my hand to my mouth, but I couldn't keep my giggle inside.

“Did you make that?” Cherry pointed to a bracelet I had made in a group-therapy session once.

“Do you like it?”

She walked over to my outstretched arm for a closer view. Years ago, I had loved crafts. But I had driven myself crazy with the perfection I imposed on myself while weaving bracelets and knitting. I used to spend hours remaking a finished bracelet or unraveling a sweater with a single minute flaw. One of the healing exercises I had undertaken in a group session had been the return to crafts that I used to love. But this time, we were tasked with the job of making things wrong. On purpose. On a whim, this morning I had put on a bracelet I had made five years ago. The designs were fairly intricate, but the execution was all wrong. The brightly colored thread had frayed in several places and threatened to come undone. Cherry nodded her head as she lifted her fingers to touch it.

“I'll show you when we go inside.” Her hair was pulled back from her face, making her look younger and sweeter than she had in the grocery store. Her eyes traveled from the bracelet to me, as if she doubted I would be able to impart any knowledge on crafting.

I shrugged. “I'm hot. Do you want a popsicle?”

Cherry narrowed her eyes. But she followed me back toward the house. We passed the garden gnome and she said, “That thing is creepy. You should throw it away.”

I looked down at the funny little man with one eye. “I like him.” I stepped aside and opened the back door for her. “After you.”

We hadn't finished sweeping. And Cherry probably thought she had outsmarted me. But my gut told me that she needed to feel like she had the upper hand. Then again, maybe I was deluding myself into thinking I was the one controlling this situation.

We entered the house and she turned back to me and put her hands on her hips. “By the way, you really ought to learn how to clean a little better.” Her hands pointed to the overturned trash can and clothes scattered across the couch. “You're kind of a slob, you know.”

I
closed the next installment in the vampire series,
Bitten and Bedded
, and smiled. The best thing about the paperbacks I had been devouring—besides the sex, of course—were the wonderfully reliable happy endings. My soul felt much less trampled on than it had after reading the more touted literary novels. It certainly made sleeping for more than a couple of hours a little easier.

I sat in the folding chair on the screened porch and let my eyes travel over the weed-free yard. Cherry and Ellie had come over twice now, to help get the house and yard in order. My role had been minimal, which was a victory in my ongoing war against obsessive-compulsion. The whole thing was convenient. I was easing my own conscience for my role in the shoplifting fiasco. And my yard was semi-clean by someone else's hand.

A few days ago, when the girls finished working, we sat on the floor of the living room and I showed them how to weave bracelets. At times Ellie made mistakes and I was proud that I didn't feel the need to correct her. Afterwards we walked into town to the Dairy Cow for ice cream. I watched Cherry for signs of cutting or an eating disorder. I knew she was troubled, but I worried there might be other issues. It was absurd of me. I was the one who couldn't handle a little stress. But she was almost the same age I was when my OCD developed. She hadn't discussed her shoplifting attempt again, but when I paid her for her work in the yard, I deliberately reminded her to
buy
magazines with the money. That comment had earned me a major eye roll, which was fine with me. I wasn't trying to be her friend.

Fragments of information unraveled as we spent time together and I was forming a pretty good idea of what was going on inside Cherry's head. She hated the town she lived in and couldn't wait to grow up and move out. I didn't need a psychology degree to understand that what she needed was a redirection of her anger, a pursuit that would channel her energy into something other than shoplifting.

I put down my paperback and walked into the house. The sun shot streaks of light beams through the newly cleaned front windows, promising a beautiful summer day. The fishing pole Nestor had given me was still propped in the corner near the front door. Elliot and I used to love fishing. When I bought worms from a funny older woman named Flo at the tackle store yesterday, I asked her to help me set up the rod. She gave me a few pointers and recommended I wait for the calmest part of the day, since I was using a rowboat that probably had no anchor.

Last night I had placed a worm in the palm of my hand and let it squirm and contort itself until it was ready to get back in the box. I resisted the urge to wash my hands for a full ten minutes. Today I was ready for the ultimate test: A fishing pole. Worms. And hopefully a slimy fish or two.

Twenty minutes later I stood on the shore of Loon Lake and surveyed the glassy surface. Loon Lake, aptly named for its most prominent residents, was actually more like a large pond. Unlike the large sporting lakes in the area, it was too small for powerboats and large vacation homes. Only a few small houses were scattered around its perimeter. Nestor's was beyond on a bluff across the dirt road. A brown cabin near the far shore looked empty. On the other side of a reedy area, an attractive cedar A-frame with large windows and a deck overlooked the lake. The lovely home hadn't been there when I was younger. It must have been built recently.

I stepped onto an uneven dock and crouched next to Nestor's little green rowboat that was attached to a rusty cleat. The rowboat had never looked seaworthy, even when I was a girl. But oars and a plug were already inside, so one of the kids in the area must have used it recently.

I placed all my gear at the bow and gingerly climbed in, testing it for my weight. I leaned out over the edge and cast a dubious glance at the murky water below me. There was no sandy beach on this spring-fed lake.

Elliot had once dared me to jump into the water from the reedy shore and I still remembered the horrifying way I had sunk into the bottomless muck. After that, I would only swim off the swim dock in the center where the water was deep. And then when my OCD got worse, I wouldn't swim in the lake at all.

The dock was still there. But I wasn't brave enough to jump in the water today.

I unhooked the line and pushed off. Grandma always rowed us toward the edge of a reef, where an old abandoned icehouse had sunk decades ago. We usually found bluegill and large-mouth bass within the makeshift reef. I might still have luck if I hovered over it.

Nestor said he would cook anything I caught tonight. My mouth watered just thinking about tender fish with a crispy baked crust. Fresh bluegill, although small, had been delicious and stood out as one of my favorite meals from childhood. Adjusting my Toledo Mud Hens hat to shield my face from the sun, I practiced casting until I had the hang of it once again. Then I opened the box of worms.

“I really hope you have no nerve endings, Mr. Worm,” I whispered as I wrapped it around the hook. I should have felt guilty, but instead I felt a sense of pride. Grandma or Elliot had always done this job for me. But this time I was doing it by myself.

Smiling and humming a Disney song about life under the sea, I rested my hands on my knees while I waited for a nibble. The loyal reef served me well. It wasn't long before three blue gill and one largemouth bass sloshed around in my bucket. The fish were “keepers,” as Grandma would have called them. I couldn't wait to show Nestor.

I floated in the center of the lake, loving the way it felt like I was on an island in the middle of nowhere. The fluffy white clouds moved lazily across the sky and hearing the wind flutter through the leaves on the shore made me drowsy. I gave the remaining worms a stay of execution and tucked them into the shade under my seat. Pulling in my line, I propped the pole against the side of the boat and reclined against the seat, pulling my cap over my eyes. I sighed in contentment. My eyelids were heavy and the heat from the sun embraced me as the water lapped against the boat.

 

I must have slept, because the next thing I was aware of was the sound of buzzing near my ear. I lifted one lethargic hand and waved it across my face to shoo a fly. A moment later he was back and I repeated the move and then pushed back my hat to stare upward. The clouds above reminded me of a shiny knight riding a white steed.

I had been reading way too many romances. But it was nice not to wake up ticking off the endless to-do items from my job or my screwed-up future. I concentrated on the clouds and tried to imagine what my prince would be like if I could fabricate him from the sky. Well, it went without saying that he would have to be attractive. But maybe not that preppy, clean-cut style I had grown up with. No, I think my prince would have a dark, slightly dangerous mystique about him. He would be less predictable than Colin. He would be a man who didn't look at his watch and his phone more often than he looked at me.

Oh my God, I was being ridiculous. That kind of man didn't exist.

I pulled my elbows behind me and propped myself to a sitting position. How long had I been sleeping? The sun was lower on the horizon and the boat had drifted toward the reedy shore. I gazed around, trying to get my bearings, and that was when I spotted him.

J. D. Hardy leaned casually against a tree, his arms crossed in front of him. He was staring directly at me.

A shiver ran up my spine. For the first time since I had met him, he wasn't wearing his uniform. Faded blue jeans and a gray T-shirt were molded to him as if they had been tailored. The breeze blew a lock of hair across his forehead and I felt my body tense—well, I wasn't actually sure it was tension. But it was something.

“What are you doing on
my
lake?” It came out of me like a squeak.

He stepped away from the tree. “I'll have to tell the real-estate agent who sold me my house that he made a mistake.”

I sat up and clutched the side of the boat. “You know what I mean. This is my fishing lake.” Then I noticed where I had drifted. Behind him was the A-frame house. A path from the deck to the lake led to where he stood.

“Tell me you don't live here.”

“I could tell you that, but it wouldn't be true. What's the matter? Is it so strange to consider that I actually have a life outside of the Sheriff's Department?”

I pulled the baseball cap low on my head. My mood could now officially be described as grumpy. “No. It's just that I thought you lived in a coffin and only came out when the sun set.”

“Funny. Remind me to keep you away from wooden stakes.”

“Something tells me you would require both wooden stakes and a silver bullet.” I grabbed the oars and muttered under my breath, “Of all the dumb luck.”

I pulled the oars, trying to turn the boat around to face the open water. The sooner I got away from Officer Hardy, the sooner I could go back to daydreams and puffy “man clouds.” Unfortunately, the boat didn't move. Readjusting my position on the seat, I dug the oars deeper in the muddy water and attempted it again. Nothing. When you live through Ohio winters you learn to rock your car between
drive
and
reverse
when you are caught in snowdrifts. I figured a boat was similar. So I tried to rock the boat with my weight, leaning forward and backward as I pulled with all my strength on the oars. I'm sure I looked like a moron. All I managed to do was stir up the muck around me and kill a few lily pads and reeds in the process.

J. D. was back to his annoying position against the tree. He started to whistle “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Very funny. My hands were getting sweaty and my shoulder muscles burned.

“Would you mind shutting up?” I could feel dampness developing in my armpits.

“What? I thought you liked songs. You were having so much fun with them a few weeks ago in your empty living room.”

“You're hilarious! Why don't you go get some starch from your uniform and chew on it for a while?”

My efforts weren't working. I was only miring the boat deeper in the muck.

Eventually, I gave up and turned my back on him. I picked up the line at the bow that had been used to tie the boat to the dock. But it was too short to be of any help. I could step out and take the risk of getting sucked into the endless muck. Or I could phone for help. But the most obvious person who could assist was standing on the shore. His whistling had stopped and I peeked over my shoulder to see what he was doing.

He still watched me. His eyes traveled over my faded cutoff jean shorts and pink
Life is Good
T-shirt and a shiver ran up me, as if he had caressed me with his hand. But that must have been the wind.

“I don't suppose you could actually be of any assistance, Officer Hardy?”

“Now, why would I do that? Every time I find myself doing my job around you, I get myself in trouble.”

Stubbornness was obviously a major personality flaw for J. D. Hardy. But I was learning to be equally hardheaded. I grasped the oars again and made several more futile attempts to remove myself from the reeds.

He switched tunes and whistled an old Rolling Stones ballad about satisfaction.

“Your whistling is good, but I wouldn't quit your day job if I were you,” I couldn't help mimicking what he had once said to me.

“That attitude isn't going to get you very far, Miss Lively.” He continued where he left off. He had just reached the second verse when I gave up and stopped rowing. I had two options: the muck or a lowering, pride-sucking request for assistance.

“Okay. What will it take to get your help?” I asked politely as if he were nothing more than a stranger in the grocery store.

He put his finger to his lip and seemed to contemplate the issue. “Hmm . . . Well, how about an apology to start with. You could say something like, ‘I'm sorry, Officer Hardy, for obstructing a police situation at the Family Fare and lying to keep you from doing your job' . . . or you could say, ‘I'm so sorry I was rude to you when you kept my house from burning to the ground, Officer!' Maybe you could retract your earlier comment about Dracula. Or you could take back the reference to my whistling just now. That one really stung.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I just love the way you are taking advantage of the situation. Why don't you ask for my firstborn while you're at it?”

“Sweetheart, if your firstborn is anything like you, I would be wise to demand that she live on the next continent as my reward.”

I nodded at the cabin on the opposite shore. “Remind me to buy the property next door and send all my kids to haunt you then.”

I squared my shoulders for what I was about to do, aware that in my previous life I had made apologies for everything all the time. Even when I wasn't at fault. And that was what brought me here in the first place. Ironic, wasn't it?

Taking a deep breath, I lowered my chin and prepared for the inevitable lowering moment. “Okay. Here it goes, but listen closely because I am only going to say it once.”

He straightened up and moved closer to the shoreline.

“Are you listening?”