Wild Flower (12 page)

“Morning, everyone!” Mathias heralded cheerfully as he, Camille and Millie Jo hurried through the door and out of the rain. Camille's long hair was sparkling with raindrops and the image of her from my dream came rushing back, unbidden. To distract myself I went to pour a cup of coffee.

“I'm nervous,” Clint told Mathias, turning in his chair.

“You'll be fine,” Mathias reassured him, helping settle Mille Jo on a stool at the counter before claiming the one beside her. Camille paused to kiss the side of her man's forehead, resting her palm on Millie's back, before heading back to the kitchen to lend Mom a hand. Mathias held Camille's gaze for a moment, a smile soft on his lips, and the heat between them sparked almost visibly. The sight hurt my chest.

It was just a goddamn dream. It was not a Notion.

“I was really nervous my first summer,” Mathias went on, while Clint ate and listened avidly. “But you'll do great. Just listen up and be ready to work hard.”

Clint nodded in all seriousness.

“Hey!” Rae yelped, as Matthew succeeded in snatching the bacon from her hands, stuffing it into his mouth with glee.

“Serves you right,” Clint told her.

“Matty-Bear, that wasn't nice,” Jo scolded her little one, but he only grinned engagingly, looking just like his daddy, and Jo melted like ice cream left on a sun-drenched picnic table.

“Yeah, he knows how to work his mama,” I observed, sipping my coffee.

“Jilly, can you work for your sister today?” Mom appeared in the pass-through window to ask.

“Sure, as long as Ruthie can watch Rae too,” I said, lifting my eyebrows questioningly at Jo.

“I'm sure that's fine,” Jo said. “Tish is bringing her over pretty quick. I suppose I better call them. They weren't even out of bed when I left.” She caught up her phone.

Fifteen minutes later the girls had arrived, Ruthann to watch the little girls while Jo, Matthew and Tish headed out in Jo's Toyota. Clint was hitching a ride with Mathias, but he caught me into a hug before leaving.

“I know something's wrong, Mom,” he said quietly.

The sound of his voice was just like Chris's, especially since I couldn't see his face, as I was still hugging him.

Aw, Chris
, I thought, holding my long-ago husband in my mind for a minute.
I hope you can see your son. He's such a good boy, and you would be so proud.

I drew back and regarded my son, patting his back. Though he was gangly, all limbs these days, his face was taking on the contours of a man's; I could see the adult he was rapidly becoming. Last September Justin had showed him how to shave; to be honest, Clint didn't really need to more than once every few days, whereas if my husband wanted to look thoroughly respectable in the evening, he required a second shave in the late afternoon.

“I'm all right,” I told Clint, even though normally I told him the truth. I added, as though justifying, “It's this whole pregnancy thing.”

“It's that lady who was standing there when I came to get the keys last night, isn't it?” he asked, and I felt my eyebrows lifting high at his perceptiveness. I hadn't realized he'd even noticed Aubrey. “That's who Dad used to be married to, isn't it? I remember her from when I was younger.”

I nodded affirmation.

“Well she looks legit skanky,” Clint said, and at that I laughed, unable to hold it back. He went on, “What did she want anyway?”

“It's kind-of a long story,” I said. “But I bumped into her car in the parking lot at Farmer's Market and she wants Dodge to fix it up for her. She's making it a way bigger deal than necessary.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Clint asked, grinning at the prospect.

“Of course not,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Hey, you better get going. Good luck today, sweetheart, be careful, all right?”

“I will, Mom,” he said agreeably, bending to kiss my cheek. “Everything's fine, don't worry. See you later!”

I watched him and Mathias hurry across the parking lot in the rain, shoulders hunched, and reflected that sometimes it took a teenager to put things back into perspective.

Rain, rain, go away,
I thought as I cleared a two-top near the window. The pewter-gray sky had been weeping steadily all morning, and I worried about Mathias out there in it; the fire crew practiced and trained no matter the weather, and I hated the thought of him chilled and shivering without me there to warm him back up again.

Oh for the love, Ca-mille
, I scolded myself, separating my name into two distinct syllables, as Mom did when upset with me, almost rolling my eyes at my thoughts.
He's just fine
.

But I still imagined the countless ways I would warm him tonight, in our bed.

“Milla, can you take the back booth?” Grandma asked, coming up behind me with a pale blue menu, laminated and single-sided, in her hands. “Jilly has her hands full at the counter.”

“Sure, I'll get right over there,” I said.

A minute later I flipped to a new page in my order book, still looking down at it as I stepped up to ask what they wanted for drinks.

“Isn't this Jillian's section?” a male voice asked.

I looked up and realized it was the grad student from Moorhead, the one who'd barged in yesterday so rudely. He was alone, wearing a Cardinals ball cap and a t-shirt with rain-drenched shoulders, stirring creamer into his coffee; clearly Grandma had been here with a pot already. His gaze flickered behind me, towards the counter, where Aunt Jilly was working.

“Nope,” I said, a touch impatiently. He seemed like kind-of an asshole, which was maybe an unfair assumption, but there was something about him that reminded me of the boys with whom I had once attended private school, back in Chicago, in another life I had absolutely no interest in revisiting, even in memory. A sense of entitled arrogance hovered about him. I all but snapped, “You need a minute?”

He looked back at me, seeming amused. He studied my face and said, “You're pretty young to be someone's mother.”

A frown drew my eyebrows instantly together as I regarded him with distaste. For sure an asshole. I said caustically, “I'll come back when you're ready.”

“No, I'm ready now,” he said, with what was meant to be a teasing tone, I could tell. “Number five, please.” His eyes dropped from my face to my breasts and he leaned forward on his forearms. I had already taken a step backward before he said, “I'm just trying to read your name tag.”

“Well, don't,” I told him, wishing I could spill hot coffee right onto his lap. Without another word I turned from the table.

“Thanks, Camille,” he called after me, emphasizing my name just slightly.

Behind the counter I caught up with Aunt Jilly and said, “What a jerk.”

Aunt Jilly, in the process of making coffee, looked my way and lifted her eyebrows, asking without words who I meant. For a second I admired the true-blue of her beautiful eyes, fringed with thick black lashes. She was so pretty; she and my mom looked very much alike, but I had always thought of Aunt Jilly as a pixie, probably because she was petite and always used to keep her golden hair short, like Tinkerbell. Her face was so delicate, tiny freckles skimming over her tanned cheekbones, her lips like a rosebud. She cupped her lower stomach for a second and instantly I empathized, remembering well that feeling of being swollen all along the front side – breasts and belly unimaginably weighted.

“That guy from yesterday,” I elaborated, thumbing over my shoulder.

Aunt Jilly's face changed then, subtly, but I knew her well enough to see something negative cross her features. She obviously sensed something off about him too. She asked immediately, “What did he do?”

“He's a garden-variety asshole, that's what,” I said. “He reminds me of the rich kids I went to school with back in Chicago.”

Aunt Jilly breathed in through her nose and seemed more upset than my words would warrant, but she submerged this at once, her eyes coming back to my face. She said, “We can ask him to leave.”

“Jilly, can I get a refill?” asked a regular at the counter.

“Sure thing, Bill,” she said over her shoulder, and I put one hand on her upper arm.

“No, it's not that bad,” I said, almost wishing I hadn't said anything. Aunt Jilly had been looking extra distracted the past few days, and I didn't want to unduly trouble her. I added with assurance, “I can deal with him.”

She nodded, saying
ok
without sound, before grabbing up a coffee pot, and I turned in my order to Rich.

I steered clear of his table as best I could after that, dropping off the food with no comment, hoping the cold shoulder would discourage him from coming back out here while he was in Landon. Shore Leave was busy with the lunch crowd and when I went back to check on him later, I saw he was already gone. I breathed a sigh of relief as I cleared the table, noticing a twenty dollar bill placed atop a napkin. Twenty was far more than his lunch would have cost and I looked around, wondering if he was expecting change; maybe he'd gone to the bathroom. Rain obscured the view out the window, making everything outdoors resemble a blurry watercolor painting, and so I couldn't tell if his car was still in the lot. Then I noticed that there was something handwritten on the napkin, and I lifted it up, confused.

I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Thanks for lunch. Tell Jillian I said hi.

I dropped the napkin as though it had burned my fingers. Then, before anyone noticed, I crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the garbage.

***

By late afternoon the rain
clouds had shredded apart and drifted away, the sun glinting wildly upon the multitudes of droplets yet clinging to the leaves. I went to collect Millie Jo from Ruthann, who earned plenty of money watching the girls on days when Aunt Jilly and I worked lunch, to find my daughter napping on the couch in Grandma's house. Ruthie told me she'd bring Millie home when she woke up, and so I walked over to my apartment to change out of my work clothes. I thought about doing some cleaning, but instead found myself digging Malcolm Carter's letter and telegram from my bedside table drawer, taking these and the picture of him to the kitchen table, where I sat and studied them for the countless time.

“Where did you end up?” I asked him quietly, angling the picture into the sunlight streaming in the west-facing window above the sink. As though he could somehow hear me, I whispered, “Please tell me. I need to know.”

I traced my fingers over the surface of the photograph, touching the leather strip tied around Malcolm's wrist, the one that had a woman's name carved into it; I had only noticed this detail last winter. Then I let my fingers caress the typeface on the telegram from 1876, with its desperate tone and heart-wrenching words. MISS YOU ALL SO MUCH I HURT, one sentence read, all in capital letters on the ancient Western Union paper.

Oh, Malcolm,
I thought again.
We'll find you. I promise.

“What were you searching for?” I whispered, as though he would magically appear to tell me. Maybe I should just break down and find someone to conduct a séance. Elaine probably knew someone. I continued, “Was it that gold that Dodge was talking about? Maybe it wasn't just a legend.”

Through the open window I heard Mathias's truck pulling into the parking lot and I was out the door and halfway down the steps that dropped from our second-storey apartment to the ground before I knew I'd even moved. I came across the yard just in time to see him climbing down from his pickup, Clinty stepping out from the passenger door. Mathias caught sight of me and opened his arms to collect me close.

“Hi,” I whispered against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. He was so warm and solid, dressed in jeans and boots, the navy-blue fire crew t-shirt that read CARTER in white letters across the back. His black hair was damp from the earlier rain, his day's worth of stubble raspy as he lifted my chin to kiss my lips.

“Hi, honey,” he said tenderly. “I'm so glad to be home.”

And then from the far side of the pickup, Clint piped up with, “Holy shit, Milla, Mathias almost died today, seriously.”

For a second I couldn't so much as swallow, my throat going dry as a sandpit. Mathias said at once, “That's not true,” and then he caught sight of the outright horror in my eyes, as he tightened his arms around me and insisted, “Clint is exaggerating, honey.”

The sun was striking me across the face, close to blinding at this angle. I demanded in a hoarse voice not my own, “Thias, tell me what he means.”

Mathias said firmly, “I did not almost die. A branch broke, that's all.”

Clint said, “There was this tree limb overhanging the fire station that Chief Larson wanted removed, right? So he tells Mathias and one other guy, Josh, to climb up there and take care of it. They showed me how to operate the ladder on engine one, so I did that and then they climbed up there. It was way up there, too, and—”

As much as I loved my cousin, his explanation was making me insane. I interrupted to ask furiously, “Then what?”

Mathias took over, holding my gaze in his. I studied the incredible blue of his eyes, the flecks of gold in his irises, my heart throbbing with fear. He explained, “I climbed out on a branch just beneath the weak one, but it was firm, I swear, but then Josh stepped behind me, to hand me the saw, and then there was this cracking sound, like a gunshot, and—”

“The branch broke just like a fricking matchstick,” Clint said, and my eyes flashed to his face, which was a stark white. He added quietly, “I don't think I've ever had my heart stop like that.”

Mathias said, “Josh grabbed me pretty quick. He still had one foot on the ladder. But shit…my footing just fell away. In all the years of working on the crew, I've never had anything like that happen. And here we were doing chores, not even on a response. It took a while for my heart to calm back down.”

I realized he was babbling a little, still shook up, and understood that no matter how he attempted to reassure me, he had been in serious danger.

“Thias,” I whispered, clutching the material of his shirt in both fists. My stomach swirled, my throat tightening the way it did before I was about to vomit.

“Hey,” he said at once, sounding truly concerned. “Camille, it's all right, honey. I'm just fine.”

“I want you to tell them you're done. Tomorrow. Tonight,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Honey, I can't do that. I've worked there every summer for years and never had something like this happen. It was just a freak thing.”

I started to cry then and walked blindly back towards our apartment, clutching myself around the middle. I heard Clint say, “She'll be okay in a minute,” but Mathias followed directly after me.

“Hey,” he said again, and the concern in his voice made my feet stall. Sobbing, I dove back against him and he caught me close, tipping his face to my loose hair, repeatedly smoothing over its length with both hands. He said, “Honey, it's all right. Don't cry, please don't cry. It's all right.”

I was getting his t-shirt all wet as I shook with sobs. The grass smelled sharply of the recent rain, the humidity of the day washed away. In the evening light, the quality of which was more precious than any jewel, I clung to him. I said brokenly, “It's not all right! What if…what if Josh hadn't grabbed you? You'd be gone from me…oh God…and I would die.”

He made a sound in his throat, concern and love and tenderness, crushing me even closer; I pressed my cheek to his beating heart, holding him as hard as I was able.

“Camille,” he said, his voice hoarse. He rocked us side to side, soothing. After a time he dared to add quietly, “I'm always careful, I want you to know that. We're all so careful, we check our equipment. We really do.”

“You think you do, but I know you take chances,” I said, my throat raw. “Last winter Jake McCall told me about how you went back into a burning house that one time…”

“That was crazy, even for me. I blame that on teenaged hormones.” He added intently, “I would never take foolish chances, honey, not ever.” He drew back enough to tip my chin and hold my gaze in his. “I have never had so much to live for.”

“Accidents happen so quickly,” I argued. I took his face in my hands, my heart seizing up again at just the thought of something happening to him. At least with Millie Jo, I had slightly more control; she had to obey me.

He used one thumb to gently wipe away my rolling tears. He said softly, “If we thought about all the terrible things that could happen, we would go crazy. Truly crazy, I mean. I know you better than that.” He bent and kissed the skin beneath my right eye, then my left, soft as a bird's wing. He whispered, “You're tired, I can tell. There's shadows under your eyes.”

“I've been dreaming so much,” I said. “I've been waking up tired.”

“I know you have,” he said softly. “I've been having weird dreams too. But I can't always remember exactly what. It's like my mind is trying to protect me from remembering.”

I rested my forehead against his chest and he stooped enough to lift me into his arms. He carried me back up the steps and into our kitchen, then down the little hall to our bed. Outside there were still hours of daylight, I could hear the whine of outboard motors all over the lake, but he murmured, “Rest, honey, I'll hold you.”

“What about supper?” I murmured, eyelids already drifting shut.

“Screw supper. Let me hold you,” he said decisively, and I pressed my face to the scent of him and was asleep within minutes.

When I woke again it was deep night. I was tucked under the covers and I could hear Mathias down the hall, in the kitchen making a sandwich from the sound of it. I sat up slowly, our mattress squeaking, and Mathias appeared in the doorway seconds later, backlit by the light from the above the sink.