Bittersweet Homecoming (11 page)

I call Claire, the only person I know who’ll actually answer their phone at this hour.

“Do you know if Kambria’s been by my apartment lately?” I ask when she says hello. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of her, but she’s not returning any of my calls or texts.”

“I’ve been by to water the plants, but I haven’t seen her. There are dirty dishes in your sink though, so I think she’s been around to eat your food.”

I groan in frustration. “I hate when she does that. What’s so difficult about putting dishes in the dishwasher?” I can practically picture the bugs crawling around in my sink. “You wouldn’t mind taking care of that would you?”

“I’m your agent, not your maid.”

“But you’re also my best friend,” I point out.

“Fine.” She lets loose an exaggerated sigh. “But only because it’s you. What are you up to today?”

“I’m at the beach.”

“Must be nice. I’m stuck in meetings all morning. How’s the writing going?”

I tug at my hair. “It’s not. I’m woefully stuck.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” she tries to appease me. “Your routine got interrupted. I’m sure you’ll find your groove once you get back. Speaking of which, when
are
you coming home? Your plants miss you; they told me so.”

“I’m not sure. My sister’s still …”

“Say no more,” she interrupts. “Family comes first. Do what you have to do.”

“Thanks, Claire.”

“Sure thing. Just make sure my paycheck doesn’t bounce, okay?”

I continue to sit in my car after I hang up with Claire. Semi-trucks and RVs speed by on the county highway.  I don’t know why I’m still sticking around Grand Marais after all this time. It’s not like I can magically cure Emily of her heartache—only time will do that. I’m pretty sure that an attractive blonde bartender is the real reason I’m dragging my feet.

I get out of my car and peer down at the lakeshore below. Charlotte and Amelia stand near the water’s edge with their backs to me. They bend and pick up smooth, flat rocks to skip across the lake’s rippled surface. All of Amelia’s throws sink immediately, but Charlotte’s rocks leap across the water. When Amelia finally makes a rock skip, her gleeful cheer reaches my ears.

“What are you doing, Abby?” I mutter to myself.

Instead of descending the wooden stairs that lead down to the beach and mother and daughter, I head back to my car to call Kambria. Predictably, her phone rings without answer.

“It’s Abby. Again,” I grunt when the call is sent to her voicemail. “I’m coming back in a couple of days—I don’t know exactly when—but when I do, we need to talk.”

I hang up and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. I’ll book a flight back to Los Angeles either today or tomorrow I decide. Kambria and I will more than likely break up, and I’ll get back to my life, back to my friends, and back to writing plays.

If I can ever break through this writer’s block, that is.

Later that evening I’m still completely paralyzed by this writer’s block—paralyzed and frightened. I’ve always been able to come up with new ideas or find inspiration or at least force out a few uninspired pages, but I stare at the blank page of my notebook, and I’ve got nothing. I can’t even blame Emily and the trip back home on this wordlessness. This has been brewing for weeks, and now I’m at a dead halt.

My writer’s block exacerbates my dour mood, and as quickly as I can run a brush through my hair and change out of sweatpants, I’m trampling down the stairs to the front foyer.

I reach for my purse that’s hanging on a wooden knob, but my hand freezes when I hear Emily’s voice: “Where are you off to?”

She’s sitting in the living room, reading a glossy magazine. We haven’t really talked since her breakdown in the dining room a few nights ago. I think we’re both embarrassed and not sure of how to proceed.

“I’m gonna get a drink at Roundtree’s. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks.” She looks up from her magazine. “Isn’t that like your third or fourth time this week?”

I grab my bag from its hook and check for my ID and money. “I like the ambiance.”

“Uh huh,” she snorts. “Or maybe you like a certain bartender.”

I fling the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She closes the magazine and folds her hands on top of her lap. “You still have a girlfriend in LA, don’t you?”

I take a deep breath and release it slowly to refrain from snapping at Emily. Why does everyone insist on reminding me about Kambria? We haven’t talked in over a week, and I’ve all but thrown in the towel on our relationship. I could e-mail her a Dear John letter, but that would be crueler than a break-up voicemail. Besides, there’s nothing going on between Charlotte and me. I’ve been a little flirty, and my eyes have probably lingered where they shouldn’t more than a few times, but I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Technically, yes.”

Emily continues that hard, disapproving look. It reminds me of what little I remember of our mother.

“Is that it?” I ask impatiently.

She remains silent, still staring. “Yeah,” she says finally.

“Don’t wait up,” I throw over my shoulder as I leave out the front door.

+ + +

There’s a scattering of patrons around Roundtree’s tonight, split between the tables and the U-shaped bar. I sit at a table near the bar, but not actually at the bar itself. Most everyone is a local tonight. It’s midweek in the days after the Fourth of July, so most of the tourists have gone home until the next big weekend summer festival.

Charlotte’s working alone as usual, smiling and engaging the other customers, stopping every now and then to play bar dice. Each time the plastic cup slams down on the bar top, I’m jolted from my chair. It’s unlikely that she hasn’t noticed me, but she hasn’t acknowledged me yet.

I probably should have found a different bar to go to tonight, but I feel bad enough about not showing up at the beach without disappearing entirely. And I think a part of me needs to prove to myself that this crush that’s been building over the past few days is one-sided. Charlotte’s a bartender; it’s her job to be friendly. And the invitations to the library and to the beach were only isolated acts of kindness, nothing more.

When she steps out from behind the bar, I’m offered a view of painted-on jean shorts wrapped around long, lean legs. Her white, short-sleeved linen top contrasts attractively with her bronzed skin tone. Her cheeks have a fresh glow like she spent a lot of time in the sun today. It makes my stomach rumble with uncomfortable guilt. I wonder how long she waited for me to show up at the beach before she gave up on me coming.

She leans across a table to reach for an empty pint glasses, and my eyes betray me as they spend a second too long admiring the curve of her backside.

“We missed you at the beach today,” she remarks in a conversational tone.

I quickly avert my eyes, but I’m sure she’s noticed my stare. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I was writing and lost track of time,” the lie slips out. “I would have called, but I didn’t have your number.”

“And I don’t have a cell phone,” she reminds me.

“Right. See? Just another reason to get a phone,” I needle her.

“Or next time, don’t stand me up,” she counters.

“I didn’t—.”

“Relax, Abby,” she cuts me off. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” A carefree smile appears on her face, and I instantly relax. “Why don’t you take a seat at the bar?” she suggests. “It makes my job easier.”

I obey her words and sit down on what’s become my regular seat. In the next stool, a kid emits nervous energy. He’s wearing jeans, t-shirt, and a knit cap despite the muggy summer night. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen.

Charlotte sets a beer in front of me and turns her attention to the under-aged patron. “What can I get you, hun?” She wipes down the lacquered bar top in the space in front of him and tosses a cardboard coaster down like it’s a Frisbee.

“Rum and Coke.” He orders the drink with cool authority, but there’s no way he’s of legal drinking age.

Charlotte smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “ID.”

The kid shifts in his chair. “Oh, I, uh, I must’ve left it in the car.”

“Maybe you should go get it,” Charlotte suggests.

The kid slaps his hand lightly on the bar. “Damn it, it’s actually in my wallet in my other jeans. Don’t you hate when that happens?”

“Oh, that’s the worst.”

She grabs a well glass and fills it with ice. A wedge of lime is placed on the rim, and when she pulls out the soda gun, I’m under the impression that she’s going to serve this clearly under-aged kid. But she tops the drink with cola, leaving no room for alcohol.

The glass is set before the patron, and she smiles again. “Jonathan Walters, don’t think I don’t recognize you under that peach fuzz you call a beard.” She yanks the knit cap from his head and his brown, shaggy hair sticks up in places. “And take off that ridiculous hat.” She tosses the hat on the bar beside his soda and clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“Yes ma’am.” The kid’s angular shoulders slump forward and he stabs the ice cubs in his drink with the little plastic red straw.

“Jon graduated high school last year. Probably home from college for the holiday.” Charlotte laughs and shakes her head. “These kids are funny thinking a year of college and they’re all grown up.”

“You know in my day,” I can’t help but remark, “we just paid someone to buy us a case of beer at the gas station.”

The kid looks sideways at me. “Yeah. Whatever,” he grunts. The legs of his barstool screech against the floor as he pushes away from the bar to stand up. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the bar top and leaves without having any of his soda.

“Chasing my customers away? You’re worse than Old Tom,” Charlotte smirks.

“Sorry,” I grumble.

I make a move to leave as well, but a strong hand clamps down on my wrist before I get very far. Charlotte’s arm is attached to that hand, and I follow the tan arm up to where it connects to her shoulder, across the tops of her breasts, and up to her hazel-green eyes.

“Stick around, Abby,” she husks. “The night’s still young.”

Only when she releases me do I exhale.

Charlotte ignores me for most of the night except to bring me a second beer. When she’s not topping off other people’s drinks, she disappears into a back room that serves as the bar’s small kitchen. I spend the remainder of the evening splitting my time between watching her and playing darts with some other locals. The rational portion of my brain tells me to pack up my things and go home, but my bruised, ignored ego has me staying long after the final customer has left.

Charlotte seems to notice. “You’re determined to close down the bar again, aren’t you?” she muses.

I push my empty pint glass back and forth between my hands, sliding it along the lacquered surface of the bar. My drink had gone empty hours ago, but she never asked if I wanted another one and I never bothered her for a refill. “It’s good to have goals.”

She makes a humming noise. “Why don’t you get behind the bar and make yourself useful?”

I lift my head. “Really?”

She smiles shrewdly. “Might as well. Maybe I can get home at a decent time tonight.”

I hop up from my barstool and make my way behind the bar. “What do you need me to do?”

She jerks her head toward the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. “Grab a bucket with some hot, soapy water and wipe down the bar top and tables.”

When I come back from the kitchen, bucket and rag in hand, Charlotte has turned off most of the overhead lights. The neon beer signs that decorate the bar’s walls are still on, giving the place a kind of eerie glow.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me putting you to work?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I say truthfully. It’s almost a relief to have something to do. I wipe the washrag across the glossy bar top, wiping away the night’s spilled beer and hard liquor. “I’m glad I can help. Besides, I like the company.”

She looks at me thoughtfully. “I like the company, too.”

“I can’t imagine working so late and going home by myself. I know that Grand Marais is a small, safe town, but I’d still get nervous.”

“I guess I’m used to it by now. Travis Spencer—you remember him from school, right?” I nod and she continues. “Well he’s a cop now. He used to escort me home when he worked the night shift. But then he sent me flowers,” she chuckles at the memory, “so I had to stop that; I didn’t want to encourage him.”

“Heartbreaker,” I tease.

Despite my jest, I can’t ignore the jealous tightening in my chest. It’s absolutely ridiculous and unfounded, but I hate the thought of Charlotte subject to the awkward pawing of some man.

Charlotte steps behind me and pulls the rag out of my hands and tosses it back into the cleaning bucket.

“I’m not done cleaning yet,” I protest.

“You’re done,” she informs me. “I like your company, Abby. I like you.” She takes another step, and I find myself in the unexpected position of being pinned between her and the bar. Her weight is pressed against my backside.

I lick at my lips, which have become inexplicably dry in the past few seconds. “Oh, um, I like you too, Charlotte.”

My palms are flat on the slightly sticky bar top and I rest my weight on them. The lean muscles of Charlotte’s arm wraps around my waist, and she presses the length of her body against my back. We’re about the same height, and our bodies just seem to fit.

She brushes my loose hair over my shoulder and her soft lips ghost over the back of my neck. My entire body shivers at the contract.

“Charlotte.” The name is a prayer on my lips. “What are you doing?”

Fingers trail the length of my arms, down to my wrists. My hands are pinned against the bar top, and her body curves around my back. “Taking charge.” Her words vibrate in my ear. “I think you’re all words and no action, Ms. Writer.”

I close my eyes and swallow down my arousal. I know I shouldn’t be encouraging this. I should stop her. I still have a girlfriend even though I know our relationship has run its course. But when Charlotte’s hand slides down the front of my denim shorts, my moral compass falls off course.