CHAPTER 12
Why didn’t I drive separately? We’ve shopped for three hours already. How is that even possible in a town the size of Stokesley?
The bookstore I enjoyed. They had multiple non-fiction books about WWII I’ve been wanting to read for a long time. Since then? Sheer. Torture.
How long can women realistically look at touristy crap made in China? The only thing special about the stiff t-shirts and boring snow globes is someone added the words “Lake Lloyd” to the front. I’m ready to get to Linda’s and look at the homemade items she sells.
I initially thought it was a great idea to buy the coconut lotion Jen loved. I’m second guessing myself now. Will smelling that fragrance haunt me? Will I be tortured by remembering the way Jen lathered it between her palms and rubbed it over her gorgeous legs? Legs I no longer get to run my hands across?
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan. I need another round of pickleball to take my mind off Jen. When my endorphins are high, my brain is too busy doing whatever activity I’m participating in to dwell on my loss.
“Evie, I’m heading over to Linda’s,” I call out. “I’ll meet you there.”
She pokes her head above a display of animal salt and pepper shakers. She holds a beehive salt shaker in front of her face. “We’ll bee right behind you.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan, and head out of the store, across the street, and pull open the glass door of Linda’s. A woodsy scent greets me. It’s the same smell as always.
“Well, I’ll be,” Linda says, grinning. “Bennett Williams in the flesh. How are you holding up, love?” She opens her arms wide.
“Okay.” I step into the embrace of the woman who is the poster child for loving grandmas everywhere. She always has a blue and white anchor apron on. Her gray hair is pulled up in a bun and she smells of baked bread.
Her arms squeeze me tight. “I’ve missed seeing you around here. And I’m so sorry about Jen. She was a lovely young woman.”
“Thank you.” My heart clenches at the mention of my late wife. I pull out of her hug. “How are you doing?”
She swats my arm. “I’m as happy as a sunflower soaking up the sun.”
The image makes me smile. “Good to hear. What’s new this year?”
“Follow me,” she says, waving for me to go with her down the main aisle. She zig-zags to the back of the store.
We stop in front of a display full of multi-colored beaded bracelets, gemstone necklaces, woven baskets, and dream catchers. “Where did you get these from?” I pick up a few pieces, inspecting the craftsmanship. What stories are behind these treasures? What traditions and beliefs yielded the creation of these products?
A tan dreamcatcher with turquoise beads and brown feathers catches my attention. Jen had one very similar to this. She purchased it in Maine when we visited five years ago. When I packed up our apartment in Boston and moved to Amherst last year, I threw away the one she hung on her side of the bed.
The dream catcher didn’t work. Since Jen’s passing, I get nightmares several times a week.
“Someone came in at the end of last summer requesting a space in my store to sell their indigenous-made merchandise. Of course, I said yes. Look at how stunning these bracelets are.”
If Jen were alive, we’d leave with at least three bracelets and a necklace. “You made the right call.”
I absently pick up the dream catcher, rubbing my finger over the web in the middle. “Jen said she never had a bad dream since buying one of these a few years back. But the dream catcher must only work for the person who buys it, because it doesn’t stop my nightmares.” They leave me with a pounding heart and sweat-soaked pajamas.
“Are you still dreaming of Jen being trapped, Bennett?” Evelyn asks behind me, her tone full of worry.
I flinch. When did she get here? Setting the dreamcatcher back on its hook, I say, “Sometimes.”
Evie frowns. “I’m sorry, B. I wish I knew how to help.”
I shrug. I’ve tried a million different ways to erase the nightmare of Jen being trapped under a frozen lake with me desperately chipping away at the surface, only for her to float away before I can save her, out of my head. Nothing’s worked.
“Maybe you need to buy one and try again,” Linda kindly suggests.
“Maybe.”
Millie places a hand over her chest. “I’m sorry, Bennett. That really is awful. I don’t know if this will help or not, and if you’re not looking for advice, then tell me to shut it. But when I was younger, my school psychologist told me when I had a recurring nightmare to write down what happens, but rewrite the ending to give me the resolution I wanted. It sounds silly, but it worked for me.”
That’s not a bad idea and one I haven’t tried yet. “Thank you. I might give that a go.” What nightmare did Millie have? Why did she see a school psychologist? Will journaling the nightmare help me?
Evie hugs Linda and introduces Millie. I step around them, wandering the rest of the store, which hasn’t changed. I find the lotion Jen always bought and take a sniff of the tester bottle.
The scent of sun-baked coconut is comforting; an unexpected pleasant surprise I enjoy as dozens of moments of watching Jen rub it over her body swim in my mind. I pick up a bottle, taking it to the register.
Linda sees me standing by the checkout counter and comes to ring up my purchase. “That’s one of the most popular products I have.”
I believe it. Even I enjoy the scent and creaminess of it. “It was Jen’s favorite. She made me stop at your store on our way into town every May so she could stock up for the summer.” I always teased her about being addicted to the stuff.
Linda smiles sympathetically. “I remember.”
“I’m a few days late, but I can’t let the tradition slide.” Now that I know the smell reminds me of good things and not bad like I feared, I’ll keep buying a bottle every summer in her memory.
Evie, with her arms full of random items, comes up behind me. “Oh, you’re getting that lotion! I love that stuff.”
“Jen did too,” I say.
Her face falls. “Would you rather I not buy any then?”
I give her a grateful smile. “It’s fine, Evs.”
“I’ll get it for you since your arms are full,” Millie offers. “Where is it?”
I put my card back in my wallet and grab the paper bag Linda holds out to me. “I’ll show you.”
“Oh.” Millie tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear, smiling tentatively. “Thanks.”
I walk a few aisles over, Millie on my heels. She’s been different since our pickleball game. She’s kept her distance from me in every store. Did I do or say something when we played that hurt her feelings? I rack my brain, recalling my actions, and come up empty.
The past year, Evie tried to introduce me to Millie multiple times, and I always declined. I wasn’t ready to pretend to be friendly or in a place to get to know someone new. Evie assured me meeting Millie wasn’t a set-up. She simply wanted me to meet her best friend since we all lived in the same city.
If Evie hadn’t brought Millie with her to the lake house, I might still have said no. Now that I’ve met her, I see why Evelyn loves Camille like a sister.
Millie is nice. Beautiful. Accommodating. Outgoing. I’m excited for friendship to develop between us. But first, I need to figure out why she’s acting like I’m diseased with MRSA and trying to infect her with it.
“Here we are.” I point to the shelf lined with ten different scented lotions. All homemade. I’ve never taken time to read the ingredient list, but whatever is in here is like bathing in velvety cocoa butter that smells like the beach.
Millie takes a tester bottle, holding it up to her nose. She closes her eyes, moaning. “That is the best-smelling stuff.” She sniffs again. “What’s in this thing? It’s like crack. I’m immediately addicted.” She flips the bottle over, reading the label.
It’s good. I’m not sure it’s addiction-level good, but good. “Like Linda said. It’s popular for a reason.”
Millie’s eyes get wide. She holds the bottle up to my face. “Fifteen dollars for an eight-ounce bottle? Guess I won’t be buying any. My thirty-two ounce, five-dollar lotion it is.”
It’s easy to forget being around my family that money isn’t a worry for us like it is for other people. And now I sound like a conceited jerk. I’m grateful I’ve never struggled to pay bills or worried about where my next meal would come from.
But am I really doing enough by shopping locally? Jen and I talked frequently about what foundations we wanted to donate to, but never got around to actually picking one. I vow to change that.
Also, has Millie bought herself anything today? Evie and I purchased plenty. But I don’t remember Millie buying a single thing. Do I offer to buy Millie lotion, or will she get offended? I don’t know her enough to say how she’ll react. In the end, I follow her back to the register, where she hands Evie the bottle.
“Thanks, Mils,” Evie says, putting the lotion on the counter.
“If I’m sniffing you, it’s the lotion,” Millie says.
Evie and I chuckle.
“Grab another bottle,” Evie says, motioning to the aisle we came from. “I’ll buy it for you.”
“Nope. Nuh-uh.” Millie shakes her head. “You’ve bought enough food for me over the years. I won’t let you get me anything else.”
Good to know: Millie doesn’t like handouts. “I think the day needs to end with ice cream. What do you say? Should we head there next?”
Down another block is the only ice cream shop in Stokesley. The ice cream is thick and creamy. My favorite is Death by Chocolate. It’s brownie batter ice cream with brownie bits and fudge swirls. After hours of walking around with these two, I need a treat as a reward for my good behavior on this shopping spree.
“We absolutely need ice cream,” Evie says, handing her card to Linda.
“What flavors do you like, Millie?” I ask.
“I’m not super picky.”
No matter what, I always want chocolate ice cream. “Are you craving anything right now?”
She wobbles her head from side-to-side. “Nothing in particular. I need to see the flavors to decide.”
“Scoops has the best ice cream. I always have a hard time deciding what to get.” Evie takes her bags, three in each hand, and leads the way out the door.
“Hey, I’ll catch up with you,” Millie says, taking a step back toward Linda.
Evie cocks her head. “Everything okay?”
Millie nods. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll be out in a minute. Promise.”
“‘K…” Evie points to the left. “Head that way and you’ll find us at Scoops.”
“Thanks, Linda!” I wave as Evie and I leave her store.
“Come back and see me anytime.”
“We will,” Evie and I say in unison.
I chuckle. “Jinx. You owe me an ice cream.”
Evie elbows me.
The boardwalk, made of stained two-by-fours, is uneven, making my steps slightly wobbly as we walk.
“You can afford to pay for your own ice cream,” she says.
“That’s not the point of a jinx.” Will Millie buy herself ice cream? “What did Millie want to talk to Linda about?”
Evie shrugs. “Most likely a job, but I’m not sure.”
I’m a little surprised Millie agreed to come with Evie this summer if she needs a job. Why not stay in Amherst where there are a lot more work opportunities than Stokesley? But she said last night this is her first real vacation. Maybe that’s why she came? I pull open the glass door to Scoops. The scent of sweet batter baking, sugar, and milk fills the store. I inhale deeply, loving the smell of the ice cream shop.
We go to the glass display case, staring at the flavor cards detailing what items are in each kind of ice cream. I find Death by Chocolate and point to it. “I’ll take two scoops in a bowl, please.”
“No cone?” Millie’s voice says from behind me. “That’s the best part.”
I turn around, facing her, wagging a finger. “Incorrect. The ice cream is the best part.”
“Yeah, but when you’ve had enough of licking the ice cream—bam!”—she smacks her hands together—“you get another flavor mixed in with the addition of a slight crunch. AKA perfection.”
Evie rolls her eyes. “You can both get what you like best without needing to make the other agree with you.”
“Can we, though?” I ask. “I feel like there’s only one right answer here.” I smirk. “Mine.”
Evie points a finger at Millie and me. “If you two can’t get along, we’re leaving.” She glares at us. “Without ice cream.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Mils says apologetically. She flashes me a wink.
I grin, liking that Millie is verbally sparring with me. It’s much better than her standoffish behavior while shopping. But why the sudden change? She’s been slightly different every time I’ve interacted with her.
Though the same might be said about me.
Millie’s lips pull into a huge smile, and my heartrate kicks up a few notches. Her face lights up when she looks like that. Why does this random person (okay, not random, but someone I don’t know very well) make my insides do weird things?
I look away, unable to keep staring into her beautiful face. “We’ll behave.”
“I’ll get the Salty Beach,” Evie says. “Although I also really wanted the S’mores one as well.”
Millie stands behind my cousin and rests her chin on Evie’s shoulder. “You know, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to get one scoop of each kind.”
“Blasphemy,” Evie says, like Millie recommended we drop a pile of steaming dog poo in the store.
I scrunch my nose. “True. No mixing. It disrupts the integrity of the flavors.”
The teen standing behind the counter, wearing a black apron, pipes up. “People get multiple flavors in a cone or bowl all the time.”
Evie acts offended. “Well, they shouldn’t,” she scolds. “I’ll stick with the Salty Beach and come back another day for the S’mores.” She shoots a dirty look at the worker and Millie.
“Sure, ma’am,” the employee says. “Do you want a bowl or cone? One scoop or two?”
Evie turns and mouths, “Ma’am? I’m young!” then places her order.
I smirk and mouth back, “Not too young, ma’am.”
Millie eyes the giant chalkboard with handwritten pricing. “I’ll take a child sized cone with Cracked on Cake.”
My stomach is burning like acid is playing hopscotch. I can’t stand watching Millie be so cautious and frugal, worried about a two-dollar cone. I’m itching to swoop in and buy her a bigger size. But seeing her reaction to Evie’s offer of getting fifteen-dollar lotion, I’m sure she’d bite my head off if I paid for a six-dollar ice cream. I don’t fully understand, since money’s not an issue for me. But putting myself in her shoes, I can see why Millie wants to stand on her own two feet. To not feel like she’s only Evie’s friend because of Evie’s money and what it will buy her. Something we’ve dealt with many times growing up.
As much as I want to be the hero, I bite my tongue instead. I admire Millie for standing her ground and truly loving my cousin and respecting their friendship. It’s this sentiment I hold on to as the employee hands me my ice cream bowl, overflowing with ice cream, then hands Evie hers, also overfilled. And then Millie, with barely a half-scoop on her pitiful cone.
I take a bite without my spoon, letting the sweet chocolate and fudge coat my tongue. Tapping my credit card on the machine, I swallow and take another bite. By the time I pay and Evie pays, Millie is biting into her cone already. My ice cream turns sour in my mouth.
How does Millie go shopping with Evie and have the self-control to purchase nothing? How does Evie handle keeping Millie’s boundaries instead of steamrolling and saying she wants to take care of her because that’s what friends do for each other?
I slide my hand up and down my throat. “This ice cream is way sweeter than I remember.” I cough a few times, really selling my sudden distaste for my favorite summer treat. “I don’t think I can finish this.”
“Can I try a bite?” Evie asks. She holds up her own bowl. “You can try some of mine. Mils, do you want some, too?”
Millie winces as she chews the last of her sweet treat. “I don’t have anything to exchange a bite with.”
Evie sighs. “Did I request a bite in return? No.” She holds the spoon out to Millie, who frowns at Evie, but takes a small bite of her Salty Beach ice cream.
Millie closes her eyes and hums. “Mmm. That was good. Thanks, Evs.”
I use my spoon and snatch a helping. The salted caramel ice cream is good, but not as good as mine. “Try mine.” I hold it up to both women, passing my spoon to Millie.
Her brows rise, wrinkling her normally smooth forehead. “You’re okay sharing a spoon with me?”
With anyone else, no. With her? Yes. Until she said that. “Are you sick?”
“I don’t think so…”
“Then take it.”
Evie swallows the bite she took. Her eyes go wide. “Why didn’t you tell me that was like eating heaven?”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t get mad at me. You didn’t ask. And besides, haven’t you tried this kind before? It’s been on the menu for years.”
Millie accepts my spoon and wraps her hand around my cup, our fingers overlapping, as she steadies the bowl to scoop out a portion.
Tingles shoot up my fingers like a hot poker is tapping my nerves, testing their capability to function properly. I attest, they work as intended.
My fingers squeeze the styrofoam cup. It’s nothing. I’m missing Jen. This has nothing to do with Camille.
“We have to come back for more of that,” Millie says as her face brightens with delight.
She hands me my spoon back. I take another bite, but I truly can’t handle any more. Not with the confusing things happening in my body and mind.
I pass the entire thing off to Millie. “Please eat it. I’ll just throw it away and ice cream that good shouldn’t go to waste.”
Her eyes narrow as she studies my face. I patiently wait, keeping my face neutral. “You’re positive you don’t want any more and this isn’t some ploy to give me ice cream?”
Noooo.“I’m sure.”
She continues to eye me before conceding and taking the bowl of ice cream from me. I have to look away when she slowly pulls the spoon out of her mouth and a thin layer of chocolate ice cream coats her lips.
A desire to lick the sweet treat from her mouth kicks me in the gut.
“I’ll pull the car around,” I choke out, ready to run away from this woman who is confusing me to no end.