Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe by Abbie Williams

want me to make a grand old fool of myself, fantasizing about a much younger man. Crap, I would have to forcibly reign in my attraction to him from this point forward. Forcibly , I reminded myself. The kids were piling in then, requesting drinks, and our conversation was shelved for the moment.
    Hours later I led my groggy children along the dew-damp shore to the big house and up the steps to the third level loft, where I left them to their own devices for getting into pajamas and then bed. I crept back down the tiny wooden staircase and eased open the door into Gran’s room, which I used to share with Jilly. Gran’s snores met me from where she was curled on one of the twin beds. I slipped out of my clothes, too exhausted to find my own PJs, and slipped beneath the covers of my old bed.
    ***
    May passed into June. The days grew longer and the air hotter, and we were all incredibly fortunate for the proximity of the lake, which allowed relief from the increasing humidity. In the garden behind the café, the tomato vines climbed like green monsters up their stakes, and the stargazer lilies and wild roses bloomed in a splendid profusion of oranges and pinks; in the morning air, their sweet scents flowed like a magical current. I woke each day to a chorus of wrens, who’d industriously built a mini-city in the birch tree outside my window. And Shore Leave became ever busier as the fishing season blasted into full swing.
    I was happy on the surface. The familiarity of place and presence of family infused my soul like a comforting balm in which I’d not been bathed in years. The girls settled into routine, helping out occasionally during lunch, but mostly having fun with their cousin on the lake, canoeing, fishing, swimming, paddle-boating and clam-digging to their hearts’ content. They’d met several of the other local kids as the weeks slipped past, and I was grateful for their distraction. They talked often to their father, but were so busy filling him in on the details of their busy days that they forgot to mention me; I had yet to determine how I felt about that. Jackie didn’t ask and I didn’t offer, and so I hadn’t heard my husband’s voice in almost a month. While at the café I was very careful to replace my early and instant attraction to Blythe with a sort of false bravado. I actually just avoided him whenever I could, and when it was necessary to talk I fronted a cheerful, almost deprecating attitude that I quite hated. But it was either that or humiliate myself to a revolting degree.
    He was gorgeous as ever, there every day in the kitchen, working beside Rich, joking with everyone, good-natured and calm. If I found my gaze lingering too long on him, I chastised myself and recalled that he had a girlfriend, though he’d never mentioned her. After the first night, he didn’t ask if we’d accompany him to town; maybe Rich had talked to him about the appropriateness of that, even though I couldn’t imagine Rich doing so. I had yet to drive into town for any bar-hopping (and with two bars in town, it’s not as though there was too far to hop), too exhausted at the end of the day to do more than hang out on the dock with Jilly, sipping a beer. It wasn’t until a lazy evening in the second week of June that she talked me into accompanying her to Eddie’s; I was tired of making excuses and that evening we managed to sneak the golf cart away from the kids and made our way around the lake to town.
    The scene at Eddie’s was mellow, the usual for a Monday night. Jilly and I were greeted with open arms (literally, as he swept each of us into a bear hug) by Eddie himself, who then proceeded to pour us a draft on the house. I opted for a Leinie’s, Jilly a Schell, and we chatted for a bit with Eddie and the ever-present Jim Olson, his best friend and, as we’d concluded long ago, Eddie’s Platonic Life Partner.  Jilly had coined the