The mood inside Shore Leave was one of pure, unbridled summertime joy. All the adults – the alleged adults, as Grandma said – were gathered along the bar counter, while Aunt Jilly poured tequila and Mom spun the blender. Clark sat between Dodge and Rich; along with Blythe and Uncle Justin, they were drinking tap beer rather than margaritas. Two relationships of particular magnitude had formed while Marshall and I were away; Grandma explained to me, much later, that they had reconsidered a few things in the face of my disappearance. And so it was that Grandma and Aunt Ellen, the independent daughters of Louisa Davis, raised to rule the roost without men, had finally admitted their feelings for Rich and Dodge. Of course we’d suspected long before that Ellen and Dodge cared for each other, but to witness them openly happy and in love was a blessing to all of us.
Mom, Blythe, Uncle Justin, and Aunt Jilly had undertaken the bulk of running Shore Leave these days. Along with Case and Tish, Jalesville was the place Marshall and I called home these days, but Landon would never be fully displaced in my heart. Every summer Tish and I packed up our busy families, and more often than not Clark and one or two of the Rawley boys, to spend July in Landon. We continued the tradition of celebrating the annual Fourth of July Eve party, watching the parade and fireworks the next day; lounging on the lakeshore during the hot daylight hours and gathering by the fire and listening to Marshall and Case make music as evening faded to night.
My family, I thought, aching with happiness. My family of women no longer afraid of a curse on them. No longer afraid of the past.
There were unknowns. Though I thought often of them, I had not yet found the courage to look up any available information on Patricia, Cole, or Axton, the Rawleys or the Davises. A part of me justified this by the fact that their descendents – us – were alive and thriving, which assured me that they, too, had continued on long past 1882. Neither had Camille attempted to find Malcolm. One night, two summers ago, she confided in Tish and me, weeping and overcome as she told us about what really took place between her and Malcolm that night in Muscatine; her words were the only secret I had ever, or would ever, keep from Marshall.
Some late nights Marshall and I lay awake in our cabin, speculating about those we’d left behind. Though we both missed all of them intensely, we had decided long ago that we would leave the past alone. Thankfully, neither of us had ever since felt the pull of time on our bodies or spirits.
“We did what we could,” Marsh whispered once. “We nearly gave them our lives, angel.”
But sometimes I thought I heard Patricia’s voice, calling to me.
Sometimes I sensed Axton hovering near – his spirit, maybe, or maybe nothing more than my memories of him.
I comforted myself with the knowledge that Axton’s soul inhabited Case – he and Patricia finally allowed a life together, after everything they had been through.
I shut out the ‘what-ifs’ that tried to surface.
“Girls! Just in time. Come have a drink!” Aunt Jilly heralded as Tish, Camille, and I entered from the dining room, raising her margarita glass in a salute.
“Are those the boys I hear roughhousing?” Grandma asked, pretending irritation. “We’ll have Charlie Evans out here with all that noise!”
Rich passed Grandma a fresh margarita, kissing her cheek in the process.
“Is our cabin still in one piece?” Uncle Justin asked Tish, with a grin. “I think you and Case were the last to leave.”
“Rae and Millie Jo are good baby-sitters,” Tish said reassuringly, holding out her mug for Mom to fill with delicious, frothy, citrus slush. “Ooh, yum.”
“Wy’s still there,” I reminded Uncle Justin, hugging Aunt Ellen from behind before accepting a brimming mug. “And he’s a very responsible kid.” Though, at nineteen, Wy wasn’t exactly a kid anymore. It was tough to think of him as a young adult; in most ways, he was still smiley, adorable, adoring Wy. It wasn’t lost on me, or Camille, that Millie Jo’s gigantic crush on him increased in strength every summer.
Once we each held a fresh drink, Blythe stood and lifted his beer. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said, winking at Mom. He wore a pale blue Shore Leave t-shirt and yellow swim trunks, his long hair in a low ponytail; other than his full beard and mustache, Blythe looked almost no different than the first summer he came into our lives, over fifteen years ago now. Mom, who honestly hadn’t changed all that much either, blew him a kiss, which he pretended to catch; then he pressed her kiss to his heart.
“Awwww,” Aunt Jilly cooed; her blue eyes gleamed with both love and tequila. She hooked one arm around Uncle Justin’s neck and planted a smooching kiss on his scarred face, and he laughed, tugging her onto his lap.
Having gained our full attention and adopting a teasing, formal air, Blythe said, “I want to express my deep gratitude at being Joelle’s husband and therefore a part of this family. Baby,” and he grinned anew at Mom, “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone more. Thank you for our family and for our lives here together.”
Tears and laughter and hearty agreement from everyone. I set down my glass to latch my arms around Camille and Tish, on either side of me, and squeezed them close. My sisters, who I could not get by without. Our men, our children, our extended families. All gathered here in and around Shore Leave and Flickertail Lake, where everything began. We knew how fortunate we were; we understood the blessings of our simple life.
A family of women, no longer afraid to love.
“Thank you,” I whispered to the universe, smiling and crying both at once. “Thank
