Off Course by Michelle Huneven Read Free Book Online

arrangement of dried artichokes, an old-fashioned grocer’s scale swinging from a canted beam, and a slumping stack of place mats on the table that periodically, with no provocation, slid to the floor in a splay of raffia, chintz, and plastic.
    Cress had carried many of these items to the guest room’s closet. She’d also removed someone’s attempt at macramé that sagged on the bathroom door and the faded family photographs on the one stretch of unslanted wall by the fridge, replacing the photos with five small colorful street scenes that Tillie had painted in Tehran.
    Sylvia made Cress bring back the photographs, the grocer’s scale, the macramé. “Cindy Hazzard made that for me,” she said.
    Whoever Cindy Hazzard was.
    â€œIt’s not your house,” her mother said.
    â€œI know, I know.”
    â€œAnd another thing,” Sylvia said. “Your phone bill was through the roof.
    â€œThrough the roof,” she repeated.
    Cress muttered, promising to pay. The problem was, you could call New York late at night and talk for hours for what a ten-minute call to Tillie cost midday.
    *   *   *
    Cress walked by the lodge to warn Jakey that her parents were up, lest he barrel into the A-frame at midnight. “Saw ’em drive in!” he said, and bustled her into his office for sex on the rug.
    The next day, he waved her down. “Sneak over to my house later.” His hand crept under her gingham shirt, right there on the lodge’s porch.
    After her parents went to bed, she slid open the door, and her mother called her name. “Just getting another log, Mom,” Cress said, and went back inside.
    *   *   *
    She and her mother peeled vegetables for a stew. “So you know, Mom, I’ve been out a couple times with Jakey.”
    â€œJakey? Jakey up here?”
    â€œThe very one.”
    â€œOh Cress. He’s way too old.”
    â€œHe’s a lot more fun than most guys my age.”
    Orange ribbons unscrolled from her mother’s carrot. “Be careful, Cress,” she said quietly.
    â€œWhy? What makes you say that?”
    â€œIt’s just … Jakey hurts people without trying.”
    â€œLike who?” Cress asked. “Who has he hurt?”
    â€œI don’t know of any one incident,” Sylvia said. “Just stuff I’ve heard.”
    *   *   *
    Her parents left, and she phoned the lodge. “Free at last!”
    â€œMy kids are coming up,” Jakey said. “Any minute.”
    â€œCome by after,” said Cress.
    â€œThe oldest will stay,” he said. “She always does.”
    â€œWill I ever get to meet them?” she said.
    â€œYou already know Kevin.” His youngest, a big, blushing kid, helped out at the lodge; introductions had been hollered across the dining room.
    Cress spent that night by herself. The next night, Jakey came roaring into the A-frame after ten. “I miss you, Hartley, in spite of my damn self.”
    At Family Night she said, “Coming up later?”
    â€œWorn out. Need to catch up on my sleep.”
    Another night alone. Then he had to get up early—another. Thus they settled into a more workaday routine, found a more reasonable pitch.
    *   *   *
    She was now driving to Sparkville for Rick once or twice a week. For a load of lumber or pipe, she took his truck; otherwise, she took her own car. Rick paid her thirty dollars a run, and he let her fill up at Jakey’s pump on his tab. “Is he also remunerating you for wear and tear on the Saab?” her father said. “That road is hell on clutches, brakes, and transmissions.”
    No. Rick was not paying for wear and tear, but she would not tell her father that.
    â€œI’ll check,” she said.
    Rick had three jobs going. A Fresno optician and his wife, Tom and Ondine Streeter, had bought one of Reggie Thornton’s log