Skinny Dipping Season by Cynthia Tennent Read Free Book Online Page B

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    â€œAnd I am an authorized personalization specialist. Anything you want monogrammed I can embroider. We have a special on boxers this week for the man in your life,” said the young mother, who tapped her little redheaded boy on the hand as he reached for a candy bar.
    He smiled toothlessly. “Wanna see my undies? They got my name, Andwew, witten all over ’em.” I laughed before turning back to Cherry.
    She was gone. The magazines were gone too.
    â€œWhere did she go?”
    â€œDon’t know who she is . . . the kids are all off school today,” Marva said, looking down at her clipboard and biting her lip.
    Several others just shrugged. Marva eyed my groceries and her eyes grew bigger. I opened my mouth, ready to explain about the junk food, when Marva reached her meaty hand into one of my Mylar bags.
    â€œOh, do you know Nestor?” she asked, holding up the Twinkies. Then she grabbed the book with the dreamy vampire on the cover. “And hey, I absolutely loved this one!”

    Instead of heading back to Crooked Road, I drove past a modern ATV dealership and a hardware store and turned toward town. I didn’t have a clue where I was going, but some sort of internal compass had taken over. Hugging the wheel with both hands, I drove slowly, keeping an eye out for any old landmarks. In a clearing on my right was a marina where a boat launch and a dock extended into the shimmering water of Echo Lake. A half-mile away was Echo’s smaller twin, Reply Lake, one of dozens of lakes that dotted the county and connected in a series of rivers that fed the larger Au Sable River. Grandma once told me that Truhart had been a boomtown during the glory days of the Michigan logging industry. But logging was just a history lesson in Michigan now. And Truhart looked like it hadn’t changed since the last log was pushed down the river. Basically, it was a town gone bust.
    A handful of false clapboard buildings lined the center of Truhart. A sign that was strung across the road was coming loose. I tried to read it, but the corner flap was in the way. Something about Timber — . The ice cream store that was still boarded up for the winter, and a Laundromat across the street from a dry cleaner’s looked familiar. A bookstore in the middle of a cluster of buildings had peeling paper over its windows and a torn awning. The sign over the vacant corner grocery store was still gone, making it anyone’s guess what the name had once been. When we drove by on our way to the Family Fare, Grandma always apologetically told me that no one had wanted to put the last owner of the small-town grocery store out of business. But the cheaper prices and bigger variety of the Family Fare were just too tempting.
    I was about to make a right turn at the only stoplight in town when I noticed a familiar neon sign that read Cookee’s . Impulsively, I made a U-turn and drove into the small parking lot.
    Moments later, I heard the familiar chime of the bell as I stepped inside. I was back to my childhood.
    A soothing aroma of coffee and the haze of fried food from the griddle filled the diner. The sun was glaring through the front window, where three large booths were covered in faded blue vinyl. I glanced up at a sign above the counter, Large Booths for 3 or More , and smiled when I saw two people sitting at the largest booth. Good to know customers still ignored that.
    Grandma Dory had been a regular patron at Cookee’s and I always sat at the counter. I had vivid memories of my grandma smoking her cigarettes and drinking her coffee while she chatted with the other regulars. I used to sit on the stools and spin in endless circles until my grandmother told me I would spin the top right off and the cook would make me bus the tables. That had always done the trick. Touching someone else’s dirty dishes grossed me out, even back then.
    Of course, the best thing about going to Cookee’s with