Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe by Abbie Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

man. Isn’t that sort of, you know, grody?” I borrowed a word she’d once used with laughable regularity.
    And, to my utter relief, in the next instant my girl was back. She giggled at the word and said, “Whatever, Mom. Hey, can I still go out on the boat for a while? It’s not too dark yet, is it?”
    â€œOf course, just yell and Clinty will paddle them back to shore,” Jillian told her.
    Camille bounded up and untied her apron, then hurried out into the growing dusk. I was watching her, marveling again at how lovely she was, so close to being a woman…
    Jilly said then, startling me, “I had another dream, Jo.”
    Jillian and her dreams. At times during our lives I’d laughed heartily over them, but then she’d have one that was eerily precognitive, and I’d shut the hell up. I felt a slight chill dart up my spine, but kept my tone light as I asked, “Another one?”
    â€œYes, but this time you were the horse being mounted.” Although her words were absurd, her face was wreathed in somber lines. This settled in as she added, “And Jackie wasn’t the centaur.”
    My heart pounded very hard again for a moment, but still I tried to tease her, “Jilly, what’s with the horse thing?”
    â€œJoelle, you know who it was, I can tell.” My little sister reached and caught my hands in her smaller ones, warm and soft, and she gripped mine tight. “I can’t see it all, but it’s dangerous, Jo. Please just think about that.”
    I looked deep into her indigo-blue eyes, eyes that I knew as well as my own, my children’s. I lied, “I don’t know what you mean, Jill.”
    Mom was coming into the café, Ellen on her heels. Jilly broke the contact of our hands and said, “Yes, you do.”

Chapter Three
    We piled into the living room at Jilly and Clint’s place an hour later, the girls giggly and sunburned and Clint claiming a bean bag all for himself. Jilly and I made popcorn in her minuscule kitchen, and to my relief she didn’t mention her dream again. Mom, Aunt Ellen and Gran had retired for the evening, and the atmosphere in Jilly’s place was pure carnival.
    â€œHey, Mom! ‘Hitchhiker III’ is on!” Tish yelled over to us, dodging Ruthann as she tried to steal the television remote. “Can we watch it? Please?”
    â€œNo way!” I called back, sticking my head around the edge of the half-wall that separated the two rooms. “That’s a horror movie.”
    â€œAwww, come on, Aunt Joey,” wheedled Clint, and I almost gave in; it was nearly impossible to say no to Clinty. His big blue eyes and all.
    Jilly came to my rescue, adding firmly, “Clint, no. Ruthann will have nightmares for a week.”
    â€œNuh-uh!” protested my youngest from the direction of the couch.
    â€œIt’s okay, ‘Sex and the City’ is on!” Tish crowed triumphantly.
    â€œPatricia, I’m taking that remote away,” I warned.
    She yelped as Clint lambasted the back of her head with a crocheted throw pillow, saying, “I’m not watching that crap!” Tish attacked and Ruthann dove for the remote. Camille was draped over the back of the couch, doing leg lifts with her head propped on the heel of her left hand.
    â€œMom, hurry with the popcorn!” she called. And then, “Ruthie, stop on that one!”
    I rejoined Jilly, muttering over the sound of popping kernels, “We’re just slaves to them,” and she handed me an ice-cold glass with a salty rim.
    â€œHere, drink up.”
    â€œBut it’s not Saturday,” I protested, taking a deep swig anyway. Saturdays were the traditional margarita night for the Davis women.
    â€œI know, but this is a special occasion,” she clarified. She drew me to the small table with its four mismatched chairs. “Sit, and I’ll get the kids their snack.”
    She was back