Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe Read Online Free PDF Page A

grateful to Mom and Aunt Ellen, who never made breakfast in the house kitchen during the summer months but instead trooped over to Shore Leave and got busy there. I imagined I could smell coffee drifting over on the morning air, a welcome thought despite the ache--courtesy of more alcohol than I’d intended to consume--blossoming behind my eyes. With a groan I extracted myself from the couch and climbed the stairs, pausing for a moment on the landing to study the familiar pale-green wallpaper with its faded, trailing ivy vines. The house smelled exactly the same, of some indelible perfume of all the women who’d lived within its walls for decades. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling my past, and then continued to the sad little excuse for a bathroom that hunkered between Mom and Aunt Ellen’s rooms. Across the hall was the room I would now be sharing with Gran, unless I decided to scrunch in with Jilly in the apartment above the garage. She and Clint shared that space. It wasn’t that I minded sharing a room with Gran, but it was tempting to squeeze in with my sister to catch up on our long talks. For another moment I pictured my master bathroom in our townhouse in Chicago: a gleaming, turquoise-tiled expanse complete with heated towel racks and a tub within which it was deep enough to scuba dive. I bit my lip, hard, and entered the bathroom of my formative years.
    The ancient medicine cabinet mirror caught my reflection and threw it back without a hint of sympathy for my feelings. I continued chewing my lower lip as I took in the purple smears beneath my eyes, the snarls in my hair, the shiny, sunburned skin over my nose. Good lord, had I looked this terrible last night? My lips were chapped. I look like a woman who deserves to be cheated on , I thought, wallowing in a trench of self-pity. This is what I had come to…contemplating my pitiful reflection in the mirror where I had once primped for evenings out with Jackie. When my skin had been tan and taut and my eyes full of the sparkle of love and excitement. Tears flooded. God, I missed my husband. No, I corrected myself. I missed my boyfriend Jackson, in whose eyes I could see myself as I looked back then, full of confidence and spirit. My husband Jackie was a cheating son of a bitch I’d left behind in Chicago, ideally until he chased me back here to beg and plead forgiveness.
    I sobbed then, bending forward at the waist, thankful no one was around to hear. I leaned over the yellowed old sink where I had brushed my teeth a thousand times and where I’d puked when I’d had too much to drink. I sobbed until I almost gagged, and finally sank to my knees, onto the shaggy green bathroom throw rug, where I pressed my forehead to the edge of the sink and breathed, shallow and shaky at first. But as the minutes ticked by golden morning light began to creep across the floor and I regained a shred of composure. Come on, Joelle. Jesus. Get up and at least wash your hair. Mom always said clean hair made everything easier to face. I stood in the hot water until it ran out (about five minutes) and then scrubbed my scalp with Prell (which had been the brand of choice in this house since the 1950s), coated my face with Noxema and used the loofa sponge to give my body a thorough once-over.
    Fifteen minutes later I clacked out the screen door, my hair squeaky clean and soft on my shoulders, dressed in cut-off jeans and a sleeveless green blouse. Make-up would have added untold amounts to my self-esteem, but the small pink zippered bag containing my cosmetics was nowhere to be found this morning. I was fortunate to locate my toothbrush. Barefoot, I gingerly crossed the road and then made my way over the worn path towards Shore Leave. Dodge must have recently mowed, because the scent of shorn grass was fresh in the air. To my right, the sun was sparkling over the water like shifting gold coins, and I felt a momentary buoyancy, unexpected but