The Space Between Sisters (30 page)

He smiled at her. “I think we just did.”

Y
ou might want to save some of those for our paying customers,” Sam said, amused, as he glanced over at Poppy. She smiled and bit into another strand of licorice. She was sitting on the counter at Birch Tree Bait, her legs dangling over the side, watching Sam cash out the register. It was a Friday night in mid-September, and he'd dropped the kids off with Alicia that evening. And now . . . now he and Poppy had the whole weekend together. Thinking about this, Sam emptied out the cash drawer a little faster.

“You should see them together, Sam,” Poppy said, returning to the conversation they'd been having about Win and Everett. “They're taking it slowly. And it's adorable.”

Sam looked up. “So . . . it's happily ever after?”

“I hope so,” Poppy said, and, impulsively, she held her arms out to him. “Come here,” she said. Sam stopped what he was doing and came into her arms. He pulled her against him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him, her mouth sweet with the taste of Red Vines, a taste he was really beginning to love.

“Have you given any thought to my offer?” he asked finally, kissing her neck instead of her lips. Poppy was planning on applying for the spring semester at University of Minnesota Duluth, but right now she was looking for a job. And Sam wanted her to work with him at Birch Tree Bait again.

“I've thought about it,” she said. “But do you think it's a good idea?”

“Seeing you more? I think it's a
great
idea.”

“No, I mean, I thought you didn't want to have a relationship with someone who worked for you.”

“This is different. I wouldn't be dating one of my employees. I'd be hiring my girlfriend.”

“‘Girlfriend,'” she mused. “I like the way that sounds.”

“Do you?” he asked, pulling her closer. “I'm glad. But Poppy, what are we still doing here?” He looked at his watch. “We only have . . . forty-three and a half hours left before I pick up the kids.”

She laughed, and ran her hands up under his work shirt. “I think you said something about closing out the cash register,” she reminded him.

“I did, didn't I?” he said, leaving her reluctantly and going back to his work. But while he was doing this, Poppy was looking around the store, speculatively.

“Sam,” she said, hopping down from the counter, “I think I would like to work here, at least until school starts. “In fact”—she grabbed his hand and pulled him out from behind the register—“I think I might have a few suggestions.” She led him over to a nearby wall. “What color is this?” she asked, tapping on it.

“It's green.”

“It's
dark
green.”

“It's Benjamin Moore's ‘Balsam' if you want to get technical
about it,” he said. “And I thought, under the circumstances, it was appropriate.” He nodded in the direction of the windows. “You've noticed the pine trees out there, haven't you? All one million acres of them?”

“Yes, I've noticed them. But this color makes it so much darker in here than it needs to be. How about a nice, bright, sunny yellow?”

“Maybe,” Sam said, looking around.

“And the coffee counter,” she continued, pulling him over to it. “Right now it's just Byron and his cronies who hang out here, but if you painted it a nice color, and put in more comfortable stools, and added a tea selection—herbal would be nice—maybe it wouldn't be only men who wanted to spend time here.”

“That's probably true,” Sam said, surveying the area. But she was already dragging him down one of the grocery aisles. And Sam laughed, because he could see it in her eyes. The excitement. He knew that feeling. He'd felt it the first time he'd come here as a prospective buyer. He was barely through the door of the old place when, in his mind, he was already knocking down walls, tearing up floors, and putting in windows. Poppy's plans seemed a little less dramatic, but she was no less determined about them.

She stopped in the produce section, if you could actually
call
it a section. It was more of a produce
corner,
and a rather limited one at that.

“I know what you're going to say,” Sam said, quickly, trying to preempt her. “But most of the renters stock up on their produce at the IGA in town. If they forget something, like an onion, or they want a few more apples, or a bunch of bananas, then we've got this.”

In response, Poppy picked up a shrink-wrapped head of ice
berg lettuce, and held it out to him, without comment. There was no denying that it looked sad.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But shelf space here will always be limited.”

“This from a man who stocks
twelve
different kinds of beer?”

He sighed. Produce was not his forte. If he hadn't promised Alicia that he would feed their children fresh fruits and vegetables daily, everything that they ate would probably have come out of a bag, or a box, or a can.

“We could probably get another kind of lettuce,” he conceded to Poppy.

“You think so?” she asked, teasingly, putting the iceberg lettuce back on the shelf. She reached out and slid her fingers into the front waistband of his jeans, and pulled him against her. He groaned a little, deep in his throat. It wouldn't take much more encouragement for him than this to make love to her right here, right now. “Do you think you can get some baby romaine, maybe?” she asked, playfully.

“I think so, but this isn't Whole Foods,” he mumbled distractedly. He ran his fingers through her hair, and then buried his face in it, and breathed deeply. It was sweet and fresh, like her.

“So . . . you're never going to have arugula, is that what you're trying to tell me?”

“No arugula,” he agreed. “The other things, though, those would be nice,” he admitted.

“Sam?” she asked, snuggling closer.

“Yes?”

“Can we go back to your place now?”

B
y early October the trees on Butternut Lake were already aflame with color, oranges and reds and burnished yellows that on this crisp afternoon contrasted dramatically with the brilliant blue of the water. In another month, these leaves would be gathered in piles in yards or swirling along Butternut Lake drive on windy afternoons. But for now, Poppy thought, her bare feet planted firmly at the edge of the boathouse roof, they were still gloriously beautiful.

“Are you ready?” Win asked, standing beside her. Poppy shivered in the chilly air. An hour ago, in the warmth of the cabin, over a cup of hot chocolate, she'd mentioned to Win that she'd always wanted to jump off the boathouse roof. She'd watched Win do this many times when they were kids, and while it had looked like fun, she'd always been too afraid to join her. That was all the encouragement Win had needed. She'd insisted they change into their bathing suits and then she'd dragged a by-then nervous Poppy out here.

“Okay, Pops, let's do it now, right now,” she said, reaching for her hand. “Before the snows come,” she added teasingly.

“I'm scared,” Poppy admitted, looking down at the water twelve feet below them.

“That's no reason not to do it,” Win said.

Poppy gripped her hand tighter and closed her eyes.

“Ready? One, two, three,” Win counted down. Right before they jumped, Poppy opened her eyes. And she was so glad she did. Because in that moment, the moment before they hit the water, there was only the rush of air, the thrill of freedom, and the dazzling blue of the sky above them and the water below them.