The Space Between Sisters Page 7

  “Excuse me?” he said, picking up her five-dollar bill. Now, apparently, it was his turn to be confused.

  “I said, ‘I don’t go out on dates with people I’ve never met before.’”

  “Did you . . . did you think I was asking you out?” he asked, counting out her change and putting it on the counter.

  “Well . . . weren’t you?” She picked up her change and put it back in her wallet.

  “No, I wasn’t,” he said, and she saw a flash of irritation in his blue eyes as he put her bottle of wine in a paper bag. “I was just making conversation. This is my business,” he added. “I’m not in the habit of using it as a place to try to pick up women.”

  “Okay,” she said, apologetically, her face warm again, though this time only with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I obviously misunderstood you.”

  She heard a laugh, a laugh that was quickly disguised as a cough, and she looked over to see the man in the seersucker hat covering his mouth with mock politeness. He looked like he was enjoying himself immensely. So did the guy in the baseball cap, who, even now, was leaning against the counter with a lackadaisical smile on his face. So this was what passed for entertainment around here? Being rude to customers?

  “Thank you very much,” she said, insincerely, as the proprietor handed her the paper bag.

  She turned to go then, but before she’d even taken a step she heard the man behind the counter say, almost as if to himself, “That’s a really nice bottle of wine.”

  She spun around, too irritated to feel self-conscious. “You’re the one who sold it to me,” she objected. “If it’s so bad, why do you even carry it?”

  “Actually,” he said, “that bottle was already here when I bought this business.”

  “So, why’d you keep it?” she shot back.

  “Because there’s no accounting for some people’s tastes,” he said, with an amused glance at his companions. Poppy turned on her heels and headed for the door, determined not to give him, or his friends, anything else to be amused about. But by the time she reached the front porch, where the little girl was still playing with her baton, she had a new preoccupation: peeling the price tag off the bottle before she got home with it. When she looked up, though, she saw the little girl throw the baton, awkwardly, and saw it come down again, narrowly missing her.

  “Whoa, hey, careful there,” Poppy said, hurrying over to her and picking it up. “You don’t want to bop yourself on the head, do you?” she asked the little girl.

  She shook her head at Poppy, and there was something so serious and, at the same time, so sweet about her expression that Poppy couldn’t help but smile at her. “Here you go,” she said, handing her the baton.

  She took it from Poppy, then blinked her wide bluish-gray eyes and said, “You’re pretty.”

  “Thank you. So are you,” Poppy said, smiling. “What’s your name?”

  “Cassie,” the little girl said, still not taking her eyes off her.

  “Is that short for Cassandra?”

  “No. It’s short for Cassidy. My dad named me after Butch Cassidy. Do you know who he was?”

  Poppy started to say that she did, but Cassie didn’t give her time to. “He was an outlaw,” she said. “There’s a movie about him. But I haven’t seen it yet, ’cause it’s rated PG, and it’s the old PG, when they weren’t as strict as they are now, so it’s really rated PG13. My mom says we can see it when I’m thirteen, though, and she said my friend Janelle can watch it with us.” She stopped, a little out of breath.

  “That’s interesting,” Poppy said, wondering if all children were this forthcoming about themselves. “It’s not every day that I meet a baton twirling outlaw,” she said.

  “What’s your name?” Cassie asked, with a shy smile.

  “My name is Poppy, after the flower, which my mom loved, and which my dad probably didn’t have any real opinion about. But I should probably get going, Cassie,” she said, picturing Win’s lasagna, already baking in the oven. “Someone’s expecting me. And your mom, or dad, is probably wondering where you are, too,” she added, gesturing at the store. “They must be almost done by now.”

  “Oh, no, my dad’s here all the time,” Cassie said, swinging her baton. “I can stay out here for as long as I want.”

  And Poppy fully intended to leave, but the expression on Cassie’s face was so sweet, and the sight of the baton was so tempting, that instead Poppy held out her hand. “May I?” she asked Cassie, indicating the baton, and setting down her handbag and grocery bag.

  Cassie nodded, and handed it to her.

  “I used to twirl a long time ago. Let’s see if I can still remember how,” Poppy explained, doing a few basic figure eights, an arm roll, and a thumb toss.

  Cassie clapped, excitedly. “Where’d you learn that?” she asked.

  “In high school. I was a majorette in the marching band,” Poppy said, handing the baton back to her.

  “You’re even better than Miss Suzette.”

  “Who’s Miss Suzette?”

  “She’s our instructor,” Cassie said. “She was in the Miss Minnesota pageant once, and for her talent, she twirled. But that was, like, a long time ago,” Cassie said, lowering her voice. “Now she’s kind of old. And she can’t always show us everything because she has bursitis in her elbow.” She frowned. “Do you have bursitis?” she asked Poppy.

  Poppy tried not to smile. “No. I’m not even sure I know what it is,” she said, while making way for a family coming up the steps.

  “Me neither,” Cassie said. And then she thought of something else. “Poppy?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you did baton twirling, were you mean to the other girls who did it with you? The ones who weren’t as good as you?”

  Poppy considered this question and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think I was mean to them. But then, they were all really good. You had to be, if you wanted to be in my high school’s marching band.”

  “Oh,” Cassie said, her face falling. “Well, I’ll never be good enough to be in a marching band. And the girls in my class—the ten-year-olds, at least—are mean. They say if I make mistakes at our show I’ll make everyone look bad.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Poppy said. “I don’t believe you could make anyone look bad, and that includes yourself.”

  But Cassie looked fretful.

  “Do you want to show me your twirl, Cassie?” Poppy asked.

  “Okay,” she said, a little reluctantly, and then, screwing her face up with concentration, she began to twirl. And Poppy nodded encouragingly, but thought, as she watched her, No technique. No natural ability, either.

  “That was good,” Poppy said brightly, when she was finished. “But, Cassie, why . . . why baton twirling? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with doing it. But there must be other things to do around here, right? Other sports to play or classes to take?”

  “Wrong,” Cassie said, with an upward roll of her eyes. “There’s almost nothing to do here. And besides, I like baton twirling. I mean, I don’t like the part where you twirl the baton, but I like everything else about it. You know, like when we have recitals, we get to have our hair and makeup done by the moms, and we get to wear these twirler outfits. And they are so pretty, and so sparkly and so . . . girlie.”

  “Oh, they are definitely girlie,” Poppy agreed.

  “And I like that,” Cassie said, earnestly. “Especially since I live in an all-boy house.”

  “So, no sisters?”

  Cassie shook her head. “Only brothers,” she said. “But I wish I had a sister. Do you have one?”

  “I do,” Poppy said. “A younger sister. But do you want to know a secret?”

  Cassie nodded emphatically.

  “She acts like the older sister. She’s much more responsible than me.”

  “Really?” Cassie’s eyes widened. “Does she ever get into trouble?”

  “No, she leaves that to me,” Poppy said wryly. “And she’s waitin
g for me right now,” she said, reaching for her things. “We’re going to have dinner together, and she’s going to tell me how I can be more responsible. But keep twirling, Cassie,” she said, heading down the steps. Before she opened the car door, though, she made the mistake of looking back at her. Cassie was still twirling, with predictable results. Poppy hesitated. I could teach her, she thought. True, she’d never spent much time with kids before. She’d never really felt like she had anything to offer them. Win had been the one to babysit. And Win had been the one to teach. But this, this was different. She hadn’t twirled a baton in forever, and it had still come right back to her. She could still do it. And she could teach someone else to do it, too. She walked back to the porch.

  “Cassie,” she called up. “How would you like me to help you with your twirling?”

  Cassie stopped twirling. “You mean, like, be my tutor?” she asked. “My brother Hunter has a math tutor.”

  “Sure, I could do that,” Poppy said, coming up the steps.

  Cassie beamed at her, but then her face fell a little.

  “You can’t tutor me,” she said, ruefully. “Tutors cost money. And I haven’t got any. Well, no. I have got some. But only seven dollars and forty-seven cents.”

  That’s more than I have, Poppy thought, but what she said was, “Cassie, you’re in luck, because I’m not going to charge you anything. It’ll be free. But we’re going to have to ask your parents, okay?”

  “Okay. Let’s go ask my dad right now,” Cassie said, excitedly, and she took Poppy’s hand and started pulling her toward the business’s front door.

  Poppy laughed. “What’s your dad doing here?” she asked, as Cassie led her inside and down one of the aisles. “Grocery shopping?”

  “No, silly. He owns this place,” Cassie said. She kept pulling on Poppy’s hand.

  “Um, you know what, sweetie?” Poppy said, digging in her heels as she thought about her recent misunderstanding with the owner. “Maybe you and I are getting ahead of ourselves here. Maybe your dad won’t think this is such a great idea after all.”

  “He has to,” Cassie said, looking up at her, and pulling again with a new strength. “He can’t help me. He can’t twirl a baton. And he can’t French braid hair. And he can’t even put toenail polish on me, even though everyone knows that is a really easy thing to do.”

  “But . . .”

  “Come on,” Cassie said, giving her hand another tug, but at that moment, Cassie’s dad came around the corner of the aisle they were standing in, and, seeing him, Poppy felt an odd little jolt. There was something magnetic about him that she’d been too preoccupied to notice when he was behind the counter. She quickly brushed this thought away, though. And, just then, he saw her and Cassie together. He looked surprised, and not altogether happy.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, and Poppy almost cringed with embarrassment. She hadn’t thought she’d be seeing him again so soon.

  “Daddy, this is Poppy!” Cassie said, breathlessly. “I want you to meet her.”

  “I think we’ve already met,” he said, coming over to them. He eyed Poppy warily. “Honey, let go of her hand,” he said to Cassie. “She’s a customer.”

  “But she’s not a customer,” Cassie said, not letting go of Poppy’s hand. “That’s what I’m trying to explain, Dad. She was a majorette. She was in a marching band. And she twirled my baton, and she twirled it so good.”

  “Well. She twirled it so well,” he corrected.

  “She twirled it so well,” Cassie repeated. “Better even than Miss Suzette. Plus she doesn’t even have bursitis.”

  He looked at Poppy questioningly, but Poppy only shrugged.

  “Please, Daddy. Can she tutor me for free? The recital’s coming up, and I’m still dropping my baton.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Honey, we . . . we don’t really know Poppy,” he said, putting a hand on Cassie’s head.

  “But I know her,” Cassie said, squeezing Poppy’s hand tighter. “I know she’s named after a flower that her mom liked. And I know her dad didn’t really care what she was named. And—”

  “Look,” Poppy interrupted. “Why don’t we start over again, okay? I’m Poppy Robbins. I’m staying with my sister for the summer. You might know her. Her name is Win? Win Robbins? She teaches at the middle school here.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

  He shook it, a little stiffly. Jeez. The man knows how to hold a grudge. “I’m Sam Boyd,” he said. “And yes, of course, I know Win. She’s the teacher rep for the PTA.”

  Of course she is, Poppy thought. “Well then, you know I’m not dangerous,” she joked. Because to be Win’s sister was to always have a character reference of sorts, whether Poppy deserved it or not.

  Sam looked unmoved, though, and this would have been the time to extract herself from this whole awkward situation, if only Cassie would have relaxed her grip on her hand.

  “Please,” Cassie said now, shifting her focus away from her dad and onto Poppy. “Would you please tutor me?” And Poppy sighed inwardly. How could anyone say no to someone this adorable?

  So she tried again. “Do you think it would be okay, Sam, if I coached Cassie once or twice a week?” she asked him. “I wouldn’t charge anything, obviously, and we could work around her schedule.” Especially since I don’t have a schedule of my own.

  He looked uneasy. “I’m pretty busy here in the summertime. Cassie knows that. I can’t be driving her around all day.”

  “You won’t have to,” Poppy assured him. “I can come here.”

  “Please, Daddy,” Cassie said, looking up at him beseechingly. “We won’t get in the way. We can go out back. Or in the storage room. Please.”

  “We could just try it and see how it goes,” Poppy interjected.

  Sam wavered, and Cassie, sensing victory, began jumping up and down.

  “All right,” Sam said, looking like a man who’d been beat. “But Poppy and I are going to have to set up a day and a time.”

  “Okay,” Cassie said, still jumping. “But can I borrow your cell phone, Daddy?”

  “What for?”

  “So I can call Janelle and tell her I have a tutor,” she said, beaming at Cassie. “A pretty tutor.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Win was taking the lasagna out of the oven when Poppy breezed into the kitchen. “What took you so long?” she asked her.

  “I got a job,” Poppy said.

  “That was fast,” Win said skeptically. She set the pan of lasagna down on the stovetop, and reached for the bottle of wine Poppy was holding.

  “Well, it doesn’t actually pay,” Poppy admitted. “But it comes with some fringe benefits.”

  “Like . . . ?” Win asked, examining the bottle. Why was it so dusty? she wondered. She looked, surreptitiously, for a price tag, but she couldn’t find one.

  “Like spending time with an adorable six-year-old. Do you know Cassie? Cassie whose dad owns Birch Tree Bait?”

  “I know Cassie,” Win said.

  “I’m going to tutor her in baton twirling.”

  “Really?” Win said. And now Poppy had her attention. “You haven’t twirled since high school.”

  “Well, it all came right back to me,” Poppy said blithely. “But what’s up with Cassie’s dad?”

  “Sam? What do you mean?” Win asked, putting the suspect bottle of wine down and reaching for a knife to cut the lasagna with.

  “He was kind of rude to me.”

  “He was?” Win said, surprised. She sliced into the browned and bubbly lasagna. “Maybe he was having a bad day,” she mused.

  “Yeah, okay,” Poppy said. “But what’s his glitch?”

  “He doesn’t have one,” Win said, with a slight frown. She was trying to ensure that all eight slices of lasagna were exactly the same size. “He’s divorced. Three kids. And he’s a nice guy. A nice guy who half the single teachers I work with have a crush on.”

  Poppy made a face as if to say, Him?

/>   “What? You don’t think he’s good-looking?” Win said, looking up.

  “If you like that type,” Poppy said, breaking off a piece of the lasagna’s browned crust and nibbling on it.

  Win was amused. “You mean the good-looking type?” she said, as she reached up to the cupboard for two plates.

  “Oh, let’s not use plates,” Poppy objected. “Let’s just take the whole pan and a couple of forks down to the dock and watch the sunset.”

  But Win shook her head. “No, I already set the dining room table,” she said.

  Poppy was aghast. “Win, nobody eats at the dining room table. You know that. It’s like . . . the first rule of cabin living. The dining room table is for jigsaw puzzles, not food.” And Win laughed, because Poppy had a point. Even in their grandparents’ day, the cabin’s dining room had rarely, if ever, been used for dining. Their grandparents had preferred to eat at the cozier kitchen table. But tonight was different. Tonight, Win had set this little-used table—complete with cloth napkins and just-bought flowers—because she wanted to drive home to Poppy the seriousness of the conversation they were going to have over dinner. It was time, once again, for Poppy to make a plan. A plan she would stick to. A plan that was more ambitious than her current plan of spending the summer sunbathing on the dock.

  “Look, it’ll be fine,” Win said, using a spatula to place a generous wedge of lasagna on each of the plates. “It’ll be very civilized. We can talk about your new non-paying job, and we can talk about some other things, too. Now, take these to the table,” she said, handing the plates to Poppy. “I already put out the salad and the bread.” Poppy left with them and when she came back Win was struggling with the corkscrew.

  “Here, let me do that,” Poppy said, reaching for it, but at that moment they heard a car drive up outside. Win went to the kitchen window, pulled back the curtain, and let it fall closed again.

  “It’s Everett,” she said, turning to Poppy.

  “Everett?”

  “Did you know he was coming tonight?” she asked.

  “No,” Poppy said. “I had no idea. Maybe . . . maybe that’s why he called this afternoon, though. I let it go to voice mail, and I haven’t listened to his message yet. He texted me, too, but I . . .”