Butternut Summer by Mary McNear Page B

anger toward Jack. But, then again, she hadn’t wanted Daisy to guess at the anger she felt toward him either.
    â€œShe said all that and more,” Jack said. “Much more. That was when I realized how articulate she was. It didn’t surprise me, later, when she told me she’d been on the debate team in high school.”
    â€œWhat did you do, Jack, while she was saying all this to you?” Caroline asked, genuinely curious.
    He shrugged. “I sat there and listened to her. What else could I do? Every word she said was true. I couldn’t argue with her, so I just tried to take it like a man.”
    Caroline squeezed her already pulverized lemon wedge into her iced tea again and tried to imagine Jack sitting there and taking it. But she couldn’t. The Jack she remembered had hated being on the receiving end of a lecture. He’d hated it so much that as soon as he’d felt one coming on, he was out the door.
    â€œAnyway,” he continued, “things got better between us, eventually. The third or fourth time I met her, we had an actual conversation. It was good, Caroline—really good—just talking to her. She was less angry, and I was less nervous. But I was still awed by her.”
    â€œAwed?”
    He nodded. “Awed by the person she’d become. And humbled, too, by the knowledge that I couldn’t take any credit for her becoming that person.”
    Caroline felt confused. Because the Jack she’d known had had many qualities, some of them even good qualities, but humility? Humility had never been one of them.
    â€œBut you know what, Caroline?” he continued now. “ I might not be able to take credit for the person Daisy has become, but you can. And you should. Because you’ve raised one hell of a daughter.”
    â€œI . . . need to get a refill on my tea,” she said abruptly, feeling disconcerted by the direction the conversation had taken. And by seeing a side of Jack that felt wholly unfamiliar to her. She stood up. “Would you, would you like more coffee?” she asked.
    â€œNo, thank you,” he said, chuckling. “And you still can’t take a compliment, can you, Caroline?”
    But she ignored that question, took her glass to the counter, refilled it, and brought it back to the table. The forty-five seconds it took her to do this was crucial, because it allowed her to collect herself, refocus herself.
    â€œOkay, let’s assume, for the time being anyway, that you’re going to stay in Butternut, Jack,” she said. “If that’s the case, then we need to establish some ground rules.”
    â€œGround rules, huh?” he repeated, a smile playing around his lips. He was back, the old Jack. “That sounds serious, Caroline.”
    â€œIt is serious. Because long after you’ve decided your little experiment here has failed, I’ll still have to live here and work here. So I’d appreciate if you’d take this seriously, Jack.”
    â€œAll right,” he said, “I will, Caroline. In fact, just tell me what the rules are, and I’ll follow them.”
    â€œWell, for one, I don’t want you coming in here anymore,” she said, gesturing around the coffee shop. “If you need to speak to me again—although I don’t think that will be necessary—you can call me here and we can meet. Privately. I’m not giving this town any more opportunities to gossip about us, and that’s exactly what they’ll do if you start coming in here.”
    â€œAnd where am I supposed to get my morning coffee?”
    â€œAnywhere but here,” she said, without missing a beat.
    He hesitated. “All right, fine. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t come in here anymore. Unless you invite me in, of course.”
    â€œI won’t invite you in,” she said crisply. “Which brings me to the second ground rule, Jack.” She looked down