Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  “It is.” She flashed him another of those wide, Julia Roberts smiles. “At any rate, we’ve always had a summer reading program.”

  “I remember.” During his younger years, when his high school principal mother had insisted all her children take part, Quinn always won the award for not only the most books read, but also for the best written reports. Gabe, who’d enjoyed reading, mostly about captains of industry and robber barons, had written some of Burke’s reports, while the family jock spent the summer honing his QB skills. Honeymoon Harbor’s bad boy Aiden hadn’t even pretended to care about the competition for most books read, preferring to spend the school break at the lake and getting into trouble. By the time Quinn had gone off to college, Brianna was old enough to claim his reading program crown.

  “This year we’re downsizing it a bit to try something different.”

  “Okay.” He folded his arms and waited for what the hell that had to do with him.

  “Since the goal is to expand minds, I thought that at least once a week we’d break out of the walls of the library and explore other learning opportunities.” She glanced down at the drawing of a plan he’d chalked onto the hundred-year-old wood plank floor. “Brianna mentioned that you’re building a Viking ship.”

  “A faering.” Which would undoubtedly mean nothing to her. “It’s from an Old Norse word meaning ‘to row.’”

  “Now, see, that’s exactly why I’m here. You already taught me something I know the kids would be interested in. Before we go to the museum, I was planning to prepare the readers with a few days at the library exploring Norse folktales. I just acquired this wonderful book about Vikings for the younger children.” She paused and he could practically envision the ideas bouncing around like pinballs in her head. “Maybe we could even make costumes.”

  “Just don’t make the mistake of putting those horns on the helmets or you’re going to piss off a lot of locals who know better.”

  “Don’t worry, I’d never do that... Do you know where that silly stereotype came from?”

  “No.” And he really didn’t care, though he had the feeling he wouldn’t be able to stop her from telling him.

  “It’s all Richard Wagner’s fault. Well, not really his, but Carl Emil Doepler’s.”

  “Remember when you didn’t know what a faering was?”

  “Of course. It was less than a minute ago.”

  “That’s how I’m feeling about now.” It also had him thinking of Quinn telling him not to talk so much in boatspeak.

  “Oh. Well, Wagner wrote operas.”

  “That, I know.” Occasionally, when Carter had gotten super soused, he’d started singing the stuff, which was when Gabe first learned about his friend’s six-year relationship with a soprano from the Met. A mistress who’d outlasted wives two and three. It had predictably turned into a tabloid headlines breakup with the soprano and subsequent divorce from wife number three, which had been every bit as overblown and dramatic as any opera.

  “Okay.” She blew out a breath. “So, when he staged his Der Ring des Nibelungen, consisting of four operas—”

  “The Rhinegold, The Valkyrie, Siegfried and Twilight of the Gods.”

  “That’s exactly right. Wow.” This time her smile was like one of those gold stars elementary teachers used to put on all-perfect Quinn’s papers. Gabe’s grades had been good enough to get him into the honor society, but he’d be the first to admit if a subject didn’t involve boats, or the math he’d learned that was necessary to build them, he tended to blow it off.

  “I had a friend who was into opera,” he told her. A familiar ache had him rubbing his heart whenever he thought of Carter. Sure, the guy had been majorly flawed. But he’d also been his best friend. “He particularly liked singing from The Ring.” Usually after the third or fourth manhattan. Which had been even more grating than Carter’s drunken rendition of “New York, New York,” which probably had Sinatra spinning in his grave.

  “Well, to be honest, it’s always seemed a bit overdone for me, but there’s no denying that it lies at the heart of nineteenth-century culture and had an incalculable effect on European, particularly German, culture.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Having grown up with Mrs. Henderson heading up the library, I was having trouble making the shift in my head. But now I definitely buy you as a librarian.”

  She tilted her head. As she studied him, appearing to decide whether or not she’d just been insulted, her bluish-green eyes, which appeared to be a barometer of her mood, turned cooler. He hoped the woman never played poker, because she couldn’t bluff worth a damn.

  “If you’re not interested—”

  “No, I am. Keep going.” Although he’d never given a damn about opera, there was something about her earnestness that had slipped past the emotional drawbridge he’d slammed down when he’d gotten the call about Carter’s death.

  “Well. When Wagner staged the operas in the 1870s, Doepler, who was his designer, came up with horned helmets for the Vikings. And thus an enduring and rather ridiculous stereotype was born.

  “There had been discoveries of ancient horned helmets in the nineteenth century that later turned out to predate the Vikings. Greeks and Romans had also written about northern Europeans wearing helmets adorned with feathered wings, antlers and horns. But that was at least a century before the Vikings appeared and those were probably only worn for ceremonial purposes by Norse and Germanic priests. Because, while wearing horns into battle might help intimidate your enemies, and perhaps poke out an eye, they’d be more likely to get tangled up in tree branches.”

  “Or embedded in a shield.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve always imagined!” She rewarded him with another smile that lit up the shadowy corner of the shop and tugged at something inside him. Not lust, but a feeling Gabe couldn’t exactly name. “But getting back to my point, and I truly did have one, it would be so wonderful to bring the group here to see you building your wonderful boat.

  “Sorry, faering,” she corrected herself. “Just looking at all those boards and pieces of wood, and trying to imagine them turning into an actual boat from that plan on the floor is amazing to me.”

  “Confession time. I’ve never figured out the Dewey decimal system.”

  Oh, damn. Her laughter tugged that same chord again.

  “You’re not alone. Which is why we also have a digital catalogue and a user-friendly search engine for library visitors to use... Please don’t feel any pressure because it’s only a suggestion.” She held up her hand again. Her short nails with their clear polish would have seemed suitable to the stereotypical librarian, had it not been for the perky daisies painted on both ring fingers. “I was hoping that we could team up.”

  “You want them to work on my boat?” Hell. No.

  “Oh, no.” Her expressive eyes widened even as her forehead creased with concern. “I’m sorry, I’m usually more succinct. After delving into Norse myths from the books—I considered asking Jarle at the pub to tell some stories, but his language can get a little colorful—I decided to teach the children the history of the Scandinavian immigrants who settled in Honeymoon Harbor. I’m hoping some will be able to interview family members about their ancestors so we can include those.”

  Since his own family tree didn’t include a lot of Scandinavians, at least that he knew of, Gabe still didn’t see what that had to do with him.

  “Next, I’d like to tie that in with a visit to the museum. And hopefully wrap it all up in a pretty red ribbon with a visit here to see an actual Viking boat in progress. It would also be wonderful if you’d be willing to explain what they used the boat—the faering—for.”

  “They used it for raiding. Which, not being up on ancient Norse history, is all I’d be able to tell them, so I wouldn’t want you to waste everyone’s time coming a
ll the way out here.”

  “It’s a small town,” she pointed out. “Even out here on the end of the peninsula, you’re not that far away from the library. And the museum, which we’d be coming from, is even closer.”

  “Sorry, but the shop’s liability insurance doesn’t allow kids in here.” That was a lie, but she didn’t have to know that he’d begun hanging around the summer between third and fourth grades.

  “Even if I promise that they won’t touch a thing?”

  “Even then. Which, given them being kids, undoubtedly isn’t a promise you’d be able to keep.” It was his turn to hold up a hand to forestall the argument he sensed coming. “I’m only trying to keep them safe.”

  Color bled into her cheeks as he belatedly realized his comment also implied that she wouldn’t be able to corral them. But it was too late to call the words back. Nor did he apologize for them, which would open him up to more conversation.

  “I also promised this would be finished in time for the buyer to sail it in the Labor Day wooden boat regatta.”

  While considering whether or not to build the faering, he’d decided to donate it to Welcome Home to auction off at the Labor Day wooden boat festival. The charity—which he’d helped fund—in its second year, built tiny rental homes for the homeless, along with providing medical care, counseling, schooling and help finding employment. So there was no buyer. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “Well.” He watched her gather her composure. “I apologize for having taken up your time. Given that you’re on such a tight deadline.” The sarcasm in her previously perky tone told him that she’d sensed the lie. Not that it mattered.

  The important thing was that she wouldn’t be invading what, so far, no one in town, even his family, knew had technically become his school and shop two years ago when he’d bailed the owner out of debt. There wasn’t much of a market these days for handcrafted wooden boats, which admittedly took a lot more upkeep. Most went to collectors and people like him, who’d always loved the one-of-a-kind beauty and were willing to put up with the inconvenience and expense.

  He shrugged. “No problem. I was ready for a break anyway.”

  To demonstrate said alleged break was over, he bent, picked up a board and turned on the saw. Leaving her to walk away, from the shadows of the boat shop into the still bright summer sun.

  * * *

  “WELL, THAT WENT WELL,” Chelsea muttered as she walked away from the dim boat shop into the sunshine. One of the things that made up for the long dark winters on the peninsula were the equally long summer days. Although it wasn’t officially summer, the sun wouldn’t set until after nine o’clock tonight, and the light would linger until just before ten. With its rays glancing off the glaciers at the top of the mountains, today’s sun seemed especially bright. “Seriously, you brought up opera with a guy who probably listens to Toby Keith and Trace Adkins?”

  She shoved on her sunglasses, which she had to buy every year, because she’d never remember where she’d put them at the end of fall when the rains began, and hoped that Gabriel Mannion didn’t think her a total idiot. In this outdoor land of skiing, hiking, mountain climbing and sailing, her personal summer activity of choice was sitting on the front porch with a glass of lemonade and a good book. In the winter the location would change to her overstuffed sofa in front of her apartment’s fireplace, with a cup of spiced tea. Which she’d long ago accepted made her different from many Honeymoon Harbor residents.

  Although she wasn’t one of those stuffy old stereotypical librarians with the wire-rim glasses perched on the end of her nose who was constantly shushing everyone, Chelsea preferred quiet. Order. Having had a lifelong love affair with words, she preferred to choose hers carefully. She did not, ever, chatter away like a magpie on speed.

  Until today. From the moment her eyes had adjusted to the shadows in the back of the shop, all her carefully planned words had flown out of her head. She’d remembered the gist, but the point she’d come here planning to concisely make had gotten all garbled, like the conversations through two soup cans and a string the counselors at Camp Rainshadow had taught all the kids to make the summer her parents had sent her away.

  After she’d grown up, with the benefit of hindsight, she’d understood that they’d been attempting to give her a respite from the dark, suffocating cloud of gloom that had settled over the Prescott home. What they hadn’t realized was how horribly homesick she would be. Or that she’d feel so guilty about escaping such sorrow, she was incapable of enjoying all the sleepaway camp had to offer.

  She couldn’t allow herself to take part in the boating on the glassy dawn waters of Mirror Lake, the crafts, the marshmallows charred over nightly campfires or even the nature lessons taught by a cute ranger from Olympic Mountain National Park, who all the girls in her cabin had agreed was even cuter than Daniel Radcliffe, now that Harry Potter was growing up. But not her. Because Chelsea’s heart, having been battered and tossed around by storms and tides, had lain like a heavy stone in her chest.

  The one small, somewhat bright light was when she’d been chosen by her fellow campers to write the skit for the closing night’s talent show. It certainly hadn’t been due to any popularity on her part. She’d never belonged to any cliques, had never received an invitation to join the In Crowd. The reason she’d been chosen, one of her snarkier tent mates had informed her, was because she was the only one who’d spent every free moment of the summer with her nose in a book.

  She’d loved the writing and casting of parts. Just because she’d held back on the outskirts of the groups during activities didn’t mean that she hadn’t been paying attention to what had been going on around her. She’d been a silent ghost of an observer, learning each camper’s personality, which she brought to those pages she’d carefully written on filler paper with a yellow #2 pencil.

  The paper and pencil had been given to her by Mrs. Henderson, who’d instructed her to report in weekly about what she’d been reading at camp. In turn, the librarian had written about library and town goings-on. The daily notes were far more than Chelsea had heard from her parents. Which she’d sort of understood. But that hadn’t made her any less sad. Or homesick.

  The performance was met with enthusiastic applause, the counselors shouting out “Author, author,” waving for her to stand and receive accolades. While she appreciated the gesture and their effort to draw a smile from her at least once before she returned home, the recognition only made her regret that her parents and sister hadn’t been there to see her literally standing in the spotlight.

  “Not going there.” Chelsea shook off the bittersweet memory and returned her thoughts to her less than brilliant performance in the boat shop. Her only excuse for her uncharacteristic behavior was that once her eyes had adjusted and she’d seen Gabriel Mannion running the wood through that huge and deadly looking saw, his arms corded with muscles, his raven-black hair falling over his forehead, her heart had stopped, and her blood had heated. Even from across the shop, she sensed the air of distance in him Brianna had warned her about. Over the ear-splitting screech of the saw ripping through the wood, she heard a distant alarm go off inside her.

  She could have turned and walked away. Perhaps she should have. But she’d been transfixed by his broad back, and the way those jeans hugged a very fine butt. Not that she tended to go around looking at men’s butts, but when it was right there in front of you, well, what was a woman to do?

  Seeming to sense her arrival, he’d shut off the saw, turned around and shot her a hard, impatient look through a pair of thick safety goggles.

  Which was when her knees had nearly buckled from the impact of the testosterone radiating from him. An olive green T-shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his body, outlining abs that belonged on a Men of Honeymoon Harbor Hunk of the Month calendar, like the one of local hot guys Kylee and Mai had put together and sold to raise money for Project Backpack
, which collected school supplies for needy children.

  She supposed the theme for his would be Men of Wall Street. Not that she could imagine many finance guys were as delicious as Gabriel Mannion. His scruffy jaw was firm, and when he yanked off the headphones and safety goggles, once her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she could see that Gabriel Mannion’s eyes were the dark and dangerous gray of a Pacific storm over the water. The instant they’d clashed with hers, Chelsea knew.

  This was him. Rhett to her Scarlett. Tristan to her Iseult. Mr. Darcy to her Lizzy. The man she’d been waiting for her entire life. Maybe fairy godmothers really did exist.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she scolded herself as she drove to the pub.

  Love at first sight was nothing more than lust at first sight. Which she hadn’t felt in so long she’d briefly mislabeled it. Obviously she’d been binge reading too many romances. Perhaps it was time to switch to a bloody serial killer thriller. Hadn’t she read that the Pacific Northwest had more serial killers than anywhere else in the country?

  When Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer came immediately to mind, deciding that might be hitting a bit close to home, she considered horror. While the small town of Forks may still receive vampire tourism, she’d never considered those pasty, chaste, baseball-playing sparkly vampires from Forks the least bit scary. And, by the way, she’d lived through enough Pacific Northwest storms to wonder why none of them had ever been killed by lightning from the thunderstorm hitting their aluminum bats.

  “You’re digressing again,” she scolded her still uncharacteristically distracted mind. Gabriel Mannion might be the hottest guy she’d ever met up close and personal, but he was also the rudest. No way was she going to allow that distressing encounter with him to take her focus off her mission to have the best summer library program ever. “Keep your eyes on the prize.” Coincidentally, the anthem of the civil rights movement had been today’s inspirational quote on her life planner.