Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  There was a long pause. “You’re right. Of course I did.” The laugh was as fake as it was forced. “One of the downsides of getting older is your memory starts to go.”

  “So I hear,” she said mildly. “So, how is Heather? And the kids?”

  “The boys are going into first grade in the fall. Can you believe it? It seems like just yesterday they were born.”

  “Well, you know what they say about time flying.”

  “True. Look at you, all grown up. Before I know it, you’ll be making me a grandfather.”

  He did not sound exactly thrilled by that prospect, and no wonder that he’d chosen to begin his new life in La La Land, where Chelsea wasn’t certain people were even allowed to age.

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  “You’re not a lesbian, are you?” he asked. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Chelsea laughed, thinking about the wedding she’d taken part in last summer. “No, Dad. I’m just not in the market for motherhood at the moment.”

  Watching Kylee and Mai with their adopted daughter, she’d seen how much work children could be. You’d think that things would get easier once babies were past the infancy stage, but now that Clara had started walking, nothing in their darling Folk cottage house was safe unless it was locked away or put up high. Though it was, she admitted, fun to watch the speed with which the little girl could run on her tiptoes.

  “Heather had a thought she wanted to bring up,” he said. “You know we go to Maui every Christmas.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen the family photos on the New Year’s letter.” At first they’d caused a twinge in her heart, but over time, she’d come to realize that they were a sincere effort on her stepmother’s part to reach out and invite her into the family. Especially since she was all alone.

  No. Not alone. She had friends like Lily who were as close as family. Certainly closer than her father.

  “Well, the beach house has three guest rooms and the boys would love to see their big sister. Why don’t you give some thought to flying down? I’ll pay for the tickets. First class, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Tell Heather I appreciate the offer and will think about it.”

  “Okay. But don’t take too long,” he warned. “You know how fast flights fill up for the holidays.”

  “I said I’ll think about it.” She blew out another breath. “Thanks for calling, Dad. It’s always great talking with you. Sorry, but I have to run. I have a meeting.” She hit the phone icon, cutting off the call.

  Because the stupid tears in her eyes were blurring her vision, she pulled over into the pier parking lot and cut the engine. She’d survived her father walking away. Being young, for a time, although she’d missed him terribly, a stronger part of her was grateful for the quiet that had replaced the yelling, accusations and the slamming of doors. It was only later that she’d realized that silence could be even more difficult, more deadly than domestic war.

  The boys would love to see their big sister. Chelsea bit her lip. She liked her stepbrothers. They were smart, funny, rambunctious and had her thinking of golden retriever puppies. She didn’t love them. But that wasn’t their fault. Or even her dad’s or Heather’s. It was because she couldn’t fully open her scarred heart up again.

  After losing her mother while she was in college, she’d gone to a therapist who had, after a few months, convinced her that she had no reason to feel guilty about Annabelle’s death. Though Chelsea knew that intellectually, there was still a part of her, a deep-down, instinctive part, perhaps woven into the DNA going back to the beginning of time, that the role of a big sister was to be a stand-in mother. To take care of the younger ones. If that was the case, she and Hannah had definitely inherited that same sister gene.

  Usually she was able to brush off her father’s benign neglect. To accept it as perhaps having always been his nature, or perhaps, she’d considered during therapy, a way to protect his wounded heart that same way she’d protected hers. No risk. No pain. Whatever, it was what it was. He was who he was.

  But that didn’t stop her from not wanting to be alone right now. She went through her list of friends... Brianna had a wedding party who’d booked a night’s dinner at Herons Landing. Bastien, owner/chef of Sensation Cajun, was catering the meal and Desiree the dessert course, but Brianna was still playing hostess.

  Lily was reading Harry Potter to the residents of Harbor Hill. And Mai and Kylee had taken Clara to the coast to walk barefoot on the sand for the first time.

  She could go to the pub, where she’d undoubtedly find someone to hang out with, but she also wasn’t up to all the energy it would take to pretend that things were just hunky-dory. Especially with Quinn being so perceptive.

  There was one person who could take her mind off herself and get her back on focus.

  Of course, she risked being turned away again, but if she could convince Gabriel Mannion that she could keep the reading adventurers from damaging his boat—faering—it was worth another try. Not just for the kids, but, if she were to be perfectly honest, it would give her a distraction from feeling sorry for herself.

  “What do you have to lose?” Decision made, she started the car, and headed out of town.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS SHE DROVE along Lakeshore Drive, Chelsea passed Aiden Mannion heading back toward town. Despite his friendly wave, goose bumps prickled on her skin and her heart hitched. All these years later the sight of the Honeymoon Harbor police shield on the door could cause anxiety. It was as if a slow-burning fuse had been lit at Annabelle’s diagnosis. One that had created more and more stress the longer it had burned.

  A neighbor had called the police about family disturbances when the fights, while never physically violent, would escalate, and one terrible day, Chelsea’s mother had received a DUI after taking Xanax with a glass of wine. The only good thing about her father leaving was that the house had gotten quieter, with the TV providing background ambient noise nearly twenty-four hours a day. After a while, it had gotten so Chelsea hadn’t even noticed it. Then, finally, the police had been there on what they’d called a “death investigation.”

  Blowing out a breath, she continued driving down the road lined with shaggy, towering Douglas fir that cast stripes across the pavement, every so often catching glimpses of the unbelievable blue of the lake. The wildflowers were in raucous bloom and pink, white and blue phlox painted the landscape with sweeping swaths of color, replacing the fading avalanche and glacier lilies. Chelsea rolled down her window, drinking in the perfume, which topped anything that came in the priciest of bottles.

  Shortly after turning where her GPS instructed, she found herself facing a tall wrought iron gate with a stone pillar on either side. On the left pillar was a security keypad. She could call Brianna to get his number so she could then phone Gabriel and ask him to unlock the gate. But he might not be willing to do that, which was why her plan, as sketchy as it admittedly might be, was to catch him off guard. She’d already marshalled her argument. Now she just needed an opportunity to present it.

  Having run into a literal stone wall, she thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the top of the steering wheel, regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to create a plan B. She always had a plan B. And C. And, if all else failed, a D. Because life had a way of spiraling out of control, and it was best to always be prepared.

  As she saw a security camera on the top of one of the pillars, she realized that Gabriel might know she was parked out here, which would give him time to make up a new argument, because she hadn’t believed that insurance one at all. She remembered having lunch one day with Seth and Brianna when they’d taken her for a Sunday sail on his boat. The conversation had come around to Gabe having built the boat. Which then led to more discussion about him having hung around the shop starting back when he’d been in elementary school.

>   Perhaps the insurance rules had changed. But she’d bet her collection of vintage Nancy Drew books that he’d been lying just to get rid of her.

  It was then an idea struck. A sneaky idea. A sneaky, wonderful idea.

  After managing to turn around without sliding into the slight ditch on either side of the pavement or backing into a tree, she headed back down the road, around the shoreline, to the other side of the lake.

  The bait shack had been there longer than Chelsea had been alive. She’d heard that in the 1950s, there’d been a take-out window, offering sandwiches and sodas to boaters and fishermen. Now, although a café had replaced the take-out window, an old-fashioned red Coke cooler at the door of the boat rental office went back to those early days.

  “Well, if it isn’t Chelsea Prescott,” the elderly man wearing a brown ball cap with fishing flies stuck on the band came out of the office to greet her. “Don’t tell me you’re out here to collect my library fine.”

  “Do you owe a library fine?” she asked Bert Carter, who preferred “manly” books by Hemingway and Zane Grey. And the occasional mystery thriller, as long as it didn’t have any of those “dirty parts.”

  “I might have been a bit slow getting through The Hunt for Red October,” he admitted, stroking his white beard which, if he hadn’t been skinny as a beanpole, would’ve made him a perfect Santa for the annual Christmas tree lighting.

  “I imagine you’re busier in summer,” she said.

  “Sure am. Not many willing to go out on the lake in the winter. While winter steelhead’s real popular, people like fishing from the bank. I do keep a couple trailers for anyone who wants to take a boat out to one of the rivers for the run, but it’s nothing like summer.”

  “Well, since no one’s put a hold on that Clancy book, and you have the extenuating circumstances of your work allowing less free time to read this time of the year, we’ll keep that fine between us.”

  He lifted his hand to the brim of his hat. “I do thank you. Lillian might not have been so accommodating.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’d understand your circumstances.”

  “She might. But she may also still be mad at me for standing her up for the Winterfest dance.”

  “I hadn’t heard anything about that.” The Facebook page only went back five years.

  “Mebee because it was forty years ago, before she met Ralph. Unfortunately, that woman has a memory like a damn steel trap.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Bygones,” he said on what sounded like a long sigh of regret. Which had her wondering. And remembering that he always seemed to show up on Wednesdays, the day Mrs. Henderson usually arrived at the library after her Zumba class at the senior center. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need a boat.”

  “No problem. Kayak, canoe, sail or rowboat?”

  “I’ll take the rowboat.” The kayak and canoe sounded too tippy, and no way was she going to attempt a sailboat. Having watched girls row on this very same lake that summer of her miserable camp year, rowing hadn’t looked all that difficult. They’d also seemed to be having fun. Which was why she’d refused to try it. Looking back now, she wished, not for the first time, that she could have written a letter to her younger self, advising her to enjoy happiness whenever she found it because life didn’t come with gold-plated guarantees.

  “You got it,” he said agreeably. “How long do you expect to be out?”

  “However long it takes to get across the lake and back.” Surely it wouldn’t take that long to persuade Gabriel Manning to see the light.

  White brows, as furry as caterpillars, disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “All that way?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Have you ever rowed before?”

  “I’m very familiar with the process,” she hedged. “From camp days.”

  He looked doubtful. But determined not to let anything or anyone deter her from her mission, ten minutes later, wearing a bright yellow life vest, she climbed into the boat, which was more tippy than she’d expected. It had looked so solid. So safe. That thought almost had her laughing since this was additional proof that nothing was safe about Gabriel Mannion.

  “It’s just like on a rowing machine. You’ve probably done one of those, right?”

  “Of course.” At least she’d watched people use them while she’d been riding the stationary bike at the fitness club.

  “Great. Sit on the bench seat,” Bert instructed. “With your back toward your destination.”

  “I sit backward?” If she’d known that she’d be doing this, she’d have watched several YouTube videos in order to be well prepared. She was also glad that she’d worn a loose-fitting peasant blouse with a pair of khaki capris and Keds today—which she doubted Mrs. Henderson would have ever worn to work.

  “Yeah, because rowing’s nothing like paddling,” Bert said. “The action of rowing propels you backward, so you need to sit with your back to the bow and face the stern.” This time his expressive brows beetled. “I thought you said you know about rowboats.”

  “I do. The bow is the front and the stern is the rear.” Seth had explained the terms the day they’d gone sailing. Which, it was beginning to appear, had little to do with rowing.

  “Got it in one.” Although he seemed pleased she knew that much, his forehead, weathered by age and years on the water, furrowed, revealing his continued skepticism. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, sitting in the center of the wooden bench, placing her feet in the stretchers as instructed.

  “Grasp an oar in each hand with an overhand grip,” he said.

  Again, she followed instructions, listening carefully as he explained the motions of catch, drive, release, recover. Rinse and repeat.

  “Got it,” she assured him. Piece of cake.

  Unfortunately, rowing proved a great deal more difficult than it looked, making her wonder why this type of boat didn’t have the same cachet as sailboats. It wasn’t as if just anyone could row a boat. She was an intelligent woman with two college degrees, and yet, after Bert had pushed her away from the wooden dock, she found herself going around and around in circles. At this rate it was going to take her until Labor Day to reach the other side of the lake.

  “You’re only using one oar,” Bert shouted through cupped hands. “Keep them both level, turn them to the side, then pull them through the water together.”

  It took a few more tries, but eventually, Chelsea was on her way. She was soon immensely grateful that the other boaters appeared to realize that she was a novice, because they all took a wide berth as they neared her. Three guys in a powerboat who’d been waterskiing did drift over close enough to ask her if she wanted a tow to wherever she was headed, but even as her hands and calves burned and her back began to ache, she assured them that she was fine.

  If she was going to win Gabriel Mannion over, she needed to bring her A game and appear confident and strong. Arriving towed by a boat of cute, puppy dog–friendly college boys wearing board shorts and cutoff frat T-shirts was not part of plan B.

  Although she’d put the cabin’s address into her phone’s GPS app and, every time she checked it, was assured she was headed in the right direction, whenever she looked back over her shoulder, the beach didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  Just when she was determined she’d be stuck on this damn lake forever, she came around a slight bend and her breath caught at what had to be the largest, most spectacular log cabin she’d ever seen overlooking the lake from a bluff. Without her GPS, she might never have come across it. There, standing on the deck below the house that three of her apartments could probably fit into, was Gabriel Mannion.

  Feeling self-conscious, she was rethinking her decision, but, no, she’d come too far to back out now. There was also the little fact that even if she could turn the boat around,
she wasn’t certain that she could make it back to Bert’s.

  “I hate to ask this,” she said, as she came closer. “But how do I stop?” The last thing she needed to do was to crash into the dock.

  “Feather your oar.”

  “Like that’s a help,” she muttered.

  “Set it so it’s not perpendicular, but not quite parallel to the water, then dig your blade into the water and straighten your arms.”

  She did as instructed, managing to stop the boat an instant before she rammed the dock. “It worked!”

  “It always does.”

  “Well. Hi.” She smiled brightly, as if her rowing all the way across Mirror Lake to his hermitage was nothing out of the ordinary. As if butterflies weren’t fluttering their wings in her stomach.

  “Hi.” He leaned forward and caught hold of the side of the rowboat. “Toss me your lines.”

  It didn’t take a sailor to know those were the ropes coiled at her feet. She watched, impressed, as he tied a line from the bow and stern, and a third from whatever the official term for the middle of a rowboat might be.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “When you spend as much time on the water as I did growing up, things stick with you.”

  “I imagine so. Like riding the proverbial bicycle.” She took his outstretched hand and accepted help getting out of the boat. Even tied to the wooden dock as it was, it still felt a bit too unstable for comfort. “Thanks. I guess you saw me coming up the driveway.”

  “There’s an alarm system that sounds whenever anyone comes up to the gate. I didn’t set it up, but since the panel that controls it and most of the rest of the house looks set up to launch satellites into space, I’ve been afraid to touch it.”