Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  “I don’t blame you.” She liked that he so easily admitted that there was something he didn’t know. She also liked his smile, perhaps because, from what she’d seen thus far, it might be as rare as a full eclipse. “I had some friends who went to Hawaii over Christmas.” Which had her thinking back on her earlier conversation with her father, which in turn caused her spirits to dip.

  “They set the heat to turn off while they were gone. Although the husband thought he’d turned the utilities back on with his phone when they were at the airport on the way home, what he hadn’t realized was that a winter storm had knocked out the power, which screwed up the clocks, which, in turn, froze the system the entire time they were gone. They got home from Sea-Tac at two in the morning to a dark, freezing house.”

  “This place has a built-in generator that turns on if the power goes off for fifteen seconds.”

  “That would be so handy here.” After a storm outage last year, she’d worked two days in a puffy down coat, a knit cap, long underwear beneath her sweatshirt and flannel-lined jeans, and wool fingerless gloves.

  “Yeah. Though I don’t expect to need it in the summer. The breeze from the mountains and lake provide natural air-conditioning, and if anything did go wrong with the power, the well has its own backup system.”

  “According to the Facebook page, it’s owned by some big tech mogul no one has ever met.”

  “It is. He’s an old fraternity brother. He’s thinking of selling it because he never gets over here from Seattle.”

  “That’s a shame. Because it’s beautiful.” She glanced around at the logs that looked as if they’d been rubbed to a gleaming gold. “A lot of people in town have wondered about it,” she admitted. Herself included. “Seth knows it well, because although Harper Construction usually only does remodels, he and his dad spent nearly two years doing finish work. But other than the contractor, subs, decorator and Megan and her Clean Team crew, I don’t think anyone else has ever actually seen it.”

  “Why don’t you come in and look around?”

  “I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted an opportunity to talk with you. Again.” She did her best to sound casual. As if driving twenty miles out of her way down a long and winding gravel road, then rowing across a lake to get here was no big deal.

  “Well, since you’ve come all this way, the least I can do is give you the tour.”

  “I’d love that, thank you.”

  “How about dinner?” he asked as they walked up the dock toward the stone steps leading to the house.

  “Dinner?”

  “A noun. Usually used to describe the third meal of the day, unless you live in the South, then it could just as likely be referred to as supper.”

  “I know what it is. I was just surprised that...are you inviting me to dinner?”

  “For some reason my mother seems to believe that despite me going into town every day, I’ll starve out here. She’s been sending Aiden out with groceries and cooked meals. Today’s package included some Alaskan king salmon fresh off one of Seth Harper’s cousin’s boats. How does cedar plank smoked salmon with rosemary roasted potatoes and grilled asparagus sound?”

  “Heavenly.” As they reached the expansive three-tiered deck, she paused to look up into eyes that weren’t as stormy as they’d appeared in the boat shop. Tonight they were a lighter bluish gray that contrasted with his black hair. It was funny how the Mannion men, father and sons, possessed the same features, but they’d all come together in individual ways. Although they were all stunningly good-looking, none of the others affected her the way this man did. “So, you’re cooking?”

  “I am. And don’t worry.” He pushed open a glass wall that somehow disappeared into the walls and literally brought the outside in, just like she’d seen on a House Hunters episode. “Mom taught all her sons to cook. She thought it was important for men to know how to feed themselves.”

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “Especially by the asparagus.”

  “She threw it into the box because, being like most of her feminine persuasion, she believes in eating green things.”

  “Asparagus is a superfood. It’s filled with lots of vitamins, antioxidants and fiber. And that’s just the short label.”

  “Why am I not surprised you’d know that? As for the potatoes, I was already intending to oil them and throw them on the grill.”

  “I enjoy cooking, but I learned mostly from following recipes in cookbooks from the library and watching cooking shows on TV.” She didn’t mention that she’d resorted to learning how to feed herself, and her mother, after dinners had degraded to bowls of cereal every night or, on a good night, sandwiches. “I’m honestly surprised by the invitation.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I OWE YOU an apology for being rude the other day.”

  She shrugged. “I was prewarned. Brianna said you might not be thrilled to see me,” she admitted.

  “Did she?” Gabe once again considered how open she was. How she seemed to share every thought.

  “The words noncommunicative and loner may have been used.”

  “Yet you still asked me to take part in your reading adventures. And even after I turned you down at the shop, you rowed across the lake to try again.” When he’d seen her coming, he’d felt anticipation curling in his gut. Now, as the lake breeze caught the edge of her blouse, lifting it to reveal a band of smooth skin, that anticipation shot south.

  “The worst that could happen is that you’d turn me down. Again. Then I’d row back, and we’d simply concentrate on studying Vikings, and perhaps put on a play. Without any horned helmets.”

  She had a quick, agile mind, was obviously goal oriented, and apparently relentless since that two-mile trip here wouldn’t be an easy one for someone who obviously had never rowed a boat before. Change out her personality, exorcise what appeared to be a warm and generous heart, and she’d make a dynamite trader.

  “No one’s going to touch the faering,” he warned, even as he felt himself caving in.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to it. Perhaps you could share a short explanation with the children about why you chose to make that type of boat instead of, say, a Spanish galleon.”

  “A galleon wouldn’t fit in the shop.”

  She laughed, despite it being a lousy joke, but hey, any joke was as uncharacteristic of him as taking even a day, let alone three months, away from The Street. “Scandinavian boat builders still make faerings,” he said. “They’re popular for fishing and recreation. The lapstrake double-ender is indigenous to the region and the design hasn’t changed much in a thousand years.” Which suggested to Gabe that when you got something right, there was no use messing with it.

  “Now, see, that’s even cooler. That it’s continued all those centuries.”

  “There’s an elemental simplicity, without the use of a single extraneous piece of wood.” He found himself sharing what had him deciding to take Jarle up on his challenge. “There’s never been a shape better suited to the sea, oars and wind. Those ancient builders figured out how to fasten together a couple of wide planks in a way that combines a fine underbody with plenty of reserve stability topside.”

  “Yet more proof of how clever the Vikings were. Farrah, she’s the other librarian, would love learning about this.” Gabe figured that the woman could probably coax a smile from the tall painted wooden totem a long-ago town council had commissioned from a Quileute woodcrafter in honor of Honeymoon Harbor’s centennial. “I probably shouldn’t have sprung the idea on you the other day,” she said. “But am I making you at all interested?”

  Yeah. Gabe was getting more interested by the minute, even as he reminded himself that the librarian with the delicate hands and the bright blue sneakers printed with cheery daisies wasn’t his
type and the reason for this forced vacation was to have some peace and quiet and to be left alone. No way had he wanted a bunch of kids invading his shop.

  “I suppose I could give the project an hour,” he heard himself saying against his better judgment. He was leaving right after Labor Day and this was not the kind of woman you had a summer affair with. Chelsea Prescott had white picket fence stamped all over her.

  “Oh, thank you!” Her hands crossed over her heart. Which momentarily drew his attention to pert breasts beneath the gauzy blouse that reminded him of photographs of hippies and flower children at Woodstock. She looked as if at any moment she’d begin dancing to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “I Put a Spell on You.” He returned his gaze to her eyes, which were practically sparkling with pleasure. Once again his guy brain went to wondering what they’d look like during sex.

  “Your family has been wonderful about the readers’ experience. I don’t know if they’ve told you, but your parents have invited us to their Christmas tree farm, Brianna and Seth are giving a tour of Herons Landing, your uncle Mike is giving art lessons and even Quinn agreed to give the older kids a tour of the microbrewery.” Dimples flashed like the beam of the Honeymoon Harbor lighthouse that warned sailors of breaching onto the rocky shore. Although this was a very different kind of warning, Gabe told himself he’d be wise to heed it.

  “He’s always liked kids.” Which is why, now that he thought about it, Gabe wondered why his older brother had never married. “You’re not planning to have Aiden give the kids a tour of the jail?”

  “As fine a police chief as he is, I’m not sure... Oh. That was another joke, wasn’t it? Now I feel really foolish.”

  “Don’t. It was a lousy joke.” Obviously he was as out of practice with telling jokes as he was with casual conversation.

  “Still... I’m honestly not as naïve or as annoyingly chatty as I’ve seemed. I’m just...well, a little nervous.”

  “You’re not annoying.” On the contrary, she was temptingly appealing. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “You do, a little,” she said. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve never been into all that woo-woo stuff, though the jury’s still out on ghosts, despite Brianna saying no one has ever heard or seen the ghost supposedly living in Herons Landing, but you have this vibe going on that’s a little unsettling.”

  He surprised himself by laughing. A harsh, rough laugh that sounded rusty to his own ears and probably to hers, as well. “I’ve heard that before. Lately.”

  She shrugged. “Well, we all go through moods.”

  He seriously doubted the woman had ever had a lousy mood. Maybe she’d get a little cranky if a patron brought back a book with the page corners turned down or penned notes in the margin, but it was unlikely she’d ever experienced the kind of stress-related anxiety that had landed him in the ER.

  Chelsea Prescott was the antithesis of every woman he’d been with since leaving Honeymoon Harbor for college. She was obviously intelligent, while openhearted, the type of naturally content individual who danced happily through life, a smiling sun shining down on her from a blue sky not a single cloud would dare darken. He could almost envision little cartoon birds flying around her glossy hair.

  As an additional warning to keep his distance, Gabe mentally added a stroller, a pink bike with sparkly streamers, a wooden swing hanging from an apple tree branch and a cocker spaniel to that damn Norman Rockwell painting in his mind. Along with a calligraphed sign out in front, like the ones printed on ancient maps, usually accompanied by a fanciful drawing of a sea serpent, reading Here there be danger.

  “I think I’ll save this visit for last, since it’ll undoubtedly be the best part of the kids’ summer,” she enthused. “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate you doing this.”

  “No problem.” Now it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t as if he’d given her a kidney or anything.

  Expressions of appreciation hadn’t been part of Gabe’s lexicon for a very long time. In New York, he had a job to do. Period. It was his responsibility to perform at the highest level, which, would, in turn, make him more money. Words of praise or gratitude were unexpected and as rare as unicorns in his world.

  He was wondering what was wrong with the guys in town that no one had snatched Chelsea Prescott up when he realized his mind had been wandering and he’d missed a question.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

  “I was just wondering if it’s going to be hard for you to return to New York after being here.”

  “Not at all. I can’t wait to get back to work. I miss the adrenaline rush of trading.” That same rush that the doctor warned could kill him. Like it had Carter. But Gabe had no intention of living so far out on the edge.

  “I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave this house and I haven’t even been inside yet. They say money doesn’t buy you happiness, but living out here, with all this peace and quiet, would be a good start.”

  “Away from the hustle and bustle of Honeymoon Harbor,” he said dryly.

  She laughed at that. “Point taken. But it’s still an amazing place. If I had a gazillion dollars, I’d put in an offer right now.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “let’s go in and you can see what you’d be buying.”

  “Good luck with that on a librarian’s salary,” she said with a laugh.

  She was understandably impressed with the interior, oohed and aahed over the kitchen and the high-beamed ceiling, and all the views out to the lake. Especially the master bath that boasted a sleek white free-standing soaker tub. Since Gabe never used it, it still had the little wire tray with a book in a holder and a fragrant candle that had probably been there since the decorator had placed it there.

  “Okay,” she said. “Correction. I would absolutely never move from here.”

  “Why don’t you look at one more room before you make a decision,” he suggested, leading her back downstairs.

  “Oh, wow!” She stood in the doorway of the library, gazing around in awe at the wood-paneled, book-lined walls, at the towering ceiling and the winding stairs leading up to the second-level catwalk where more books filled the shelves. “I visited the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina once because I’d heard wonderful things about the library,” she said. “It has every book George Vanderbilt collected, all twenty-two thousand, many which are rare first editions. My plan, when I arrived in Ashville, was to briefly tour the estate and move on to Savannah to visit all the locations in John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, but I ended up spending my entire vacation in Ashville, just to read the spines on all those books.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Her eyes shone like a zealot looking into the face of her god.

  “It’s one of the greatest private collections in the world,” she gushed. “And very eclectic. From English and American literature, architecture, world history, philosophy and religion. He also had two hundred and thirty copies of the French author Honoré de Balzac’s works.”

  “You counted them all?”

  “No. It was in the brochure. There were too many to examine them all in only five days. The collection isn’t up to Karl Lagerfeld’s three hundred thousand, or even George Lucas’s twenty-seven thousand, but when you think about how fewer books were published over a century ago than now, twenty-two thousand is amazing. Not many people collect books anymore. They’re more into art.”

  “Probably because art can be more profitable, if you choose the right pieces,” he suggested. Carter had, of course, chosen solely for investment.

  “Art is important,” she said. “The world needs it, just as it needs music. But my heart will always belong to books. You’re right. I’d never leave this room.”

  “Or,” he suggested, “you could take a b
ook outside on the deck on days the weather was good. Even when it was drizzling, since it’s covered. Then you could have the best of both worlds.”

  She rewarded him with the same smile the woman in his dream had bestowed upon the Viking who’d brought home that gold bracelet. Gabriel knew, without a doubt, that this woman would prefer a book over jewelry any day. “I like the way you think.”

  She walked into the center of the room, and slowly turned around, as if to drink in the entire atmosphere. Although like everything else in the house the library was overdone, he had to admit that it was pretty damn impressive. “I can’t imagine owning all these books and not coming here to read them. It’s not really that far from Seattle.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but the decorator bought them in packs.”

  “Packs?”

  “Yeah, you know. Crates of them. My mom, who did not decorate this place and doesn’t approve of the concept, told me that you can buy them by topic. Or cover—say, like those old leather-bound ones—to impress. Even by color.”

  “Why color?”

  “To match the furnishings.”

  From the way her eyes widened with shock, he might as well have told her that he was planning to build a bonfire and toss every book in the library into the flames.

  “Vanderbilt had all his books sent away to a famous bookbinder, who’d return them bound in Moroccan leather with gold lettering and decorations, but at least he was a voracious reader. I never would have imagined anyone ordering books by color.” She walked over to one of the walls, and ran her fingers along a leather book. The colors the decorator had chosen were brown, a deep red and dark blue. “Ordering this way is unthinkable to me, but I guess there are so many that you’d be bound to get a few wonderful books, even if you hadn’t intended to.”

  “Are you always this optimistic?” he asked, then wished he could take the words back. They made him sound cynical, which he admittedly was, but they also hit close to the same type of rudeness he’d impulsively invited her to dinner to make up for.