If anyone can help him fix the place up, it’s you.
See, that was his problem. He just kept meddling, thinking he could somehow show up and solve everything. The curse of the middle child, perhaps, this idea that he had to fix it, had to keep the peace.
In fact, the meddling could be a sort of adventure too. Sheesh, he should have seen that.
His meddling would die—right here, right now, today. From now on, Casper Christiansen minded his own business. Punched in at work, grabbed a hammer when asked . . . but no longer would he show up like some Oliver Twist, hands extended, practically begging for more of other people’s problems.
And he’d make a fantastic manager for the Wild Harbor Trading Post.
He was standing at the curb, about to jaywalk between two cars, when he saw someone emerge from the antique store on the corner. In fact, he’d thought the place closed, so the figure caught his attention.
He stilled. Backed up for a better view.
A powder-blue jacket, a pink scarf, white puffy earmuffs—it could be any tourist bumming around town. But for the long black hair, braided down her back.
He ducked into the nearest alcove—that of the historical society—out of sight and peeked around the edge.
She’d stopped at the corner, looking both ways before crossing, and he got a good, perfect, breathtaking view of her face.
High cheekbones, a smattering of delicious freckles over her nose. Pensive amber eyes that could drill through him, make him forget his name, his destination.
He pulled his head back, tasting his thundering heart in his mouth.
Raina.
Back in Deep Haven?
He peered around the corner again and spied her headed down the street. Ready to run smack into him.
Please, Casper, leave me alone. Yeah, bumping into her would really scream moving on!
He ducked inside the historical society, moving away from the door.
“Casper Christiansen, what on earth are you doing?”
Running? But he turned at the voice and found Edith Draper standing in the foyer. A display of grainy black-and-white pictures under glass depicted a brief overview of the history of Deep Haven, and on the wall, brochures and maps showed the evolution of the area from the days of the early voyagers to the present.
Edith Draper might be the one person who’d lived through every era in Deep Haven. She wore a sweatshirt with the words Far north of ordinary, the Deep Haven logo underneath, and a pair of black pants, her white hair styled and neat. Glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Hello, Mrs. Draper,” he said, watching out the window. “I . . . I was cold?”
“And now you’re just lying to me.” She stared out the window. When Raina walked by, Edith clearly saw how he turned his back to her, just in case.
“My, my, we have a situation, don’t we?” She raised an eyebrow. “And who is that young lady?”
“No one,” Casper said. His gaze fell on a box of books and clothing. “Is that a nautical compass?” He picked up the round brass object nestled in what looked like a genuine fur shopka. He opened it. A cord attached the lid to the body.
“It’s a sundial compass,” he said. “Wow, I’ve only seen a couple of these. In fact, Fitz, our dig director, had one.”
Edith came up to inspect it. “We didn’t know what it was. It had all these strange hash marks over each number—”
“See, it has an internal magnet to orient the sundial, and then the shadow that is cast by this cord gnomon falls on the number and tells the time.” He closed the lid, turned it over. “There are instructions on the back. And . . .” He peered at etching on the side. “These must be the initials of the owner. T. D. W.”
Edith reached down and pulled out the fur cap. “A voyageur cap!”
“It’s amazing how warm these are. My dad used to have a couple made of rabbit. This one looks like it’s made from beaver. You untie these flaps here, and the ears fold down, as well as the nape in the back.” He demonstrated, then handed the hat back.
Edith took it, considered him. “Your mother mentioned your love of history, but I had no idea. You know, we need some help around here—”
“I have a job.”
“Good, because we can’t pay you. But maybe this will interest you.” She tugged on his arm and led him to a storage closet off the main display area. “We’ve had a shortage of help recently.”
He stood there, staring at the collection of books, maps, shipping and fishing memorabilia, clothing, shoes, utensils, photographs—and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “Where did you get these?”
“This came from the Linnell estate in Hovland. Evidently Carl Linnell worked for the government, and when they purchased the land up in Mineral Springs, intending to tear most of the old buildings down, he couldn’t bear losing all these artifacts. So he saved them. His children donated them to us, but we don’t know where to start.”
He walked over to a box and pulled out an ancient tuxedo with silk lapels, torn at the shoulder. “Interesting acquisition from Mineral Springs, a voyageur trading town.”
Edith leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “My thoughts exactly. It seems that a smart young man who loves history might enjoy cataloging these finds and maybe even tracking down their history.”
She pulled out a wallet-size date book. Stuck her finger through a hole in the pages.
Casper took it and opened the cover. The writing appeared nearly unintelligible, the ink smudged with water and the elements. And the hole seemed to tear through the pages as if . . . shot?
He closed the book. Took another look at the memorabilia. Maybe the best way to forget his past was to dive into someone else’s. And it wasn’t like he’d run into Raina buried in memorabilia at the historical society. “Mrs. Draper, I would be delighted to help you.”
She smiled. Patted his cheek. “Young man, you’re the answer to my prayers.”
With any luck, his dad didn’t even have to know about the disaster in cabin three.
Not that Darek would lie to him or even not tell him . . . eventually. But news of trouble at the homestead was the last thing his father needed during his second-honeymoon trip to Europe.
Besides, Darek had handled it. And with the addition of a brand-new electrical socket and ceiling light fixture to replace the one shorted out by the flood, he’d managed to overhaul and rebuild the cabin in three hardscrabble weeks.
Just in time for Valentine’s Day. And if the website bookings were accurate, they just might be full.
Love to the rescue.
He grabbed his wire clippers and tape and climbed the ladder to the socket. The low afternoon sun flooded into the room, turning it amber and stirring the scent of the new wood floor, the freshly laid carpet, the rehung and painted Sheetrock.
The door opened. “Knock, knock.”
Darek smiled down at the sight of his wife entering the cabin. She wore her dress coat, UGGs, and carried a white deli bag.
“Hey there, handsome.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“Take your time. I have to sit for a second.” She slid onto a chair. “I can admit, I never thought that I’d consider five degrees a heat wave.”
“You’re an incubator. Everything is doubled.” But she did look a little red-faced. “You okay?”
“Yep. Tiger’s outside building a snowman, I think. Boy, that kid has energy.” She pulled off her hat, loosening her long red hair. “He talked nonstop from school. I swear, he could be a lawyer someday.”
“One in the family might be enough.” Darek finished tying the electrical wires together. “I don’t need to be outsmarted by two of you.”
Ivy laughed. “Hardly. I think you do just fine, Mr. Christiansen. Look at this place. It’s gorgeous. If anything, it looks better than before. Can I book it for Valentine’s Day?”
He came down the ladder, set the wire cutters on the counter. Crouched in front of her. “You have other plans on Va
lentine’s Day.”
Then he touched her face, leaned up, and kissed her.
He could never quite get enough of the taste, the wonder, of kissing his wife. His second chance. His reminder that yes, God loved him. Forgave him for the mistakes of his first marriage.
She cupped her cold hands around his neck and leaned into the kiss, and he lost himself for a long moment with the taste of her, coffee on her lips, the smell of vanilla on her skin.
Yes, she’d be very busy on Valentine’s—oh no.
He pulled away. “Wait. Valentine’s Day is a Friday. I have to be here for the check-ins.” He made a face. “I’m sorry, honey.”
Her smile fell. “What about Casper? Couldn’t he work?”
“Oh, babe . . .”
“You don’t still blame him for the pipes, do you?”
He didn’t know what to think. Once he’d unwrapped the pipes, he’d found the insulation eaten away—or maybe it had never been applied. And yes, heat wrap encased the pipes, but not double layers like Darek instructed. Or thought he had.
“The resort is my responsibility.”
“The resort belongs to your family. That includes Casper. Maybe you should let him help—”
“I have been. We re-drywalled the place, and he helped run new pipe, and I let him paint the ceiling and the walls—”
Ivy was smiling.
“What?”
“You are so funny. I happen to know that you hovered over him every time he picked up a hammer or Spackle knife or paintbrush.”
He opened his mouth, but she put her hand over it. “Don’t even start. I have text messages. Voice mails. Photographic evidence.” She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled to a photo, and held it up. Casper, white-faced from sanding Sheetrock, with Darek behind him, his mask pushed up onto his head, his own hair white. Yeah, for a couple hours there, with Casper helping to shoulder the repairs, the resort hadn’t felt quite so strangling.
“I concede to the prosecution. But still—Casper’s got a job, and I can’t ask him to give up his Friday night.”
“Because, what, his calendar is booked?” She raised an eyebrow even as she tucked the phone away. “Is it just me, or has he suddenly become a homebody? Are you sure he’s okay? He seems . . . I don’t know. A little broken?”
“He’s fine.”
“And what about—? Well, do you think he’s over Raina?”
“Probably. It was just a summer thing.” Darek got up, picked up the fixture from the counter. Balancing it, he climbed the ladder.
“It didn’t sound like a summer thing, the way you described the fight between him and Owen.”
“I wasn’t there until the tail end. Owen and Casper have always had their moments. Casper’s fine. I’m sure he got her out of his system in Roatán.”
“Maybe. But I stopped by the Wild Harbor today over lunch, and he told me to tell you he was working late tonight. Again. That’s three days in a row.”
He held up the fixture, fitted it to the ceiling, and with a pencil marked the holes for drilling. “Maybe he’s decided to take life seriously. I think Ned might have offered him a management position.”
“Casper, a store manager? Ho-kay.”
Darek looked down at her. “What’s that for?”
“Nothing. It’s just so . . . normal.”
He drilled the first hole, blew away the dust from the Sheetrock. “Well, a man has to choose between his dreams and responsibility. He can’t have both.” He drilled another hole. Blew that dust away.
The silence that followed crept up on him like syrup, invading his pores.
Ivy was looking away, out the window, her face stoic. Her hands cradled her belly.
“Ivy?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She ran a hand over her cheek.
Was she crying?
He started down the ladder, but she rose to her feet, held up her hand. “I just brought by your dinner. I figured you wouldn’t take time to eat. I have to . . .” She turned away, then came back with a smile. Something forced if he read her expression correctly. “I have a deposition tomorrow, so I have to head back to work. I’m dropping Tiger off at his grandparents’.”
The parents of his first wife, Felicity. The wife who died after Darek had all but checked out of their marriage.
He came all the way down the ladder. “Ivy, what’s the matter?” He reached out for her, but the door swung open.
“Dad!” Tiger barreled into the cabin, his snow pants dampened, his woolen cap and mittens spraying flakes onto the new wooden floor. He held a wooden box made of Popsicle sticks. “Look what I made you!”
But even as he said it, he slipped, his rubber-soled boots slick on the now-wet floor, and the craft project flew into the air. Tiger slid, feetfirst, bumping the ladder.
The light fixture toppled off the top.
Ivy screamed and grabbed Tiger.
Darek lunged for Ivy, pulling them back as the fixture landed, splintering into a million stained-glass fragments.
And then everything went quiet, only the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears.
“Everyone okay?” he finally managed, his heart sinking as he added up the cost of the fixture.
“My birdhouse!” Tiger scrambled up, oblivious to the glass, and tromped across the floor to where his splintered craft project lay.
Leaving wet, blackened, salty footprints on the brand-new carpet.
“Tiger, get off that carpet right now!”
Darek didn’t mean to shout—or maybe he did—but the adrenaline turned his volume even higher, and by the time he’d reached Tiger, the seven-year-old’s face began to crumple.
“But, Dad, my birdhouse—” He held up the smashed milk carton–and–Popsicle stick creation.
Darek grabbed it and tossed the wreck onto the table even as he picked up Tiger and deposited him on the rug by the door. “This carpet is brand-new, Tiger, and look what you did—it’s wrecked. I’m going to have to shampoo—”
“Darek!”
Ivy’s voice caught him, made him breathe.
Tears streamed down Tiger’s face, his brown eyes filled with hurt.
Darek exhaled, his breath shaky. Oh. He dragged a hand down his face, then crouched before Tiger, reached up, and thumbed away a tear. “I’m sorry, pal. But you can’t just run in here. There’s glass everywhere now, and the carpet—”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Tiger caught his lip between his teeth. He glanced at the distorted birdhouse. “I made you a present.”
Darek took the project, examined it. Oh, buddy. “Did you make this for me?”
Tiger nodded. “It was supposed to be for Christmas, but the glue didn’t dry, and then Mrs. White said I should take it home, but I forgot it in my cubby and then Mom, I mean Ivy, came today and said I should bring it. That you’ve been working so hard and maybe you needed something to make you smile . . .”
Mom. Yeah, he caught that slip. He glanced at Ivy, who had her hand over her mouth.
“Mom was right,” Darek said quietly. He reached out and pulled Tiger to himself, tucking his son into his embrace. Tiger’s arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry I’ve been working so hard. I promise things will get better.”
Tiger released him, leaned back. “And then we’ll build a snow fort?”
“A snow castle!”
Tiger glanced at the glass. “I’m sorry I made your lamp fall.”
“It’s okay, Tiger. I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt. Go have fun with your grandparents. I’ll see you later tonight.”
He stood as Tiger ran outside.
“Mom?” Darek said, turning to Ivy. He cupped her face.
Ivy smiled, her eyes wet. “He’s done it a couple other times recently. I think, maybe with the arrival of this baby, it’ll sink in.”
He pushed her hair back behind her ears. “I don’t deserve you. I know this. And I know I’ve been working long hours. But it’ll get better. I just have to get the resort into the bl
ack and then—”
“Then our lives will slow down?” She laughed, a sort of sweet mocking, and took his hand, resting it on her belly. “I doubt that.”
He widened his fingers, feeling the baby move inside. The sense of it could buckle his knees. No, he didn’t deserve Ivy.
He had to make a go of this resort—for her and Tiger and this baby.
“I’ll be home later.”
She patted his cheek. “I know. I’ll leave the light on.”
AGGIE AND THOR WILDER lived on a farm that overlooks Lake Superior about four miles out of town. Turn on old County Road 41, then at Wilder Trail. Their house is at the end of the road about a quarter mile.
Gust’s words hung in Raina’s mind as her used Aveo bumped along the icy road leading back to the estate, drifts of snow just barely wider than her car guiding her through a shaggy, snow-covered forest. The pine boughs hung low and shivered as her car dragged through them and shook white powder on her windshield.
A gal could get lost back here until the thaw. She made a mental note to head home long before the five o’clock sunset. Even now, just after noon, shadows hovered over the path like disapproving sentries.
Maybe she should have waited for Gust’s grandson, Monte, but after spending three days helping Gust boot up his computer, set up e-mail and his Facebook page, and learn the rudiments of an Excel sheet, she left him to begin cataloging his inventory, including prices.
They had an eBay jackpot in their future if she could just wipe off the dust, take a few pictures, and convince Gust that his best clientele could be found beyond the tiny borders of Deep Haven.
And she could probably catalog Aggie’s entire “estate” on her own. How much work could it be to sort through the few possessions of a small-town farmer?
She slowed as she eased her car over a fallen drift, praying she didn’t get stuck. Casper certainly wouldn’t be around to save—
See, there she went again, letting him creep into her thoughts. So he’d pulled her out of the mud, once upon a time. Right now the man probably sat on some white-sand beach, forgetting about her, just like she told him to.
And frankly, she should too. Move on. Fresh start.
Always on My Mind Page 9