His father rose, frowning.
But Darek couldn’t stop. “You know what, Dad? You’re wrong. You shouldn’t believe in me. Because I’m not you. I can’t run this place. And frankly, I don’t want to.”
His words stripped all expression from John’s face.
“I don’t want to spend every waking moment running this resort, catering to guests. I hate it. I want to do something that actually accomplishes something. Like . . .” He tried to shake the word firefighting from his head, but there it lodged, burning inside him.
He ground his jaw, staring at his dad, and couldn’t help it. “Sometimes I wish I never had a family. I just let them down.”
“Darek—”
“Get Casper to run this place. He’s the one who’s good with numbers and wooing the guests. I’m just . . . the guy who cuts firewood.”
He pushed past his father into the next room. Tiger sat at the high-top counter, eating a Rice Krispies bar. Ingrid stood on the other side, arms akimbo, her eyes on Darek.
So she’d heard.
As had Ivy, who stood in the entryway, her face white. She still wore her coat as if she’d just walked in.
“Ivy, I—”
She held up her hand. “It’s fine, Darek. It’s fine.” She looked at Tiger, Ingrid. “The conference had to be rescheduled. I think Tiger and I are ready to go.”
Tiger slid off the stool.
“Ivy, please don’t go.” Darek reached out to touch her, but she jerked away from his grip, and he felt it like a knife in his chest.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said, her jaw tight. Tiger had slipped on his boots, and Ivy added his hat. He took her hand.
Darek watched her leave, unable to move from the cold entryway.
John stood in the doorway of the office. Darek didn’t look at him as he stalked back into the office.
He stared at the computer for a moment, then closed it and headed outside, letting the bracing wind cool him as he escaped to the woodpile.
Casper had unpacked enough Gore-Tex rain suits, cargo shorts, thermal shirts, Teva sandals, and day packs to wish himself into spring. He could nearly feel the sunshine on his skin, smell the piney scent of an awakening forest on the breeze as he crunched across trails littered with amber needles. He’d take out his dad’s old canoe—the one he kept tied to the dock—find some remote lake, and spend the day chasing walleye.
Except one look outside told him that any hope of spring might have slunk out in surrender to the gusts of icy wind that piled winter in haggard drifts along the roads, the shoreline.
He might never escape the cold.
“Two more boxes just arrived, Casper!” Ned called from the front room, his voice echoing all the way into the upstairs storage area. “I think these must be jackets—Windbreakers. Yeah, here’s those convertible pants. They zip off at the knee—”
“I’ll be out in a second.” After he figured out where to stack this last box of hiking boots. “Next time you decide to order spring supplies, you might consider doing it after the winter clearance sale.”
Nothing. He shook his head, trying to find a space—anywhere—in the crowded room. He’d labeled every box, tried to keep it ordered, but the place was packed, with a tiny aisle to crawl through to reach the camp chairs, lanterns, and collapsible bowls and camping utensils in the back.
“Just be glad I put the kayaks in the shed,” Ned said, leaning into the room. He surveyed the clutter. “Why aren’t you using the overflow storage?”
“Huh?”
“The old fish room.” He reached for the box of boots and Casper handed them over, climbing out of his prison.
“The fish room?”
Ned was already descending the stairs but glanced over his shoulder. “It used to be an old fish house. The fishermen would bring in the catch, clean it, and then store it here, in the coolers.”
Casper followed Ned to the room, stepping through time into the cleaned yet ancient space. The briny odor of fresh fish still embedded the rough-hewn walls, the ceiling low, a window cut into one side that peered out over the lake. A locked door led outside.
“You sure you want to put the boxes in here?”
“Just for a week, until after the sale. It’s weatherproof.” Ned set down the box of boots. “Look, you can see the initials of the first proprietor right here.” He pointed to a gold plaque by the door, then left to get the next load of boxes.
Casper walked over to the plaque, peered at it. D. T. W.
“Ned?” He came out of the room, jogging up to the front. “Are you sure that’s right? I thought the Zimmermans were the first owners of the trading post.”
Ned hoisted a box, handed it to Casper. “They were. But Dalton Wilder ran the fish house. He used to run supplies up and down the shore in his skiff. Actually, I think his kid Thor did a lot of it. Would run supplies between here and Mineral Springs. Thor opened a curio store there but probably bought this place when the Zimmermans passed and Mineral Springs closed down—took over the trading post and used the old fish house for storage”
Casper fell into step behind Ned. Thor ran supplies to Mineral Springs. Which meant he might have occasionally stopped at Naniboujou on the way? Where he would meet Aggie Franklin?
He set the box on the floor, and Ned turned the light off as they exited.
He had to tell Raina. The thought rushed at him, and he even made to reach for his phone.
Except Raina hadn’t called him—not once—all week. He tried not to let the image of Monte on the steps unsettle him, but twice he’d driven by her house, spied the truck, and decided that Monte spent way too much time alone with Raina.
“I think we need a little fun before the big clearance sale this weekend,” Ned was saying. “The ski resort is having a mountain bluegrass festival and you’re going out.” Ned held out Casper’s jacket, apparently retrieved from the office.
“What? No, Ned. I have stuff to do—”
“No, you don’t.” Ned went over to the till, locked it, and grabbed the money bag. “You’re not spending one more night alone over there at the place time forgot.”
“If you’re referring to the historical society . . .”
“The has-been sanctuary, yeah.” He grabbed Casper by the shoulder. “You’re young and single and you haven’t had a date in months. That changes tonight.”
He’d dated . . . Just last weekend, he’d gone out with Raina. Except that wasn’t a date exactly.
Although it felt like a date. Or more, maybe. Deeper.
The kind of moment real friends shared. But that was all they would be. So . . . “Okay, fine, but listen, I don’t need you to set me up. I can find my own girl.”
“I know exactly what you need,” Ned said.
Two hours later, with the bluegrass music winding around him and Ned leaning against the bar, sweet-talking a couple of out-of-towners into dancing with him, Casper harbored his doubts.
His brain kept traveling back to Thor, Aggie’s journal, and the other pieces of the story, now floating to the surface of his mind. Like the fact that Aggie’s father had died. Or as Aggie said, been murdered. And what about the missing US Steel bonds? Did they actually belong to Aggie?
What if she still had them tucked away somewhere?
But if she truly was a wealthy debutante, why would she hide in the woods, married to a local fisherman-turned-merchant the rest of her days?
Thor’s letter pulsed at him. “I think, in fact, you’ve known the truth about Duncan for years. In my defense, I did what every husband would do to keep his family safe.”
Casper had a feeling he knew exactly what Thor might have done—
“Casper!”
He turned to see Signe sidling up to him. She wore jeans, a low-cut black shirt, a white faux fur–trimmed vest, looking every inch a snow bunny. “I was hoping I’d see you.”
“Hey, Sig. I thought you’d be working at the VFW tonight.”
“Nope.” Her long blon
de hair was down and she flipped it. “Remember when I told you I had a boyfriend?” She reached for his drink, pushed it aside, and climbed onto the stool beside his. “We broke up.”
Movement beyond her caught his eye, and for a moment his gaze landed, stayed on a brunette, her hair piled on top of her head, a few curly tendrils escaping. Then she turned, and his entire body went numb. In fact, maybe he’d never be able to breathe again. She wore tall black boots that only showed off her legs, a black dress that hugged the outline of her body, tracing all her curves—the ones that having a baby had left behind. A red scarf draped her neck, accentuating her red lipstick, and when she smiled at Monte, sweetly, trusting, Casper wanted to launch himself across the room and tackle him.
But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“So if you’re still interested, wanna dance?”
He reeled himself back, followed the voice, and found Signe grinning at him, reaching out to touch his shirt. “I like your necklace.” Her fingers closed around it. “Where’d you get it?”
“From a dig I worked on.” He saw her eyes sparkle as she examined it and thought, Why not? He’d hardly be giving it to Raina, and he wasn’t sure why he hung on to it. “You can have it.”
“Really?”
He untied it and reached around her, tying it around her neck.
“What is it?”
“A pirate doubloon,” he said, not sure why.
“I like it.” Then she leaned over and popped a kiss on his lips. Fast and tasting of beer.
Oh. Uh.
“Now do you want to dance?”
But the kiss had somehow slid shadows into his mood. “No. I think . . . I think I need to go.” It didn’t help that when he glanced again at Raina’s table, he saw Monte seated across from her, his hand on the table, holding hers. Caressing it. She laughed, and Casper thought he might shatter right there.
“No, Casper, stick around. I’m sorry—”
But he pulled away, slid off the stool. “It’s fine. Nice to see you again, Sig. Another time.”
Or never.
He pushed through the crowd toward the door and had almost reached it when he felt a hand on his jacket.
“Casper!”
Ned.
“I gotta get out of here.”
“But I saw you talking to Signe.” Ned had consumed a few beers and probably didn’t realize that the way he clamped his arm around Casper’s neck might cut off his air.
He unwound Ned’s grip. “Please tell me you didn’t send her over.”
“She’s lonely, man. On the rebound. Eddie cheated on her, and she needs a little attention.”
“Not from me. Ned, do you have a ride home? Because if not, I’m taking your keys and calling you a cab.”
Ned laughed and gestured to the two girls at the bar. Nice.
“Okay, great. Listen, if you need a ride, call me. Otherwise, I’m heading home.” He couldn’t help it. He glanced again toward Raina but shouldn’t have because he saw Monte take her hand and lead her to the floor as the band churned out a country slow dance.
Yeah, maybe Casper had been harboring some delusional hope that last weekend’s outing would spark something between them, something better, deeper. Something that would heal old wounds.
Except maybe it had. Maybe it had healed them too well.
At least for Raina.
“Stay out of trouble,” he said to Ned and ventured out into the cold. Whatever clues they’d dug up, he’d sleuth out the rest of the mystery on his own.
It took him the entire ride home before he could muster up a prayer for her.
“You’re so pretty, Raina. We had such a fun night. Are you sure you want me to leave?”
Monte stood just inside her door, one hand braced on the wall behind her, the other playing with her scarf, running it through his fingers, his eyes caressing her. Probably he didn’t realize how the scarf tightened around her neck.
She’d dressed up for him tonight because he’d asked her to, although her simple black dress still felt tight. However, the gleam of appreciation and the way he’d treated her—pulling out her chair, leaning in to give her his full attention, dancing with her, introducing her to his friends, his hand on the small of her back—all felt so . . . official. As if he wanted her to be a part of his world.
Which, after the debacle with Casper last weekend, she should welcome. Poor Monte—of course he should be jealous after she’d lied to him and snuck off with Casper as if it were a date. Of course he didn’t want her to spend time with her old flame, and when he explained, put it to her plainly, she saw that.
He’d had every right to raise his voice, to slam his hand against the wall in frustration. And then he’d actually teared up like she’d hurt him—really hurt him—and she’d pulled him into her arms.
He’d probably gotten the wrong idea about her, but thankfully she’d resurrected some boundaries before she found herself repeating the past.
Clearly she had problems drawing lines—Monte even told her that she didn’t know her own powers, that she drove a man beyond himself.
But not tonight. Monte had been the perfect gentleman, helping her into his truck, complimenting her, telling her jokes. He regaled her with a story about the estate he’d just landed, including a barn filled with old signs, a 1938 Ford tractor, and a player piano. “We’ll make a killing if we can find the right buyers.”
For a moment, her thoughts had flashed to Casper and what he’d say about the old car, the piano. The story he’d weave about the person who’d owned them, and maybe how he’d restore them.
She’d even mentioned the idea of restoring the piano to Monte. But he was right—why hang on to the past?
Now she ran her hand down his dress shirt. “It’s late, and I’m tired. But you could come by tomorrow night. I’ll make you dinner—”
He made a face. “Sweetie, I hate to tell you this, but . . . maybe you should let me do the cooking.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, of course, you’re so precious for offering, but I can bring over some takeout.” He slid his hand around her neck and kissed her softly, then with more ardor, his mouth tasting of the cabernet he’d had with his steak. She sank into him, trying to relax. He deepened his kiss, his hand now leaving her scarf. She caught it before his fingers could travel and pushed him away.
Monte frowned. Sighed. “Okay, Raina. Have it your way. This time.” He winked, added a smile.
She found a smile back, trembling a little.
Probably just from the way he made her feel. Wanted. As if he couldn’t get enough of her.
He reached for his coat. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“We got more orders into the shop, and Gust asked me to help him package them up.”
“As long as you’re not meeting Casper for more frivolous treasure hunting.”
She swallowed. “Nope. Of course not.”
“Good. I’ll be out of town for the day, but I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sleep well.” Then he closed the door behind him.
She bolted it. Watched him drive away.
Then she turned out the porch light and headed to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, dressed in her pajamas and a robe, she plopped down in the family room with a cup of hot cocoa and Aggie’s diary.
Only a month ago, she’d longed to do anything but read her evenings away. Now, with Monte at her house nearly every evening, watching one series after another—the Bourne movies, the Mission: Impossible movies—she longed for a quiet night.
Besides, Aggie and her mystery tugged at her. She’d tried to go to the house all week, but with the new snowfall, her car couldn’t make it through, and Monte hadn’t offered to clear the trail.
She might have to wait until spring to track down more pictures of Aggie. Without Casper.
She opened the page to where she’d last read, caught for a moment in the memory of Casper smiling at her like she’d unc
overed something rare and precious.
JUNE 6
Duncan has been gone a month, and I feel as if my heart will stop beating with the pain of missing him. I know our courtship was fast and born in secret, but his attention soothed the loneliness I have felt since Mother’s passing and the shame of Paris. He wants to take care of me, to love me and protect me.
The hotel feels like a prison, despite the delicious foods, the attention of the staff, the daily games of shuttlecock and pinochle. At night, the wind rustles the shaggy pine trees, whispering, and it is then I feel my father return to me, see his blood pooled on the desk. By day, the sunshine fights to find me, wrapped in a blanket in a chair by the beach. I fear I will never be warm again.
Please, please return to me, Duncan.
JUNE 8
Today, as I sat outside in a chair, searching the sea as if Duncan might return to me over it, a deliveryman came to the resort. He brought smooth, juicy oranges, and he delivered one to me by the sea.
He is a northern man. Tall, with broad shoulders that bear the evidence of hard work, and blond hair—so blond it seems almost white. He wears it shorn in back, a long fop of it in front, leaking from his fisherman’s cap, and under it, the palest-blue eyes, like the sky at dawn. He wore a white shirt, suspenders, and a pair of dark trousers and smelled of the north woods that surround us. Piney. Solid.
He offered me the orange, said he’d plucked it from the sky because it told him to.
Funny man. His name is also peculiar—Thor.
JUNE 17
Thorsen Wilder. This is his full name, the blond man from the woods. He works for a local merchant, driving his delivery vehicle, but today he came in a skiff over the water. He wore his hat, the brim shading his eyes until he got to shore.
He strode right up to me and asked me if I wanted a tour by sea.
I told him I’d already seen the sea, had crossed it twice.
He told me that I’d never seen his sea.
Indeed, I have never seen the sea like Thor showed me. He sails with his face to the winds, eyes on the horizon, expectant, even alive with the anticipation of the next wave. It stirs in me an odd longing, as does the rugged, uncut wilderness, the jagged rock jutting into the water. It is untamed and yet, sitting in the boat under Thor’s watchful attention, I feared nothing.
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