Oh, no. It’s happened. I’m afraid of a pastry.
I had half of one. It was light and tender with a sugary crunch on the top, worth every bite.
Jeremy was back at the front desk and I asked him, “When do you sleep?”
“In October when the season’s over. You know, work hard all summer, so I can play all winter.”
“And where do you play?”
“Costa Rica, the Bahamas, someplace warm usually.”
“No school?” I was mothering. Stop it, Cammy.
“I went for two years. I’m taking a break.”
“A break is good,” I said, trying to sound supportive of Jeremy’s choices as if he cared what I thought.
Paul wanted to take a break after his junior year of college, but Race encouraged him to finish and take a break after graduation. Race has this way of getting his son and daughter to consider their options from all angles, until they finally settled on his angle. Sounds controlling, but I appreciated how Race took the time to impart wisdom to our children. I had always thought Race was wise, which made his destruction of our family even more confusing.
When I say he encouraged Paul, what he did was play a little game I like to call, Have You Thought About? I, on the other hand, tend to preface my parent-child discussions with statements like, “I just hope…,” “I can’t believe…,” and “Why would you…?" Not nearly as effective I’ve found.
After Race talked to Paul, and Paul thought about it, he did finish school but then he did not take a break after graduation; instead, he took a research job and began working on his Master’s degree, which for our free-spirited son was quite a commitment.
When we left the inn that first morning on St. Gabriel, we were greeted by a petite older woman at the sidewalk. She was riding a bright red three-wheeled bike with a large metal basket mounted behind the seat that was filled with flowers. With the joy of a little girl at play, she was about to cruise on by until she saw us walking down the path from the inn, and then she hit the brakes.
“Hi, I’m Lucy.” She grinned and her blue eyes sparkled on her delicate little face that had just the right number of soft creases. Lucy wore a blue and red calico print dress with white bobby socks and Nikes. On her head sat a wide-brimmed straw hat that looked as old as she was; it was pulled down over a waist-length gray and blonde braid of hair.
“Hi, Lucy, I’m Cammy and this is Sandi, Marni, and Loretta. How are you?”
Lucy reached behind her and swept her hand over some pink blooms. “The peonies are pretty today.”
“That’s good. Do you grow all these?” I asked.
She opened her eyes wide and nodded.
“On the island?”
“Uh huh.”
“They’re beautiful, Lucy.”
She walked around to the back of her bike. “Do you want to buy some?”
“Why, yes, we do. Don’t we ladies?” I looked at the girls and nodded.
“I know I want some flowers,” answered Marni.
“Me too,” added Sandi.
Lucy got us all fixed up. As she drove away whistling, Loretta asked me, “What are we going to do with these?”
“Take them upstairs and put them in water. Come on, it’ll only take a minute.”
Twenty minutes later, we had four ice buckets overflowing with Lucy’s island grown flowers and they were fabulous. Our next attempt to leave The Willows Inn took us all the way to the center of Main Street. The first order of the day was to check out the shops. Sandi immediately took to the task of buying something for all of her children and grandchildren who were sucking the life out of her.
We found a dozen different headscarves for Marni, solids and prints in every imaginable color. Dawn turned her nose up at every shop we went in, until we found a little boutique that carried Chanel handbags.
Loretta bought us all matching zippered sweat jackets that Dawn would never be caught dead in. They were white with St. Gabriel appliquéd across the front, the letters cut from a calico print jersey. Mine is currently hanging in my closet among my favorite jackets.
I lost an hour wandering around Harper’s Antiques, which was more of a museum than a retail operation. Not for Sale was tagged on at least half of the merchandise. When I asked Trudy Harper, the older woman behind the counter why, she answered, “Because it’s not for sale.” Well, of course, how silly of me for asking. I did find a box of vintage postcards of the island that actually had a price on it. I bought the cards and a little metal picture frame with bubble glass.
Marni had learned that you could not only go for a buggy ride around the island, but you could rent one and drive it yourself. And she couldn’t wait to get to the Island Livery Stables. While we were shopping, she would ask one of us, every ten minutes or so, “Are you ready to go for a buggy ride?”
Dawn’s response was, “Why would we want to spend the afternoon riding around behind the butt of a horse?”
“It’ll be fun.” Marni wasn’t deterred by Dawn’s lack of enthusiasm.
When we got to the stables, Dawn got quiet until we were about to climb into the buggy and then she asked Charlie, the stable guy, “Couldn’t it just run off, out of control?”
“No, ma’am, the horses are trained. They either do the inside loop or the outside loop.”
“See, this will be fun.” Marni beamed as she climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins from Charlie.
We rented a two bencher, Loretta up front with Marni, and Sandi, Dawn, and I in the backseat. Marni sat up straight with an intense look of concentration on her face, the reins firmly in her grasp even though the ride was the equivalent of driving the Autotopia cars at Disneyland.
Just like Charlie said he would, the horse stuck to the loop. What Charlie forgot to mention was that the horse might stop for no apparent reason and not want to go again.
We had chosen to take the loop that went up to the center of the island. We drove past Fort Gabriel and into the woods, through a natural tunnel in a granite hillside appropriately named Tunnel Rock, and back down the hill past the historic View Point Hotel and Golf Course before returning to the stables that were a block off Main Street.
We had just gone through the tunnel when the horse, I’m sorry I don’t remember his name, decided he was done. He just stopped.
Marni wasn’t disappointed. She was thrilled. It was her opportunity to do some real wrangling, and she gave it a valiant effort. She snapped the reins, clicked her tongue, and yelled, “Yee haw!” and “Giddy-up!” until she became hoarse, no pun intended.
“Maybe we could lead him,” Loretta suggested.
“I’m not pulling on any horse.” Dawn folded her arms and clenched her jaw.
“Fine, stay here,” I said, and Loretta, Sandi and I got out of the buggy.
Sandi held the strap of the bridle and tugged on it while she coaxed, “Come on, horsey.”
Nothing.
I took the bridle from the other side, and we both pulled while Marni went back to shaking the reins and giddy-upping.
Nothing.
Loretta joined in and was standing out in front, clapping her hands and pursing kisses at the horse, calling for him to come to her as if he was a puppy. That was it. We lost it and laughed hysterically. Sandi trotted back and forth to demonstrate to the horse what he should be doing. And Loretta did more of a fashion runway thing, singing, “Walk this way.” I just peed my pants, yes, I did.
Then from a stock-still stance, the horse took off at a pace that seemed significantly faster than his previous clip-clop and left us standing in the road. Marni was pulling hard on the reins, trying to stop the horse or slow him down so we could get back on board. But he was on track again and we had to run to catch up and jump in.
When we got back to the stable and made our report to Charlie, his response was, “Happens.”
Back at the inn, we changed for dinner and then we walked down Main Street to the Island House Restaurant. I had a sensible salad and a
couple bites of Loretta’s Tournedos of Beef. I wasn’t sure what a Tournedos was, but it was delicious. For dessert we stopped at a German bakery. The bell jingled on the door as we went in. A young woman was sweeping the floor and pulled headphones from her ears when she saw us.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked with a big smile.
Blonde dreadlocks were tied in a ponytail on top of her head. She had rosy cheeks that didn’t come from a compact and the lightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. A teeny-tiny blue stone was pierced through her upper lip, off to the side, right where you might want a beauty mark. Her flouncy floral skirt was swishing back and forth and her light pink lace top was just sheer enough to see her purple bra. She reminded me of Lisa Reesa, a carefree, colorful character in one of Janie’s favorite book series when she was a child: Lisa Reesa Jumps for Joy, Lisa Reesa Gets Lost. Lisa was always entangled in an exciting venture or calamity. I sensed this young woman might possibly have a lot in common with Lisa Reesa.
From behind the counter the woman described the jewels behind the glass, “This is Quark-tasche, a cheese pastry. This is Beinenstich, yeast dough with Bavarian cream filling and honey and almonds on top. And this is Breschberger Kepla, a cookie-sized pastry filled with walnuts, sugar, and butter.”
After we had all made our selections and were handed our white paper bags, I began my island interview as Loretta called it. My companions, not wanting to stay for the Q & A, said they’d meet me back at the inn.
“Are you from St. Gabriel?” I reached in my bakery bag and broke off a piece of Beinenstich. Butter, butter, butter and vanilla—the smell wafted from the bag the moment I opened it, intensifying as I brought it to my lips and put it in my mouth. “Mmm.” I licked the cream and honey from my fingers. The pastry melted in my mouth as I chewed—light and flakey with a big buttery taste. The filling was thick and creamy, at the same time not too heavy and not too sweet, bursting with flavor—vanilla and citrus maybe.
“Good?” She asked, with a smile of satisfaction, appearing truly pleased that I was having a culinary orgasm right there in front of her.
“Mmm, very good.”
It was so good, that I was surprised at how delighted she was that I liked it. She acted as if it was the first pastry she had ever sold. She was watching me, still smiling when she answered, “No, New Mexico. I came to work for the summer nine years ago and never left.”
“Not even in the winter?”
“Nope, I stay all year.” She sat on the stool behind the counter and hooked her feet on the side rungs.
“Really, what’s it like?” I ate another piece of pastry, trying not to moan as I chewed.
“Cold but gorgeous and peaceful. There’s only about five hundred of us who stay in the winter. Gabies, that’s what the locals call us. It’s a big contrast to the hundreds of summer residents and thousands of tourists that come through during the season. And a lot of the summer workers live on the mainland and take the ferry over to work every day. There’s a lot of coming and going.”
“No tourists in the winter?”
“A few but not many. They come by ferry until it doesn’t run anymore because of the ice. Or they come by plane to the island airport. Snowmobilers show up from the mainland when the ice crossing forms, if it does.”
“Ice crossing?”
“Most winters the lake freezes, and a path is marked along the ice crossing with old Christmas trees. You can walk, ski, or drive a snowmobile to the mainland. It’s about three miles. This is cross-country ski heaven. Do you ski?”
“Downhill, but I’ve never tried cross-country. I’d love to learn. Do you work in the winter?”
“No. Most of the businesses close down in the winter. There’s not much employment in the off-season. I paint.”
“Really, what do you paint?”
“Landscapes mostly.”
“What medium?”
“Oils. Do you paint?” she sat up with hopefulness that the answer would be yes.
“Just a little, watercolor, I’d love to see your work.”
Her eyes lit up. “Would you, honestly?”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll be right back.” She hopped down from the stool and, taking them two at time, sprinted up the wooden steps behind the counter. After a minute or two, she ran back down the stairs carrying what looked like a large fabric purse, which was actually a portfolio she had sewn from a piece of vintage broadcloth.
At the counter she unzipped the top, pulled out three canvases, and laid them in front of me. She set one up on its edge and said, “This is looking down from the top of Grayson’s Meadow. Have you been there?”
“No.”
“You should go up there. It’s beautiful. Just about every flower that grows on the island has found a home in Grayson’s Meadow.”
“I’ll make sure I see it.”
She held up the next. “This one is a little cottage that sits at the bottom of Gabriel Creek.” Laying that one down and lifting up the third, she said, “And this one is looking right out that window…” She pointed across the room. “…in the middle of January.”
“They’re wonderful.”
“Honestly?”
“Really, I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You’re very talented.”
Her smile pushed out her rosy cheeks and they got redder.
“I’m Cammy.”
“I’m Sara.”
I felt my stomach knot up. Why did that sweet ball of energy have to have that name? Why couldn’t it have been Tallulah, Gertrude, or Helga? Anything but that name.
I pushed her name aside, and we talked and laughed until she closed the shop at nine. I felt as if I’d known her all my life. She was older than I thought, thirty-five, and worked like a slave running the bakery for a German couple who lived in Duluth. She sold paintings when she could, and she didn’t spell her name with an H.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I Rounded the Corner
The night I met Sara Strauss, I realized that I had never had a soul sister. I now know that when you meet one, you know almost instantly. I’ve had friends, good friends, but to me Sara is an extension of my spirit. It goes beyond us both loving art, baking, and St. Gabriel Island, or us having both been raised by tough German mothers and somber fathers. It’s a connection that leads to a complete and total trust that gives you the freedom to let it all hang out.
In addition, Sara makes me laugh more than anyone I know, and I could listen to her talk for hours. She’ll share story after story that are filled with comedy and misadventures and she has one of the most unique takes on life that I’ve ever been witness to. An added bonus is that she can talk with spot-on foreign accents—it’s just downright entertaining.
Have you ever noticed how some people just zap your energy? After spending time with Sara Strauss, I always feel energized. And when I went back to the inn that night, I was energized, and I was carrying one of Sara’s paintings, the one of Grayson’s Meadow, and I had made a friend for life.
On my pillow was a note from Loretta. She and Dawn had coerced Marni into going to a bar that was supposed to have great live music. Sandi was fast asleep. I set Sara’s painting on the dresser and got ready for bed.
With the window wide open, I lay in bed that night and inhaled the Lake Brigade air that was carrying the scent of cherry blossoms from the trees that lined the east side of the park. I fell asleep thinking about the day and listening to ship horns, the clip-clop of horse hooves and the occasional bike bell jingling down on the street.
The next day, after some cursory whining from Dawn, we rented bikes to ride around the island, something every St. Gabriel visitor must do at least once. The first mile or so, inland and along the shoreline, we saw picture-perfect cottages and big Victorian houses. Some were inns and others private residences.
After that first mile there wasn’t a building in sight. On the inland side of the road were woods filled with pines, birches, sugar maples, sycamores, an
d a carpet of woodland flowers and ground cover. On the lakeside were beaches, white beaches and a never-ending view of the waters of Lake Brigade.
I stopped frequently to take pictures of the scenery and the girls grew tired of waiting for me, so I sent them ahead and told them I’d catch up, which I didn’t really try to do. It was so beautiful that I felt as if I was in a dream.
Eventually, my companions had lost their get-up-and-go and their breaks to rest got longer and longer, and I moved to the head of the pack again.
I had ridden almost half of the way around the ten-mile loop when I rounded the corner and it came into view, a three-story Adirondack-style building, up on the hill in a clearing. I stopped, dropped the bike and took pictures.
When the girls caught up to me, Dawn asked, “What now?”
“Keep going. I’ll catch up with you.”
“What do you want to take pictures of that for? It looks haunted.” Dawn sneered.
“Just go. I’ll be right behind you.”
“We can wait,” offered Loretta.
“No, I’m fine. Just go.”
Off they went, a bit wobbly on their start. They were really tired. None of them had been on a bike since they were teenagers or younger. What troopers.
I turned my attention back to the building. It was built with birch logs and shake shingles that had weathered to shades of gray, completely different from anything else I’d seen on the island, yet it looked right at home.
Porches wrapped both the first and second floors and five dormered windows lined the roof. The dormer in the center was larger than the two on either side. All of the windows had wooden shutters with quarter moons cut out in the center. Twisted birch branches were woven into sections of the porch railings, but most of the railings were open where the branches were missing.
A quaint birch log cottage sat on the hill next to the big log building. Two more roofs were over the rise, but I couldn’t see what they were attached to. Black iron fencing ran along the front of the property at the road but didn’t continue up the sides. Securing the gate was a heavy metal chain and an old rusted padlock.
My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Page 6