Race was presented with a gold pocket watch that was engraved with the date of his first semester at the college and his last semester, the one he had just finished. He still didn’t like the insinuation that he was retiring, but he did like the watch.
And when Race accepted the watch and spoke to the guests, he recounted his first day of teaching at the school and thanked everyone who he had taught and worked with, and then he said, “But the person who made it possible for me to do what I love all of these years and still have a beautiful family and a loving home is my wife. My teaching would have been empty, pointless if it hadn’t been for her. Thank you, Cammy, I love you.” And then he left the podium and came to me, took me in his arms, and we danced even though there wasn’t any music. Everyone applauded. It was really corny and really great.
I hadn’t been looking forward to the evening but it was good for me, good for us. That evening I realized how much I had changed, Race and I had both changed, but Race and Cammy were still Race and Cammy and it felt solid. Sarah Burns did not show up.
Right before Christmas a reminder of the early days of Race and my separation came in the mail. It was a letter from the Eat Clean, Be Clean, Beverly Rivers. Responding to the letter of thanks I had sent to her the previous spring, Beverly sent me her phone number and asked if I would please call her. She wrote that she would like the opportunity to talk to me about what Eat Clean, Be Clean had done for me.
My letter to Beverly Rivers wasn’t something Race or anyone else knew about. I had always thought about writing to public figures that had impacted me, you know, to encourage them. But then I would never get around to it. They probably wouldn’t read the letter anyway. Their mail was certainly screened by a team of managers and publicists. That letter I wrote after Race had left me was as much to encourage me as it was her I think.
I wasn’t sticking to the Rivers plan anymore, but what I had learned when I was eating clean had changed the way I ate, most of the time, and the way I thought about food and my body. But totally clean, free of sugar, caffeine, dairy, white flour, I was not. Still, I had tremendous respect for Beverly Rivers. She had inspired me to do something for myself that helped get me through a very bad time in my life. So, I dialed the number.
“Hello, this is Beverly,” the voice said with a cheery English accent.
I wasn’t expecting her to answer. “Beverly Rivers?” I clarified.
“Yes.”
“This is Cammy Coleman. I received a letter from you. You asked me to call you. Ms. Rivers, I wanted to let you know—”
“Call me, Beverly.”
“Okay.”
“Cammy, yes, thank you for your letter. I’ve been meaning to write you since I got it. I was so touched by the things you wrote.”
What did I write? I couldn’t even remember.
“So, tell me, Cammy, how are you getting along?”
“Great, but I’m not—”
“So, you’ve kept the weight off?”
“Yes, but—”
“And how is your life going? I remember you were at a turning point in your marriage.”
“Well, actually, my husband and I have gotten back together.”
“Congratulations. That’s brilliant. That is a keen, isn’t it?”
“Keen?”
“A good thing.”
“Yes, it’s a very good thing.”
“Great, then, if I’m ever in Texas, I hope we can meet. Or if you’re ever in New York, you have my number and you can ring me.”
“Actually, we’re getting ready to move to St. Gabriel Island. Have you heard of it?”
“No, an island, huh, that sounds interesting. What’s taking you to an island, St. Gabriel you say?”
“I bought a lodge, The Lake Lodge. We’re going to restore it and open it up for business.”
“That really is interesting. Sounds like you’re stepping out. Well, again, Cammy, I want to thank you for writing me such a beautiful letter. It’s always good to know that people are benefiting from a clean lifestyle. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Beverly.”
“Goodbye, Cammy.”
“Goodbye.” I hung up.
That went well. My call to confess became a completely false representation of my life as a clean eater. I thought about calling her back but what would I say? “Actually, Beverly Rivers, don’t be too encouraged by me. I’m a backslider.” That seemed like a waste of a phone call, so I let it go.
Paul and Janie came home for Christmas and we spent the holidays at Race’s parents. When Paul went back to work and Janie went back to school in January, Race and I made lots of road trips around Texas.
I think Race really was hoping that I might change my mind before the spring and not want to leave. Texas wasn’t home anymore though, and I wanted to go home. But as we spent that time together, Race saying goodbye to the Lone Star State, he talked more and more about our future on St. Gabe, and I could feel his excitement about starting his novel.
Still, I was taking a risk. I knew that Race might go to St. Gabriel and not want to stay. He had left me once, he could leave again. Anything was possible.
When April arrived, we packed what was left of our worldly possessions in the back of Race’s jeep and in the small hauling trailer that he and his dad had made. We secured our bikes on the rack and drove to the interstate.
I looked over at Race who, despite all that had happened, I adored, and I felt a shift. I would be the one to jump through the hoops. I would do all I could to make my husband love an island.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ours, All Ours
Lake Brigade is one of the largest fresh bodies of water in the world. Its temperature never rises to more than seventy degrees Fahrenheit, during any part of the year, and it is home to some of the best freshwater diving anywhere. Race and I stood on the top deck of the ferry boat, and I was filled with the peace, joy, and excitement of going home that is felt after a vacation that has lasted too long.
Race stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, possibly so that I couldn’t see the tension on his face. As the shores of St. Gabriel came into view, I pointed out the Fort on the hill, The Willows Inn that I had stayed at with Loretta and the girls, the downtown area, and the building that housed Hausterman’s Bakery. Inhaling the Lake Brigade air was calming, clean and crisp with the scent of evergreens drifting from beyond the shores, and as we approached the dock, you guessed it, pastry.
Traces of snow were still on the ground but the island had been experiencing record high temperatures for April, high fifties, the white stuff would soon be a winter memory.
I had called Betty and asked if she would please let George know we would be arriving on the noon ferry. “And please ask him to meet us with the dray.”
We stood on Main Street, waiting with our bikes. Stacked behind us were the cans of paint for the cottages, suitcases and a wall of boxes. The boxes were filled with things we had moved from Texas and all of the purchases we had made in the town of Kipsey on the mainland—groceries, cleaning supplies, and new bed and bath linens for the rental cottage.
My concern that George didn’t get the message, or that Collard Greens had refused to pick up that woman, began a session of hand-wringing. I don’t even realize when I’m doing it. As we stood there, having no way to find out where George was, I was lamenting that I didn’t talk to him myself. It was not what I wanted Race’s first impression of the island to be.
Race watched me fret for few minutes and then held out his hand. I slipped my fingers between his and he gave me a big smile, and then thankfully, George came around the bend from Shoreline Drive.
Collard Greens, with his light brown coat, trotted alongside the blackest horse I had ever seen. The new horse was about the same height as his coworker but had a youthful spirit that made Collard Greens look like a mule. The horse’s frame was covered with huge muscles that flexed with every step, and his shiny black coat stretched across t
hem like patent leather. I wondered, boy or girl? And either way, what did Cat think of this stunning creature?
George climbed down from the dray. I gave him a hug and then introduced him to Race, “George, this is my husband, Race Coleman.”
George pinched the tip of his hat and tilted his head at Race. Then the three of us loaded the boxes, suitcases and paint cans in the dray.
“I don’t think we need to do this. The skies are clear,” Race said as we covered the load with a tarp and tied it down.
“Wait ten minutes that could change,” I told him. Before George climbed back into the dray, I gave him another hug. “Thanks for meeting us, George. We’ll see you back at the lodge.”
We could have loaded our bikes in the dray and climbed up with George, but I wanted Race’s first look at the island to be from behind the handlebars of his mountain bike. He loved to ride that bike almost as much as he loved driving his jeep.
We wouldn’t stop at the bakery to meet Sara that day. Race would need time to take everything in slowly. I didn’t want him overwhelmed. Ha, as if that was even possible, but I figured why push it.
Before we rode to the lodge, I took Race to the Island House Restaurant for lunch. He loved the Tournedos of Beef, I knew he would, he was a Texas boy. Outside the restaurant we saw Lucy, the flower lady.
“Hi, Lucy, I’m Cammy. We met last summer in front of The Willows Inn. My friends and I bought some flowers from you. This is Race, my husband.”
“Hi, Cammy and Race.”
“How are you, Lucy?” I asked.
“The lilies are blooming. Do you want to buy some flowers?”
I looked at Race and smiled.
“I think we should,” said Race. He pulled out his wallet, and I picked out a bouquet of lilies of the valley.
With the flowers and a copy of The St. Gabriel News in the basket of the Schwinn, we set out to ride to the other side of the island, pedaling in the direction that kept the lake breeze at our backs. All of this may seem a bit manipulative, but I liked to think of it as having been a gentle way to introduce Race to his new surroundings, his new life.
After we had passed all the buildings, and were riding between the shore and the wooded hillsides, I saw wild crocus that had pushed up through an isolated patch of snow and, in a shady spot away from the road, a single trillium flower.
Trillium is a unique three-petal flower with two sets of three dark green leaves. Although there are many varieties of trillium, trillium grandiflorum or the Great White grow on the island. They are the white-petaled variety that turns a faint shade of lavender as they age. Three of the leaves are small and grow right under the neck of the bloom. Three larger leaves are attached further down the stem—three, three, and three, thus its name trillium.
Trillium is a protected species in many areas because trillium propagation is a real art and the plant is very tender. If the leaves or blooms of a trillium are picked or damaged, it may not recover for many years or the whole plant could die. You may see a single flower standing all by itself in a wooded area, or, if you really hit the jackpot, three or four together. I still feel a little sense of privilege when I see one.
I stopped briefly to take a picture, and before we were back on the bikes again, I asked Race, “What do you think, so far?” I couldn’t help myself.
“It is beautiful,” was all he said.
I put a lot of thought into the exact route we would take to the lodge. Should we ride the outside loop, which would take us along the shoreline and Race would see the lodge from the front as we came around the corner? Or, should we ride straight up Fort Hill from Main Street, through the middle of the island to Grayson’s Pass, and to the back gate of The Lake Lodge property, which was a more direct route?
I decided on a combination of the two. When we got to the sign with an arrow that read, Island Center, we followed the road up the hill and through Tunnel Rock to the middle of the island and then rode some of the side trails. Along the trails I saw a whole collection of plants and flowers that I hadn’t seen when I was on the island the summer before. It was all I could do to not jump off the Schwinn and crawl around the ground to investigate.
Stay focused Cammy. This ride is not about you, I told myself. Race had a deep appreciation for nature, but waiting for me to take dozens of pictures and record in Einstein what I had seen and where, would not be his favorite pastime.
The trails wound through the woods to Grayson’s Pass, which we did not take to the back gate of the property; instead, we followed the pass back down to Shoreline Drive, catching it just around the corner from the lodge. I rode alongside Race so that I could see his face when he saw the property, in person, for the first time.
That wasn’t the best idea. The tense look I thought he might have had on his face on the ferry, there it was. I had hoped he would have the same experience I had when I first saw the lodge, overcome with a feeling of peace and excitement at the same time, definitely not what he was experiencing.
The front gate was propped open, and I pushed my bike up the hill to the cottage and Race followed. George had left the dray loaded with our things by the back door, but he had unhitched the horses.
I set the kickstand down on my bike and waited for Race to lean his on the porch, no kickstands on mountain bikes, and then I asked him, “What do you want to do first, take a tour or get settled?”
“Take a tour.”
“Of everything?”
“Yes, of everything.”
I took Race’s hand, walked up the steps of the cottage porch and guided him through the downstairs. The living room had a small sofa and two chairs arranged in front of the small stone fireplace and the room had a view of the water beyond the porch. The kitchen table sat in front of a window with a lake view as well and from the window over the kitchen sink, we could look out to the woods.
The bedroom and bathroom were both roomier than I had remembered. Upstairs, I showed Race the second bedroom with dormered ceilings and an impressive view of the water. “If you like it, I thought this could be your study.”
Race held my cheek in his hand and looked at me with the intensity that always makes me a little weak and tingly. “It’ll be perfect.”
From there I showed Race the other empty cottage that sat between the lodge and George’s place. When we entered the barn, Collard Greens was already turned around in butt-greeting position. He must have heard I’d be stopping by.
I walked over to our new horse and set my hand on his nose, to which he responded by pushing up against my palm, ever so slightly, and whipping his tail back and forth.
“Hi, boy.”
“Girl,” Race corrected.
“Look, Collard Greens, someone likes me.” I looked at Collard Greens who hadn’t even acknowledged my presence.
“That sounded somewhat bitter,” said Race.
“We have a history.”
“Apparently.”
Cat was nowhere to be seen. Maybe three was a crowd.
We stopped in the tool shed that was full of every imaginable garden and carpentry implement, albeit of the vintage variety. The tools would all need cleaning, sharpening, and painting or sealing of the wood handles, but then they would do the job nicely. My dirt scoop, Janie’s rake and shovel, and my pruners would fit right in.
Finally, I led Race to the lodge. We entered through the front door and into the lobby, which looked more like a loading dock. Six very large boxes containing the washer and dryer and the two mattress sets I had ordered were sitting right inside the door.
The plumber I had contacted to check out the plumbing in the cottage and to install the water heater and the washer and dryer assured me, “No problem. I’ll have it taken care of by the end of March.” Evidently, there was a problem.
The first thing Race noticed through the panes of the French doors was the library. I know this may be hard to believe, but until that moment, it had not occurred to me that those books would be my allies in giving Race
things to love about our new home. I loved the books, but they were old and dusty and not what Race had collected out of his interests. None of that mattered. He walked by the shelves, read the spines, and pulled one down and opened it.
“We can finish the tour later, and I can start cleaning the cottage while you hang out in here.”
“No.” He put the book back on the shelf. “Let’s keep going.”
I led Race through each room, opening closets and cupboards for him to see inside. When we got to the cellar door in the kitchen, I opened it and pushed the buttons on the switch plate, Voila! A light bulb that hung from the ceiling of the stairwell lit a path to the bottom of the stairs.
“This is where the ghosts live,” I joked to Race.
“Ghosts?”
Had I not mentioned it? I guess I hadn’t.
“Some of the locals think the lodge is haunted, silly stuff.”
“Hmm.” Thankfully, Race was amused by the thought.
Even with the lights, the large concrete-walled space at the bottom of the stairs was dimly lit, and it smelled dusty and damp. A small window near the ceiling was covered with a shabby old blanket, which I pulled down. Wooden shelves lined the room and some were stacked with wooden boxes that, in earlier times, might have held potatoes, apples and onions for winter storage. Also on the shelves, were old lever-topped and metal-lidded canning jars, lots of them. A collection of gathering baskets hung from the ceiling. Behind the shelves at the end of the concrete cavern, an old heat boiler sat in the corner.
We didn’t stay long in the cellar before we climbed the kitchen stairs to the second floor. It wasn’t until we were wandering through the guestrooms that it hit me, This is ours, all ours.
The door of room number ten was standing open. “This one was locked when I saw the place before,” I told Race as we walked in.
“Why?”
“I think the ghosts were using it.”
We laughed.
It was larger than the other rooms and was the only guestroom with a fireplace. A big oak sleigh-style bed was pushed up against the wall in between two matching windows. The bed was covered in lace-trimmed cotton linens and a patchwork quilt. The quilt was made of white fabrics: cotton, satin, and velvet and was pulled tightly over the mattress and then tucked inside the bed frame. White lace-trimmed cotton curtains hung at the windows. They were clean and in perfect condition. Also in the room were a large wardrobe, a table with two chairs, a settee, and a dresser. It was beautiful and there was no dust to speak of on anything.
My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Page 15