“Maybe we should live here,” I suggested to Race.
“Has someone been using this room?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“George should know. Why don’t we ask him?”
“You’ll see that he isn’t always that forthcoming.”
I sat on the bed and Race sat next to me. The mattress was soft and squeaked but it wasn’t crying out with years of rot like the others. I looked at Race and at the same time we exhaled, “Hmm.” Then we laughed, and Race wrapped me up in his arms, laid me back on the bed and we made out.
The overwhelmed look returned to Race’s face when we went upstairs to the attic. I have to admit, I hadn’t remembered there being quite so much stuff in the space. I pulled him through the maze of piles, crates, and furniture and took him to the largest dormer that looked out over the lake.
“Wow, Cam!” And it was genuine awe.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? Honestly, Race, it’s the best view on the island.”
“I believe it.”
I wrapped my arms around him and looked up into his sexy blue eyes. But I didn’t ask, I didn’t have to because Race said, “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s more of a project than I was expecting but it has Cammy Coleman written all over it. And I know from experience if there’s anyone who can pull this place together, it’s my wife.”
Before we went back to the cottage, I checked the board with the keys behind the front desk. Key number ten was on its hook.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Welcome to St. Gabriel
According to Barbara and June at the Historical Society, the cottages on The Lake Lodge property had all been built sometime in the late 1930s. None had a heating system, but when I was on the island the year before, I had noticed a supply of firewood on the property.
The first thing Race and I did was to move a pile of wood near the cottage and then light a fire in the fireplace, which was very clean, thanks to Ralph Cummings, the electrician.
Nothing had been updated since the cottage was constructed, but the plumbing seemed to be working fine, and the water heater had been installed. The plumber had done something.
The electrical seemed to be in working order also, we thought. When we plugged in the vacuum that we bought with the other cleaning supplies on the mainland, sparks crackled from the dark brown outlet plate and the lights went out. We would have to be careful until the wiring was replaced.
Thankfully, Race had some experience with fuses at his grandparent’s farm and there was a box of them on top of the fuse box. We put the vacuum away and we would have to clean the old fashioned way.
It took two hours to wipe away and sweep up the dust that coated the small space from top to bottom. Then we washed everything down three times until the bucket of cleaning water wasn’t turning to a dirty soup as we rinsed the rags.
We unloaded the dray and unpacked the boxes. I had been in contact with an appliance repair man on the mainland who would be over the following week to check out all of the stoves and refrigerators. If he could get them working properly, I was hoping to use the original appliances, classics. For the time being, our cold food was in two coolers that we set outside on the front porch to keep the ice from melting too fast.
It was dark by the time we got around to moving one of the mattress sets from the lobby of the lodge to the cottage. When we did, it started to rain. Fortunately, both pieces were in boxes and wrapped in plastic.
I had ordered new mattresses for both cottages. One for Race and me to sleep on and one for the other vacant cottage that I had hoped to start renting right away. I had asked George if he wanted me to order him a new mattress. Shocking, but he said, “Nope.”
That night we learned an antique bed is not necessarily as long as a contemporary bed. The new queen-sized mattress would fit fine on the double-sized frames as far as width, but they were too long. I probably could have learned that on the Internet.
We disassembled the frame of the old bed and moved it, along with the old mattress, to the porch. Then we set the new mattress and box springs on the floor in the bedroom and made it up with the linens I had packed before the move.
Once we had done all of the settling in we would do for that day, Race filled the clawfoot bathtub with hot water. We squeezed in and soon fell asleep. When we woke up the water was cold, so we dried off and slipped under the covers of our new bed on the floor, and we made love for the first time in our new home.
We hadn’t seen George since he picked up our things in town the day before. In the morning I woke up and heard voices. From the bedroom window, I could see Race in quite a lively conversation with George Miller. And yes, it was a two way conversation. I quickly got dressed, but by the time I ran out the back door, George was gone.
“You were talking to George?” I asked Race, a little breathless.
“Yes, and he’s quite an interesting man. He had just come up from the lake. He was out fishing in a boat he keeps down at the beach. Did you know he worked at the View Point Hotel when he was a teenager, and he grew up on the island?”
“He told you all that?”
“Yes.” Race took note of my confusion. “What’s wrong?”
“I told you how he’s hardly said anything to me. You saw for yourself when he met us at the ferry, but to you he’s divulging his life story.”
“Maybe it takes time for him to warm up, and maybe now that we’re neighbors he’s more comfortable.”
“Maybe.”
“Or…” Race leaned in and whispered in my ear, “…maybe he’s afraid of girls.”
“Have you gone for your run yet?” I asked him.
“No.”
“I think now would be a good time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Race ran down the hill to Shoreline Drive, I yelled to him, “And don’t get lost!”
He yelled back, “I thought you said it’s a small island!”
I walked back to the cottage through the back door and into the kitchen. I made a cup of tea and took it and Einstein to the front porch where I would look over my to-do list for the day. On the porch the lids of our two coolers were open and our food had been rummaged through.
The discards were scattered from railing to railing—empty yogurt containers, lettuce greens and cherry tomatoes, an empty carton of eggs with its contents cracked and oozing over its sides, and a torn-open package of Dubliner cheese that was uneaten. Most of the fruit was gone and a bag of frozen wild caught Atlantic salmon had completely disappeared, without a trace.
Race came back from his run just as I was going out the door to the porch with a bucket of mop water and the three plastic cans we had bought for sorting our trash, one each for composting, recycling and off the island to the dump.
“What happened here?” Race asked.
“Apparently there was a party and we weren’t invited.”
“What do you think did it?”
“Well, I don’t think Cat is that deft, and I’m quite sure she would have partaken of the cheese.” I held up the open, uneaten block of Dubliner.
Race knelt down and began picking up pieces of eggshells. “If I had to guess, I’d say raccoon.”
“Probably.”
After the mess was cleaned up and the coolers were cleaned out, we took them back inside where they wouldn’t be vulnerable to another midnight raid, once they were refilled with anything worth taking. I called the appliance repair guy and asked if he might be able to come out sooner than the following week.
“I can be there tomorrow,” he said, which took me back a little.
I had already learned that finding capable and willing workers, who lived on the island or who came over from the mainland, was challenging. The pre-season is intense with all of the businesses preparing for the tourists, and there is never enough help to go around. So, when Ted Mason said, “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I was instantly suspicious.
That first morning we cleaned out the up
stairs bedroom so that Race could set up his study. While we cleared out the room, I watched from the upstairs windows to see if George would reappear. He didn’t.
Race and I moved most of the bedroom furniture down the stairs and over to the lodge. All that we left in the room was a small wardrobe that Race would use for storing office supplies and an overstuffed chair that needed the dust beat out of it and ultimately would be reupholstered.
The summer before, I had seen a roll-top desk at Harper’s Antiques on Main Street. It would have been perfect for Race but it had been one of the museum pieces marked, Not for Sale. Of all the furniture on the property there was not one desk, so we moved an oak dining chair and a small kitchen table from the attic. Also in the attic, we found two matching glass-fronted oak bookcases that Race would need to move with someone stronger than me. They were beautiful and also very heavy.
A little before noon we cleaned up and changed clothes to ride to town for lunch, and I would introduce Race to Sara.
When we had our bikes down the hill, Race said, “We need to buy you a mountain bike. I saw some beautiful trails this morning that the Schwinn wouldn’t do well on.”
“Okay, the next time we go over to Kipsey, we’ll look for one.”
Race was thinking a tomorrow thought about the island and I was thrilled. Then he suggested, “Let’s take Shoreline Drive into town. I want to see the part we didn’t ride yesterday.”
We ate lunch at Meaks Deli and Larry Meaks Jr. remembered me. “You’re the lady who drank gallons of our lemonade and had all the questions.”
Race laughed and introduced us, “We’re the Colemans, Cammy and Race.”
“We bought The Lake Lodge,” I told him.
Larry looked surprised but then offered, “If you need anything, give us a holler.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we need help moving some furniture and we may need to find a plumber. The one I hired didn’t install our washer and dryer and now I can’t get in touch with him.”
“If its furniture moving you need help with, my pop’s running the shop tomorrow and I’d be glad to come out there and help you out.”
“We’d really appreciate it, and we’ll pay you for your time,” said Race.
“No need for that. I’d like to do it as a neighborly thing. For your plumbing I’d recommend Joel Morrison. He’s a Gabey, been plumbing since he was a boy with his father. He’ll get you fixed up.”
When Race and I walked into Hausterman’s Bakery that day, Sara sat on the counter, swung her legs over and knocked a basket of creamers onto the floor. Then she rushed forward, hugged me and swayed me side to side.
“Cammy, Cammy, Cammy my long-lost friend. I thought you got in yesterday. I’ve been waiting for you to walk through that door.”
I stood to Sara’s side and wrapped my arm around her waist. “Sara Strauss, this is my husband, Race Coleman.”
Race held out his hand and Sara shook it up and down as if she was trying to work it loose. “It’s so nice to meet you. Welcome to St. Gabriel.”
At a table we ate Breschberger Keplas, the cookie-sized pastries with butter and walnuts, and we drank steaming cups of black currant and cherry tea. While Sara and I caught up, Race listened contentedly, smiling as though he knew something we didn’t.
“So, tell me, Race. What do you think of The Lake Lodge?”
“It’s only been a day, but I think it’s growing on me.”
“Sara is one of the Gabies that think the lodge is haunted.” I made a frightened face in her direction.
“Go ahead, joke all you want. I just hope the both of you can run fast.”
Race then told a story about a bedroom in his great Aunt Edna’s house that she believed was haunted. “There were noises in the night and things would be moved around in the morning.”
Sara was riveted.
“Then one day, she noticed a strong smell coming from the room. Aunt Edna, who didn’t see or hear all that well, was convinced the ghost had died. She could hear the being moan and wail with grief as it was trying to break free from this world and move on to the next. When my dad went over to investigate, he followed the smell to the bedroom closet and opened the door. From the closet…” Race raised his voice with the next line. “…clawing and scratching the meanest, ugliest cat you’ve ever seen leaped at his chest.”
Sara screamed and would have fallen back in her chair if Race hadn’t caught her while laughing his scrumptious laugh.
“Noodles! That wasn’t funny.” Sara punched Race in the arm and I knew they would be friends.
“Noodles?” Race asked.
“She was cursing,” I told him.
“Oh.”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Professor Coleman. Miss Strauss here believes in the creative use of the English language. In addition, she has a whole volume of words that you would not recognize and possibly, would not approve of.”
“Such as?” Race asked.
“Well, how ‘bout, yabberbash.” I suggested.
“Which means?” Race asked.
I motioned to Sara to do the honors.
“You know when you go out to dinner with a group of people and the conversation is just amazing, back and forth for hours. Or you meet someone for the first time and you feel as though you’ve known them forever, and you tell them your life story and they tell you theirs. That’s a yabberbash.”
“Of course it is.” Race grinned.
“Cammy and I had a yabberbash the first time we met.”
I set my hand on Sara’s arm and the other on my heart. “Really?”
Sara nodded. “And many times since,” she added.
“I’m touched.”
“I’d like to hear another,” said Race.
“Cazingydink,” I said.
“Not a coincidence or a cowinkydink, and it’s very rare actually, but it does happen. It’s a really amazing coincidence like when you’re in a completely new city and you see a hat that reminds you of someone you went to high school with, then you turn the corner and run right into that person. Or, you’re in Mexico and you meet someone. Neither of you speak Spanish. They’re Italian and don’t speak English. You speak English but not Italian, but you both speak Chinese. Those are cazingydinks.”
“Those things happened to you?” Race asked.
“Running into a high school friend in New York City, yes. The Mexico thing, no. But if it did, it would be a cazingydink.”
“I think I wrote my thesis on the wrong topic,” said Race.
“Okay, enough. Get back to the cat. How’d it get in the closet?” Sara asked.
“Well, the cat had been sneaking in an open roof vent and coming down through an attic access and into the closet. He had probably spent many nights, snooping around the room when the closet door had been left open, and having a good catnap on the bed no doubt. The last time through, the cover to the attic access had been knocked closed and the cat was trapped. So for days, it was in the closet, calling out for help and doing its business.”
“See, there’s always a logical explanation,” I said.
“Are you saying ghosts are not logical?” Sara asked.
“You’re hopeless,” I told her.
As we were leaving the bakery that day, Sara whispered in my ear, “You have good taste, Cammy Coleman. He’s gorgeous…and charming. I can see now why you couldn’t stop talking about him last summer, even though he’d broken your heart.”
“Did I really?”
“Incessantly.”
I felt a blush rush up from my neck. As I got on my bike, I called back to her, “Come out and see us, friend.”
“Not on your life, friend.”
Tate’s Market is the only grocery store on the island. It’s a small shop that is frequented by the tourists and by the locals in an emergency. The prices are high and the selection is limited. But when you have unexpected losses, as we had the night before, you’re glad that it takes up space on Main Street.
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br /> Before riding back to the lodge, we stopped in to replenish what we’d shared with our neighbors, and we were pleasantly surprised to find a refrigerator case filled with fresh Wisconsin cheese. There was cheddar, Munster, Colby, Gouda, Swiss and specialty cheeses like dill and pickle, pineapple and pecan, and chocolate—chocolate cheese.
Race and I stood in front of the glass case pointing. “Look at this.” “Check this out.” “Did you see that?”
A woman came up behind us and asked, “Would you like to try a sample?”
Race looked at her name badge. “Yes, Sherry, we would.”
She went behind the counter and presented us with a plate of milky niblets and we dug in, all the while asking, “What’s this?” “How ‘bout this one?” “This is fabulous, so creamy and flavorful.”
We cleaned her out.
“Where do you get this?” I asked, pulling the last piece off a toothpick with my teeth. “I’ve never tasted cheese like this.”
“My husband and I bring it back from my sister’s in Kenosha when we visit. She has a little dairy and a factory.”
“God bless your sister,” said Race.
“We’re the Colemans. I’m Cammy and this is Race.”
“Sherry Oliver.”
“Not Tate?” I asked.
“No, we bought the store ten years ago from the Tates. My husband didn’t want to buy a new sign.”
“We just moved to the island,” I announced with pride.
“That’s something you don’t hear very often,” said Sherry.
“That’s surprising isn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to live on St. Gabriel?” I asked and winked at Race who pinched my bottom.
“Not everyone’s cut out for island life. So, where are you living?” she asked.
My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Page 16