The Sweet Life

by Sharon Struth

  Sophie’s flats glided along the slick lawn. She gripped the cord of a bright orange sea kayak and, using two hands, struggled backward up the slope. Her foot skidded. The heel of her shoe wobbled for security but instead, her toes lifted off the ground and flashed toward the clear sky. The burning skid of the cord ripped across her palms just as her other foot lifted and launched her airborne. Thud!

  Air whooshed from her lungs. Pain coursed through her shoulder blades, neck, and spine. The ground’s chilly dampness seeped into her cotton khaki pants, raising goose bumps on her skin. Seconds passed without breath before she managed to swallow a gulp.

  Lying flat on her back, she stared at the cornflower blue sky and spotted a chalky slice of the moon. The night Henry died, a similar crescent had hung from the heavens, barely visible nestled among the glittering stars. She prepared for the scrape that threatened to tear the gouge of her scarred heart. Seven years. Seven painful years. She closed her eyes and after a few seconds, the weight of sadness lifted off her chest.

  Tears gathered along her lower lashes. She pushed a strand of unruly long hair from her face. Footsteps crunched on the ice pellets and headed her way.

  “Matthew Shaw…” Fury pooled in her jaw as she resisted the urge to yell at her son. “You’d better have a good excuse for taking so long.”

  A man with cinnamon hair, short on the sides with gentle waves on top, knelt at her side. She studied the strong outline of his cheeks and the slight bump on the bridge of his angular nose that gave him a rugged touch, but he wasn’t familiar.

  “Are you okay?” He searched her face.

  The stranger hovered above. Tall treetops, clinging to the last of their earth-toned foliage, served as a backdrop to her view. A vertical crease separated his sandy brows. She couldn’t pry herself from his vivid blue eyes, in part stunned from the fall, but also by her first responder.

  For several long seconds she stared, and then mumbled, “I think so. Just a little shocked.”

  A whiff of his musk cologne revived her with the subtle charm of a southern preacher casting his congregation under his spell.

  He frowned. “Does it hurt to move anything?”

  “Sometimes it did before I fell.”

  The stranger’s face softened and his lips curved upward. “A sense of humor, huh? That’s a good sign.”

  “I suppose.” His deep voice relaxed her like a cup of chamomile tea, the balanced and certain tone of his words easing her wounded spirit. Maybe this guy was a sign her rotten luck might change. “So, where’s your white horse?”

  “In the stable. Today I came in the white Camry.” He motioned with a wave of his hand to a corner of the parking lot.

  She pushed up on her elbow to look and a sharp pain jabbed her neck. “Ow!”

  “Careful.” His smile disappeared. “I was on my way over to help when you fell. You hit pretty hard.”

  The heat of embarrassment skittered up her cheeks. Not only had he witnessed her spastic aerobics, but she never played the distressed-damsel-on-the-dirty-ground card. A woman proficient at fly-fishing, who learned how to drive in a pickup truck and who, in her job as a journalist, had uncovered a corrupt politician, should be up and running by now.

  “Go slow.” His request suggested doling out orders came easy. “May I help?”

  She nodded. He slipped a gentle hand into hers. The chill coating her skin melted against his warm touch. His well-groomed nails and thick fingers suggested he didn’t work outdoors, rather the clean hands of a man who spent his days in an office. No wedding band either. He helped her sit and studied her as if a question perched on the edge of his thoughts.

  “Can I call someone?” He blinked. “Your husband?”

  “Oh, I’m not married.” She caught the slight twitch of his mouth. “My son’s supposed to be on his way to restack the boats.”

  Since her divorce from Mike, she’d concluded the available men in Northbridge were as predictable as the assortment at the dollar rental video store, filled with decade-old hits she’d seen so many times they held little interest. This man was a refreshing change.

  “Ready to try to stand?” He took her by the elbow and she nodded.

  Once on her feet, their hands remained together.

  He glanced at them and let his drop. “You’ll probably think this is crazy but—”

  “Sophie?” The owner of Griswold’s Café stood across the street and wiped his hands on a stained white apron. He’d placed the call to her father to alert them about the vandalism at Dad’s boat shed. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She waved. “Thanks.”

  She returned to the newcomer’s gaze, as blue as the deep Caribbean Sea and as shiny as a starburst.

  He raised his dirt-stained hands. “You might want to check yours.”

  Sure enough, her palms carried the same smudges from the impact of her fall. “Hold on. I have something to clean us off.”

  She trotted to her car, hoping the backside of her blazer covered any mess on the back of her pants.

  After finding a package of wipes in the center console, she cleaned herself spotless and peeked in the rearview mirror. Her dark chocolate curls scattered with the freewill of a reckless perm. She neatened them with her fingertips then grabbed her cell and tried to call Matt but landed in his voice mail. The second she hung up, the phone rang. Bernadette’s name showed on the display.

  “Hey.”

  “Is your speech ready for tonight? You’re our star speaker.”

  Bernadette always latched onto a crusade. The first was in third grade, a petition over the slaughter of baby seals for their skins. For tonight’s public hearing, Bernadette had promised everyone the fight of her life. Her special interest group’s concern about the large-scale development on Blue Moon Lake proposed by Resort Group International was a sore topic for many local residents, especially Sophie.

  “Better find a new star speaker. There’s a change of plans.” Sophie readied herself for a negative reaction. “I’m covering the story for the paper now.”

  “You? Has Cliff lost his mind?”

  “No. The other reporter can’t do the assignment. Her father had a stroke earlier today. Cliff wanted to take the story himself, but I insisted he stick to his job as editor and let me do mine. I even made a five dollar bet I’d get a headline-worthy, bias-free quote from the company president.”

  “Do you think you can? I mean, RGI stole that land right out from under your nose. What was it…three days before signing the contract?”

  Those were almost Cliff’s exact words, along with some mumbling about how the paper’s cheap new owner had cut his staff and he saw no other choice. “Two days.”

  “Honey, why would you want this story?”

  “I have my reasons. This won’t be the first time one of us needed to report on something close to us.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t some public chastising against the corporate giant be good for your soul?”

  “In a way.” Sophie hesitated then decided to tell her best friend the truth. “Look, this is a chance to redeem myself. Prove to Cliff I really can stick to my journalist’s creed after…well, you know, what happened with Ryan Malarkey.”

  “Mmm, forgot about him. He makes all us lawyers look bad.” A long pause filled the air. “Guess that’s a valid reason.”

  Sophie still harbored guilt from the last time a story got personal and she’d been fooled into violating her hallowed reporter vows. “Hey, on a lighter note, it’s raining men over here at the lake.”

  Bernadette laughed. “What?”

  “Some kids vandalized Dad’s kayak shed. He asked for my help and this handsome guy appeared out of nowhere to help me. Fill you in later. He’s waiting.”

  On her way back to the stranger, she studied his profile. Men this desirable didn’t drop out of the sky
around here. Why was he in town? Visitors to Northbridge weren’t unusual in the summer, but not late fall. He faced the water, looking in the direction of the rolling hillside of Tate Farm, the property under discussion at tonight’s controversial public hearing.

  She neared the visitor and he turned around.

  “Are you the owner of this place?” He pointed to the wood-sided shed with a sign reading “Bullhead Boat Rentals.”

  “No. My father runs it with my brother. Dad’s too old to be walking around in this icy mess and my brother is gone for the day.” She handed him a wipe. “They also operate the local tackle shop and Two Rivers Guided Tours, guided fly-fishing trips.”

  “I remember the tackle shop.” He cleaned his hands and tucked the dirty wipe in his jacket pocket. “My family came here for a couple of summers. Close to thirty years ago.”

  Sophie studied him again. Summer vacationers passed through here with the blur of a relay race.

  He brushed a dead leaf off the knee of his faded, well-pressed jeans. “Such a great little town.” He scanned the main street, unhurried and relaxed, then took a deep breath, as if to savor a nostalgic moment. “Quintessential New England.”

  Although she’d lived all her forty-four years in Northbridge, she looked around with him. A few cars parked on the road near a long row of pre-WWI buildings, now housing retailers who had serviced the town’s residents for countless decades, such as Handyman Hardware and Walker’s Drugs. The retail stretch was sandwiched between her favorite place to eat, Sunny Side Up, a metal-sided, trolley car-shaped diner and the weathered façade of Griswold’s Café. The popular hangout for waterfront meals had a karaoke night the locals rarely missed.

  She examined his profile again. Surely she hadn’t forgotten someone with such a sexy full lower lip and strong chin?

  “I can’t imagine anybody being unhappy here,” he said, his tone quiet.

  She held in the urge to retort with a cynical remark. Every time she stuck a foot out of town, circumstances jerked her back. “Too bad you picked today to return. Most of our visitors enjoy the warmer weather.”

  “I’m house hunting.”

  “Oh. Well, we have a lot of summer residents.”

  “I want a year-round place.”

  The absent wedding ring held renewed interest. “Where are you from?”

  “Manhattan.”

  She adjusted her crooked scarf. “Living here will be a big change.”

  “I know. I’ve always loved this place, though.” He reached out and tenderly brushed a leaf off Sophie’s shoulder. His gaze flowed down her body like a slow trickle of water.

  An unexpected burn raced up her cheeks.

  He lifted his brows. “Hey, I never knew the lake went by another name. The town website said the original name came from an old Native American word.”

  She nodded. “Puttacawmaumschuckmaug Lake.” The long name rolled off her tongue with ease, the pronunciation a rite of passage for anyone born and raised around the body of water. “It either means ‘at the large fishing place near the rock’ or ‘huge rock on the border.’”

  “What?” He chuckled. “Puttamaum…”

  She shook her head and repeated the difficult word.

  “Puttacawsch—”

  “Nope. It’s a toughie. That’s why a reporter who visited here at the turn of the century suggested in his column we change the name. He said the water’s beauty was as rare as a blue moon, and the phrase stuck.”

  He grinned, easy and confident. “My kids will love this place.”

  Kids? Sophie buried her disappointment. “Are you and your wife looking at the other towns bordering the water?”

  “No. I like Northbridge. Oh, and I’m not married,” he said matter-of-factly. His gaze arm-twisted her for a response.

  She wanted to fan her hot cheeks but instead regrouped while pointing across the lake. “If you have a spare few hundred thousand and want to help the town out, take a look at Tate Farm. A developer wants to buy it to put up a large resort. Maybe you can outbid the guy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. There’s a public hearing tonight.”

  The hearing would be her first chance to meet the corporate vipers from Resort Group International face-to-face and she couldn’t wait to hammer firm president, Duncan Jamieson, with some tough questions. With any luck the zoning board would vote down their request so the offer she’d made, along with her dad and brother, would be back in play.

  The stranger’s brows furrowed and he stroked his chin.

  “Don’t worry. I’m confident our zoning board will vote no on their proposal and keep the nasty developer away. By the way, I’m Sophie.”

  He dropped his gaze to the ground for a millisecond then looked back up. “I’m Carter.”

  If Nana were still alive, she’d have said in her thick Scottish brogue, “Verra good sign, Sophie. Carter comes from the word cart: someone who moves things.” Nana held great stock in the art of name meanings.

  He’d certainly moved Sophie.

  Matt’s rusty sedan whipped into the lot, ending the lusty thoughts. Her son hurried over, unease covering every corner of his face. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “Grandpa called to make sure I helped you.” He dragged his hand through his messy dirty-blond hair. “We were talkin’.”

  She had her suspicions about the topic but rather than ask, she introduced him to Carter.

  He turned to Matt. “What do you say we let your mom take it easy and we’ll finish this job?”

  Matt nodded and trotted to the boats.

  At her car, Carter opened the driver’s door. “Better hop in.” His tone lowered. “Your hands were cold before.”

  Sophie’s knees softened and she tried to speak, but no sound came out. Turmoil reigned inside her body as he jogged away from her and caught up with Matt.

  She tried to shake off the lost control caused by this stranger. This little incident had stolen some of her strength and lately every morsel was necessary to stay afloat. On the roller coaster of life, she had been taking a wild ride. First due to a chance to own the vineyards, giving her a helping hand from her inner grief and fulfilling a life-long dream. Then two weeks ago, RGI had barged into town and yanked her offer from the table.

  Carter pointed to a kayak and said something. Matt laughed. The scene made her miss having a man in their household. Her heart softened, awed by the way this knight who’d arrived in a shiny white Camry galloped in and took charge…and how she’d simply let him. Was something good finally stepping into her life?

  Disappointment skimmed her chest. Who was she kidding? Nothing would come of this.

  Her cynical nature hadn’t developed overnight. Rather, she had soured over time. Lost opportunities, gone due to circumstances beyond her control: Mom’s cancer, Sophie’s unplanned pregnancy, her subsequent marriage to Mike, even her lost bid on the land RGI now wanted.

  Time to forget this guy and concentrate on her job. She’d have to work harder than ever to stick to her journalistic creed, but any teeny, albeit truthful, crumb of negative news about RGI or its president, Duncan Jamieson, could sway the scale on the zoning board vote. Then the greedy developer would disappear from Northbridge forever.

  Her family wanted that land. Land their ancestors were the first to settle back in 1789. Land where the winery plans of their dreams could come to life. The most important reason, though, was protecting the sacred place where her firstborn son, Henry, had died.

  Chapter 2

  A long line of cars pulled into the well-lit high school parking lot, higher than usual volume for a public hearing. Sophie grabbed her bag and hurried toward the entrance, hoping she could still get a seat up front.

  As she neared the large regional high school, she passed a noisy group standi
ng in a circle at the front of the building, chanting the plea “Save our Lake.” Their signs bore the acronym “S.O.L.E.” stacked on the left and the words, “Save Our Lake’s Environment” extending from each corresponding letter. Protestors weren’t the norm at these types of events and their presence added a thick cloud of tension to the cool night air.

  Bernadette marched with the vocal group. Nana had liked to remind everyone how Bernadette was living proof her name theory worked. “I canna think of a better name for that lassie. She’s named to ‘be brave like a bear’ and sure acts the part.” There were times Sophie found any explanation about people’s behavior to offer a measure of peace. After all, a wise person took heed in all the messages around her and her name meant “wisdom.”

  She waved to Bernadette, who yelled with more exuberance than any other protestor. A rosy glow highlighted her full cheeks and her large green eyes burst with equal excitement. She shook a defiant fist in the air.

  “Nice boots,” Sophie yelled over their noise. Bernadette had tucked her jeans into new boots, with razor thin heels and pointy toes, which crossed the border into sexy. Opposite of the sensible heeled style Sophie wore. “You’re Northbridge’s own Che Guevera in her Jimmy Choo’s.”

  “You’d better start reading Vogue. These are from Target.” Bernadette pushed aside her sable brown bangs, which always seemed due for a trim. “Grab a sign.”

  “I’m working. Remember?” Any public appearance of bias while covering a story could get back to her editor.

  “Yeah, yeah. Same old excuse.” Bernadette punched a follow-up fist of solidarity at the sky and resumed her chant.

  The details about Carter would have to wait until after the hearing. Since Sophie’s chance meeting with the handsome visitor, she couldn’t shake her craving to learn more about him, a sensation that left her liberated and scared at the same time. Talking to the stranger was easy and comfortable, the way sliding into a pair of well-worn slippers let her know she was home, safe and exactly where she belonged.