“Feel free to concentrate on that nervous breakdown of yours. At least it’ll keep you quiet.”
She smiled. One thing she’d say for Kevin, he didn’t handle her with kid gloves like Phoebe and Dan. It was nice to be treated as an adult. “Maybe I’ll just take a nap instead.”
“You do that.”
But she didn’t sleep. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to make herself think about her next book, but her mind refused to take a single step into the cozy byways of Nightingale Woods.
After they got off the interstate, Kevin stopped at a roadside store with a smokehouse attached and returned carrying a brown paper bag that he tossed into her lap. “Michigan lunch. Do you think you can make some sandwiches?”
“Maybe if I concentrate.”
Inside she found a generous piece of smoked whitefish, a hunk of sharp cheddar cheese, and a loaf of dark pumpernickel bread, along with a plastic knife and a few paper napkins. She mustered enough energy to put together two crude, open-faced sandwiches for him and a smaller one for herself, all but a few bites of which she ended up feeding to Roo.
They headed east toward the middle of the state. Through half-closed eyes she saw orchards coming into bloom and neat farms with silos. Then, as the afternoon light began to fade, they made their way north toward I-75, which stretched all the way to Sault Ste. Marie.
They didn’t talk much. Kevin listened to the CDs he’d brought with him. He liked jazz, she discovered, everything from forties bebop to fusion. Unfortunately, he also liked rap, and after fifteen minutes of trying to ignore Tupac’s views of women, she hit the eject button, grabbed the disk, and tossed it out the car window.
His ears turned red, she discovered, when he yelled.
It was getting dark when they reached the northern part of the state. Just beyond the pretty town of Grayling they left the freeway for a two-lane highway that seemed to lead nowhere. Before long they were driving through dense woods.
“Northeastern Michigan was nearly stripped of timber by the lumber industry during the 1800s,” he said. “What you’re seeing now is second- and third-growth forest. Some of it is pretty wild. Towns in this area are small and scattered.”
“How much farther?”
“Only a little over an hour, but the place is run-down, so I don’t want to get there after dark. There’s supposed to be a motel not far from here, but don’t expect the Ritz.”
Since she couldn’t imagine him worrying about the dark, she suspected he was stalling, and she curled deeper into the seat. The headlights of an occasional oncoming car flickered across his features, casting dangerous shadows beneath those male underwear model cheekbones. She felt a shiver of foreboding, so she closed her eyes and pretended she was alone.
She didn’t open them again until he pulled up in front of an eight-unit roadside motel made of white aluminum siding and fake brick. As he got out of the car to register, she thought about making sure he understood that she wanted a separate unit, but common sense intervened.
Sure enough, he returned from the office with two keys. His unit, she noticed, was at the opposite end from hers.
Early the next morning she awakened to door pounding and poodle barking. “Slytherins,” she grumbled. “This is getting to be a bad habit.”
“We’re leaving in half an hour,” Kevin called from the other side. “Get the lead out.”
“Hut, hut,” she muttered into her pillow.
She dragged herself into the cramped shower and even managed to run a comb through her hair. Lipstick, however, was beyond her. She felt as if she had a colossal hangover.
When she finally emerged, he was pacing near the car. The lemony patch of sunlight that splashed over him revealed a grim mouth and unfriendly expression. As Roo took advantage of the shrubbery, Kevin grabbed her suitcase and tossed it into the back of the car.
Today he’d decorated his muscles with an aqua Stars T-shirt and light gray shorts. They were ordinary clothes, but he wore them with the confidence of those who were born beautiful.
She fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses, then glared at him resentfully. “Don’t you ever turn it off?”
“Turn what off?”
“Your basic ugliness,” she muttered.
“Maybe I should just drop you off at a funny farm instead of taking you to Wind Lake.”
“Whatever. Is coffee too much to hope for?” She shoved on her glasses, but they didn’t do a whole lot to shut out the blinding glare of his irritating beauty.
“It’s in the car, but it took you so long to get ready that it’s probably cold by now.”
It was piping hot, and as they pulled back out onto the road, she took a long, slow sip.
“Fruit and doughnuts were the best I could do for breakfast. They’re in that bag.” He sounded as grouchy as she felt. She wasn’t hungry, and she concentrated on the scenery.
They might have been in the wilds of the Yukon instead of a state that made Chevrolets, Sugar Pops, and soul music. From a bridge crossing the Au Sable River she saw rocky cliffs rising on one shore and dense woods stretching on the other. An osprey soared down over the water. Everything seemed wild and remote.
Occasionally they passed a farm, but this was clearly timber country. Maple and oak competed with pine, birch, and cedar. Here and there, golden straws of sunlight penetrated the canopy formed by the trees. It was wonderfully serene, and she tried to feel peaceful, but she was out of practice.
Kevin swore and jerked the wheel to avoid a squirrel. Getting closer to their destination definitely hadn’t improved his mood. She spotted a metal highway sign that indicated the turnoff for Wind Lake, but he flew past it. “That’s the town,” he grunted. “The campground is on the far side of the lake.”
They drove for another few miles before a decorative green-and-white sign with a Chippendale top edged in gilt came into sight.
Wind Lake Cottages
BED & Breakfast
ESTABLISHED 1894
Kevin frowned. “That sign looks new. And nobody said anything to me about a bed-and-breakfast. She must have used the old house to take in guests.”
“Is that bad?”
“The place is musty and dark as sin. I can’t believe anybody would want to stay there.” He turned onto a gravel lane that wound through the trees for about half a mile before the campground emerged.
He stopped the car, and Molly caught her breath. She’d expected to see rough cabins decaying on their foundations. Instead, they’d driven into a storybook village.
A shady rectangular Common sat at the center, surrounded by small gingerbread cottages painted in colors that could have spilled from a box of bonbons: mint with tangerine and toffee, mocha touched with lemon and cranberry, peach with blueberry and brown sugar. Wooden lace dripped from tiny eaves, and fanciful spindles bordered front porches no larger than a trundle bed. At one end of the Common sat a charming gazebo.
A closer inspection showed that the flower beds in the Common were overgrown, and the loop of road that surrounded it needed fresh gravel. Everything bore an air of neglect, but it seemed recent rather than long-term. Most of the cottages were tightly shuttered, although a few had been opened up. An elderly couple emerged from one of them, and Molly spotted a man with a cane walking near the gazebo.
“These people shouldn’t be here! I had all the summer rentals canceled.”
“They must not have gotten the word.” As Molly gazed around, she experienced the oddest sense of familiarity. Since she’d never been anywhere like this, she couldn’t explain it.
Across the road from the center of the Common was a small picnic area with a sandy, crescent-shaped beach directly behind it and, beyond that, a sliver of the blue-gray water of Wind Lake against the backdrop of a tree-lined shore. Several canoes and a few rowboats were overturned near a weathered dock.
She wasn’t surprised that the beach was deserted. Although the early-June morning was sunny, this was a North Woods lake, and the wa
ter would still be too chilly for all but the hardiest swimmers.
“Notice the complete absence of anyone under the age of seventy!” Kevin exclaimed as he stepped on the accelerator.
“It’s early. A lot of schools aren’t out yet.”
“It’ll look this way at the end of July. Welcome to my childhood.” He swung away from the Common onto a narrower lane that ran parallel to the lake. She saw more cottages, all of them built in the same Carpenter Gothic style. Presiding over them was a beautiful two-story Queen Anne.
This couldn’t be the dark, musty place he’d described. The house was painted a light cocoa with salmon, maize, and moss green accents decorating the gingerbread trim above the porch, over the gables, and on the porch spindles. A round turret curved on the left of the house, and the broad porch extended around two sides. Petunias bloomed in clay pots by the double front doors, which held matching panels of frosted glass etched with a design of vines and flowers. Ferns spilled over brown wicker stands, and old-fashioned wooden rockers held cheery checked pillows in colors that matched the trim. Once again she had the sense of being plunged into an earlier time.
“I don’t frickin’ believe this!” Kevin vaulted out of the car. “This place was a wreck the last time I saw it.”
“It sure isn’t a wreck now. It’s beautiful.”
She winced as he slammed the door, then got out herself. Roo broke free and headed for the shrubs. Kevin gazed up at the house, his hands planted on his hips.
“When the hell did she turn this into a bed-and-breakfast?”
Just then the front door opened, and a woman who appeared to be in her late sixties emerged. She had faded blond-and-gray hair caught up in a clip with strands escaping here and there. She was tall and big-boned, and her mouth was wide, topped by prominent cheekbones and bright blue eyes. A flour-dusted blue apron protected her khaki slacks and short-sleeved white blouse.
“Kevin!” She hurried down the steps and gave him a vigorous hug. “You sweet boy! I knew you’d come!”
To Molly, Kevin’s hug in return seemed perfunctory.
The woman gave her an assessing look. “I’m Charlotte Long. My husband and I came here every summer. He died eight years ago, but I still stay in Loaves and Fishes. Kevin was always losing balls in my rosebushes.”
“Mrs. Long was a good friend of my parents and my aunt,” Kevin said.
“My, I miss Judith. We met when my family first came here.” Her sharp blue eyes returned to Molly. “And who’s this?”
Molly extended her hand. “Molly Somerville.”
“Well, now…” Her lips pursed as she turned back to Kevin. “You can’t read a magazine without hearing about that marriage of yours. Isn’t it a little early to be seeing someone else? I’m sure Pastor Tucker would be disappointed that you aren’t trying harder to make things work with your wife.”
“Uh, Molly is my…” The word seemed to stick in his throat. Molly sympathized, but she wasn’t going to be the one to say it.
“Molly’s my… wife.” He finally managed to get it out.
Once again Molly found herself under the scrutiny of those blue eyes. “Well, that’s good, then. But why are you calling yourself Somerville? Tucker’s a good, proud name. Pastor Tucker, Kevin’s father, was one of the finest men I ever knew.”
“I’m sure he was.” She’d never liked disappointing people. “Somerville’s also my professional name. I write children’s books.”
Her disapproval vanished. “I’ve always wanted to write a children’s book. Well, now, isn’t this nice? You know, when Kevin’s mother was alive, she was afraid he’d marry one of those supermodels who go around smoking dope and having sexual relations with everybody.”
Kevin choked.
“Here now, pup, you get out of Judith’s lobelia.” Charlotte patted her thigh, and Roo abandoned the flowers to trot over. Charlotte reached down to chuck his chin. “Better keep an eye on him. We’ve got some coyotes around here.”
Kevin’s expression turned calculating. “Big ones?”
Molly gave him a reproachful gaze. “Roo sticks close to home.”
“Too bad.”
“Well, I’m off! There’s a list of guests and dates on Judith’s computer. The Pearsons should be here any time. They’re bird-watchers.”
Kevin turned pale beneath his tan. “Guests? What do you—”
“I had Amy freshen up Judith’s old room for you, the one your parents used. The other bedrooms are rented.”
“Amy? Wait a—”
“Amy and Troy Anderson, he’s the handyman. They just got married, even though she’s only nineteen and he’s twenty. I don’t know why they were in such a hurry.” Charlotte reached back to untie the apron. “Amy’s supposed to take care of the cleaning, but they’re so gaga over each other that they’re worthless. You’ll have to keep after them.” She handed the apron to Molly. “It’s a good thing you’re here, Molly. I never was much of a cook, and the guests are complaining.”
Molly stared down at the apron. Kevin shot forward as the older woman began to walk away. “Wait a minute! The campground’s closed. All the reservations were canceled.”
She regarded him with disapproval. “How could you even think to do that, Kevin? Some of these people have been coming here for forty years. And Judith spent every penny she had sprucing up the cottages and turning the house into a bed-and-breakfast. Do you have any idea how much it costs to advertise in Victoria magazine? And that Collins boy in town charged her almost a thousand dollars to set up a Web site.”
“A Web site?”
“If you’re not familiar with the Internet, I suggest you look into it. It’s a wonderful thing. Except for all that porno.”
“I’m familiar with the Internet!” Kevin exclaimed. “Now, tell me why people are still coming here after I closed the place down.”
“Why, because I told them to. Judith would have wanted it. I kept trying to explain that to you. Do you know that it took me nearly a week to get hold of everyone?”
“You called them?”
“I used that E-mail, too,” she said proudly. “It didn’t take me long to get the hang of it.” She patted his arm. “Don’t be nervous, Kevin. You and your wife will do just fine. As long as you put out a nice, big breakfast, most people are happy. The menus and recipes are in Judith’s blue notebook in the kitchen. Oh, and get Troy to look at the toilet in Green Pastures. It’s leaking.”
She headed off down the lane.
Kevin looked sick. “Tell me this is a bad dream.”
As Mrs. Long disappeared, Molly watched a late-model Honda Accord turn into the lane and head toward the B&B. “As a matter of fact, I think you’re wide awake.”
Kevin followed the direction of her gaze and swore as the car stopped in front of the B&B. Molly was too tired to stand any longer, so she sank down on the top step to watch the entertainment. Roo yipped a greeting at the couple who came up the sidewalk.
“We’re the Pearsons,” a thin, round-faced, sixtyish woman said. “I’m Betty and this is my husband, John.”
Kevin looked as if he’d taken a direct hit to the head, so Molly replied for him. “Molly Somerville. This is Kevin, the new owner.”
“Oh, yes. We heard about you. You play baseball, don’t you?”
Kevin sagged against the gas lamppost.
“Basketball,” Molly said. “But he’s really too short for the NBA, so they’re cutting him.”
“My husband and I aren’t much for sports. We were sorry to hear about Judith. Lovely woman. Very knowledgeable about the local bird population. We’re on the trail of Kirtland’s warbler.”
John Pearson outweighed his wife by nearly two hundred pounds, and his double chins wiggled. “We hope you’re not planning on making too many changes in the food. Judith’s breakfast spread is famous. And her cherry chocolate cake…” He paused, and Molly half expected him to kiss his fingertips. “Is afternoon tea still at five o’clock?”
; Molly waited for Kevin to respond, but he seemed to have lost the power of speech. She cocked her head at them. “I have a feeling tea might be a little late today.”
Chapter 9
Daphne lived in the prettiest cottage in Nightingale Woods. It sat off by itself in a great grove of trees, which meant she could play her electric guitar whenever she wanted and no one complained.
Daphne Gets Lost
Kevin had his cell phone pressed to one ear, the B&B’s phone pressed to the other as he paced the entrance hall barking orders to his business manager and somebody who was either a secretary or a housekeeper. Behind him an imposing walnut staircase rose half a flight, then turned at a right angle. The spindles were dusty, and the richly patterned carpet on the treads needed vacuuming. An urn filled with drooping peacock feathers topped a pilaster on the landing.
His pacing was wearing her out, so Molly decided to explore while he talked. With Roo trotting after her, she moved slowly into the front parlor. The pincushion settee and pleasing jumble of chairs were upholstered in pretty buttercup and rose fabrics. Botanical prints and pastoral scenes hung in gilded frames on the cream-colored walls, while lace curtains framed the windows. Brass candlesticks, a Chinese jardiniere, and some crystal boxes ornamented the mantel above the fireplace. Unfortunately, the brass was tarnished, the crystal dull, and the tabletops dusty. A lint-flecked Oriental carpet contributed to the overall air of neglect.
The same was true of the music room, where the traditional pineapple-patterned wallpaper served as a background for rose-patterned reading chairs and a spinet piano. A writing desk in the corner held ivory stationery, along with an old-fashioned fountain pen and a bottle of ink. A pair of tarnished silver candlesticks sat on top, near an old toby jug.
A Queen Anne table and ten matching high-backed chairs graced the dining room across the hallway. The room’s dominant feature was a square, cutaway bay window that provided a generous view of lake and woods. Molly suspected that the tall crystal vases on the sideboard had held fresh flowers when his Aunt Judith was alive, but now the marble top was cluttered with the remains of breakfast serving dishes.
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