He gripped the base of the bouquet as his hands dropped to his sides. “I know all about these meetings. I’m from Ranier.”
“Washington State?”
“No, up north. Near International Falls. These meetings, they’re about the wilderness there. Trying to protect it.”
The woman nodded politely, but the door was now closing. Owen pushed the toe of his boot in the door. “The meeting. Do you know where they meet?” He glanced at his watch. “If I catch the last train north to St. Paul, maybe . . .”
“Young man, I have no idea,” Mrs. Dietzman answered, this time glancing down at his boot with a frown. “And please remove your foot from this door, or I’ll have to get security.”
“The basement of the Yangley Building!” one of the students called from behind. Then she wedged her rosy face just under Mrs. Dietzman’s. “They meet in the basement. She said meetings sometimes go half the night!”
“Thanks,” Owen said and grinned back at her. Perfect! He could meet up with Sadie and bend the ear of one of the attorneys, all in one visit. He removed his foot from the door. It closed with a resounding thud. He spun away. Racing ran down the sloping campus toward the river and depot, he caught the last train heading north as it began to chug out of the station. He found an open seat, drew a deep breath, and dropped his head into the bouquet of roses.
An unmatchable fragrance. He just hoped she wasn’t getting roses from other suitors at Gustavus. Or from the score of attorneys she met with each month. Or the handsome Harvard-educated Victor Guttenberg.
Vic Guttenberg.
From the first time Owen had met Victor on Falcon Island, they had always gotten along swell. Owen knew that Victor would rather be on his island than in St. Paul, yet he sacrificed his own wishes for the wilderness he was determined to protect. He was a decent fellow, but that didn’t stop a spark of jealousy from igniting in Owen’s gut. What if Sadie’s interest in him had become something more? After all, Victor was a Harvard grad. He’d explored vast stretches of wilderness by canoe, all the way up to Hudson Bay, with muscles to prove it. He was articulate, a violinist, and a captivating storyteller. What did Owen have to offer in comparison?
The train swayed and clattered alongside the Minnesota River. Mile by mile, Owen clenched his jaw, willing the train to move faster. He had to try to find the meeting before it was over. It was as if he’d grown short of breath these past weeks. He needed to see her just to fill his lungs again.
When the train at last crossed the Mississippi River and slowed to a stop in downtown St. Paul, Owen gripped the handrail, ready to jump off. Under the cavernous ceiling of Union Depot, he hurried out a door and into the crisp night air.
He checked his pocket watch; the hands read 9:32. The girl at the dormitory said the meetings went “half the night,” but that was all a matter of perspective. He had to hustle.
From the window of a horse-drawn cab, Owen peered at patrons as they flowed from the Shubert Theater. In the distance, gold gilt horses dotted the massive dome of the state capitol. Around another street, he spotted the St. Paul Cathedral topping another hill. Everything about the city was grand.
The cab pulled up to the Yangley; Owen paid the driver and stepped out onto the slushy street. In the upper stories of the towering brick building the windows were dark. He wondered if he had the right place. From what he could see, there was nothing going on. He stepped up to the entrance doors of heavy wood and glass, but they were locked. A white-haired doorman limped from a bellman’s counter inside, where a small lamp burned softly.
The door cracked open.
“Young man,” the doorman said, “this building is closed up tight for the night.”
“I’m part of a meeting,” Owen ventured in a whisper, hoping that if there was a password needed, he could come up with whatever it might be. “The name Victor Guttenberg? Does that mean anything to you?”
“Ah, perhaps,” the elderly man replied. “And you are?”
“Owen Jensen.”
“Wait here,” the man said, locking the doors before turning away.
Owen waited as the man disappeared into the shadows. Growing impatient, he glanced up and down the street. With a clunk, the door was again unlocked.
“Come in,” the doorman said. “And forgive me for making you wait in the cold.”
“I—” Owen began, but stopped short.
Several feet beyond the door stood Sadie Rose. He absorbed her in one glance. She cut a sleek silhouette, with a tailored jacket and skirt that flared just below her knees. Her legs curved at her calves and tapered to slim ankles in stylish heels. Her felt hat, with a tawny brown ribbon and single pheasant feather, dipped slightly over her right eye. At only eighteen years old, she wore a simple air of confidence the way some women wore diamonds.
“Owen?” she said, as if she was trying to figure out who he was, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. Her curls glistened, framing her face and dark eyes, wide with surprise. She stared at him, at a loss for words. “This is just so unexpected. What—what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
He strode straight up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground, and kissed her briefly. “I just had to see you.”
She stepped back and looked up at him. “It’s just so odd,” she said quietly. “You took me by surprise. We’re in the middle of an important meeting.”
Her reaction stung. He’d taken a risk surprising her, but even with her plans to attend a dance with someone else, he’d expected she’d be happy. Not that she had to leap into his arms, but this? “Important,” he repeated.
She nodded, her eyebrows drawn. “You know these meetings are quite secretive. I’m not sure how the others will feel about your knowing about them. I must have let it slip and mentioned this location, otherwise how—”
“The girls at your hall told me,” he said.
“Oh.”
Her face flushed. “I’m not great at keeping secrets, apparently.”
“No, but I am. I won’t tell another soul,” he assured her, placing his hand briefly on his heart. Then he reached for her hand.
It was warm, soft, and delicate. And the familiarity of her skin made him feel that everything could go back to normal. “Sadie, how about if you and me, we just head out and find someplace where we can talk, be alone.”
She glanced back toward the elevator door and then turned to him. “Owen, I am terribly sorry to put you off, but I committed to this meeting. You understand, don’t you? I’m part of it. You must know I’m keen on you, but right now—” She leaned forward, kissed him, and then pulled her hand from his. “I’m needed downstairs.”
He was taken aback. “And you think I don’t need you?” His words carried a hint of bitterness.
Her lips tightened, as if to hold back what she really wanted to say. Maybe there was already more between her and this Sam fella than she’d let on in her letter.
“My dad died,” he blurted.
“Oh no!” she said. “So that’s why you came straight here, without notice. When?” She tilted her head at him, then stepped closer and hugged him.
“Nearly two weeks ago,” he said, breathing in the sweet scent of her freshly shampooed hair. He rested the top of his chin on her head.
She shifted and looked at him. “Two weeks? But why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I tried, but I could never get through on the line. When I tried to write about it, I just couldn’t.”
She nodded. “What happened?”
“Heart attack. Died in his sleep.”
“Owen, I’m so sorry. I truly am.” She threw her arms around his waist. “How terrible for you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I know you weren’t always close, but he was your father. You were lucky to have him beside you all those years.”
For a few moments longer, Owen savored her closeness. He kissed the top of her forehead lightly. “I’ve missed you. I had to see you.”
She nodded, then again glanced at the elevator, as if remembering her greater commitments. “Oh, I feel terrible, but I must get back. Or . . . join us if you promise to be a bystander. It’s all young lawyers, and they are risking their jobs to meet like this. That’s why downstairs . . . and with candles.”
Owen rested his eyes on her. She had no idea how absolutely beautiful she was. And from head to stylish toe, she was dressed as smartly as any young woman in the Twin Cities. Of course she’d captivated the attention of that clarinetist. And she no doubt was winning the admiration of these young attorneys, as well as Victor Guttenberg.
His thoughts were like oxygen to low-burning embers. He seethed with frustration. If he went down to their secretive meeting, there was no telling what he might say or do. How could he watch her in the soft glow of candlelight without wanting to have her to himself? How could he bear to know that she met with these men, taking notes or whatever she did, every single month? He had thought she was his, that she’d promised her love to him. But maybe he’d been wrong to assume such a thing. Here he stood in his jacket and wool cap. While downstairs, those attorneys were likely sporting the latest suits and spouting the latest in political news and gossip. Even Victor, with his Harvard experience, probably left his wool shirt behind for something a bit dressier. He was always entertaining and articulate, no matter the setting. No, if Owen showed up at that meeting, he’d be a damn fish out of water.
The fire in him burned hotter. Everything primal in him wanted to grab her, tell her to get her coat and boots, and tell her she was taking the train north with him. Tell her that “wilderness” was endless and it was never going to disappear. But what about him? He was standing there, right in front of her, his heart outstretched in his hands. He wouldn’t wait around forever. He held his emotions on a tight leash.
“No, you go to your meeting,” he said, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make this trip just for you. I had other business anyway.” There was no point now in asking for help from her attorney friends. “I’m heading back,” he said. “Just go back to your important meeting.”
“Owen, please,” she began, hurt flashing in her eyes.
Before she could walk away from him, he spun away and strode out the entrance door. Outside, he refused to look back and set off like a man on his way up. Head high. A purposeful stride. He filled his lungs with air, damp and chill, and exhaled puffs of white as he followed the city streets back to Union Depot.
And that’s when he remembered. He’d completely forgotten the bouquet of roses on his seat in the horse cab. After all the effort he’d gone through to find her fresh flowers, and he’d blown that, too.
“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” he muttered, as he stepped inside the depot’s vast emptiness. A policeman strolled the corridor, whistling as he twirled his nightstick. Owen found an empty bench. He didn’t dare lie down, for fear of looking like a tramp or vagrant.
He let his mind drift.
He was only five or six years older than Owen, but Victor Guttenberg had accomplished so much in a short time. He’d come north from Iowa. Had his own island on Rainy Lake. An explorer. Heck, he’d paddled clear up to Hudson Bay with his Ojibwa friend, Billy Bright, and back; the first white man to make the journey. And now, Victor had gone from standing up locally against E. W. Ennis’s plan to build dams that would change the natural pathways of a long chain of lakes—to taking his fight to St. Paul and beyond.
It was a long shot to think Victor could actually stop Ennis’s industrial might—it was like Jack and the beanstalk and the all-powerful giant—but Owen admired Victor for trying.
In comparison, what was he doing with his life? Keeping a creamery going, a roof over the heads of his mother and brothers. Starting a business in the lot behind the White Turtle. And hanging over it all was a new debt—thirty-five hundred dollars—due in six weeks.
In contrast to the chilly, echoing train terminal, a memory surfaced of a sunny afternoon last summer on Falcon Island with Victor, Sadie, and Trinity Baird:
They swam off the island’s eastern point, then pulled themselves up onto the warm rock, long and smooth as a whale’s back, and dried off in the sun, laughing as Victor told about barely surviving the last leg of his expedition home. He told of stuffing straw in his boots and pants, of breaking ice as it formed around their canoe on rivers and lakes.
“November?” Owen had said, shaking his head. “That’s winter up here. What were you thinking?”
Victor crossed his deeply tan arms over his swim tank. As if he were a Greek god and truly offended, he stared Owen down. But a half second later, he broke into a broad grin and laughed out loud. “Clearly, Owen, I was not thinking—that’s what I was thinking back then!”
Trinity tilted her head back, her blonde hair glistening as it dried. “You have to be tough,” she said, “if you’re going to be wild.”
“Wild,” Sadie said. “Huh. Up until last summer, that word never existed in my vocabulary.”
“That’s why I’m your new best friend,” Trinity said. Then she motioned to Owen and Victor as well. “We’re your new best friends. Here to help, as needed. Isn’t that right, Owen?” she teased.
Owen and Sadie shared a glance. By that point in the summer, they’d become more than friends.
He exhaled. He had no control over Sadie’s decisions or her heart. He forced himself to sit tall on the depot bench, pulled his cap over his eyes, and waited for the next train north.
As March arrives, you feel a change in the air, a softening of winter’s hard edges.
Sun warms the forests around Rainy Lake. It warms loggers as they fell virgin pine, strip them of branches, and roll them to the frozen shoreline. It warms the logs as they wait to be floated west across Rainy Lake and down Rainy River to the paper mill.
The sun warms rooftops around Ranier and train cars loaded with lumber. It warms the backs of mutts who amble in search of scraps from tavern to restaurant, garbage can to dump pile. It falls on the backs of old horses, warming their stiff bones and muscles sore from months of pulling wagons and sleighs through town and out onto the endless lake, still frozen like granite. Sun warms the roofs of your six shiny Studebakers, sitting in the cleared lot behind the White Turtle.
Everything waits.
12
A FULL KEY RING CLANKED ON HIS BELT LOOP AS OWEN swept snow from the tops of his inventory. Even if he hadn’t yet sold a single car (other than the ones to Pengler), he was right to go with Studebakers. They’d been the strongest-selling automobiles nationwide for the past decade. The company had started building solid horse-drawn wagons and then horse-drawn automobiles. In 1904 they’d produced the first electric-operated Studey, and now gasoline-powered beauties. He folded his arms across his chest and admired his fleet, each one individually handcrafted, unlike Ford’s mass-produced factory models. A Ford was cheaper, sure, but a Studebaker was built with genuine craftsmanship.
He hoped folks would be willing to pay more for quality.
He just had to get the word out. And when the ads he’d purchased in the International Falls Journal starting running, folks would start buying. Plus spring, technically, was around the corner. But who was he kidding? This far north, there wasn’t spring. Winter gradually released its hold until one day, you looked again, and it was summer.
Snowbanks clung to the backside of the White Turtle and four-foot icicles dangled from its roof, but Owen imagined blue open water, the sound of motorboats and tourists hopping off passenger cars. Two months or so to go. When summer finally struck, who would resist taking one of these Studeys out for a spin? Who would resist driving with their sweetheart or parking by the pier when the sun set on Rainy Lake, the sky amber till ten thirty or eleven o’clock at night?
He sure wouldn’t.
And there she was—her lovely face—framed again in his mind.
Owen removed his hat, ran his hand through his thick hair, as if to rid her fro
m his head. Since returning from St. Paul, he’d intended to let go of Sadie Rose and let her live her life. She had other interests now. Between her life of music on campus and her meetings, they had less and less in common. It was time to loosen his grip on her.
Easier said than done.
He missed those times they didn’t have to talk at all. Just watch the sun set over the water and slip down on the other side of the lake, as if Canada stole the sun every evening and America snuck it back each morning. If Sadie Rose were here, he’d be happy doing anything or nothing together. Without her, it was like he was trying to fill up hours and minutes and seconds.
As he turned from the lot and headed toward the creamery, he glanced past the empty pier at the frozen bay. It was last August, and they’d been fishing on Sand Bay. As he walked, the memory returned.
She’d sat on the middle seat, her line off one side. He sat in back, his line off the other side. They were fishing for walleye, jigging where the water ran deep, a hundred yards upstream of the lift bridge. A half dozen walleye were already on the stringer. The sun was setting, a regular fireball. In its light, Sadie’s face glowed. All around her, the water flickered with tongues of orange and red. While he was admiring her, her rod suddenly bent sharply toward the water. “I have a big one!” she shouted.
In the same instant, he felt a solid tug on his own line. “Hey, me too!”
“Sadie,” he coached, “if it’s a northern pike, you gotta tire it out, give it some slack, then bring it in again. You gotta work it.”
He gave a quick jerk of his line, hoping to set the hook, and when he did, Sadie’s rod flew from her hands and out into the choppy water.
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