“He’s a bootlegger?”
She laughed. “No! But he has been known to take a load of whiskey down to Davenport, Iowa, to give to friends. Once when his trailer went off the road and into the ditch, a policeman came by and asked what was wrong. My father, with a straight face, said he needed help getting his ‘trailer full of whiskey’ back on the road again. The officer thought he was joking, never looked at what he was hauling, and helped winch the trailer out of the ditch and sent him on his way. Can you believe it?”
Owen knew Mr. Baird to be a jovial man who got what he wanted for the cheapest price possible. Somehow he’d talked Owen’s dad into selling dairy products to him at a penny above cost. He’d given Dad a song and dance about trouble with cash flow, but sitting here on the sandy beach, with the log lodge and outcabins, the boathouse, and yacht, the only thing for certain was that Mr. Baird was a character.
They followed the path to the top, then dropped down to the sandy peninsula joining the two islands into one. Trinity had her shoes and stockings off and walked out into the water, screamed, and kept going up to her knees. “It’s freezing!”
“What did you expect? The ice just went out a few weeks ago. It’ll be weeks before it’s warm enough for swimming.”
“Oh, it’s never warm enough,” Trinity said, laughing. “But I have to dive in anyway.” Then she put her hands over her head, dove under, exploded out of the water with another scream, and lunged through the water back to shore.
The sun was at its pinnacle and sizzling warm. As they sat side by side in the sand, Trinity’s goose bumps disappeared and she stopped shivering. “Oh! Just what I needed!”
“Yeah? Good.”
They watched tiny mallard ducklings, who couldn’t be more than a day old, skittering around their mother.
“This year, I attended college along with Sadie.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I took an apartment off campus, but I went to classes. Mostly art. The year before at the asylum, well, I don’t want to ever return again. I mean, there were truly crazy people there. It was frightening at times. But I had good doctors and I got the rest I needed. I don’t think I’ll ever go off the deep end again like I did here on the island when Sadie was here. But thank goodness she was. If she hadn’t heard me that night, I might have ended my life.”
He thought of the bridge, of his own moment, but wasn’t sure how to discuss it.
“Did the doctors ever tell you what happened, why—”
She nodded. “Artistic types,” she said, “often suffer from highs and lows. Dr. Strattus said that mania and melancholia often show up during teen years or early twenties. Many famous composers and artists, apparently, from Van Gogh—well, he was crazy—Tchaikovsky, too, suffered from the same psychosis, to greater or lesser degrees.”
“So . . . you’re cured now?”
“I can’t be cured of who I am!” She laughed, bright and cheery as a robin. It was his favorite thing about Trinity, her sometimes irrepressible spirit, and he was relieved that her therapy hadn’t erased it.
“I’m glad,” he said, and he meant it.
She leaned her head onto his shoulder, just for a moment—just long enough for Owen to wonder where this was going—but then just as quickly, she sat up again. “It feels good to talk about it. I don’t really have anyone to tell about it, other than Sadie Rose. She’s a charm. But I do have to watch my moods. I have to make myself go to sleep at a decent hour, no matter how much I might want to stay up all night. And not drink too much or smoke too much or have too much fun.” She turned to him with a tilt of her head and an exaggerated pout. “Or be around big crowds for too long or spend too much time alone for long, long stretches. And paint. I absolutely must keep painting. Keep creating. It helps me be at my best, whatever that is. And that’s why, at the end of this season on the lake, I’m heading to Paris to study at the Sorbonne. The sheer light of that city makes me feel better, and wherever I turn, there are artists and writers and musicians. I may go there this time and never return.”
“That’s amazing! I’m glad for you—and proud of you, too.”
“Thanks.” For a moment, her eyes turned teary. “That means more than you know.”
“Good. And Paris sounds great, but I hope you return. At least for summers.”
“You do? Truly?”
“I wouldn’t lie.” And as the words slipped from his mouth, he wished he could tell her all about that night. It was strapped like a heavy stone to his chest. He carried it around from the moment he opened his eyes until he finally fell asleep. To tell someone, anyone, would lift the burden, at least a little. Bless Trinity, she was good-hearted, but she could also be a chatterbox in her happy moods, and he couldn’t risk the truth spilling out with just one-too-many drinks.
“I better get going,” he said. “I have a job. Two jobs, actually.”
“I think opening your own automobile business is the bee’s knees.”
“But do bees have knees?” he asked.
“ ’Course! Same as cats have pajamas!”
She hopped up. “Before you go, let me show you something.”
He followed her up to a small cabin overlooking the water. He hesitated. Trinity wasn’t known for being bashful, and if she was looking for something more than friendship, he couldn’t be that for her. Not while there was a thread of a chance with Sadie Rose.
But instead of heading inside, she walked to the back corner, bent down, and pushed aside the branches of a bush. “See this?”
Owen stepped closer.
She held a wire loop in her hand, connected to a wire that was attached to the cabin. “Abracadabra!” She gave it a small pull. “Now, for the magic.”
Curious, he followed her to the front step of the cabin, stepped inside the screen porch, through the heavy door, and past two twin beds to the closet. She pushed back the leaf-patterned curtain to the closet with built-in dresser drawers. “Voilà!”
She pointed to the trapdoor, now lifted and revealing below a wooden crate brimming with bottles of whiskey.
“Yours?” Owen asked, just a little bit worried. A volume of booze like that wasn’t going to help Trinity stay on course.
She laughed. “My father’s, silly!” Then she pushed the door back down until all you could see was a tongue-and-groove floor. “He won’t put a rug over it, because that gives the feds reason to look closer. But all the lake people drink.”
“Townsfolk drink, too,” Owen said, “but sometimes the rotgut brew they drink kills ’em.” He told her about the photographer who died earlier that winter, leaving behind a wife and kids.
She closed the hatch and crossed her arms. “That’s exactly why I support bootlegging from Canada. Real distilleries that make real liquor, not poisonous backyard concoctions. We lake people need our cocktails and parties!”
Yes, Owen thought, from his two summers making deliveries on the lake. What would the upper class do without their booze? All summer long, they have cocktail parties, themed parties, costumes and playacting. Victor is always invited to gatherings. He may not have money, but he’s better educated than anyone on the lake, and though he doesn’t drink, he’s far more interesting than most.
Trinity laughed. “I can’t wait to see Victor over the summer. He’s the best storyteller. I could sit and listen to him all night long, and the way he plays his violin, with so much emotion that I could melt and—”
“You’re still soft on him, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “I suppose I am, though I have no reason to expect my schoolgirl’s crush to ever be returned. You know, when I was away . . .” Her pause told him she meant at the asylum, not at college. “I met several young men who, well, they were interested in other young men. Their families sent them there for treatment to try to change their tastes, but . . . well, we are who we are, don’t you think?”
He thought of his secret, like a stone tossed in the water, and the ripples that followed. Ripple
s of isolation. He wanted to put an end to it and tell Trinity everything, but he held his tongue. He was being blackmailed into holding back the truth. Keeping Jerry’s death a secret was like a poison he swallowed every day. He should return to his work, because if he spent too much time listening to her secrets, he might be tempted to reveal his own. And that would lead to no good for his family.
“Have you heard a single word of what I’ve been saying?” Trinity elbowed him. “She’s all you can think about, isn’t she?”
He shook his head. “No, actually I was thinking you’re right. We can’t change the past. We’re stuck with who we are.”
When they returned to her cabin, Trinity had hatched a plan. “I’ve got it. I’ll plan a picnic—you, me, Sadie Rose, and Victor—just like old times.”
“I don’t really have free time these days,” Owen said as he untied his boat from a tree and pushed off from shore. He clambered to his seat and started the motor.
“I insist!” Trinity waved good-bye. “And Owen! Thank you!”
30
“WE HEAR NOTHING FROM JERRY,” MR. MELNYK SAID AS he helped hoist the steel cans into the creamery truck. “We hope you hear something.”
If Owen could carry out his work without any reminders of the past, he might manage. His face tightened into a mask. He willed himself to swallow, to try to find words to reassure Mr. Melnyk. To outright lie to Jerry’s father! Saint Christopher! He wanted to tell the Melnyks the truth.
Jerry was dead.
He was never coming back.
But he couldn’t.
Treetops fluttered in the breeze, sending pollen adrift and leaving a dusting of gold across the truck. A tickle rose in the back of Owen’s throat. He sneezed, then shook his head in answer to Mr. Melnyk’s question, then sneezed again, glad for anything to distract him from having to open his mouth and lie.
“We know,” Mr. Melnyk continued, “he goes on wild goose chase, but always—he sends letter or makes the phone call. So we don’t worry.” Mr. Melnyk’s eyes and lined face showed plenty of worry. “But this time. Two months go by. We worry.”
Owen nodded, shrugged, then climbed in his truck. Arm on the edge of his window, Owen felt an overwhelming need to make Mr. Melnyk feel better. “I’m sure he’s fine. Bet you’ll hear something any day now.”
His own false words made him sick.
Mr. Melnyk nodded. “Hope you are right, Owen.” Then he turned away and headed back to his dairy barn.
Before returning to Ranier, Owen stopped by the library and set a small stack of books on Miss Winnie’s desk. “I owe something,” he said. “I don’t mind paying the fine.” Paying a fine. Going to prison. Making restitution of any sort would be better than living this life as a lie.
Miss Winnie was deep in a ledger when she looked up from her desk; a smile spread across her pale skin and rosebud cheeks. “Owen, how nice to see you!” she whispered, an unofficial signal that other patrons were in the small library.
Out of the corner of his eye, Owen noticed the slightest movement. Behind a book rack, someone. A jolt of electricity surged through him. He knew the outline, the curves, the profile of the face, the full lips, the eyes. Behind her somber eyes existed a perpetual melancholy, a world only she could enter.
Sadie Rose stepped into a ray of sunlight pouring through the window. Owen knew social custom required them to act polite.
She hesitated and forced a smile. “Hello, Owen.”
That moment of hesitation, that instant before smiling, told him all he needed to know. If he’d had any hope—now that she was back—that moment told him everything. She could no longer feel easy with him. The break was not temporary.
“Oh, so you two know each other,” Miss Winnie said brightly. “I’m glad, because I’m terrible at names and introductions. The thing I’ve learned about a small town is that everyone knows everyone. But to a newcomer, it’s quite overwhelming.”
Sadie directed her attention to Miss Winnie, as if looking at Owen brought her discomfort. “Well, you’ll start to put names and faces together before you know it,” she said, as if they were good friends. “Owen and I—” she began, then stopped abruptly.
Owen finished the sentence for her. “We both grew up in Ranier. When Sadie’s father went from mayor to senator—Senator Worthington—”
“Is that so?” Miss Winnie said, her eyes widening, as if seeing Sadie for the first time.
Sadie nodded, a little too vigorously. “Yes, since then I’ve spent most of each school year in St. Paul. I just returned from college in St. Peter.”
“Oh, where’s that?”
“Southwest of Minneapolis and St. Paul. My college is there. Gustavus Adolphus.”
And soon Miss Winnie was starting a discussion about the differences between a college for young women, like Smith, and a college that included both men and women. And Sadie was explaining that she would be tutoring in the area over the summer before returning to college in the fall.
A shoulder width from Sadie Rose, Owen listened. Like smoke wisps rising from the start of a birch-bark-fed fire, her familiar scent drew him and conjured up memories: the day she first stepped into the creamery, communicating through her slate board because she hadn’t yet found her voice; riding double on a neighbor’s horse and falling off together in a heap when the horse startled at a garter snake; boating and cutting the motor . . . floating under sheets of pink and green. Now, instead of enjoying the warmth of her company, he felt he was standing too close to the fire. Her presence was more than he could bear.
Instinctively, he backed away, guessed on his library fine, added a few extra coins, and headed quickly for the door.
“Wait,” Miss Winnie called. “You paid too much.”
Without looking back, he waved her concern away and stepped out, as if dreams, college, girlfriend—none of it had ever mattered.
May rolled into June. Warming days, cool nights, and cold water.
Between questions about Studebakers, test-drives, and keeping the creamery running, Owen was glad his days were too full to think. At high season, he certainly couldn’t afford to be away from Ranier. So the first week of June he took his brother Knut, who’d just turned fourteen, out to learn how to make “lake rounds” in the small cruiser.
They got an early start. White pillows of clouds gathered at the edges of the lake. Behind the closed bow, Knut, who was small for his age, sat proudly at the boat’s wooden steering wheel. Head high, his face held an expression of intense seriousness. He reminded Owen of himself the first summer he’d launched the idea of lake deliveries as a way to earn a little extra money, filling two long boxes along the boat’s ribs with Jensen Creamery products.
Owen gave Knut the basic speech Dad had given him. “You have free rein to go where you want, as long as you don’t hit rocks, get lost, or spend more money on gas than you make in dairy sales.”
“But how do I know where the rocks are?” Knut asked, scrunching up his face. Rainy Lake, with countless underwater rocks and shoals, was hard on boats and propellers. Owen pulled out the charts, rolled up and tattered, that were stored in the bow. “You study these before you head out. And you stop when you’re uncertain, and you look again. And you’ll learn the channels from other boaters. You gotta pay attention.”
“Okay,” Knut replied, looking at the map.
“Also,” Owen added, “you need to make twice the price of gas in sales. That’s the deal. But if you just go to all the lodges and resorts I’ve already served, you’ll be fine.” He smiled. “There’s nothing like making the run clear down to Kettle Falls. Forty miles off. Just you and the water and an occasional other boat. We’ll go there today. I’ll introduce you to Darla, who runs the hotel, and every other owner along the way. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
Knut beamed, as if Owen were giving him the keys to a new Studey. Knut looked so young, Owen wondered if he could handle it, but then he’d been the same age when he’d come up wi
th the idea and pitched it to Dad. That was the difference between being a worker and an entrepreneur. One showed up and followed routines, the other started with good ideas and a willingness to take a few risks to see what might be possible.
They set off, with Knut at the wheel and Owen giving directions. “Steer clear of that point.” “Swing left in this channel.” “Avoid the sandbar over that way.”
They stopped by Baird’s Island and Owen introduced Knut to Trinity’s parents and their caretaker, who ordered a week’s worth of milk, eggs, cheese, and buttermilk.
They stopped in the channel between two pencil-thin islands. Victor Guttenberg met them at the dock beside the small library building at the water’s edge.
“Hello, Owen!” Khakis rolled up to midcalf, tanned limbs and face, and elf-like smile, he grabbed the bow as it floated in. “My mother is going to be delighted to see you. You’re a godsend.”
“This is Knut,” Owen said, as he jumped out of the boat and onto the dock. “He’ll be making deliveries this summer.”
Victor shook Knut’s hand. “Well, good for you, young man! You have some big shoes to fill,” he said, with a nod in Owen’s direction. “Speaking of shoes to fill, I’m sorry about your father. How are you all holding up?”
Owen chose his words carefully. “That’s partly why Knut’s taking over on the lake. I need to be around more in town.”
“Of course. I hope you can get away for the picnic Trinity is planning on sometime next week. She gets her mind made up about something, and well, there’s little that can stop her.”
Owen smiled. “I gave her a ride to her island. She seems good. Talking about Paris in the fall.”
“So she says. We might cross paths. I’m hoping to do a lecture tour next fall in England.”
“Really?” Owen couldn’t imagine being asked to lecture on a subject in another country, but then he didn’t have Victor’s credentials. “What are you going to speak about?”
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