Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  Groping for the cage on the ground, she picked up Owlsy. The bird fluttered, mimicking her confused heart. “It's getting late."

  She took off with long strides, skirting by the church and its bare bridal wreath bushes scratching against the siding.

  Pounding the path behind her, Cole blurted out, “Not only did I put up fences, but I put my son on the other side of a fence, thinking I was protecting him. From me. But it's lonely when you're at a distance, detached."

  Her heartbeat pressed against her breastbone. She slowed to a normal walking pace to catch her breath. When he eased up beside her, she thought she heard the hum of vibrations undulating through the air toward her. Scooting ahead of the confusing sensation, she said, “Don't blame yourself anymore for anything that's wrong between you and your son. You're there now. He'll come around."

  Crowding next to her on the path, he said, “My son is why I'm here."

  He'd already made that point. What was wrong with the damn man? “That's your business?"

  His response was to lead the way down a steep section of the path. They were quiet for a time while he helped her through the dark, a firm hand at her elbow. He carried the tulip basket.

  Tilting his head at her, he said, “No lantern tonight."

  She hadn't carried her lantern, she realized, for the first time ever. “It was one of those old habits. And the moonlight's enough."

  “I like a night like this."

  A wind kicked up with the beat of her heart. The pines moaned, perfuming the air.

  “Your son's in some kind of trouble, isn't he? That's why you're here. I said he could visit but if he's—"

  “No,” he said, setting down the basket. “It's me."

  “You? You made all the decisions you had to make. You should feel good about everything and the way it came out when you left here."

  He found a log nearby, and sitting down, kneaded his fists in front of him. “I left here for a good reason. And it wasn't because of my boss or Mike. It was because of something you said."

  A leaden bolt slammed through her. She set Owlsy down, but remained standing a couple of yards from Cole. “I said a lot of foolish things. But that's past.” Didn't he see that?

  Staring into the night, he continued, “Remember when you told me how important it was to shut your eyes and remember your loved ones?"

  “Yes.” She shuddered under her jacket.

  “Well I closed my eyes in the mansion one day, and I couldn't visualize Tyler. Oh, he was there, but I wasn't sure of the image. How long was his hair, really? What clothes did he wear, really? And did he go ahead and get the braces or had we only talked about it? I couldn't remember anything. It scared the hell out of me. I knew then, that no matter what, I had to go home. And that you were right. I belonged with my son. I owed him a father. A real father."

  “And what is your definition of a real father?"

  Looking right at her in a way that stilled the blood in her veins, he said, “He takes action. Words are one thing, but it's what you do. It's what you show your kid that counts."

  Like staying with him. Looking at the sweatshirt again with his son's team logo on it, she felt the wind gusting through her. At least he had the sensitivity to come back here and tell her his decision in person. There was no hope to bring down the fence between them. Too much had transpired between them.

  Staring at the strong set of his jaw, she said, “Tyler's lucky to have you. So is your nephew, Tim. And Karen."

  His gaze zeroed in on her then, powerful. “Owlsy's probably eager to be set free. Come on."

  On the pathway again, he said, “Your father would have been proud to see what you've become."

  Heat splashed her cheeks. “My father didn't understand."

  “He understood completely. A father is afraid of losing his kid's love."

  “But to be so obsessed?"

  “He was probably jealous of me, the punk kid who seemed more important to you than he did."

  “My father only wanted to own everything around Spirit Lake. Including me. To him, it was all about ownership of the land, the lake, the place."

  He held a branch out of the way for her to move ahead on the narrow path. “My son's studying the environment at school, saving jungles and such. He told me the other day that even Walden Pond is not about a place. It's about consciousness."

  Stopping in front of her, he blocked the path, peering down at her with eyes that reflected the moon. “My son would say that Spirit Lake is all about being conscious of what's important."

  “And what would you say?"

  “It's about learning how to tear down fences."

  With her nerves ravaging her, she shivered. “What exactly are you saying, Cole?"

  His answer was his action. He held out his hand and led her onward, the moonlight unfolding the path like a silver runner of silk. Only the reality of Owlsy fluttering in his cage kept her stumbling forward without crumbling under the confusion.

  When they reached the cliff overlooking the dark valley below, Cole put down the basket and forced the cage from her hand, taking her quaking hands in his. His hawkish gaze pinned her against the skein of the night.

  The hum grew heavy between them.

  And then he turned, tucking her beside him and under his arm to look out over the cliff. The moonlight outlined a barn's roofline in the distance, the ragged tops of trees, and a windmill. Laurel smelled the last of freshly harvested cornfields.

  “So quiet,” he said on a sigh.

  When he tipped his head back, she did the same, listening to the hush, floating at the sight of blinking stars on a navy, satin sky.

  She glanced at his face, and she was startled by his calmness. What did he want from her?

  Then reaching up to the sky, he pointed with an index finger. “Remember how we used to make magic happen?"

  Trembling, her hands grew clammy. “Yes. We'd touch our fingers to the same star. We did a lot of silly stuff."

  “Let's do it again. Be silly. Make a wish."

  She reached up, the pad of her index finger feeling a spark when she touched him and the bright star.

  “There,” he said, drawing his hand away, “what'd you wish?"

  “If I told, it wouldn't come true."

  “I can make you tell."

  “How?"

  “Close your eyes."

  “Here? On this cliff?” The darkness lured her, dizzying.

  “Close your eyes. I'm here. This won't take long."

  Sheepish, she gave in, closing her eyelids against the moonlight.

  “Shut them tight, real tight, okay?"

  “Cole, for heaven's sake."

  A moment later, something smooth and cool slipped into her hand. She opened her eyes. “The locket?"

  “I found it stuck in the afghan at your house, and took it with me. But I want you to have it."

  Then reality lurched in. “You came back just to give me this? This is the loose end? The business?"

  His brow furrowed into deep lines. “Would you open it? Please?"

  He looked so earnest that she had to. Her fingernail pricked the hinge, and it sprung open under the moonlight.

  The blood drained from her. Her legs went wobbly. Even in the shadows, she knew what she saw.

  Her voice was but a gossamer whisper. “Jonathon.” She couldn't breathe. “His baby picture. Where—? It is Jonathon, isn't it?"

  She searched his eyes for any hidden secrets, for any lies. When he nodded, she cried, hugging the locket to her breast.

  Cole engulfed her into the heat of his arms, the locket cradled between their heartbeats. “I talked with your mother right before I left."

  “My mother?"

  “She was upset at first,” he began, a thumb caressing her cheekbone, painting her with his warmth. “But she finally confessed her cousin in Arizona might have kept a photo taken by the hospital. She'd never pursued it because she was sure it would be too painful for you."

&n
bsp; And it would have been back then, she realized. Then she felt an ache for him. “This must have been hard for you.” When he flinched, she rubbed at his arms. “Talk to me about Tyler. How are the both of you doing? Really?"

  She relaxed to see a shadow lift from his eyes. “Feeling safe. We had a long talk recently, about a whole lot of things."

  She looked at the photo again, so tiny and fragile lying in her palm under the half-light of the moon and stars. “He's beautiful."

  “Like his mother."

  “Thank you, Cole."

  “I want you to know something."

  She swallowed hard under the seriousness of his gaze. “Whatever it is, I can take it. The past is past."

  “I found the medicine. That bandage for fragile things."

  She leaned toward him and into the hum. “Our medicine?"

  Licking his lips, he nudged her chin upward with a callused finger. “When I went back toTyler, he didn't much like me at first. He even told me off, had a few choice words, said he didn't need a bum like me."

  “I'm sorry. You've been through a lot it sounds like.” Colder air wafted up from the valley.

  He gathered her against him. “I told the FBI boys, the newspaper reporters, the racing circuit promo wolves to go to hell so I could spend every day of August before school started with my son."

  Warm admiration spiked into her heart. Smiling, she realized they'd exchanged roles in life. While she'd become the one being interviewed with her photo all over the papers and Internet Web pages, he'd retreated to tend to family.

  She offered, “I hope you can patch things up eventually."

  “Actually, after I followed him to soccer practice for about the tenth time, and after picking up him and his friends to go get pizza for the twentieth time, he told me something pretty darn profound."

  “And what was that?” She could hear his heart thrumming in his chest, a fragile thread tethering her to him.

  “He said, ‘Dad, I forgive you. You're okay after all.’ He suddenly made it sound so simple to change things. To make things fresh again he said merely, I forgive you."

  “Because he not only needs you, he loves you."

  “Yes, I think he does."

  Looking up at the yearning in his dark eyes, she asked, “I know he does.” Her heart scuttled about. Her mouth went dry.

  “That's our medicine,” he said. “It's forgiveness. When my son said that he forgave me, something wonderfully free and warm washed over me, as if I were flying. And it helped me see there's a new kind of love out there if I'm open to it. If you'll forgive me. And if I can forgive myself. I think I can if you'll do me a favor or two."

  She swallowed around the lump pulsating in her throat. “A favor?"

  “I want to bring Tyler back here sooner than we talked about."

  “Anytime,” she said, breathless. “I want you to visit often. And I'd love to meet him."

  “Will you put your finger up on a star?"

  She did. He pressed his finger on the same star, his thick finger sparking heat down her finger and arm, through her middle and down to her toes.

  He said, “Are visits enough?"

  “You're asking too many questions."

  “What if Tyler and I came to live at Spirit Lake?"

  Shock waves rocked her. “But your business, your racing—"

  She began to pull her finger from the star, but he commanded, “No, keep your finger on our star.” When she did, he continued, “I figure I still have that crayon box, so I can fly to a race now and then without too much trauma. Of course, I'll need to work out the vacation time with John."

  “Why's that?” The heat rippled from their fingers held against the star.

  “There's a lot of work to do patrolling the lakes around here. He thinks he could use a deputy, someone who could handle boats and going fast."

  She hummed. She definitely hummed. “Cole?"

  “Will you marry me?"

  Laurel saw the wicked glint in his dark eyes. Lightning must have struck her finger because sparks showered the air between them. Rescuing her heart before she fainted, she brought her hand down. The night air held a pungent promise on it.

  She felt a smile bubble up, but she wondered if she'd been hearing things. “You're just lookin’ for trouble, aren't you?"

  To her delight, he got down on his knee. Raising an eyebrow rakishly, he said, “Have I found it?"

  Sighing, her heart aglow, she nodded. “That's your bad leg. You better get up."

  “Not until you say you forgive me."

  “For what?” Her fingers tingled.

  “For being late with this proper proposal."

  “There's never anything proper about you, Cole."

  “Then you'll say yes?"

  “Questions are my specialty, remember?” she spouted.

  “Then you'll say—"

  “Yes, damn you!” Heatwaves crashed down her.

  “I love you, Laurel Lee, and it's not that old kind of love, that stuff teenage boys toss around loosely like cheap bottles of perfume. This is the big stuff, longer and wider and deeper than Spirit Lake."

  “Hmm, I'll need a mighty big bottle to hold that kind of love."

  “Just a lifetime. I've come home, Laurel Lee. I need you. With you, I can leap fences, tear down fences—"

  “And get in trouble!” Her heart swelled and she fell into his arms. “I love you, Cole. You're no good for me, no good at all."

  But she kissed him anyway.

  * * * *

  LATER, WHEN THEY released the owl, they watched him course high into the sky across the moon, winging onward to their meadow.

  And they followed. Hand in hand. They had become a family.

  * * *

  Christine DeSmet

  Christine DeSmet is an award-winning writer who loves fast-paced, visual suspense stories set in wild landscapes that naturally feature both beauty and danger. Her new novel, SPIRIT LAKE, set in the forests of northern Wisconsin, earned First Place in the 1999 Golden Network contest sponsored by Romance Writers of America (RWA). It was a finalist in the 1996 RWA Golden Heart contest under the title SHADOW GARDEN.

  She's also a professional screenwriter, and her novels reflect her love of developing visual images and emotionally-charged dialogue. Her motion picture script “Chinaware-Fragile,” written with writing partners Peggy Williams and Bob Shill, won the Slamdance Film Festival contest in 1998 and is currently optioned to New Line Cinema.

  Christine is a fellowship graduate of the Warner Bros. Sitcom Writers Workshop, a board member of Wisconsin Screenwriters Forum, a member of the Writers Guild of America East, and a member of RWA.

  Raised on a farm near Barneveld, Wisconsin, her stories always reflect her love of animals. “I grew up with pets that included gophers, chickens, cows, ponies, pigs, raccoons, the occasional rescued baby bird, and of course parakeets, canaries, kittens, guinea pigs, and many dogs.” She has a master's degree in journalism and leads writing workshops for UW-Madison's Division of Continuing Studies.

  Readers are welcome to email her at: cdesmet@dcs.wisc.edu

  * * *

  Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.