Cabin Girl (4 page)

He turns to me. “I'm hoping that help is you, Bailey. I know you haven't done any serving before, but you're a quick learner.” He pauses. “And April is a good teacher. Work as a team, and you girls can pull this thing out of the fire. Are you up for it?”

I don't know what to say. A few minutes ago I was dead tired, but the prospect of a new challenge has the adrenaline rushing through my body. I feel like I could run a marathon.

“I can try.” I peer sideways at April. She looks stunned.

“April?” Gabe says.

She shakes herself out of her trance and nods. “Sure. Of course.”

“Good.” Gabe smiles. “There's one more thing. It's not fair to expect Bailey to serve in the dining room and clean cabins too, so until Meira gets back, I'd like you girls to share the duties. Bailey, you help April in the dining room, and April, you help Bailey with the cabins.”

Chapter Six

“Poor Meira,” I say as April and I enter the dining room for my crash course in waitressing. “What a horrible accident. Do you think she will be back?”

April lowers the water goblets she's checking for spots and blinks at me in disbelief. “Gabe said she would, didn't he? Meira might have burned her arm, but it isn't going to fall off. She'll be back. She needs this job. Working up here might be fun and games for you, Bailey—a nice little cash bonus that you can blow on clothes, but the rest of us work to pay the rent and buy food. If we had other options, don't you think we'd take them?”

Whoa!
Where did that come from? Outwardly I don't move a muscle, but inside I take a step back. This is obviously a sore spot with April.

“What are you talking about?” I frown. “I thought you were doing great. You said you were saving to open a flower shop. You told me you'd have enough this fall. But if you need to live on the money you earn here at the lodge, how is that possible?”

She doesn't answer. She just stares at me. Finally, she shakes her head. “Never mind.” Then she motions to a stack of folded tablecloths. “Let's get these tables set.”

Bang.
The door on the subject is closed. For whatever reason, April is done talking about it. I don't push. But part of me can't help wondering if she ever really intended to open a flower shop. Maybe it was only a dream. After all, she never got past grade eight. If a university graduate has a hard time finding work, what chance does a high-school dropout have? If you have no job, how can you save for a dream?

The thought that I may have burst April's bubble makes me feel bad, but apologizing will probably make matters worse. So I grab an armful of linen and start on the tables.

A half hour before dinner, the guests descend on the lodge for appetizers and cocktails and to share stories about the day's fishing.

Since I'm underage, I can't serve alcohol, so it's my job to make sure the appetizer platters stay full and the empty glasses and plates are cleared. It's a good way to ease into dinner service. By the time the guests sit down to eat, my jitters are mostly gone, and I fall easily into the rhythm of things. First comes the salad, next the entrée and finally dessert and coffee. I keep an eye on April, trying to do what she does.

Dennis Savoy is at one of my tables. He's dining alone—unless you count his camera. I feel sorry for him. It can't be much fun to be on holiday by yourself. He doesn't seem to mind though. He's as smiley and chatty as ever. He's also hungry. He eats everything I put in front of him and even asks me to sneak him an extra dessert. But he's appreciative and leaves me a ten-dollar tip. Actually, all of my tables leave generous tips. No wonder April likes being a server.

After dinner, as April and I are setting the tables for the next day's breakfast, Gabe shows up.

“Good job tonight,” he says quietly to me. “Thanks, Bailey.” I see April watching us from across the dining room. I can't read the expression on her face, but when she realizes I see her, she looks away and goes back to work.

“What was that about?” she asks when we return to the kitchen.

As I unscrew the lids from the salt shakers, I say, “What was what about? Could you pass me that box of salt, please?”

She gives me the box and nods toward the dining room. “That thing with Gabe just now. What was he talking to you about?”

I shrug. “Nothing, really. He was just thanking me for helping out with dinner.”

“Why didn't he speak to both of us?”

I look up in surprise. “I don't know. Maybe he wanted to reassure me, because he knew I was nervous.” And then, realizing I've missed the shaker and dumped salt all over the table, I growl, “
Darn it!
Now look what you made me do.” I grab a pinch of the spilled salt and toss it over my shoulder.

For once, April doesn't comment on my being superstitious. She's too amped about my conversation with Gabe. Her eyes narrow. “Are you sure Gabe wasn't promising you Meira's job
permanently
—or maybe mine? After all, he
is
your godfather.”

I can't believe my ears. I stop cleaning up the mess and scowl at April. “What is your problem? Ever since Gabe said we'd be working together, you've changed. It's like you don't like me anymore. This isn't my fault. I didn't ask to be a waitress. I didn't ask for help with the cabins either. So get off my case.”

April opens her mouth to yell something back, but then—almost magically—her face relaxes, and she shakes her head. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “You're right. I don't know what's the matter with me. Maybe it's my hip. It's been killing me all day. And I have a major headache. I really need some sleep. Would you mind finishing up here? There's just the shore lunch boxes to do.”

What am I supposed to say? I'm still ticked, but I don't want to be mean. “Fine,” I mumble. Today April has been a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But I'm not looking for a war. I force a smile. “Sure. Go to bed. I'll take care of the shore lunch boxes.”

Chapter Seven

Shore lunch is a fish feast prepared over an open fire by the guides. The lunch boxes are their portable pantries.

I check the list on the bulletin board against the contents I've placed inside. It's been a long day, and I can barely keep my eyes open. As for my brain, it's either already asleep or in a coma. The job takes way longer than it should. When I'm finally sure the boxes are stocked down to the last potato and fork, I let myself out of the lodge and head for bed.

Right away, the fresh air chases away some of my drowsiness. I breathe it in hungrily and gaze up at the night sky. It's blue-black—dark, but not completely, so I don't bother switching on my flashlight. Though it's only about ten thirty, the camp is quiet. There are lights on in a couple of the cabins, including Dennis Savoy's, but the other guests have gone to bed. Out on the lake, a loon calls and a fish jumps. The gravel crunches under my feet.

I have the camp to myself—the camp and the moon. At one spot, the path opens to a clearing by the lake, and there it is—a huge white orb hung so low in the sky, it seems to sit on the water like an enormous pearl in a sea of diamonds.

As I marvel at the beauty of it, someone emerges from the trees. It's a girl. Right away, I sense an urgency about her. She moves quickly, but so fluidly that she seems to float. Her long hair and gauzy gown swing and sway with each step. She comes to a stop directly in front of the moon and reaches out to it—a black silhouette against glowing white.

Then, like a frantic hummingbird, she begins darting about the clearing—dropping, clawing the ground, springing up and moving on. Around and around she goes, becoming more and more frenzied with each pass.

It's the witch of the lake. I'm sure of it. The moon is full, and she's searching for her necklace.

I gasp and step backward—right into a bush. Leaves rustle and twigs snap. I drop my flashlight. The witch stops her feverish search and cocks her head to listen.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I barely breathe the words, but I'm sure she's heard me. I clap a hand over my mouth.

She rises and takes a step toward me. She peers hard into the night.

I stop breathing. Is this really happening?

Silently I pray,
Don't let her see me.
I have no idea what would happen if she did, and I don't want to find out. I'm not one of the woodsmen who killed her mother, and I don't have her necklace, but maybe the witch doesn't care about that. I might be in trouble for disturbing her. I have no clue. This is my first encounter with a ghost.

After what feels like forever, the witch turns and lifts her arms to the moon again. Then she disappears into the trees.

That should make me feel better, but it actually makes me more scared. What if she's doubling back through the forest to sneak up behind me? There's no way I'm going deeper into the woods. I have to get back to the lodge.

I start to run. The crunch of the gravel beneath my feet is magnified by the quiet of the night, broadcasting my location like a loudspeaker. I might as well be wearing a flashing beacon on my head. If the witch wants me, I'm easy to find. But if I can get out of the woods, I'll be safe. At least, that's what I'm hoping. Every couple of seconds I look over my shoulder, expecting to see the witch closing in. Will she be herself or will she be a giant bear or a blistering fire?

I'm so concerned about what might be chasing me that I don't see what I'm racing toward—until I crash into it.

I'm swallowed by huge, powerful arms. I'm too stunned to scream, but my sense of survival takes over and I start punching and kicking like a crazy person.

My captor howls and lets go. My instincts tell me to run, but the path ahead is blocked by—

“Sloan?” I squeak as recognition sets in and relief washes over me. “Oh, man, am I glad to see you!”

“Oh yeah?” he growls. “You've got a funny way of showing it.” He winces and rubs his side and then his shin. “Jeez, Bailey, what the heck were you tryin' to do? Kill me?”

“No. Of course not,” I mumble. “Sorry.” Suddenly, I feel really dumb. I peer over my shoulder again. “I thought you were…” I don't finish the sentence. If I tell Sloan I saw the witch, not only will he not believe me, but he'll laugh himself silly.

“You thought I was what?” he prods. “Voldemort? Dracula? Jack the Ripper?”

I shake my head.

“Then who?”

“The witch.” I say it so quietly, it's a wonder he even hears me.

But he does. “The witch!” He snorts. “Are you kidding me?”

“Shhh,” I hush him. “You'll wake the camp.” Now my back is up. “Yes, the witch,” I hiss. “I know you don't believe me, but I know what I saw. It was like Ed said. She was standing in the moonlight at the edge of the lake, looking for her necklace.”

To my surprise, Sloan stops laughing. “Where?” he says.

I point down the path. “The clearing. But she's gone now. She heard me and slipped into the trees. That's why I was running. I thought she was coming after me.”

I wait for Sloan to laugh again, but he doesn't. He's completely serious when he says, “Show me.”

I can't say that I'm thrilled about going back to the scene of the crime, but at least I'm not going alone. If the witch wants to kill me, she's going to have to go through a big muscular guy to do it.

My flashlight is on the path where I dropped it. Sloan picks it up, flicks it on and starts wading through the long grass of the clearing. Against my better judgment, I follow.

At the lakeshore, he waves the beam of light over the sandy earth.

“Whewwwww!” he whistles. “Somebody—or something—was here, all right. Look at this. The ground's all torn up and there are footprints. A girl's footprints.”

I shake my head. “Not a girl. The witch.”

“Come on,” Sloan says, leading me back to the trail. “I'll walk you to your cabin.”

We stop at the door. April has left the outside light on, and moths are fluttering around its hypnotic glow.

“Are you going to tell? You know, about the witch?” I ask. The last thing I need is to be the laughing stock of the camp.

He shrugs. “Not if you don't want me to. I saw the ground all torn up, but you're the one who saw the witch. It's up to you. If you want to tell, I'll back you up. If you don't, I won't say a word.”

“Thanks.” I point to the flashlight. “Take it. You can give it back to me tomorrow.”

I quietly let myself into the cabin and shut off the outside light. I can hear April breathing softly in her sleep across the room. Should I tell her about the witch or shouldn't I? I have all night to decide.

Chapter Eight

I can't get the witch out of my head, so it's a long time before I fall asleep. When the alarm goes off, I'm not ready to wake up. I look across at April's bed. She's not in it. She's not in the bathroom either. She must already have left for the lodge. Since we usually walk together, I'm sort of hurt.

I shower and hurry to the shed to get my little red wagon. It's not there. April must have taken it, but why? Gabe said she should help me clean cabins. He didn't say anything about delivering coffee. This is something April's decided on her own.

“Hey,” I say when I see her loading up the wagon outside the kitchen, “I can do that.”

She doesn't even look at me. “I got it. Cook could use a hand with breakfast prep though.” Then, without another word, she starts for the guest cabins, and I have to jump out of the way to keep from getting run over.

“Morning, Cook,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. “April said you could use some help.”

Cook looks up from the ham she's slicing and scowls. “Are you responsible for the shore lunch boxes?”

I nod. “Yeah. Why? Is there a problem?”