My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (24 page)

I planned that we would eventually become as self-sufficient as possible. We would get the fruit trees in shape, plant a huge garden in the summer, and can, dry and freeze everything we could from the harvest.

Someday there would be a greenhouse on the rise next to our cottage where we would overwinter plants, grow transplants for spring and summer planting, and grow food in the winter. I had read about a man in Maine who used heat rods in his greenhouse to warm the soil and he grew peppers, squash, and tomatoes all winter long.

Once we boarded the ferry, Race was all smiles as we were about to make our first trip to the mainland since we had moved to the island. I hoped it was because he was looking forward to driving his jeep and not that he had contracted island fever.

If a ferry passenger would like their vehicle waiting for them, valet service is available at the dock on the mainland. Race thought about it, but the idea of a stranger driving his jeep wasn’t worth the two blocks we had to walk to get it ourselves.

He might rethink that in the winter
, I mused.

My memory might be exaggerated, but I remember Race walking around the jeep three times and then opening the backdoors to check out the rear seat. He sat in the driver’s seat for five minutes, and finally he started the engine.

We went to the local bike shop and bought a woman’s mountain bike that I could ride on the trails with Race. After that we shopped for the first mattress of many we would buy for the beds in the lodge, and then Race waited patiently while I shopped for fabric to start reupholstering furniture. We ate lunch and saw a movie before we bought the groceries we would have boxed to take back to the island.

When we had all that we needed, we drove back to the ferry and unloaded our supplies at the dock. I stayed with our purchases while Race drove the jeep and our small hauling trailer to the garage, and then he jogged the two blocks back.

Trips to the mainland became something we looked forward to every couple of weeks. Simple pleasures have a greater meaning when you live on an island.

George met us downtown to take everything back to the lodge, and I decided to ride my new bike back. Race rode along with George, it gave them a chance to have a yabberbash. I just happened to have my camera and Einstein with me and took the time to stop along the way to record what was blooming and where.

During that first two weeks on the island,
I had scheduled appointments with the subcontractors to talk about the renovation. Joel Morrison, the plumber Larry had recommended, came out and installed the washer and dryer, and I took the opportunity to discuss the plumbing work to be done on the property.

“It’s a job,” he said, shaking his head and making sucking noises from the side of his mouth. “And you start adding bathrooms, change anything, and the St. Gabriel Community Development Board is gonna get involved. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

Joel knew the island. Two days later, I was outside picking up the birch branches that had once been part of the porch railing, when two men and two women pulled up to the gate in a buggy. The men were wearing suits, the women dresses, and none of them were wearing smiles.

I walked down the hill to greet them.

“Mrs. Coleman?”

“Yes.”

A rotund man with a handlebar mustache stepped away from the group. “We represent the St. Gabriel Community Development Board, and we’d like to set up a meeting with you to discuss the restoration of this property.”

I felt like Professor Harold Hill from the
Music Man
. “There’s gonna be trouble in River City.”

“We’ve only been cleaning things up so far. I know we need to get a permit when we start any major work, but we’re still finalizing the specifics. What is it you’d like to discuss with me?”

“The Lake Lodge is an historical property on the island and we want to make sure that it’s protected.”

Hmm, where have you been the last sixty-plus years?

“I’d be happy to tell you what our plans are.”

The tall woman, with her hair pulled so tight in a bun she would never need plastic surgery, snapped open the clasp of her handbag, reached in, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to the apparent spokesman of the group. He handed the paper to me.

Written on the paper were a date, a time, and a location,
St. Gabriel Public Library.

Treasure Hunting

The St. Gabriel Public Library sits on the lakeside of Shoreline Drive, right before it turns into Main Street. It was built in the early 1900s and like most of the buildings on the island, looks just as it did when it was first constructed.

Race went with me to the Community Development Meeting, which was to be held in the back of the building behind the library’s entire collection of books, ten stacks.

The original four messengers were there as well as about ten other people. Two chairs had been set on one side of the space and when we walked in, everyone else was sitting on the other side of the room, facing the two lone chairs.

Barbara and June from the Historical Society sat in the front row, sporting Hawaiian shirts printed with pink and orange hibiscus flowers. Pineapple earrings were dangling from their lobes. June smiled and gave me a little wave from under her chin.

Still the spokesman, apparently, the man with the handlebar mustache pointed to the empty chairs and requested, “Please, take a seat.”

Race looked at me and got his mischievous grin that I knew meant he intended on having some fun with the situation.

As we took our seats, I leaned over to him and warned, “Behave.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Coleman, on behalf of the St. Gabriel Community Development Board and the St. Gabriel Historical Society, I would like to thank you for coming today.” Then Mr. Spokesman walked behind a podium, folded his hands, set them on the platform and continued, “Let’s begin by having you make your presentation.”

I looked at Race with the surprise of a school child who found out there would be a test she hadn’t prepared for.

“Our presentation?” asked Race.

“Your proposal, what you would like to do with The Lake Lodge property.”

“Do you mean what we are going to do with our property?” asked Race.

Race caught my look of warning,
I said behave.
I proceeded to tell the audience that we were planning to restore the lodge and open it up for business. I enthusiastically shared my plans for the gardens and a restaurant.

“It has come to our attention that you plan to add bathrooms in the lodge, which would change the floor plan.”

I had mentioned the bathrooms to a few people, but it had come to their attention? It was a small island.

“The basic layout would stay the same, but yes, it would change the floor plan I guess.” I was getting a little irritated.

“Any proposed changes to the property would need to be submitted to both the Community Development Board and the Historical Society for approval. Then you can apply to the Island Building Department for a renovation permit.”

“You have the authority for this?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s all part of The Island Charter.”

Again, I looked at Race and wondered if he was thinking,
Cammy, you should have known this.
I felt my face heating up
.

Race reached over, squeezed my hand and asked calmly, “How would we go about submitting these changes for approval?”

“Once you have your plans, bring them to the Historical Society and we will review them and get back to you.”

“How long will that take?” I asked through short breaths.

“Six to eight weeks. If there are any changes, you can resubmit.”

“Any changes?” I asked. If Race hadn’t been holding my hand so tight, I would have been on my feet.

Go get ‘em, Race.

Race asked, “And how long does it take to get a permit?”

“Six to eight weeks.”

As we walked out of the library, I felt as though I was walking into a hole. Race stopped me before I got on my bike. “Cheer up. It’s all going to work out.”

“Race, I’m sorry. I should have known all this. The season will be over before we have any of the rooms ready for guests. There won’t be any income from the lodge this year.”

“We’ll be fine. We have money set aside that isn’t designated for the renovation and when the property on Lake Kitchee sells, we’ll have that too.”

“That money was supposed to be for traveling in the winter.”

“Listen, it’s all going to work out, okay?” Race took my hands and pulled me to him, kissed my fingers, and he said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”

If Race was concerned, he didn’t show it. I was concerned, and it only got worse when the bids came in from Joel for the plumbing and Ralph Cummings for the electrical work. We also received bids from three different carpenters that must have included the use of nails made of some kind of precious metal. Building or remodeling on an island is expensive.

We did get our plans submitted for
approval.
Six new bathrooms would be added on the second floor. In the process we would lose two bedrooms, leaving eight rooms for guests. And there would be a men’s and a women’s bathroom on the main floor in part of the old washroom.

New furnaces, air conditioners, and water heaters would be installed, and there was the general list of repairs—the roofs, the porch railings, all new plumbing and electrical. And then the big finish—drywall, trim, and paint.

What followed was an undetermined season of waiting. In the meantime, I finished cleaning the lodge, painted our cottage, laid out the gardens, and prepared the beds for planting. George and I lined the dray with plastic and he made ten trips to the Island Disposal Center to bring back loads of compost, which I dug into the garden beds. Then I ordered fruit trees, plants, and seeds. I cleaned all of the garden tools in the shed and pruned the deadwood off of the old fruit trees and raspberry brambles.

Race was spending the mornings in his study or in the library. Of all that we sold before we left Texas, Race’s reading chair was the one thing I had regretted not moving to the island. I was pleased when I noticed that he was usually sitting in the same chair when I walked past the library, an oversized wingback with clawfeet and his feet were often up on the matching ottoman. A pile of books would be stacked next to him on a table, and on his lap he would have his computer or an open book.

“When do I get to read what you’ve written so far?” I asked.

He pulled his mouth to one side and looked skyward, as if he was thinking about it, and then he said, “Not now.”

I asked him that same question a few times a week and the answer was always the same. Finally, I quit asking.

Since the renovation was on hold, I allowed myself the indulgence of treasure hunting. I began in the dining room with the buffets and hutches. One at a time I unloaded each cabinet and sorted the contents onto the tables.

I found five silver tea and coffee service sets and eighty-seven pieces of white Ironstone—plates, platters, cups, saucers, and four pitchers.

I had to stand on a chair to reach the top shelves of the china cabinets. On one of those shelves, I found twenty-one china plates and a large platter that were all imprinted with a brown transfer illustration of The Lake Lodge. Except for the platter and seven of the plates, all were chipped, cracked, or both.

I found seventeen mismatched stemware glasses, seventy-four pieces of silver table service—all well tarnished, eight serving trays, stacks of mismatched china of every color and style, two soup tureens, and five glass decanters shaped like genies’ bottles. Pushed to the back of one of the buffets were thirty-seven Lake Lodge menus.

Appetizers:
Baked Mushrooms, Fish Cocktail

Soup:
Tomato Bisque, Summer Squash Puree (In Season)

Fish:
Trout Almandine, Smoked Salmon

Poultry:
Roast Seasoned Turkey, Roast Duckling

Joints:
Roast Sirloin of Beef

Grills:
Filet Mignon

Vegetables:
(In Season)

Sweets:
Fruit Jell-O with Whipped Cream, Caramel Cup Custard, Petit Fours, Vanilla Ice Cream. Green Apple and Rhubarb Pie with Cheese Crust, Baked Apples with Cinnamon Cream, Rhubarb Bread Pudding with Rhubarb Sauce, Rhubarb Strawberry Shortcake (In Season)

Apparently the folks who ran the joint didn’t throw anything away and prioritized dessert—clearly my people.

In the small room underneath the lobby stairs, I counted the wooden snow shoes I had seen the day George first showed me the inside of the lodge, five and one half pairs. The crates I had seen that same day were filled with squares of purple glass tiles, which I wrapped back up and left in the room. I wondered what they had been for and what I could do with them.