My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (9 page)

I pushed her name aside, and we talked and laughed until she closed the shop at nine. I felt as if I’d known her all my life. She was older than I thought, thirty-five, and worked like a slave running the bakery for a German couple who lived in Duluth. She sold paintings when she could, and she didn’t spell her name with an H.

I Rounded the Corner

The night I met Sara Strauss, I realized that I had never had a
soul sister.
I now know that when you meet one, you know almost instantly. I’ve had friends, good friends, but to me Sara is an extension of my spirit. It goes beyond us both loving art, baking, and St. Gabriel Island, or us having both been raised by tough German mothers and somber fathers. It’s a connection that leads to a complete and total trust that gives you the freedom to let it all hang out.

In addition, Sara makes me laugh more than anyone I know, and I could listen to her talk for hours. She’ll share story after story that are filled with comedy and misadventures and she has one of the most unique takes on life that I’ve ever been witness to. An added bonus is that she can talk with spot-on foreign accents—it’s just downright entertaining.

Have you ever noticed how some people just zap your energy? After spending time with Sara Strauss, I always feel energized. And when I went back to the inn that night, I was energized, and I was carrying one of Sara’s paintings, the one of Grayson’s Meadow, and I had made a friend for life.

On my pillow was a note
from Loretta. She and Dawn had coerced Marni into going to a bar that was supposed to have great live music. Sandi was fast asleep. I set Sara’s painting on the dresser and got ready for bed.

With the window wide open, I lay in bed that night and inhaled the Lake Brigade air that was carrying the scent of cherry blossoms from the trees that lined the east side of the park. I fell asleep thinking about the day and listening to ship horns, the clip-clop of horse hooves and the occasional bike bell jingling down on the street.

The next day, after some cursory whining from Dawn, we rented bikes to ride around the island, something every St. Gabriel visitor must do at least once. The first mile or so, inland and along the shoreline, we saw picture-perfect cottages and big Victorian houses. Some were inns and others private residences.

After that first mile there wasn’t a building in sight. On the inland side of the road were woods filled with pines, birches, sugar maples, sycamores, and a carpet of woodland flowers and ground cover. On the lakeside were beaches, white beaches and a never-ending view of the waters of Lake Brigade.

I stopped frequently to take pictures of the scenery and the girls grew tired of waiting for me, so I sent them ahead and told them I’d catch up, which I didn’t really try to do. It was so beautiful that I felt as if I was in a dream.

Eventually, my companions had lost their get-up-and-go and their breaks to rest got longer and longer, and I moved to the head of the pack again.

I had ridden almost half of the way around the ten-mile loop when I rounded the corner and it came into view, a three-story Adirondack-style building, up on the hill in a clearing. I stopped, dropped the bike and took pictures.

When the girls caught up to me, Dawn asked, “What now?”

“Keep going. I’ll catch up with you.”

“What do you want to take pictures of that for? It looks haunted.” Dawn sneered.

“Just go. I’ll be right behind you.”

“We can wait,” offered Loretta.

“No, I’m fine. Just go.”

Off they went, a bit wobbly on their start. They were really tired. None of them had been on a bike since they were teenagers or younger. What troopers.

I turned my attention back to the building. It was built with birch logs and shake shingles that had weathered to shades of gray, completely different from anything else I’d seen on the island, yet it looked right at home.

Porches wrapped both the first and second floors and five dormered windows lined the roof. The dormer in the center was larger than the two on either side. All of the windows had wooden shutters with quarter moons cut out in the center. Twisted birch branches were woven into sections of the porch railings, but most of the railings were open where the branches were missing.

A quaint birch log cottage sat on the hill next to the big log building. Two more roofs were over the rise, but I couldn’t see what they were attached to. Black iron fencing ran along the front of the property at the road but didn’t continue up the sides. Securing the gate was a heavy metal chain and an old rusted padlock.

It looked as though there hadn’t been any activity on the property for years, many years. I could hear Race’s voice, “Don’t do it, Cammy.” I just wanted to see what was over the hill, maybe look through a couple of windows. He would have taken my hand and said, “Let’s go, curious cat.” And led me away, the way he had done so many times before.

I rolled the bike up to where the fencing stopped and stashed it behind a stand of birch trees. Then I pushed back a clump of lilacs, brushing their scent loose from the blooms as I squeezed through.

Three old cherry trees stood off to the side of the cottage on the hill and over the hill were two more cottages, a barn, and a small shed. All of the first floor windows of the big log house were too high to look into, so I dragged an old wooden crate from under the porch to a window and stepped up.

The glass was covered with a dry layer of dirt. I spit on my palm, cleaned a circle, and peered in. My eyes adjusted, and I saw floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books.

When something ran behind me, I jerked and the crate teetered. After I rocked back and forth a few times, I fell off the crate and landed on my butt, then I rolled to my back and kept going until I had done a complete somersault and was once again on my feet. I had the impulse to throw my hands in the air with a gymnastic flair, but I didn’t. From the corner of my eye, I saw a big fluffy gray tail disappear under the porch.

My tumble ended my exploration, and I was a little shaky as I walked back down the hill. I pushed the bike across the road and down to the lake where I washed the dirt off my hands. The water was icy cold and crystal clear. An aluminum boat was turned upside down on some rocks, just waiting to be used, but by whom?

I couldn’t get the property out of my mind. I turned around and looked across the road and up the hill at the big log house. The windows in the dormers were like eyes, watching me. Sounds creepy, but it wasn’t. It was as if they were watching over me. I sat on the beach, on a comfortable carpet of smooth stones and sand. Then I lay back, stretching my arms out to the side and looking up at the blue sky. I was so relaxed. A crisp breeze blew in from the lake, but the warmth of the sun felt like a light wrap that was gently draped on top of me. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Over an hour later, I woke up and took more pictures of the building from the road before I rode back into town, and I didn’t see the girls along the way. When I passed the St. Gabriel Information Office, I turned the bike around and parked at the curb. Inside the office a woman sat at a desk behind the counter. She looked up from the book she was reading then asked with a less-than-enthusiastic tone, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, do you have information about the properties on the island?”

“That would depend on the property.” She looked back down at her book.

“There’s an old log building with some cottages on the other side of the island. It looks like it’s been empty for a long time.”

She didn’t look up when she asked, “You mean the old Lake Lodge?”

“I don’t know. There wasn’t a sign. It’s a lodge?”

“Used to be.”

“When?”

She took a quick breath of irritation, removed her glasses, and set them on her open book that she had plopped down on the desk. Then she leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and worked them back and forth underneath her ample bosom. “Closed up during the war.”

“The war?”

“Second.”

“That’s a long time. And no one’s opened it since?”

“Nope.”

“Who owns it?”

“There’s a caretaker out there, George Miller. Don’t know how much caring he’s doing, looks a wreck to me, but he’d be the one to pester about this.”

Pester, hmm.

“I didn’t see anyone around when I was… Is there a way to reach him, do you think?”

“Doesn’t have a phone. I could get him a message, I guess.”

“I’m staying at The Willows Inn. I’d appreciate it if you could let him know I’d like to talk to him. Do you have a pen and paper I could use?”

She grudgingly left her desk and slid a notepad and a pen across the counter. I wrote down my name, and my address and phone number in Texas, in case the message didn’t get to the caretaker before I left the island. I also wrote,
Staying at
The Willows Inn
.

I pushed the pad back across the counter. “I’m Cammy.”

“Betty.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Betty, and thank you.” I turned to walk out and stopped. “Do you live on the island?”

“All my life.”

She didn’t seem too pleased about the fact, but it made me smile.

“Thanks again, Betty.”

I left feeling as though I wanted to go straight to the inn and wait by the phone, which made me regret that I didn’t have the cell phone that Race tried to talk me into buying.

When I got back to the inn, I found all of the girls asleep, so I took a cold bottle of water from the little fridge and Sara’s painting out to the balcony and put my feet up. Dinnertime came and went and they were all still dead to the world. I walked downstairs and down the street to Hausterman’s Bakery to see what Sara might know about The Lake Lodge.

“It’s haunted,” she said.

Dawn was right. What do you know?

“You don’t believe that.” I laughed.

“Don’t I?” Sara wadded up a towel and threw it at me.

“What makes you think it’s haunted?” I asked her.

“You’ve seen it, right?”

“Yes.”

“You just have to look at it and you can tell. And anyone who’s been around awhile will tell you it is. There’s stories about rooms being lit up and howling noises even though it hasn’t been lived in forever.”

“I love it. I think I could live there.”

“Don’t expect me to come and visit you.”

“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” I teased and threw the towel back at her.

“Well, I am, so keep me out of it.”

The next morning the girls limped around the suite
until they all settled on Sandi’s bed to lick their wounds.

“Can you break your chee-chee?” Loretta asked as she cupped her hands over her crotch.

“Oh, god, I hope not.” Dawn groaned and sat on a bag of ice.

“Every one of my body parts is cursing me.” Sandi was perched against a mound of pillows that were propped against the headboard.

“Who’s ready to take on another continent of baked goodness? Let’s try French today,” I suggested.

“Would someone shoot her, please?” Marni asked without a bit of movement, eyes closed and flat on her back.

The phone rang and Sandi picked it up from the nightstand, answered it, and said, “Cammy, it’s for you.”

“What did you do last night?” Loretta asked and looked at me suspiciously.

I raised my eyebrows, grinned, and took the phone from Sandi. “Hello…. Yes, this is her…. I was wondering if it might be for sale…. Can I see it?…. Today?…. When?…. Great, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you…. Goodbye.”

I hung up the phone and asked, “Who wants to go look at a lodge?”

More moans.

“Okay, I’ll see y’all later.”

I grabbed my camera and jacket and was headed out the door when Sandi asked, “What lodge?”

“The one we saw yesterday. The big log building,” I answered.

“The haunted mansion?” No one can sneer like Dawn.

“Yes, my dear, the haunted mansion,” I said and closed the door behind me.

One of Those Dreams

A bike is a necessity on St. Gabriel Island. If you have to rent one, so be it. But eight or eighty you should try to get-a-pedaling if you’re at all able.

I rode down to the bike rental shop and paid for another day, and then I set out to ride the opposite direction on Shoreline Drive than we had ridden the day before. But traveling west around the island, I discovered, had me riding against the wind, and I was feeling some fatigue in my thighs. No matter, I was going to see The Lake Lodge.

When I arrived at the front gate, the lock and chain were gone. I lifted the latch and pushed the bike around the wooden steps that were sliding down the hill and collapsing into the earth. Steps that at one time would have guided guests up the hill to the porch.

Looking up at the front of the lodge and through the sun’s glare, I thought I saw someone standing at the center dormer window and wondered if it was the caretaker I had talked to on the phone. I put down the kickstand on the bike and stepped over and around the birch branches that had fallen from the railings. More branches were on the porch, some in piles but most were scattered here and there.