The Northwoods Chronicles (9 page)

A sign on the wall said, “Continental Breakfast
6-9am - Dream Report 8-9am - Coffee pot on all day - Box lunches
available with 24 hr notice.”

Inside the dining room were eight or ten tables
with chairs, a tall coffee pot that did indeed have its indicator
light on and a stack of Styrofoam cups.

Missie poured two cups full and wandered back to
see how Cook was faring with the old lady.

“This is my wife, Missie,” Cook said, and put
his arm around her.

“Marjorie Atkisson,” the woman said, and
extended a frail hand over the counter. Missie set the coffee down
and reached for her hand. Just before making contact, the old woman
said, “Now don’t squeeze.” Missie thought that she could probably
break every bone in the frail woman’s hand with a good handshake.
So they touched skin and it felt nice, that light handshake. She
smiled into the woman’s sharp blue eyes, and the woman smiled back,
a radiant smile.

“Mrs. Atkisson owns the Northern Aire,” Cook
said.

“It’s wonderful,” Missie said.

“My family bought it in 1947 for forty-seven
thousand dollars,” Mrs. Atkisson said. “It’s been through good
times and bad times, but we all love it here. My son and grandson
come up with me every summer to help.” She handed Cook a key. “Your
cabin is on the lake. Everything you need should be there. There’s
a little store in White Pines Junction, but a nicer supermarket
about fifteen miles south. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to
ask.”

“Are you busy?” Missie asked.

“The season is winding down. Everybody will be
gone after Labor Day. We have twelve cabins. One has a young
family; I put them at the other end of the resort, so you won’t be
bothered by the kids. The rest are couples, or fishermen. Two other
parties will check out today. That’s all for another week.”

“We lucked out, honey,” Cook said, and gave her
shoulder a squeeze. “We just saw your sign on the highway.”

“Things work out the way they’re supposed to,”
Mrs. Atkisson said. “Always.”

Missie put her arm around Cook’s waist. “Did
Cook tell you we’re on our honeymoon?”

“No!” That smile again. Mrs. Atkisson had a
beautiful smile, and with it came a twinkle to the eye.
“Congratulations. The cabin on the lake is very private, and very
romantic. I think you’ll enjoy yourselves.” She laughed. “Of course
you’ll enjoy yourselves. We’ve got boats. Row her across the lake
some evening, Cook. Just because she married you doesn’t mean you
can stop romancing her.”

Missie liked this woman. She might come up and
spend some time with her. Have a cup of tea. Get to know her a
little bit.

Missie walked down to the cabin with the key
while Cook brought the car around. There were cobwebs on the
doorframe, that’s for sure, with old leaves and dead mayflies
caught in them. She fitted the key and the deadbolt turned back
smoothly.

The door opened into the epitome of an old,
backwoods cabin. Missie felt as though she had stepped back into
time. It was built of whole logs, as was the lodge, and filled with
antiques, but there was no new Formica here. The carpeting was old,
the framed prints on the walls were faded, the couch had definitely
seen better days. Missie felt as though she knew about the hard
times Mrs. Atkisson had gone through, just by looking at the
interior of this cabin, and when contrasted with the remodeled
loveliness of the lodge, she felt as though she knew about Mrs.
Atkisson’s hard-won prosperity as well.

This cabin was exactly the type of atmosphere
she had hoped for. It was old, but it had charm. Character.
Ambiance.

“Wow, look at this place,” Cook said as he
banged through the screen door with two suitcases.

“Isn’t it great?”

He dropped the bags and went right to the front
window that opened out onto a perfect, unobstructed view of the
lake at sunset. “Let’s move in here for good.”

Missie wrapped her arms around his waist from
behind. “Okay,” she said. “Mrs. Atkisson could probably use the
company. And the help. But first, let’s unpack and make a
fire.”

Cook turned and gave her one of those hugs that
cracked her back and lifted her an inch off her feet. She loved it
when he did that. Then he was back into the car for the rest of
their stuff and the cooler.

After Missie hung their clothes in the tiny
closet upon hangers she had to untangle, and put their underwear in
the magnificent old dressers, and unpacked their travel kits in the
bathroom that was obviously an add-on, and not very well done, she
popped the thawing pizza in the gas oven and came into the living
room where Cook had lit the candles they’d brought and had a fire
blazing. He was drinking a glass of white wine, sitting on a couch
cushion that he’d pulled to the floor. Her glass rested on the
mantel.

She knelt behind him and rubbed the back of his
neck. “Good driving today,” she said.

“Good navigating,” he responded. “God, that
feels good.”

“Pizza in twenty minutes.”

“Hmmm . . . time for. . . .”

“No,” she said. “Twenty minutes, Cook. I need
more time than that. I want more time than that. It’s my honeymoon.
I
get
more time than that.”

He laughed, his teeth flashing, his dark hair
sparkling in the firelight. Fire looks good on him, Missie thought.
Everything looks good on him. She snaked around into his lap and
they sat together, happily silent, watching the flames.

“Wife,” he whispered into her hair, the concept
new to both of them. She nodded. It was good.

They ate the pizza and drank the whole bottle of
wine sitting in front of the fire, listening to the loons call to
each other from across the lake, and rehashed all the funny things
that happened at the wedding. Missie got a little giddy from the
wine, but she knew it was all right. They were safely ensconced for
the night, she was on her honeymoon, she was with the man she
loved—her husband—and a few glasses of a nice Chablis to get tipsy
was just fine indeed.

Eventually, of course, he led her to the bed
that was too springy, but had a wonderfully soft down comforter,
and he undressed her slowly with great tenderness and kissed all
the places her underwear rubbed and then they made love to each
other with excruciating tenderness.

Wrapped up in his arms, his snoring soft in her
ear, Missie slept.

~~~

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” Missie
said as she spread apricot jam on his breakfast toast.

“Me, too,” Cook said. “I dreamed the weather
report.”

“Weather report?” Missie looked out at the
cloudless sky over the lake. Cook had moved a small table to the
front window so they could eat with the view of the steam rising up
off the lake and the quiet silhouette of the fishermen drifting in
silent boats. “That is weird.”

“Yeah. I usually dream the business news.”

“You’re kind of spooky, you know. What was the
weather?”

Cook closed his eyes and pretended to remember.
Sometimes Missie didn’t know if he was kidding or not. “High
pressure system moving in. Clear skies, high seventies to low
eighties. Good golfing weather every day for the foreseeable
future.”

Missie wished she had dreams like that. She put
the toast on his plate, shook out vitamins for both of them and let
the high mood prevail.

At least she tried.

True to the elusive nature of dreams, by noon
she could no longer remember the details, only the tenor of the
dream. Residue stained the back of her consciousness with the dark
feeling that had come over her as she slept.

She and Cook played eighteen holes on a course
with wildlife hazards. One fairway had geese, another fairway had
ducks, one water feature sported a great blue heron they both
thought was a statue until it took a step, and they saw a porcupine
and a deer at the edge of the woods. It seemed as though the whole
northwoods knew they were on their honeymoon and came out to
congratulate them on their superb choices in mates. At least that’s
what she told Cook.

Somewhere on the sixteenth hole, they decided to
fish the evening away.

After getting back to the cabin, showering and
relaxing for a few minutes, Missie walked up to the lodge to
arrange for the rowboat and to see if Mrs. Atkisson had any fishing
tackle they could use.

“Oh, well,” she said. “There’s a tackle box, but
I haven’t looked inside it for years. It’s right there in the
boathouse. I’m afraid you’ll have to take what you get. There
should be a couple of poles in there, too, though I can’t guarantee
anything.”

“That’s okay,” Missie said. “I don’t really want
to catch anything. It would scare them. It would scare me.”

“They pull some mighty big fish out of this lake
every year.”

Missie shivered. “Maybe I won’t even put a hook
on. I’ll just tie a worm to the end of the line and the fish can
have it.”

Mrs. Atkisson nodded. “That’s my kind of
fishing. How are you finding the cabin? Have everything you need?
Are you warm enough?”

“Everything is fine, just fine,” Missie said,
that dream fading further into her memory, leaving her only the
vaguest sense of something that she wanted to talk to somebody
about, but she couldn’t remember what or who.

“Don’t forget we have breakfast here every
morning. I know you’re on your honeymoon, but you don’t have to
worry about fixing him breakfast. You could sleep in an extra half
hour.” That twinkle again.

“Thanks,” Missie said, resolved again to go back
there when Cook was otherwise occupied, and spend some time making
good girl talk with Mrs. Atkisson. Missie was certain Mrs. Atkisson
would be full of fun information as well as excellent insights
about relationships and how to forge a good marriage. But for now,
she needed to report her findings about the fishing tackle and let
Cook rig something up for them.

Neither had any luck at fishing, but they had
fun. Being in a rowboat just in itself was fun, Missie discovered,
as they took turns rowing so the other could troll some pretty
pitiful-looking lures with rusty hooks. No self-respecting fish
would bite anything they had to offer. But after golf and rowing,
they were both ready to pack it in for the day.

Missie microwaved burritos, which they washed
down with a couple of beers, then went to bed with a big bowl of
popcorn.

Cook was asleep before he’d had his second
handful.

Missie discovered she wanted to put sleep off as
long as possible, to be as tired as possible, to perhaps sleep
dreamlessly the night through.

But the time of reckoning was at hand, so she
put the popcorn bowl on the floor, turned out the light, snuggled
up to Cook’s back, and succumbed to her exhaustion.

Wildflowers. Wildflowers everywhere. Beautiful,
extravagant wildflowers with music to them, not just color and
scent. She reveled in the magic of them, until she missed Cook.
This was no fun without him. He’d love these flowers. They must be
peculiar to the northwoods. Or maybe to honeymooners. She wanted to
share the joy.

“Missie?”

“Cook, you goof, get down before you fall down.
What are you doing up there?”

“I’m stuck, I think,” he said from the top of
the tree. “I can’t come down.”

“You’re scaring me, Cook.” Something was pulling
on Missie. She had to go, but she didn’t want to leave him. “I’ve
got to go.”

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“No, come with me now.” She had to leave, time
was running out. “Come down, come with me now.” She felt like she
was going to lose him if he didn’t come with her.

“Go on,” he said with an exasperated grunt of
exertion. “Go.”

Missie turned and ran, tears flying out of her
eyes, down her cheeks and into the wind behind her. She ran and
ran, but seemed to make no headway. When she turned, she could
still see Cook, stuck at the top of that tree. “I just found you,”
she said out loud.

“I just found you,” she said out loud and woke
herself up.

“Hmmm?” Cook turned over in the bed and his big
hand found her hip and began rubbing it lightly, down the small of
her back and up along her backbone. He didn’t wake up. He didn’t
have to wake up to know that she was in distress and needed
comforting.

Missie would never leave him behind. Never.

~~~

“Newlywed jitters,” Cook proclaimed over his
Grape Nuts. “It’s an adjustment, Missie, marriage is. We’re both a
little tweaked by it. It’s okay. The dreams will stop once we’re
settled in together. That wedding was a big deal. And now we’re
honeymooning, and when we get home, we’ll have to move all your
stuff into my place. Then we’ll be settled, and life will go on
until we get into a rut and you’ll throw me out because I’m too
boring.”

She tapped his knuckle with her spoon. “That’ll
never happen.” She wondered if he was right about that. Stress
triggers nightmares. And migraines are prone to happen right after
the stressful situation has resolved itself. Letdown syndrome, she
thought it was called. Maybe that’s all this is. “I just found
you,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I ain’t going anywhere,” he said. “Except maybe
hiking. There’s a trail up into the woods. Let’s go roll around in
some poison ivy.”

They spent the morning hiking, then stopped at a
store for some fresh supplies. Cook grabbed a few handfuls of fresh
lures to leave in Mrs. Atkisson’s tackle box, and when they got
back to the resort, Cook took a nap. Missie read for a while, and
watched the lake, reluctant to sleep. Eventually, she wandered
outside and into the sunshine.

Mrs. Atkisson was down on the dock, eating an
apple.

“May I join you?”

“Missie! Please. Sit down. I was just hoping for
somebody to come share this sunshine with. Isn’t it exquisite?”

The lake was perfectly calm in the late
afternoon. A couple of mother ducks trailing their babies hugged
the shore. Missie took off her shoes, rolled up her pant legs and
joined Mrs. Atkisson on the end of the dock. The water felt
delightfully fresh yet warm on her feet. “You find time to come
down here and enjoy your own resort,” Missie said.