Stillwater Lake Page 2

  Hearing squeals from kids at the town pool a street over she wished very hard that she was there. Alex Richards was a lifeguard there this summer. Lydia knew because her best friend’s cousin had mentioned it at a dance two months ago. Since then, Lydia had been trying to think of ways to get to the pool more often. Swim lessons maybe? But of course, there wasn’t money for that. And her mother had other plans for Lydia’s summer.

  “If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to work.” Her mother’s voice had been low but urgent-sounding. Lydia had been offended at first. She knew she was a hard worker. Many of her mother’s friends had said the same over the years.

  Her mother had sighed like she often did these days.

  “The truth is, Doogle, we’re in a bit of a bad place financially. I’ve been doing the best I can but without the staff…” Her voice had drifted away. Lydia had known what her mother meant then.

  Ever since Dad had left, there hadn’t been enough of anything: not enough money, not enough help, not enough time. And though Lydia would never tell her mother this, she secretly wondered if her mother had the business sense that had come so naturally to her father. Unfortunately, Dad had been great at selling things other than rental properties to out-of-staters. He’d eventually charmed the business’s one full-time employee—the office manager/housekeeper—right into his arms. He and Samantha had left town, headed to Vegas. And left Mom and Lydia to pick up the pieces.

  She felt the familiar sharp fingernail of pain in her chest that she felt whenever she thought of Dad. Such a jerk! Leaving them in the lurch with a business that, while hadn’t been booming, had at least been doing better financially. Over the past two years, things had gotten gloomier. That’s why it was so important that they fill every rental they could this summer. It wasn’t a problem over Gargun Festival weekend. Then, all the hotels, cabins, and even campgrounds were packed. But the festival only lasted a week. What about the rest of summer?

  “Almost done, Doogle?” Lydia’s mother appeared at the screen door of the office. Lydia didn’t bother to correct her.

  “It looks great,” she said, not waiting for Lydia’s reply. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted today. The people that rented Cedar had a death in the family and had to cancel. I’ve been trying to see if I can switch around another reservation to get it rented out. It means offering a discount but,” her mother shrugged.

  Cedar was their priciest property, a full-sized house complete with a wrap-around porch and gorgeous views of the lake. It was usually also the most popular rental. It had a lot of bedrooms and even a clubhouse for the kids. There was a small pond in the backyard stocked with fish.

  “Bummer,” Lydia said. “Mom, can I finish this tomorrow? My back is killing me.”

  Her mother smiled at her. She looked tired, Lydia thought, like she had every day since Dad had left.

  “Sure, Doog—uh, honey. Thanks for all your hard work today. I was on the phone when you got back from the Wrights’. Everything all right there?”

  Lydia nodded. “Yeah. They’re total royals but everything else was fine.”

  “You know I don’t like that, Lydia. These people pay our mortgage. Someday you’re going to slip up and say it in front of one of them and then you’ll have to explain what a ‘royal’ is.”

  Lydia tried to look abashed but doubted she was successful. Her and Katie had come up with the term. Being local meant the girls often felt like the servants working below stairs. Royals were the worst of the city people—the ones who treated you like an annoying insect.

  All Lydia wanted now was to call Katie and get to the pool. Maybe it was Alex’s afternoon to work. Maybe he was right now slathering himself with suntan oil and looking casually around the pool, checking to see if Lydia was there. She got a weird feeling in her stomach at the thought.

  “Sorry,” she said now to her mother.

  Her mother tried to maintain her frown, but Lydia could see it was a struggle. “All right. Well, you’re free until dinner. We’re having leftover hotdogs.”

  “Again?”

  “The package that the last family left in Cedar was huge. I froze some. So, yes. Again.” Her mother looked out at Main Street. Then she asked without turning her head, “What are you going to do after your shower?”

  Lydia shrugged. “I’ll call Katie now, see what she’s doing. Maybe we’ll head over to the pool.” She tried to keep her voice nonchalant but her mother with her super-Mom powers immediately picked up on it.

  “I heard Victoria Richards say that her son’s working there this summer. What’s his name again? Andrew? Arthur?”

  Lydia laughed. “Arthur? Mom, no one names their kid that anymore.”

  “Well, what is it, smarty pants?”

  “Alex.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Alex.” Her mother wiggled her eyebrows up and down. Lydia pretended not to notice. Her traitor cheeks turned hot though, and her stomach felt even weirder.

  “We don’t really have money for the pool—”

  “I got a tip this morning. From Ms. Brown.” Lydia interrupted and then wished she hadn’t said anything. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had forty bucks all to herself. She knew what Mom was going to say. “You know that any money that comes into your hands comes into the business. I can’t float this boat on my own.” But there were so many things Lydia wanted to buy! New earbuds because hers were making a crackling sound every time she tried to listen to her antique iPod, nail polish, a fresh copy of Vogue magazine—

  “Oh, I forgot to ask how that went. She’s all settled in?”

  Lydia nodded. Maybe if she talked to Mom about Ms. Brown, her mother would forget about the giant tip crinkled in Lydia’s back pocket.

  “She’s really nice. But she seems kinda private. I offered to help her unpack, but she didn’t want me to. And then I offered her one of your shortwave radios—you know, the emergency ones—but she didn’t want one of those either.”

  “You can’t offer those out, hon,” her mother said. “We need them for real emergencies.”

  Lydia shrugged. “I know, but she’s all alone up there. And with the gargun—”

  “You didn’t tell her those silly stories, did you?” Her mother’s voice had raised two octaves, a sure sign she was getting stressed.

  “Oh, uh. Well—”

  “Lydia!”

  “It just sort of slipped out. I mean, Mom, it’s not like she’s not going to hear about it. The festival starts this Friday anyway.”

  “Yes, but that just celebrates the G-rated version of the gargun. Let’s not scare our summer visitors or spread around a lot of stupid old wives’ tales.”

  Her mother had always hated hearing about the gargun. Ironic since without it, the summer festival wouldn’t happen, and a solid portion of their summer business would dry up. It was Dad who’d loved the old legend: telling Lydia and her friends the stories his father had told him. Going out on the lake alone in the early morning and late evenings, Dad had hoped to catch a glimpse of the gargun himself. At least, that’s what he’d told his family. Who knows? Maybe his affair with Samantha had been going on longer than either of them had admitted.

  “Sorry,” Lydia said again. She dug in her pocket, pulled out the forty dollars. She hesitated for the briefest second before handing it over to her mother.

  “Here,” she said.

  Her mother sighed again and looked from Lydia’s hand to her face and back again. Finally, she leaned forward and took the money from her daughter’s fingers, then put one of the twenties back in Lydia’s hand.

  “You keep that. You’ve been working hard and I appreciate it. I know that I don’t give you enough—you’d make more working at the general store or babysitting—but I’m glad you’re helping me out. You’re my right-hand woman, right?”

  Lydia smiled and pocketed the cash. “Right.”

  “Well, I need to get back to the books. Dinner’s at six sharp.”

  Lydia
nodded. Dinner was always at six sharp, but she didn’t remind her mother that she already knew this. Instead, she headed toward the half of the building that was their family home and climbed the stairs. Her legs were tired, but she was tempted to dance up to the shower anyway. Maybe Lydia could borrow a suit from Katie. Lydia’s old, ratty one was totally embarrassing. And maybe Alex would ask her out on a date. Who knew what the afternoon held?

  Chapter 3

  Tony Bradford

  Tony checked the GPS unit again but saw the same thing: a little blue bar that read, “searching” like it had been for the past forty minutes. He stuffed it back into his pants pocket and kept going. He’d known the cell signal was spotty but had hoped the GPS would work better. So far, no luck.

  The sunrise over the mountain had been amazing though. He was glad he’d made the trek. But now the sun beat down and sweat dripped in itchy, meandering paths down his neck and back. He wanted nothing more than to get back to his cabin and jump in the shower. Or the lake, whichever was coldest.

  Dreaming of an icy cold glass of fresh water laden with ice cubes, Tony tipped his head back and took a swig from the warm water in his canteen. It tasted faintly of plastic, but he swallowed it. Stuffing the canteen back into his pack, he hefted it back onto his shoulders. He wasn’t lost…was he?

  Looking around him, Tony could clearly see that he was on a trail. The thing was he didn’t know which trail. Or how much longer it would be until he was back in town. Or if this particular trail even went to town.

  Still, no need to worry. Chances were good he’d just taken a wrong turn higher up on the mountain. A trail was a trail and had to lead somewhere. He walked on for another five minutes or so and checked the GPS again. Still nothing.

  He was replacing it in his pocket when he saw something—a bright flash of color. Another hiker?

  “Hello?” he called out. “Hello, anyone there?”

  The color didn’t move though. It was a bright reddish-purple shade.

  He stepped off the trail and walked in the direction of the color. Getting closer he realized what it was: a flower. Actually, an entire bed of flowers. They sat in a bed bordering a small gravel area that skirted a driveway. Relief washed over Tony. A cabin nearly blended in with the woods, sitting further back in the trees.

  Civilization.

  He started to climb down behind the cabin but then thought better of it. What if it was a hunting cabin? He didn’t want to “accidentally,” get himself shot because he’d surprised some backwoodsman. A backwoodsman who liked to plant flower beds? Tony grinned.

  He veered back to the left, kept the small house in sight. He hiked through the trees, brambles and undergrowth caught his clothing. The woods here were incredible. He’d forgotten how wild parts of his home state still were. Pucker brush and other painful-looking thorny vines laced the forest. The canopy overhead was thick—so thick that Tony was surprised the sun could beat down on him at all.

  When he’d looked upward earlier it had created a disquieting feeling. It was like looking down into a valley but in reverse. Rather than a meandering river bordered by sheer cliffs, here the tall, tall trees pointed toward a swath of blue sky and the white-hot sun beating down between the branches.

  Tony had gotten used to the never-ending sounds of the forest: creaks and groans of the branches rubbing against each other in the trees overhead; the conversation of the birds as they squabbled over territory or maybe called juveniles home for lunch; the soft whistle of wind through pine boughs.

  But now a sound broke through the relatively quiet air. Birds stopped mid-chirp as they too heard it. Faintly, a voice was singing. The tune was familiar but so off-key Tony couldn’t quite place it. A backwoodsman who planted flowers and sang? His grin widened and loped down the rest of the incline, entering the cabin’s driveway. The crushed gravel underfoot was loud so he didn’t worry about startling whoever was singing.

  As he drew closer, he could see the woman—blonde-haired, sitting reclined in an Adirondack chair on the front porch. She was sprawled over it, her head swayed from side to side as she kept rhythm with some unheard beat. Two white buds poked out of her ears and her voice warbled and sank then reached for another high note. Tony grimaced at the sound.

  He drew close to the porch and waved his hands.

  “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Excuse me,” he said more loudly and waved his arms vigorously.

  The woman, maybe sensing the motion or seeing shadows behind her lids opened her eyes. They went wide and she sprang up from the chair as though she’d been shocked, simultaneously screaming. The sound pierced the forest.

  Tony stepped backward, moving his arms into a slow-down motion.

  “I’m sorry,” he said loudly, unsure if she could hear him over the music. “I’m—”

  “Who the hell are you?” she interrupted, yanking the earbuds from her ears. “This is private property.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m Tony. Tony Bradford. I got turned around up on the mountain and am trying to get back to town.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not some serial killer?”

  “I promise, I’m not. I’m a minister.”

  “A minister?” She smoothed down her rumpled clothing, tugging her wrinkled shorts further down her legs. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Sounds like something a serial killer would say.” But she smiled fleetingly, as though acknowledging her paranoia.

  She was tall and blonde with quick, sharp eyes that looked as though they didn’t miss a thing. Her face was on the narrow side, the proportions imperfect enough that she wouldn’t be a model. But she was striking just the same. Her voice was surprisingly deep and throaty. She caught Tony’s eye and he felt heat climb up his neck, this time not due to the hot sun.

  “This is a beautiful spot. Have you lived here long?” He glanced around the small yard.

  She hesitated. Then, “No. No, I’m just visiting. For the summer.”

  Her stance was still wary, back stiff and straight as though waiting for Tony to launch himself at her in a homicidal frenzy. City dweller. New York, he’d guess by the slight accent.

  “Me too. I’ve been here almost a week but keep getting lost.” He chuckled. “I’m visiting too, from Boston. But I grew up here. In Vermont I mean. I’ve been away a long time.”

  She nodded stiffly. “I’m from New York.”

  “Again, sorry to startle you. I came up the driveway,” he nodded back toward the long drive, “and thought you’d heard me on the gravel.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she said and glanced around her, at the woods her gaze lingering by a little grove of three pine trees tightly packed together. He saw something cross her face, some emotion, but it was gone before he could place it.

  She looked him up and down next, as though trying to figure something out. Then she sighed and shook her head.

  “Sorry, I left my manners behind in the city, I guess. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’d love some cold water.”

  “Sure.” She crossed the porch to the door. Tony stayed planted where he was.

  “You can come in if you like. Just don’t judge me. I only got in yesterday and haven’t finished unpacking yet.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll just sit here on the step.”

  She nodded and retreated into the house. Tony couldn’t help but notice how long and toned her legs were as she walked past. He surveyed a bumblebee flying drunkenly out of a nearby flowerpot, trying to distract himself.

  The woman—Tony realized now he didn’t even know her name—had left the front door cracked. “Have you visited before?” he called out. Water ran inside.

  “No, it’s my first time in Stillwater,” she called back. “First time to Vermont even.” Then, “You?”

  “I’ve never been this far north before.”

  Seconds later, she reappeared with a glass of water in hand. “I think the ice
might be stale, so I just got the water as cold as possible.” She handed the sweating glass over to him as he stood.

  He took several big gulps. “Thanks.” Then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Oh. It’s…Jessica. Jessica Brown.”

  He wondered about the pause, and she answered his unasked question. “Sorry. I write under a pen name and half the time can’t remember which is my real one.”

  “You’re an author?”

  She nodded, but it seemed reluctant.

  “What do you write?” Tony asked, draining the last of the water.

  Jessica smiled slightly but wouldn’t make eye contact. “Nothing you’d have read.”

  “Ah,” Tony replied. “Erotica?” He grinned.

  “No.” She laughed as they made eye contact. Neither of them broke the gaze.

  “It’s romance,” she said finally, then looked down, flicking a bug off her leg. “But please, don’t tell anyone that I’m an author. I came here to get away from that—the media, the distractions, the noise. I don’t want anyone here to know what I do for a living or who I am, so if you’d just keep it to yourself…” her voice drifted off.

  “Sure, I get it. I’m here on a sort of sabbatical too.”

  “From preaching?”

  “No, I’m not really a preacher.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I was a minister. There’s a difference.”

  “Really?” She sounded skeptical. “What is it?”

  “Well, I’m more of a spiritual guide,” he paused, and she raised her eyebrows.

  “Hmmm, too woo-woo?”

  She nodded.

  “I guess the best way to describe it is to say that I work with Christian CEOs and executives and help them to figure out what to do in certain circumstances. Help them to clarify what they’ve heard—or think they’ve heard—from God.”

  “So, you’re like a Christian psychic?” Jessica’s face was deadpan.

  Was she joking? He couldn’t tell. His job did sound weird, and he wasn’t doing a great job of explaining it. “Not exactly,” he shook his head. “Pastors are responsible for a single church—for one group of people. But I go into a business, sit with the leaders and try to figure out what steps they need to take to follow God’s will for their organization.”