I replied with a nod.
For a village that makes revenue from summer visitors, Blue Gillians aren’t always known for their hospitality.
Slowly, I turn the car, pulling off Old 44 onto a dirt lane. Any moonlight that was present at the cemetery is now obscured by the clouds drizzling cool drops of rain. Though leaves have begun to sprout, in the darkness the trees appear more skeletal, their branches blowing in the growing wind.
From this vantage, the backs of the cottages are visible. These houses, like other lakeside homes, were designed with the front positioned toward the water. Stark Lake is an average-sized boating, fishing, all-around recreational lake, rounding out at about 250 acres. That’s big enough to keep the water fresh from underground springs, but not as large as some others.
For the next two weeks, the area should be quiet. Once the Memorial Day weekend arrives, all bets are off.
I squint, trying to make out the small inlets and signs above mailboxes.
It’s the presence of taillights that garners my attention.
I turn the car onto a small lane that ends in a natural expanse—a circular drive of sorts—as my phone rings. The name on the screen tells me it’s Becky. I place it at my ear after hitting the green icon.
“I was about to ask where you are,” Becky says. “Get your ass out here.”
Parking the car, I watch as the door to a grey SUV opens.
It’s been a long time, yet there’s no mistaking Becky Harrison, now Sanders.
A smile comes to my lips as I cut the engine and open the door.
Despite the cool drizzle, within seconds we are in an embrace, her five-foot-two slim frame against my five-foot-five and a bit curvier one. As we pull apart, her deep-brown eyes peer up at me as the rain drops grow fatter, dampening our hair.
“I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, you didn’t come when I got married.”
Sadly, I straighten my lips, holding back the long-winded explanation. “Becky...”
She shakes her head. “Hey, you know I still love you. But you’re here and...I can’t stay long.” She reaches for my hand and tugs me forward. “Come on. I have you in cottage two.”
We don’t say another word until the door is unlocked, light switch flipped, and key tossed onto the counter.
The walls are the original light knotty pine, and the floor is covered in ceramic tile fabricated to look like grey wood planks. The door we enter opens into the kitchen and dining area. These cottages have been here for a long time, but one look around and it is obvious that this one has recently been renovated. The countertops are hard surface, the cabinets bright white, and the modern appliances are stainless steel.
“Beck, this is beautiful.”
“It’s only two bedrooms, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I walk farther into the large room, passing the breakfast bar with two stools and moving into the living room. The front wall of the living room is constructed totally of glass. In the center is a French door. Off to one side of the room is a stone fireplace with a television secured above the mantel and a wood-burning stove inside the stone casing.
It’s then I notice the chill.
“You can use the woodstove if you want,” Becky says. “There’s a wood pile out near the parking.” She grins. “Watch out for snakes and mice.”
Her warning makes me shiver.
A laugh I haven’t heard in too long rings in my ears. “That’s what happens when you move off to the big city.”
“Lake Forest isn’t that big,” I reply.
Becky’s eyes grow wide. “First, it’s in California, and second, do you remember where we grew up?”
I do, more and more by the second.
One more look at the wood stove and I rub my hands together. “Is there another way to heat this place?”
“Oh,” Becky says as she goes to a dial on the wall. “Yeah, there’s heatandair conditioning.” That’s the way she says it, as if having both is a luxury. “Let me turn on the furnace.”
