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Liam narrows his eyes at me like he suspects something is wrong. “Come on, Lil, it’s not that far.”
I kneel next to my little girl, who is the spitting image of me at that age, then I pull both of my kids into a group hug. “I love you so much,” I tell them. “You’re my world, you know that?”
“Um, Mom, boundaries. My guts are going to pop out if you don’t let go.”
I release them with a quick apology, then stare at my two perfect humans. I wish more than anything I could stop time for them right here on this gorgeous early-summer day. As much pain as I’m in right now, my kids are still blissfully unaware of what’s coming. A soft breeze ruffles their still-baby-fine hair; the sun reflects against their white highlights, reminding me of fairy children from a storybook.
“Come here.” I motion to them, unable to resist the temptation to pull them back into my arms. I’m going to do everything I can to make this the best afternoon of their lives because, far too soon, their entire world is going to come crashing down.
Chapter2
Digger
“Did you enjoy the trip?” I ask, reaching up to help Mrs. Baker down from the float plane. The middle-aged woman, decked out in what I’m guessing is a tennis outfit, says, “I suppose. I’m just really disappointed we didn’t come face-to-face with a grizzly bear. The lady on the phone said we’d see one.”
“That would be Evie, our receptionist, who should not be making promises like that.” Evie Cantrell is young andextremelysarcastic, and although most people catch on that she’s not actually promising a “face-to-face grizzly encounter” (on account of it being one hell of a bad idea), there are those who take her at her word. Case in point: Mrs. Baker.
Fancy resorts would never put up with Evie’s attitude, but in Gamble, Alaska, you make do with what (or who) you’ve got. With a population of one thousand eight hundred and forty-six (technically eight hundred forty-seven, but everyone considers the Dickerson twins one person—mainly because it’s never occurred to anyone to count them twice), it’s not exactly easy to find help. Especially when you need that person to be a Jack (or Jill) of all trades.
Here at the Whistler Lake Lodge, Evie not only takes reservations for our family’s lodge, cabin rentals, and flight-seeing tours, she also cleans rooms, waits tables in our dining room (that doubles as a bar), and does the books.
Narrowing her eyes, Mrs. Baker says, “Wepaidfor an interaction with a grizzly bear and I’m not going to be satisfied until I get one.”
“Tell you what, we’ll give you a free supper out at Best Eats tonight as an apology.” My sister, Moira, owns the only diner in town. She’ll hate me sending a customer like Mrs. Baker in, but I’m heading over to her house tomorrow night to change the oil on her truck so it’s not like she won’t get paid back for her trouble.
Mr. Baker sighs. “Rita, it’s not Digger’s fault there weren’t any grizzlies around.” He forgoes my assistance and hops onto the dock on his own. “I had a terrific time. I’ve never seen salmon that size before. Oooh-wee! I can’t wait to show the boys at the golf club these pictures.”
“Glad you had fun, sir,” I tell him as I lock the passenger door of the Cessna 360.
Clearly not ready to let the matter go, Mrs. Baker makes a loudtsking sound. “We came all the way from Coral Gables because we were guaranteed a grizzly encounter. We spent three hours up in that plane, and then two hours at that stream without even seeingone.Not even from the air. I’d like to speak to the manager.”
Of course she would.
“Let’s head up to the lodge,” I say evasively. Grandpa Jack will be there. He’s used to pretending to be the boss, as well as being the head baker, bartender, and, on occasion, shotgun-wielding bear frightener.
We stroll up the wide path of fallen leaves and pine needles from the shore of Whistler Lake to the expansive one-story log cabin that houses the reception desk, the guest rooms, and our small restaurant/bar (which serves the best plate of bacon and eggs in Alaska, thanks to me). I’m not only the pilot, I’m also the chef, the handyman, the accountant, and the part-time dentist (but only when one of my nephews needs a hand pulling out a tooth).
“What time of day is it anyway?” Mr. Baker asks.
It’s June so the sun stays high in the sky so long, it’s easy to lose track of time. “Four fifteen,” I tell him. Now he’s going to say something about how it looks like early morning.
“Gosh, it might as well be breakfast time. I absolutely love Alaska,” he gushes. “Rita, we should move here. Think of how much we could do in a day!”
“While it might be fine in the summer, come winter, it’s twenty-four hours of night. What are you going to do then?” she asks her husband.
With a waggle of his overgrown graying eyebrows, he says, “Stay in bed.” Mrs. Baker looks like she’s just sipped from a glass of spoiled milk. “I don’t think so.”
Here we go … another miserable couple proving that marriage is the worst idea anyone has ever had. I’ve always been anti-commitment and lucky for me, I see enough unhappy couples to stay true to my beliefs.
As we come around the corner, Moose, my dark gray Great Dane, lifts his head from his favorite spot on the covered porch where he’s been basking in the sunlight. As soon as he sees me, he scrambles to get up, clumsily makes his way down the steps, then bounds toward us with his tongue hanging out to the left.
Mrs. Baker shrieks, “Sweet Jesus, save me, I’m going to get eaten alive!”
I hold up one hand to Moose and he stops running. I point down and he drops into a sitting position on the grass. “Wait there,” I tell him.
He does as he’s told, even though his hind-end is in a full wag of excitement. “That’s just Moose. He’s big, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly holding a shotgun.”
Mr. Baker shakes his head at wife’s histrionics. “For God’s sake, Rita. It’s a dog. He’s not going to kill you.”
