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“Hey,” I say. “How are you doing?” I narrow my eyes at her so she knows I mean business. “Really and truly. How are you?”
“I’m actually okay. This is a horrible thing to say, but I’m relieved Evan is gone once and for all. I feel like I can finally start living and stop looking over my shoulder. I’m celebrating with sprinkles.” She gestures to the pastry display and I see what she means. There are sprinkles in multiple shades and shapes on everything: donuts, brownies, cookies…it’s a sprinkleganza.
“How are you?” she asks.
The question makes me blink. I’m the town fixer; everybody knows that. It’s my job to take care of everyone and everything. Most people never wonder how I am, because it seems like I have everything together. Of course, my friends know better. Annie Winslow, my bestie—and owner of the local B&B—is fully aware about how stressed I am. I’m just surprised that Libra picked up on it, especially with everything happening in her own life.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Great, even. Just really busy. I need pastries to get me through the day.”
She squints like she doesn’t completely buy my sunshine-y bravado, but she doesn’t call me out.
“You got it.” She grabs a white box and starts loading it, not even asking what I want. It’s not because she’s rude; it’s because I come here so often, she knows exactly what I like.
“Where’s Oaklyn?” I ask.
“Hiking, I think. You know how she’s been with the mountains lately.”
Ah, that explains it. Normally the two of them are always here, but after Libra went into hiding to escape her psychotic ex, running the business fell to Oaklyn. Libra gave her a vacation to make up for it, and while none of us knows exactly what happened when she went camping that week, something changed for Oaklyn. She spends all of her free time up in the mountains around Haven’s Hollow now.
That was always kind of her thing, but she’s been extra devoted to it lately. Her roommate, Adria, owns the bookstore on this block. Libra and I have both checked in with Adria to see if she knows what’s going on with Oaklyn, but she claims she’s as in the dark as the rest of us.
Libra drops her voice to a whisper. “Have the police found out anything more about…the body?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’ve heard. But I’m seeing Griffin this afternoon, so I can ask him. He might know.” My cousin, Griffin Bishop, is the current mayor of Haven’s Hollow. Griffin and I have always gotten along like hot chocolate and marshmallows, but lately he’s been driving me crazy.
He decided a couple of months ago that he wanted to renovate the old resort at the lake, and handed me that project despite my protests. I figured I could take my time with it, but when he saw how successful Annie’s B&B is going to be, based on her pre-opening reservations—and how big a tourist draw this town can really be—he accelerated all his plans. Now there are festivals in the works and we need lakeside lodging for the summer.
As Bishops, we’re the caretakers of the town. There are a lot of us, and we all do our part to take care of the place our ancestors founded. So even though the resort is technically town property, no one batted an eye when Griff announced that the Bishop family was going to bring it into the twenty-first century. He couldn’t imagine I would mind overseeing the project, especially because I’m always at the lake anyway. I live there.
Don’t get me wrong, I love living at Lake Eerie. It’s beautiful and quiet, the perfect place to spend my days. I just don’t love the idea of turning it into my next job. That kind of takes the joy out of it, you know?
Of course, that’s not the lake’s real name. It’s a nickname; a pun and a joke about the strange happenings that have been reported there over the years. The lake’s real, official name, which most people don’t even know, is Lake Bishop. An unimaginative, unsurprising name that my ancestors gave it.
It’s weird enough sharing my name with the town. If people realized I also shared my name with the lake, they’d probably fire me on the grounds of extreme nepotism, if it were possible to fire someone who doesn’t technically have a job.
I collect my box of goodies and a large coffee in a to-go cup. “See you tomorrow,” I tell Libra, then head for the lake to start my day.
I park and stand lakeside, surveying the mess in front of me.
The resort, a dilapidated wreck from the eighties, is on the side of the lake nearest to town, about halfway around from where I live. There are six cabins in total, a little semicircle that surrounds a small, man-made beach with a small dock for diving, which everyone calls the Little Dock. Visible from the beach is a bigger, floating dock—the Big Dock—that’s pretty far out, which doesn’t make sense. It’s beyond the rope buoy that marks the swimming perimeter, and honestly, it’s too far to safely swim to—though believe me, people always try. While it’s easily accessible by canoe, there’s no reason to go to it. It would probably be wise to get rid of it completely.
All of this is to say: Whoever designed this so-called resort either didn’t know what they were doing, or didn’t care. I know I can make improvements, starting with cabin renovations. I could also add a beach volleyball net, a couple of fire pits, and water accessories, like floaties and a banana boat.
I can see it in my mind: tourists crowding around in the middle of summer, kids splashing in the water while adults grill hot dogs and make s’mores. I can make this resort coveted, a little jewel in Lake Eerie’s crown.
But I have my work cut out for me.
In some ways, it would be easier to tear the existing cabins down and start from scratch. Griffin vetoed that suggestion though; he likes the kitschy architecture. So I have to work with what’s there, keeping the vibe intact while replacing all the roofs and windows and repainting all the siding. Everything inside needs to be redone too: the tile floors, the plumbing, the décor. The kitchens and bathrooms need updating. The linens need to be burned.
And it’s already April.
How I’m supposed to have this place up and running by the Fourth of July is anyone’s guess. I dig my phone out of my purse and call Marlan Baines, my trusted contractor, who lives a few towns over. He answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Haven.”
“Marlan,” I say. “I’m at the lake, checking out our newest project. It’s a mess. You’re sure you can start on Wednesday, right? And you have a good crew?”
He chuckles. “I’ll be there. Some of my regular guys are out on other jobs, but I’ve got temps I can bring in. Don’t worry. We’ll complete the work on schedule.”
