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The list goes on and on, and I’m embarrassed by how many of the rituals have fallen by the wayside. We’ve done okay with the non-polluting stuff, and we have strict hunting and fishing laws when it comes to the mountains and the lake.
But the respect for the magic folk? That seems to have died off with the belief that they exist. Sure, I still put out honey every night, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. But the list of rituals is lengthy, and even I, a true believer, don’t observe all of them.
I need to talk to Griff about this again. We have to come up with a way to remind people about this stuff and get them to do it once more. And maybe we can tie it into my idea of pagan-style festivals, like the Krampus Nacht parade or celebrations of the Wiccan holidays. Not only could the festivities themselves draw tourists, but surely people would be fascinated by a whole town seemingly dedicated to honoring fairies and other magical creatures.
I make a note in my phone. I’m going to find a way to make this happen.
* * *
HAVEN
The past several weeks have flown by. It’s been a whirlwind of cleaning, restoring, and redecorating. But now the cabins have new roofs and decks, fresh paint on the siding, and modernized interiors. Somehow, against all odds, we made the deadline.
After much discussion, Griffin and I decided to open with a soft launch on the Fourth, and opted to keep the name of the old resort: Lake Eerie Lodge. At first, I thought we should go with something a little more interesting, something that implied fancier digs. Ultimately, though, we agreed that we liked the down-home vibe of a “lodge,” rather than the concept of a resort, which might imply that it’s too expensive for the average tourist or offers more than it really does. After all, it’s not like there are a ton of amenities or all-inclusive options. It’s just nice cabins on a beautiful lake with as many thoughtful touches as I could throw in.
So the website and associated literature say “lodge,” but I still think of it as the resort. It’s what these cabins have been called since they were built decades ago and that’s how I’ll continue to refer to it. I’m a traditionalist.
We rented out four of the remaining five cabins: two to related families with kids; one to a group of young, beautiful social media influencers; and one to a group of fratty-looking guys—against my better judgment, I have to say. They gave me a bad vibe. Hopefully they don’t get too drunk or too loud.
The guests arrived and checked in yesterday, and I made sure everyone had directions to Pixie’s Park in Haven’s Hollow for tonight’s fireworks show. I’m exhausted, but I also feel victorious. I did this and I’m determined to make it a success.
So I’m celebrating the best way I know how: with pastries. Libra has a bunch of red-white-and-blue-themed desserts going on, including blueberry and strawberry tarts, as well as the quintessential apple pies, in both mini and full-size versions. But I have my eye on the French pastries—after all, Bastille Day is only a few days away, right? And nothing calls my name more thanpains au chocolat.
I get half a dozen, as well as the biggest latte Libra sells, and then head back out to my temporary home at the lake. I don’t think I need to stay out here much longer—and heavens, do I miss my house on the other side—but I want to stay close for at least a few days, just to make sure everything goes smoothly.
When I pull up at the resort, there’s a man hovering around, someone I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, wearing an expensive suit, and has dark hair pulled back in a man-bun. He looks too classy and expensive to be one of the inspectors Griff mentioned sending out, so maybe he’s an investor? Although Griffin didn’t say anything to me about that. And why would anyone, investor, inspector, or otherwise, show up early in the morning on the Fourth of July?
I get out of the car and march over to him, hand extended. “Hello. I’m Haven Bishop, and I’m the manager of Lake Eerie Lodge. Can I help you with something?”
He grins at me, a truly devastating smile that reveals a dimple in his left cheek. “Wickham. Call me Wick. I was wondering if you had any available rentals.” His voice has a lilting, musical quality to it. Not quite English, not quite Scottish. Welsh, maybe?
“As a matter of fact, there’s one cabin available.” It’s the one next to mine, which I had purposely left empty so I could have a modicum of privacy. But hey, if he wants to pay to stay out here, I’ll take the money.
Everyone in my family is tall; it comes with the elven heritage. I’m close to six feet myself, but Wick is towering over me by at least seven inches. His suit is cut to perfection, which is how I can tell he has one of those long, toned swimmer physiques—not bulky, but not an ounce of fat anywhere either.
I gesture to the cabin next to mine. “Do you want to take a look around? Make sure it suits?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m certain it will be perfectly fine. Just tell me how to go about securing it.”
I sit on one of the front porch chairs and pull my laptop out of my bag. Within a couple of minutes, I have the resort’s site pulled up, and I click on the rental page. I pass him the computer. “Just follow those instructions and it’s all yours.”
I glance around while he fills out the online forms. He doesn’t seem to have any kind of luggage, and as far as I can tell, there are no additional cars in the parking area. Strange. Where did he come from?
“What brings you to Lake Eerie?” I ask.
Rather than answering, he clicks a few more things on the computer, then closes it and passes it back. “All done,” he says.
I verify everything on my phone; sure enough, he paid for two weeks. Interesting, because he didn’t pull out a credit card while he did it. Either he has his number memorized or he did a cash transfer.
“Great,” I tell him. “If you’ll just wait here for a second, I’ll go get your key.” I hurry back to my own cabin, grab the key, and jog back. “Here you go. Fireworks show is in Pixie’s Park tonight at nine. I hope you enjoy your stay. If there’s anything you need, I’m right next door.”
Did I need to mention that? Make myself available to any and all problems? No, not really. But hey, I’m a single lady and a smoking hot dude with no apparent partner just landed on my doorstep. If he happened to stop by with a question and I invited him in for a glass of wine? Not the worst thing that could happen. My belly tingles at the thought. It’s been a long time since I felt an immediate attraction to someone, but the looks plus the accent are doing something to me.
He smiles at me, acknowledging my offer, and damn, he really does have an excellent face. Perfect teeth; sharp, stubbled jaw, fathomless ocean eyes. And in the sunlight, his hair is so dark it looks almost blue.
“I think I have everything I need, but that’s good to know. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Ms. Bishop.”
“It was nice meeting you, too. And please, call me Haven.”
