My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (21 page)

Before we rode to the lodge, I took Race to the Island House Restaurant for lunch. He loved the Tournedos of Beef, I knew he would, he was a Texas boy. Outside the restaurant we saw Lucy, the flower lady.

“Hi, Lucy, I’m Cammy. We met last summer in front of The Willows Inn. My friends and I bought some flowers from you. This is Race, my husband.”

“Hi, Cammy and Race.”

“How are you, Lucy?” I asked.

“The lilies are blooming. Do you want to buy some flowers?”

I looked at Race and smiled.

“I think we should,” said Race. He pulled out his wallet, and I picked out a bouquet of lilies of the valley.

With the flowers and a copy of
The St. Gabriel News
in the basket of the Schwinn, we set out to ride to the other side of the island, pedaling in the direction that kept the lake breeze at our backs. All of this may seem a bit manipulative, but I liked to think of it as having been a gentle way to introduce Race to his new surroundings, his new life.

After we had passed all the buildings, and were riding between the shore and the wooded hillsides, I saw wild crocus that had pushed up through an isolated patch of snow and, in a shady spot away from the road, a single trillium flower.

Trillium is a unique three-petal flower with two sets of three dark green leaves. Although there are many varieties of trillium, trillium grandiflorum or the Great White grow on the island. They are the white-petaled variety that turns a faint shade of lavender as they age. Three of the leaves are small and grow right under the neck of the bloom. Three larger leaves are attached further down the stem—three, three, and three, thus its name trillium.

Trillium is a protected species in many areas because trillium propagation is a real art and the plant is very tender. If the leaves or blooms of a trillium are picked or damaged, it may not recover for many years or the whole plant could die. You may see a single flower standing all by itself in a wooded area, or, if you really hit the jackpot, three or four together. I still feel a little sense of privilege when I see one.

I stopped briefly to take a picture, and before we were back on the bikes again, I asked Race, “What do you think, so far?” I couldn’t help myself.

“It is beautiful,” was all he said.

I put a lot of thought into the exact route we would take to the lodge. Should we ride the outside loop, which would take us along the shoreline and Race would see the lodge from the front as we came around the corner? Or, should we ride straight up Fort Hill from Main Street, through the middle of the island to Grayson’s Pass, and to the back gate of The Lake Lodge property, which was a more direct route?

I decided on a combination of the two. When we got to the sign with an arrow that read,
Island Center
, we followed the road up the hill and through Tunnel Rock to the middle of the island and then rode some of the side trails. Along the trails I saw a whole collection of plants and flowers that I hadn’t seen when I was on the island the summer before. It was all I could do to not jump off the Schwinn and crawl around the ground to investigate.

Stay focused Cammy. This ride is not about you,
I told myself. Race had a deep appreciation for nature, but waiting for me to take dozens of pictures and record in Einstein what I had seen and where, would not be his favorite pastime.

The trails wound through the woods to Grayson’s Pass, which we did not take to the back gate of the property; instead, we followed the pass back down to Shoreline Drive, catching it just around the corner from the lodge. I rode alongside Race so that I could see his face when he saw the property, in person, for the first time.

That wasn’t the best idea. The tense look I thought he might have had on his face on the ferry, there it was. I had hoped he would have the same experience I had when I first saw the lodge, overcome with a feeling of peace and excitement at the same time, definitely not what he was experiencing.

The front gate was propped open, and I pushed my bike up the hill to the cottage and Race followed. George had left the dray loaded with our things by the back door, but he had unhitched the horses.

I set the kickstand down on my bike and waited for Race to lean his on the porch, no kickstands on mountain bikes, and then I asked him, “What do you want to do first, take a tour or get settled?”

“Take a tour.”

“Of everything?”

“Yes, of everything.”

I took Race’s hand, walked up the steps of the cottage porch and guided him through the downstairs. The living room had a small sofa and two chairs arranged in front of the small stone fireplace and the room had a view of the water beyond the porch. The kitchen table sat in front of a window with a lake view as well and from the window over the kitchen sink, we could look out to the woods.

The bedroom and bathroom were both roomier than I had remembered. Upstairs, I showed Race the second bedroom with dormered ceilings and an impressive view of the water. “If you like it, I thought this could be your study.”

Race held my cheek in his hand and looked at me with the intensity that always makes me a little weak and tingly. “It’ll be perfect.”

From there I showed Race the other empty cottage that sat between the lodge and George’s place. When we entered the barn, Collard Greens was already turned around in butt-greeting position. He must have heard I’d be stopping by.

I walked over to our new horse and set my hand on his nose, to which he responded by pushing up against my palm, ever so slightly, and whipping his tail back and forth.

“Hi, boy.”

“Girl,” Race corrected.

“Look, Collard Greens, someone likes me.” I looked at Collard Greens who hadn’t even acknowledged my presence.

“That sounded somewhat bitter,” said Race.

“We have a history.”

“Apparently.”

Cat was nowhere to be seen. Maybe three was a crowd.

We stopped in the tool shed that was full of every imaginable garden and carpentry implement, albeit of the vintage variety. The tools would all need cleaning, sharpening, and painting or sealing of the wood handles, but then they would do the job nicely. My dirt scoop, Janie’s rake and shovel, and my pruners would fit right in.

Finally, I led Race to the lodge. We entered through the front door and into the lobby, which looked more like a loading dock. Six very large boxes containing the washer and dryer and the two mattress sets I had ordered were sitting right inside the door.

The plumber I had contacted to check out the plumbing in the cottage and to install the water heater and the washer and dryer assured me, “No problem. I’ll have it taken care of by the end of March.” Evidently, there was a problem.

The first thing Race noticed through the panes of the French doors was the library. I know this may be hard to believe, but until that moment, it had not occurred to me that those books would be my allies in giving Race things to love about our new home. I loved the books, but they were old and dusty and not what Race had collected out of his interests. None of that mattered. He walked by the shelves, read the spines, and pulled one down and opened it.

“We can finish the tour later, and I can start cleaning the cottage while you hang out in here.”

“No.” He put the book back on the shelf. “Let’s keep going.”

I led Race through each room, opening closets and cupboards for him to see inside. When we got to the cellar door in the kitchen, I opened it and pushed the buttons on the switch plate, Voila! A light bulb that hung from the ceiling of the stairwell lit a path to the bottom of the stairs.

“This is where the ghosts live,” I joked to Race.

“Ghosts?”

Had I not mentioned it? I guess I hadn’t.

“Some of the locals think the lodge is haunted, silly stuff.”

“Hmm.” Thankfully, Race was amused by the thought.

Even with the lights, the large concrete-walled space at the bottom of the stairs was dimly lit, and it smelled dusty and damp. A small window near the ceiling was covered with a shabby old blanket, which I pulled down. Wooden shelves lined the room and some were stacked with wooden boxes that, in earlier times, might have held potatoes, apples and onions for winter storage. Also on the shelves, were old lever-topped and metal-lidded canning jars, lots of them. A collection of gathering baskets hung from the ceiling. Behind the shelves at the end of the concrete cavern, an old heat boiler sat in the corner.

We didn’t stay long in the cellar before we climbed the kitchen stairs to the second floor. It wasn’t until we were wandering through the guestrooms that it hit me,
This is ours, all ours.

The door of room number ten was standing open. “This one was locked when I saw the place before,” I told Race as we walked in.

“Why?”

“I think the ghosts were using it.”

We laughed.

It was larger than the other rooms and was the only guestroom with a fireplace. A big oak sleigh-style bed was pushed up against the wall in between two matching windows. The bed was covered in lace-trimmed cotton linens and a patchwork quilt. The quilt was made of white fabrics: cotton, satin, and velvet and was pulled tightly over the mattress and then tucked inside the bed frame. White lace-trimmed cotton curtains hung at the windows. They were clean and in perfect condition. Also in the room were a large wardrobe, a table with two chairs, a settee, and a dresser. It was beautiful and there was no dust to speak of on anything.

“Maybe we should live here,” I suggested to Race.

“Has someone been using this room?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“George should know. Why don’t we ask him?”

“You’ll see that he isn’t always that forthcoming.”

I sat on the bed and Race sat next to me. The mattress was soft and squeaked but it wasn’t crying out with years of rot like the others. I looked at Race and at the same time we exhaled, “Hmm.” Then we laughed, and Race wrapped me up in his arms, laid me back on the bed and we made out.

The overwhelmed look returned to Race’s face when we went upstairs to the attic. I have to admit, I hadn’t remembered there being quite so much stuff in the space. I pulled him through the maze of piles, crates, and furniture and took him to the largest dormer that looked out over the lake.

“Wow, Cam!” And it was genuine awe.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? Honestly, Race, it’s the best view on the island.”

“I believe it.”

I wrapped my arms around him and looked up into his sexy blue eyes. But I didn’t ask, I didn’t have to because Race said, “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s more of a project than I was expecting but it has Cammy Coleman written all over it. And I know from experience if there’s anyone who can pull this place together, it’s my wife.”

Before we went back to the cottage, I checked the board with the keys behind the front desk. Key number ten was on its hook.

Welcome to St. Gabriel

According to Barbara and June at the Historical Society, the cottages on The Lake Lodge property had all been built sometime in the late 1930s. None had a heating system, but when I was on the island the year before, I had noticed a supply of firewood on the property.

The first thing Race and I did was to move a pile of wood near the cottage and then light a fire in the fireplace, which was very clean, thanks to Ralph Cummings, the electrician.

Nothing had been updated since the cottage was constructed, but the plumbing seemed to be working fine, and the water heater had been installed. The plumber
had
done something.

The electrical seemed to be in working order also, we thought. When we plugged in the vacuum that we bought with the other cleaning supplies on the mainland, sparks crackled from the dark brown outlet plate and the lights went out. We would have to be careful until the wiring was replaced.

Thankfully, Race had some experience with fuses at his grandparent’s farm and there was a box of them on top of the fuse box. We put the vacuum away and we would have to clean the old fashioned way.

It took two hours to wipe away and sweep up the dust that coated the small space from top to bottom. Then we washed everything down three times until the bucket of cleaning water wasn’t turning to a dirty soup as we rinsed the rags.

We unloaded the dray and unpacked the boxes. I had been in contact with an appliance repair man on the mainland who would be over the following week to check out all of the stoves and refrigerators. If he could get them working properly, I was hoping to use the original appliances, classics. For the time being, our cold food was in two coolers that we set outside on the front porch to keep the ice from melting too fast.

It was dark by the time we got around to moving one of the mattress sets from the lobby of the lodge to the cottage. When we did, it started to rain. Fortunately, both pieces were in boxes and wrapped in plastic.

I had ordered new mattresses for both cottages. One for Race and me to sleep on and one for the other vacant cottage that I had hoped to start renting right away. I had asked George if he wanted me to order him a new mattress. Shocking, but he said, “Nope.”