The hunter green kayak glides over the smooth as glass water with the occasional help from the swipe of my paddle. Other than walking to and from the bakery when the weather allows, it’s my one form of exercise during the warmer months. Granted, on days like today it doesn’t take much exertion to skim along my favorite route around the edge of the lake. It’s more of a lazy meandering, enjoying the view.
Bill called and told me they didn’t accept my offer on the bungalow. I was careful not to dwell too much on the house or make plans so I wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t go through like I still am over my building.
It didn’t work. I’m still disappointed.
He’s going to continue looking for both commercial options for the bakery and residential.
The docks are bustling with people and boats. The Dorian John, the mammoth white ferry that traverses the lake, stopping at the three busiest towns, is filling up with people for the dinner cruise. A horn announces its imminent departure. It’s more of a tourist boat than a form of transportation. During the summer, the ferry makes four cruises per day. Two are strictly a brief stop at each town, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Then there are a lunch and a dinner one which give longer, more leisurely tours of the lake. I took it once as a kid, but never again. My parents live on the lake and have always had a boat, first at the marina then at our house, so there was never any need or desire to take the ferry.
There’s a slight chill to the late afternoon air. Luckily, I wore a sweatshirt and the light life vest adds a layer of protection from the wind.
Two older men in a small fishing boat bob along the shore with their rods and lines cast towards the rocks. Returning their nod and wave, I steer the kayak around the tip of the peninsula leaving the village behind. Houses dot the shore. Two kids play in the yard of one of the houses with a small beagle running along beside them. Their giggles carry clear as a bell over the water and I smile.
A splash and the telltale circle left behind on the surface from a fish jumping occurs a few yards to my left. Perhaps the fish is escaping the fishermen I passed by, or more likely, it’s chasing after a tasty bug for its dinner.
The tiny cove ahead is my destination. I always drift around daydreaming for a while then I’ll spin around for the return trip.
I love this cove and the century old behemoth of a house that stands watch over it. Once the summerhouse of a wealthy family, it’s been empty for as long as I can remember. The faded white shingles and dark green shutters hang askew in places. The grounds are overgrown with weeds and untrimmed trees and bushes in desperate need of attention, but I can still picture ladies and gentlemen sashaying along the pathways from a more elegant time.
Gliding past the giant gray boulders guarding the entrance to the cove, the house comes into view and I smile. The dock has long since disintegrated or washed away so I usually just bob along the shore. I’ve explored the grounds a time or two and furtively peeked inside hoping a caretaker isn’t present to run me off. It’s fun to fantasize over the house, but I don’t want to get caught trespassing.
A loud banging rents my peaceful reflections from my mind. I jump and wobble back and forth for a moment in the kayak. I regain my balance and search the area, but I can’t identify where it’s coming from. An echo across the lake making it sound closer than it is?
The banging resumes.
Nope, it’s coming from the house. Pushing away from the shore with the paddle, I steer the kayak farther along past the towering pine trees so I can see the other side of the house.
A shirtless man is standing on a ladder hammering something. His back is tan, lean, and muscled. I get rather caught up in the view, so I set the paddle on the edges of the kayak and enjoy the show.
It appears he might be fixing a shutter but what do I know about carpentry? Is a descendant fixing up the place? Did someone else buy it? A slight pang pinches my chest. In the back of my mind I dreamed of buying it and fixing it up one day, but it’s just a fantasy. I could never afford this place. It will be nice to see it fixed up if that’s what they’re doing. It would be horrible if someone bought the land and tore it down to build a modern eyesore in its place.
The man stretches and yanks on a shutter. The flex of muscles draws my gaze downwards towards a well-rounded derriere encased in denim.
Wait a minute, I recognize that butt. Well, what I mean is, I ogled that butt in my bakery a week ago. My gaze skyrockets back up. Yup, the chestnut brown hair teasing the nape of his neck is the same. That’s Mitch on that ladder.
Sucking in a breath, I can only conclude one thing his presence signifies. He bought the house. My house. Just like he bought the building housing my bakery. I guess he’s putting down roots here in Granite Cove. Perhaps he means to stay this time around.
He descends the ladder and I fumble for the paddle to get the hell out of here before he sees me.
Instead of grabbing the paddle, I knock it into the water with a plop.
The paddle is floating free beside me in the lake. I huff a breath and snatch at the end closest to me but only succeed in pushing it under the water.
It pops back to the surface, but now a few feet farther away.
I lunge forward but it’s too far away.
Damn it!
I cup my hand and use it as a paddle to get closer, so I can snag the oar. There, I’ve almost got it. My fingers trail along the tip of the wooden handle only to thrust it farther away.
No!
Lurching awkwardly, I stretch as far as I can.
Like a slow-motion reel of old black and white comedic film, the kayak wobbles, then rocks, then ice-cold water douses my face and body as it loses its attempt to balance out my lopsided weight and rolls over.
I submerge under water with a loud splash and a mouth full of lake water. I clamp my lips together.
My life vest automatically inflates once it touches the water.
I find purchase on the rocky bottom and I come up sputtering.
“I thought those were unflippable.”
Mitch is wading into the water grinning at me.
I shove my dripping hair out of my eyes and grimace. So much for getting away unseen. “Yeah, well, it probably is to everyone but me.”
His chuckle reverberates from somewhere above my head as I search the water for the recalcitrant paddle and now my kayak.
“Looking for this?” He’s holding the paddle in his grip and the kayak is bumping against the rocky shore behind him.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of the icy water. You’re shivering.”
It isn’t until he says it, I realize I am. Next, I’ll probably turn Smurf blue. I grasp the hand he extends toward me as I trudge through the shallow water. Walking in water wearing a swimsuit is one thing. Trying to do it in jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt, and inflated life vest is something altogether different.
His hand is warm and strong and I latch onto it, letting him help tug me to shore. I let go once I’m standing on solid ground and wrap my arms around my midriff. Mitch grabs the end of the kayak, hauls it up onto the shore so it won’t float away, and puts the paddle inside it.
I stare at the kayak. Can I get in it and make it back to my parents’ house before freezing to death? Which is worse, dying of embarrassment or cold?
Mitch wraps his arm around my shoulders and gives my arm a quick rub. “Let’s get inside. You need to change into dry clothes. It may be June, but that water is as cold as ice.”
Okay, it might be a slight exaggeration. I’m not likely to freeze to death but my skin is pebbled like one of my mother’s handbags. Shivers are rattling my bones and my teeth might chatter any moment. No one in their right mind will intentionally swim in the lake for another few weeks. Of course, no one has ever said I am in my right mind. People have stated the exact opposite on many occasions, however.
We step onto the brick pathway leading to the house. Someone has tried to pluck the weeds growing between the bricks, but the path is still in need of repair. A damaged or missing brick mars the curved pathway every few feet. Clumps of naturalized Day-lilies tower above the weeds along the meandering path. In a few weeks’ time their buds will open and a sea of orange and yellow will fill the lawn.
My water-logged sneakers squish with each step I take, sending a cold surge between my toes. I try not to lean into his side, but the man is radiating serious warmth and the temptation to snuggle in and grab some of it for myself is overwhelming.
Instead, I look at my surroundings. The grass around the house is mowed. Fresh areas of dirt and stumps mark the spots where someone removed overgrown trees and shrubs. Hedges nestle against one another in varying shapes. They haven’t been trimmed in a long time, but I can see the remnants of gardens.
He directs me up a wide set of steps onto the blue stone patio which stretches almost the entire length of the house and towards a set of French doors. “The house is being renovated, so it’s in quite a disarray. Watch your step.”
Stepping inside, I blink so my eyes will adjust from being outside. A cavernous room greets my gaze. I understand what he means when I notice the walls opened to bare the inside wires and wood, and piles of debris in the middle of the room.
“Wait here for just a minute while I grab something for you to wear. I have a few items here since this is where I spend most of my days.”
Mitch jogs off to the left and disappears beyond an archway. Removing the life vest, I step farther into the room rubbing my frigid arms. A granite fireplace with an ornate wooden mantel is centered on the right wall. I hope he isn’t planning to destroy it. There’s a musty smell in the air from disuse, and construction dust coats everything.
Reappearing with a bundle of gray and black in his arms, he holds them out. “It’s a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and T-shirt. Pretty much all I’ve got here. They’ll probably hang on you but at least they’re clean and dry.”
He’s donned a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans himself. Looking away, I try not to mourn the loss of seeing his bare chest. I take the clothes from him with a smile. “Thanks.” I refuse to comment on how they might fit. I’m no petite little flower. More like an orange headed giraffe.
I doubt they’ll be hanging on me. A few days after my eighteenth birthday I had a physical and my doctor told me I was no longer considered overweight. I almost hugged her. I’ll never be dainty. It’s just not in my genes.
“You can change around that corner. There’s a powder room still intact.”
Nodding, I trudge off with the dry clothes held out in front of me so they won’t get wet from the sodden clothes dripping from my frame. Intricate crown molding at the top and base of the walls decorates the wide hallway he directed me down. There are several closed white wooden doors with crystal doorknobs I’m itching to peek behind farther along the hall, but the first door is open, and it’s the powder room he mentioned. It’s sweet how he used the old-fashioned term for it.
Tiny white hexagon shaped tiles dot the floor with little black accents sprinkled throughout. Peeling floral wallpaper covers the walls. A counter spans the length of one wall with a white porcelain sink in the center. Cascading ribbons mold the sink from top to bottom. A shiny brass faucet with the spout and handles shaped into swans perches over the sink.
After placing the dry clothes on the counter, I shut the door and peel my wet clothes from my body as quickly as I can and drop them onto the floor with my wet shoes. Shivers race over me as I dress in his dry clothes. My bra and panties are soaked and resting in the pile on the floor, so I must go without.
Let’s face it, I can get by without a bra just fine if I were only more daring. Zipping the black sweatshirt all the way to the top I glance down at my attire. The light gray pants are baggy, and a little long, but I won’t be tripping over the hem nor am I worried about them falling for being too loose.
Dark wood etched with flowers frames the mirror over the sink stretching the length of the counter. My reflection stares back at me in horror.
Not only have I lost my baseball cap somewhere in the lake, but there are wet weeds sticking out of my orange hair. Leave it to me to carry the lake’s plant life home with me.