She wended her way north, finally turning down a back road that wound down and around, keeping Lake Superior hidden from view until the last possible minute – and then there it was. Sunshine dotted the whitecaps, the blue of the water so clear and startling, the view of this “big water” so different from the shores of Santa Monica – wilder and bluer and even more pristine for all its solitude.
She pulled into the gravel driveway of her family’s home and turned off the engine. The main house had been built by her great-grandfather when he was the supervisor of the pump house just north of here, and her family had inhabited it ever since, using it as a home, then a vacation home, as well as an office. Dotted around the property were two more small cottages, which had been rented out for years to vacationers and hunters looking for a secluded spot with a lake view.
Stretching slightly as she clambered out of the driver’s seat, she flicked the lock shut on the rental car, then laughed to herself. Who was going to steal her purse or her laptop? A cougar?
Instead of turning towards the house, she instead circled around the house to take a glance at the two cottages just down the path from the house. Both appeared to be deserted – not all that surprising for a Tuesday afternoon, she supposed. She continued on down a path, coming across stacks of lumber, a pile of tools, and a huge box of shingles along the way until she reached a clearing where the skeletons of at least three more cottages stood, separated from the others by a copse of trees.
Polly was horrified by the unfinished state, and yet impressed that Parker and Carl Kershaw had been successful enough in renting out the cottages to be able to build three more, each with their own unique lake view.
She absorbed the scene – and the lack of activity at the scene – for another long moment before turning back down the path to the house, biting her lip along the way. She didn’t know the first thing about cottage construction, and she only hoped that the foreman the guys had hired was competent and fast.
Polly didn’t want to linger here too long, though she had had an intriguing thought on the interminable flight from LA.
If she and Matthew called it quits, she would have to quit the law firm and start over somewhere else – and considering how hard it was to start over at a new firm, the thought was hardly a comforting one.
Or she could hang up her law degree for good, if she so chose. She’d more than paid off her student loans, and had a good chunk saved in the bank. And with the promise of a guilt-ridden alimony check…
Polly shook off that thought as quickly as it came, and returned to her fantasy career.
Polly had always loved to write, and she loved the law, so what was to stop her from following in the footsteps of Grisham or Baldacci? She could TOTALLY write legal thrillers for a living, Polly thought with a grin to herself as she retraced her steps back to the rental car.
A laptop, a plot, and some strong coffee – maybe this forced solitude would help her write her first fantastic novel, she thought as she picked her away down the path.
At least it gave her something to work on instead of just sitting around the house all day, surrounded by the quiet and thinking about the demise of her marriage and her law firm.
So, that was the current plan: write a novel, straighten out the construction projects, work on booking the cottages, make sure housekeeping is in place, punch up the website for the cottages, hit the bank with deposits, and then be on her way back to LA and her real life.
Yes.
Back at the car, Polly chirped the lock open and grabbed her purse, digging for her key ring at the bottom of the purse, where she still carried a key to the house, even after all these years. She strode to the front door and unlocked it, instantly being hit with a wave of memories just from the smell of the front foyer.
The same comfortable family room with a slightly musty fireplace, the same airy kitchen and perfect view of the lake from the dining room table and wrap around porch, the same first floor bedrooms and small office off to the side – it was all just as Polly had remembered, right down to some of the family photos on the wall.
It was all the same, and yet – without the smell of coffee brewing or the sound of her father’s heavy footsteps upstairs in the master bedroom, it felt strangely like a play that was set dressed for opening night, but there were no actors on the scene.
It was familiar, and yet, not.
Polly chucked her purse and laptop bag onto the leather sofa, and then quickly retrieved the rest of her baggage from the trunk of the car, closing the front door firmly behind her, though obviously not bothering to lock it. Who would bother her out here?
She walked from room to room, absorbing the small changes as well as the constancy of it all, and then popped open the fridge and realized it was a good thing she’d stopped at Pat’s Foods on the way up – a bottle of mustard and a box of baking soda were all that the pantry and fridge had to offer. She trundled back outside to the car and returned moments later armed with coffee, Diet Pepsi, Pringles, bagels and cream cheese and assorted other “survivalist” foods – okay, so she wasn’t exactly Bear Grylls eating grubs. Coffee with Vanilla CoffeeMate instead of her preferred Cinnamon Crème was enough of a sacrifice, Polly thought wryly as she slid the spaghetti sauce and prepackaged pasties in the fridge.
Groceries and clothes unpacked, laptop charging on the side table, and phone picking up no cell reception at all – accomplishing all that, Polly flopped down on the couch and finally stopped.
And then realized that damn, it was COLD in the house.
Not “a couple degrees less than comfortable”, but “Jack Frost nipping at your nose” cold.
Shit.
That stupid furnace that Parker had been complaining about all last winter – Polly would bet a hundred dollars it was out, and probably terminal this time.
Shit, shit, shit.
And now that it was after five o’clock and Yoopers called it quits no later than four, she wasn’t getting a repairman out here anytime tonight.
With a withering glance at the fireplace, Polly stood back up and headed outside for the woodpile.
4610/50000
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