Lake Season

by Denise Hunter

  “All of it, actually. Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find these helpful.” He browsed the adjacent section. Desiring God, Mere Christianity, and Love Does, among others. “Good books.”

  “You’ve read them?

  “All but Anxious for Nothing.”

  She dropped her hands to the pockets of her shorts. “Well, you’re welcome to them as well. And if you find yourself in need of a quiet space to work on-site, this would be your best bet. The construction is on the other side of the house. It’ll probably be quieter than your room. There’s the patio too, and it’s in the shade. But it can get pretty hot out there even in late May.”

  He took in the view of the lake through the picture window. A shaded lawn stretched down to the grassy shore where a wooden pier jutted out into the water. A small metal boat, tied to the end, bobbed in the wake of a passing pontoon. He turned to take in the rest of the room. “I can’t imagine a better place to work or read.”

  “I know. My brother wanted to turn it into a guest room. Can you imagine? He’s all dollars and cents.”

  “I’m glad you kept it as it is. I may use it a bit tomorrow, if I won’t be in your way.”

  “Not at all. That’s what it’s here for.”

  “Do you live on the premises?” he asked. Muse or no, she might be a little distracting.

  “Yes, all three of us do. My sister and I share a room, and my brother took the maid’s room off the kitchen.”

  He stopped by a wall of shelves that housed a generous fiction section.

  “As you can see, we’re well-stocked in fiction, too, if you enjoy reading novels.”

  “I do.” His eyes scanned the shelves, finding everything from the classics—Austen, Dickens, Twain, Brontë—to the contemporary genres of mystery, thriller, sci-fi, and romance.

  “My dad liked to read a bit of everything, but I primarily read women’s fiction and romance—you probably don’t read those genres.”

  “I sometimes do. Actually, men account for 19 percent of those who read romance novels.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Of course science fiction is the most popular genre for men at 69 percent, followed by crime and thriller at 62.”

  She blinked at him.

  And still his mouth kept moving. “Overall about 47 percent of Americans read fiction. It was on the rise from 2002 to 2008, but it’s been dropping slowly ever since. Men are more likely to read nonfiction than women though.” Shut up, Adam. He pressed his lips together.

  Her head tilted, studying him as if maybe he was an alien from one of those sci-fi novels. “Interesting.”

  Not to normal people.

  His eyes suddenly fell on a series of familiar spines. On the name spanning their lengths. His throat tightened uncomfortably, constricting his airway.

  He hitched his bag on his shoulder and moved away from the shelves, distancing himself from the books. He made a beeline toward the door, hoping all his blood hadn’t rushed into his face.

  She stopped talking suddenly—his first clue she’d been speaking at all. And he’d rudely walked away. Smooth, Bradford.

  “I’m so sorry,” she blurted out before he could figure out what to say. “Here you are, lugging around your heavy bag while I rattle on about books. Let me show you up to your room.”

  He hated that he’d made her feel bad but couldn’t think of a thing to say that didn’t involve random statistics or irrelevant details. So he just followed her back down the hall, around the check-in desk, and up the staircase, while she filled the silence with her lovely chatter.

  He found her gift of gab charming and was envious of her easy way with people. She’d do well as an innkeeper, despite her youth. She wasn’t that young, and though he’d barely reached thirty himself, he’d always felt older than he actually was.

  At the top of the steps they took a left, and he followed her down the hallway. The faint smell of new carpet welcomed him. Wall sconces shed golden light on the space and made copper highlights sparkle in Molly’s dark hair. Her white top billowed behind her, reaching just past the waistline of her shorts.

  Whoever her parents were, they would be proud of her, he thought with sudden sentimentality. He of all people knew how important that was. He hoped he might find the opportunity, and the words, to tell her that before they parted ways.

  “Here we are,” she said as they turned a corner. The white five-panel door bore many coats of paint and featured the old-style glass knobs. The skeleton keyhole was still in place, but a deadbolt had been installed above it.

  She stepped aside so he could unlock the door.

  “It’s all made up,” she said. “But you’ll have to adjust the air. I’ll be making up the room each day whenever you slip out.”

  He blinked at her, the idea of her entering his personal space both disconcerting and pleasant.

  “Molly . . .” A male voice shouted from down the hall as Adam carried his bags inside. “Where are you?”

  “Be right there.” Her voice was rushed as she backed away. “If you need anything, please let me know.”

  Before he could respond a man rounded the corner. He was a few inches taller than Adam with the build of a wide receiver, rugged in paint-stained jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. He looked like someone Adam might cast as a hero in one of his novels—tall, dark, and handsome. Intelligence—and disapproval—sparkled in his clear blue eyes.

  “Hey, Levi,” Molly said, her hands searching for a place to land. “What do you need?”

  Levi’s gaze moved between them, his brows drawing together as they landed on Adam’s suitcase. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “Um, Adam,” Molly said, “this is my brother, Levi. Levi . . . this is our first guest, Adam Bradford.” Her injected enthusiasm fooled no one.

  Levi’s gaze swung back to his sister, and Adam would’ve had to be clueless to miss the instant thread of tension drawing tight between them.

  “Adam’s in the area doing research,” Molly said, obviously trying to fill the awkward silence. “He’ll be staying until Monday.”

  Levi gave Adam a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Is everything all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Molly said enthusiastically. “Fine and dandy.”

  Levi’s pointed gaze swung back to his sister. “Molly . . . might I have a word with you downstairs?”

  three

  Molly followed Levi down the staircase, across the foyer, and out onto the porch. He shut the door behind them and turned on her, crossing his arms over his chest.

  She tried to focus on the sweet scent of her mother’s lilacs emanating from the bushes lining the porch. But it was hard, what with that look on her brother’s face. Disapproval rolled off him in waves.

  His jaw was locked down tight, his lips were pressed into a firm line, and even global warming wouldn’t melt the glacial look in his eyes.

  She held up a hand. “I know we’re not open yet. I know we’re still under construction. But the guy had a rental reservation that fell through, and every place in town is full. He’s here on business. You’ll hardly even know he’s here.”

  Levi palmed the back of his neck, still eying her.

  She set her fingers on her temples. “I know, I know. I turned away the other people this morning, but Adam was so kind to help me with the stand—it took a whole hour, and he didn’t so much as complain. He read the directions for me—they were in French! And I thought the least I could do was offer him a roof over his head.”

  Levi unlocked his jaw. “I sent someone over to help you with that.”

  “I know—that’s who I thought Adam was. Your friend never even came!” So this was really his fault, if they wanted to get down to brass tacks. She knew better than to verbalize the thought.

  Levi gave his head a shake. “That’s not the point, Molly. We haven’t had the final inspection yet. We have no lodging permit. Do you know what’ll happen if the Department of
Health finds out we’re hosting guests already?”

  “Guest. Singular.” As if it mattered.

  He gave her a scathing look. “All this work could be undone by that one impetuous action. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course I understand. I’m not dim-witted. But it’s only three nights.”

  “That’s three too many.”

  “It’s the weekend, Adam. Who’s even going to know?”

  “How about all the people we have working their butts off on a holiday weekend to help us open by next weekend?”

  “They’re friends and neighbors. They won’t say a word and you know it.”

  “We can’t take that chance. We have to ask him to go.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I’m not kicking him out when I’ve already told him he could stay.” She was surprised by the ferocity of her opinion on the matter.

  She pictured Adam’s warm blue eyes, the shy duck of his head, and that blunt index finger poking his glasses into place. No. She would not budge on this. Her chin tilted up, meeting Levi’s stubborn look with one of her own.

  “You know what’s at stake here,” he said.

  “Like my word? I gave him my word, Levi. That means something to me.”

  “It was foolish to give him the room.”

  “I concede it was impulsive. But I can’t undo it now.”

  A long moment passed between them. A car passed by, bass thumping. A robin tweeted from a nearby branch, and wind-driven leaves scuttled across the road.

  Still he stared her down.

  She lifted her brows, her mouth set. But something squirmed uncomfortably inside. She didn’t want to be at odds with her brother. It downright pained her. So much so that she’d probably give in soon if he didn’t, no matter how strongly she felt.

  “Fine,” he said after a long moment. “But we can’t take his money, Molly. As far as the records go, he’s not a guest. He’s just a friend spending the holiday weekend with us. That’s the only way we can make this work. And please, let’s not make a habit of this.”

  “I already checked him in and took his credit card. I don’t know how to undo it.”

  “I’m sure Grace can handle it.”

  She wondered if Adam would agree to these terms. He didn’t seem like the type of man who’d like the idea of freeloading. Then again, with the rentals booked and the other hotels full, what choice did he have?

  Levi’s eyes pierced hers. “That’s my final offer.”

  “Stop being such a bully. This inn belongs to all of us, you know.”

  “Someone has to look out for its best interest. You’ve already admitted this was a mistake. Now you need to undo it.”

  Molly softened a bit. Maybe he was right. Her actions could jeopardize all they’d been working for since the fall. Jeopardize their parents’ dream. His compromise was reasonable. And it would keep peace between them, something that, since their parents’ deaths, seemed more important to her than anything else.

  “I already promised him breakfast and told him his room would be cleaned.”

  “We don’t have time for any of that if we’re going to open next weekend. We’re barely getting any sleep as it is, and you promised Grace you’d help her study for finals.”

  “And I will. I’ll take care of Adam’s room too, and anything else he might need.”

  “When are you going to find time for that?”

  “I’ll figure it out. Do we have a deal?”

  Levi’s eyes searched her face, softening as he no doubt noted the weariness on her face, in her sleep-deprived eyes.

  “Fine,” he said after a long moment. He turned to leave, but just before he stepped across the threshold he turned back. “By the way, you have drywall dust on your nose.”

  Molly brushed her nose. Her finger was covered with a thick layer of white dust. How long had she been sporting that look?

  Great. Just great.

  four

  Molly’s eyes were getting heavy, but after the long day she needed at least a few minutes between the pages of a novel. She shifted the pillow beneath her, getting comfortable. She’d had to go to the grocery to get food for their guest’s breakfast—lately they’d been subsisting on Frosted Flakes and Cheerios. She’d come home, cut up the fresh fruit, and made blueberry muffins. They weren’t as good as Miss Della’s, but they’d have to do.

  She hadn’t seen Adam the rest of the day and therefore hadn’t yet told him they couldn’t take his money. She’d have to seek him out in the morning.

  Grace entered the bedroom, looking as worn out as Molly felt. She’d helped Levi paint the baseboards in the dining room, and her hands sported flecks of white paint.

  “You finished?” Molly asked.

  “Yeah. It looks good. The floor goes down tomorrow. I’m starting to think this might actually happen.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  Grace fished her pajamas out of a bureau drawer. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “All right,” Molly said, not looking up from her book.

  “How many times have you read that thing anyway?”

  “Four.” Molly smirked. “But who’s counting?”

  “I can’t wait to be done with school so I can stop reading.”

  “Are we even sisters?”

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “I just love the way he words things. Listen to this.”

  Grace groaned.

  But Molly didn’t let that stop her. She flipped back a page and found one of the highlighted paragraphs. Some of the pages were more yellow than white. “The night sky was as dark and desolate as her soul. The cool breeze brushing her skin gave no comfort tonight. Her heart was a brittle shell, cracked and threatening to splinter into a million pieces, a condition only made worse by one inevitable truth: this time he would not be there to put it back together.” Molly sighed. “Isn’t that just delicious? And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “That’s quite all right. You can stop now.”

  “Nathaniel Quinn puts words to my thoughts. It’s like he’s inside my mind thinking like I think and feeling what I feel.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, sis.”

  “Someday, when you fall in love, you’ll understand.”

  “You know . . .” Grace stopped at the threshold of the bathroom. “Nathaniel Quinn isn’t his real name. It’s only a pseudonym.”

  “Of course I know that. I’m the one who told you.”

  “Well . . . maybe he’s actually a she.”

  Molly snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Why would a woman use a male pseudonym? Besides, he writes the hero’s point of view equally well. They’re downright swoon worthy.”

  “And yet, it’s not them you’re in love with. How can you still be such a romantic after what happened with—” Grace went still. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “It’s fine.” Molly waved away her concern. “I’m over him.”

  And she was. It had been two whole summers ago, after all. Dominic had been unworthy of her love. She’d fallen for his lies, hook, line, and sinker, and he’d made a fool of her. She might be over him, but putting her heart back together was proving a more difficult task.

  * * *

  Adam found a continental breakfast sitting on the buffet table outside his room at eight o’clock the next morning, just as Molly had promised. The orange juice was chilled and fresh, the fruit bursting with flavor, and the muffins, still warm, melted in his mouth. Back home he often replaced breakfast with an Americano from his favorite local coffee shop.

  He’d slept like a dream on the soft mattress, had a hot shower, breakfast, and two cups of Keurig coffee. There was no reason to stall any longer.

  He packed up his laptop, tucked his phone into his pocket, and made his way out. He’d ease into it, just scout out the area today. Drive around, sightsee, take pictures. No pressure.

  Except for those pesky emails from his edi
tor, Elaine, and his agent, Jordan. His new book was due October first, only four months away. It wouldn’t be so overwhelming if not for the fact that inspiration had all but dried up. Unlike his first eight books, which had all but written themselves, this one was eating his lunch, and he hadn’t even started the actual writing yet.

  He’d never believed in writer’s block. Had thought it an excuse for lazy writers who lacked the discipline to sit down and work.

  But he’d tried that. Had been trying for two months just to get the outline done. Before he even started writing a story he completed detailed character sketches and a chapter-by-chapter outline. He could write the actual story very quickly once he had an outline completed.

  He had numerous pages of notes—basically drivel. He was a perfectionist, to be sure, but these pages actually were drivel. The wince on Jordan’s face after reading them had corroborated his suspicions.

  This trip to the setting of his work-in-progress was a last-ditch effort to inspire a plot that would excite him, not to mention Jordan and Elaine—and ultimately his readers.

  Because he had plenty of readers. And having hundreds of thousands of people waiting for his next book didn’t reduce the immense pressure he felt.

  His career sounded like a fairy tale to most authors. Jordan, who was also his best friend from college, had submitted Adam’s first manuscript, unbeknownst to Adam, to all five of the big houses. The novel went to auction and fetched a price that most writers, let alone beginning writers, only dreamed of.

  It was somewhere between the offers and the contract that the nerves had struck. People were going to read his private thoughts. People were going to make assumptions about him, the author. Assumptions that, he was certain, he couldn’t possibly live up to.

  He’d already managed to disappoint his father, the one person he’d most longed to please. The thought of disappointing thousands of strangers seemed unbearable.

  After telling Jordan he wanted to back out, his agent went to work with the publishing house and negotiated an agreement they could all live with. Adam would use a pen name, and they would keep his real identity a secret.