Liz hurried up the stairs, feeling that her luck was about to change. She could thank Tracy for that. They had met the summer Liz turned thirteen. Tracy’s dad had bought one of the smaller year-round homes across the lake. It was several miles by road, because the gravel driveways snaked and meandered through the woods in a labyrinthine tangle, but it was just a few minutes away by boat. Liz had begged and bargained with her parents – it hadn’t taken much – until they bought her a rowboat. Then the girls invented a special signal – they would hang a pink scarf out their bedroom window. When the other saw it, she would promptly row over for a visit. A black scarf meant it was urgent, but call first.
From that summer on, the girls were practically inseparable. Except, of course, for the long school years in between, when Liz went back to St. Mary’s private school in Boston and Tracy returned to the local high school. They’d remained friends through the college years, being roommates first in the dormitory, and later when they’d elected to move off campus and share an apartment. But they’d lost touch after Liz’s parents died. Liz shuddered. That was probably more her fault than Tracy’s. Liz had lost touch with everyone during that dark period.
She rummaged through her closet, grateful the new owner hadn’t cleaned it out yet. She hadn’t changed much in size or shape since college. Her shoulders were a bit broader and stronger – a most unfeminine change – as a result of years of slinging hay bales to her horses. She’d lost some muscle tone, thanks to the accident that had put her out of work, but her college shirts would still fit a little snug. She grabbed a plain white sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, changing quickly. Her stomach was rumbling and she was nearly dizzy with hunger. As long as Tracy was paying, Liz planned to stock up. She didn’t know where her next meal would come from.
Her brush was almost useless when it came to working on her hair. Tracy’s hair was long and silky-straight. It was the enviable kind of hair that never looked out of place. If the wind blew it around, it fell again instantly in a satin sheen of pure black. Tracy claimed not to have any Native American in her ancestry, but Liz figured that somewhere in the way back, it must be there.
Liz’s hair was honey-colored blond. Not a bad color, with natural golden highlights. But it was baby-fine and wavy. Not even a bottle of hairspray could contain it. She could brush and brush, and five minutes later, it would be a tangled mess again. Liz gave up, trapping her mane with an elastic into a sloppy ponytail, added a dash of blush and lipstick so she didn’t look quite so gaunt, and hurried back downstairs.
“I can see I came in the nick of time,” Tracy said, closing the refrigerator door. “What did you do – wake up one morning and just decide to come home – without packing or shopping or anything?”
“Pretty much,” Liz replied, surprised at how close to the truth Tracy had guessed.
“Well, we’ll get you fixed up right away. Let’s go. I’ll drive – I’m probably blocking you in,” Tracy babbled.
Liz closed the door behind her, not bothering to lock it up. They never had locked their doors in the summers. Only when they closed for the winter, and even then, several neighbors had keys in case they needed to check on the house after a storm. Liz hoped that hadn’t changed in recent years.
She climbed into the front passenger seat of Tracy’s white Ford Escape. It was several years old, judging by the spots of rust, the ding in the rear bumper, and a small crack in the windshield. “So, what happened to what’s-his-name? Robert?”
“Old news,” Tracy said with a sigh. “That didn’t last long. Are you seeing someone?”
Liz shook her head. “Other than my physical therapist? No.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your accident. How long until you can ride again?”
Tears filled her vision, quick and unbidden. “Can we talk about something else? Please?”
Tracy was silent for a moment. The old Tracy would have realized she’d hit a nerve and she would have picked at it, pressing and pressing for more details until they were both a crying puddle, but this new, more mature Tracy respected her wishes. A moment later, Tracy struck up a conversation on a totally different topic.
“So, Old Man Holcombe is holding out. He turned down that fancy dude who offered him too much money for his hovel. He figured that the guy was hiding something when he offered him nearly double what his place is worth. Stupid guy. If he’d really wanted that place, he would have offered less than resale value, and let Holcombe counter with a fair price. It would be a done deal. Lucky for us, that guy doesn’t know shit about real people. He’s trying to buy up lake front property left and right! He owns a good share of it now.”
“Huh?” Liz interrupted. She hadn’t been paying attention at first, and now she was totally lost. “What guy are you talking about? What’s happening to the lake?”
“Didn’t you get my letters?”
“What letters?”
“Argh!” Tracy exploded. “I’ve been writing to you ever since your accident! I wondered why you didn’t respond. I just figured that you were to busy for your old friend.”
“Tracy, I swear on a stack of Bibles, I haven’t had a letter from you in years.”
“Then how did you know to come back?”
“I didn’t,” Liz whispered. “I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Tracy’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Then she squeezed Liz’s knee. “It’s magic, honey. I need you. Scrimshaw Lake needs you. We called you here, and you came. End of story.”
“Beginning of story,” Liz said, laughing to break the solemn mood that had settled around them. “Why do you need me?”
“Some guy – I don’t remember his name, but it’s foreign sounding – is buying up the lake. Although he owns a lot already, they aren’t all connecting. He owns one here and there… and the places he has bought, some of them he’s bulldozing! Rumor has it that he’s a big land developer and he plans to put in a humongous resort or casino or something. For rich folks. He’ll run all of us little people out of here. This is our home, Liz! We have to stop him!”
Liz was shocked into silence. She hadn’t been back long enough yet to notice any changes, in fact, she’d been thrilled to see how little had changed at Camp Birches. Humbled, she wondered which of her neighbors this had affected. “Holcombe is holding out? He’s been complaining for years how much he hates the snow.”
“Go figure! But he’s shrewd. I mean, if someone offered you a ton of money for your cabin, would you take it?”
Liz didn’t have to think twice. Not that it was even her cabin. “Never.”
“Exactly! It might make you suspicious – like maybe the guy knew something you didn’t know – that your property value was going to go through the roof, and he’s cheating you out of it.”
“I doubt that’s the case. Holcombe’s place should have been burned to the ground years ago. It’s not just an eyesore. It’s unsafe.”
“Well, the guy tried to convince my dad to sell. Dad turned him down. The guy offered him more and more, and Dad refused. But at some point, the money will be so much that Dad will have to consider it. Retirement ain’t cheap, you know.”
Tracy’s dad had owned a small chain of grocery stores. Not a big-name chain, just a bunch of little stores in half a dozen towns around the area. They sold gas, drinks, kerosene, camping supplies, and had laundry facilities. They catered mostly to the summer vacationers, and to a lesser extent, the winter outdoorsy types. The local economy had never been what one could call “booming”. The soil was too rocky, too poor to raise crops. The woods had been logged for years, so that the standing trees were no longer fully-grown. They were too far from the ocean for fishing, and nothing worth mining lay in these hills. There were teachers, preachers, and retirees, but the rest of the working public had to scrape by on small, organic farms raising mostly sheep and goats with a few beekeepers in the mix.
“Can’t you buy your dad’s place?” Liz asked.
“On a teach
er’s salary? Doubtful. He lets me stay there rent-free, although I pay the taxes and utilities. He moved into a retirement community after mom died. He likes the social aspect, and that they have a dining room where he can get a hot meal.”
Tracy pulled into the parking lot of one of her dad’s former stores. It had been remodeled and expanded, for now it had several buildings and a large playground with picnic tables. It was too early in the spring for eating outside, but Liz could imagine come summer that it would be a popular place among the summer campers.
“That’s a game room,” Tracy said, pointing to a white outbuilding with garage doors. “And there’s the dining room – slash – rental hall. Locals can rent it for birthdays or anniversary parties. Otherwise, you can order your take-out at the window and go in there to eat, if you don’t like the flies outside.”
“I’m impressed,” Liz admitted.
“Wish Dad had thought of it. This is all the new owner’s idea. And I got first dibs on him.”
Liz laughed, as Tracy had intended. Back in their college days, whenever they saw a cute guy, whoever called “dibs” first, had exclusive rights. The other was honor-bound to turn him down if he ever asked her for a date. It had been more silly than serious, for neither of them had dated much. Tracy was a jerk-magnet. Only the really creepy guys ever asked her out - although Liz could never understand why. And Liz had only been in love with her horses. Sort of. As a child she’d had a wicked crush on her godfather.
They walked up to a window that had an impressive menu displayed above, listing breakfast, lunch, and dinner entrées – mostly deep-fat fried – and a long list of ice cream delights. The man at the window was awfully cute, if a little young for Liz’s taste. “What can I get you?” he asked politely.
They placed their orders. Liz got the country breakfast – eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon, juice, and pancakes. Tracy ordered a burger and fries. They both had an ice cream shake. Carrying the Styrofoam containers precariously stacked, they made their way to the dining room that still had a few of the lunch crowd lingering over coffee refills.
All through lunch Tracy kept up a steady string of conversation, probably trying to repeat everything she would have told her in those letters Liz had failed to receive. She wondered where they were now. Her stables had gone into foreclosure, her horses auctioned off. To her knowledge, the property was still empty. Maybe the letters were piling up in the mailbox, although by now the postal carrier should have realized that no one lived there.
Tracy talked about her younger brother, how he got married and moved to California. She hadn’t seen him since. Small loss. Her brother was more than a little strange; Liz never had liked him. Tracy talked about school politics and told a few funny stories about her third graders. Liz nodded and agreed or disagreed whenever there was break in the conversation, but mostly she just enjoyed her meal. It was the first full meal she’d had in some time. It felt good not to be hungry.
They tossed their trash and washed up in the restroom, before settling on the swings behind the picnic tables. “We need a plan, Liz. We need to find a way to stop the developer in his tracks. What can we do?”
“Research,” Liz said, as the inspiration came to her. “Do you have Internet? Or do we have to go to the library?”
“You are too funny,” Tracy groaned. “Of course I have Internet. It’s just cable, but that’s all you can get out here. And it’s not the fastest, but it gets the job done.”
“Okay, then. We have to see what others have done in similar situations. We have to find out who is buying the property, and what their plans are. If it really is some big resort, we may have a battle on our hands.”
“Why?”
“Because some of locals may want it to go through. It could mean new jobs, a boost to the economy. We would have to prove that the casino would be harmful somehow, damage the ecology of the area. Or we have to convince the locals that the casino is not in their best interests – increased crime, or something. Eventually we can go door to door to get others interested in our cause, maybe stage a protest. But for now, we have to research our options.”
Tracy grinned, giving Liz two thumbs up. “I knew I could count on you! Thanks, Liz.”
* * * * *
Vidar slung his overnight bag over a shoulder and departed the plane with an audible sigh. He hated using the metallic cages, dependent upon mere mortals to transport him, but he’d found that it was often necessary in today’s world. It would be too suspicious if he conducted business in the morning in Denver, and in the evening in Portsmouth of the same day. Hiding his true nature became more difficult even as it became increasingly more important.
He maneuvered around the slower moving pedestrians, wending his way to the car rental booth near baggage claim. Again, in the old days he could have stirred a bit of magic to transport himself to any desired location. Now, mortals expected him to arrive in the mundane conveyance – the automobile. He requested a higher end option, as his long legs just didn’t fit into the compact contraptions. Eventually he was behind the wheel of a Ford Explorer. Not quite the comfort of a Cadillac, but far more practical for the rough mountain roads in this region.
He had an overnight bag, his laptop and wheels – what he didn’t have was an exact location. He had avoided Scrimshaw Lake for years and he would never set foot in Camp Birches again. Too many bittersweet memories were tied up there. Yet, he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else living there – touching the Shelburne’s things, maybe discarding them. Bulldozing it had seemed like the right decision at the time… but although he had bulldozed the neighbor’s place, he had yet to allow anyone onto the Shelburne property.
Mr. Holcombe was the current wrench in the cog of progress. He would start there.
The years hadn’t been kind to Holcombe’s place and it had been in bad shape back when he had first met the old man. He chuckled as he recalled the occasion. Elizabeth Shelburne had been quite the tomboy. There weren’t any little girls to play with, as the Gates girl hadn’t moved to the area yet. The passel of little boys she ran with had dared her to throw eggs at the Holcombe place, claiming that it was haunted by his ghost and that the barrage of eggs would drive away the evil spirit. The boys had laid in a massive store of eggs – who knew how many kitchens they had raided to gather that many!
His little Beth had quite the throwing arm. She nailed the side of the house with a dozen eggs, and growing bolder as nothing happened, drew closer and closer to her target. She didn’t hear Edgar come up behind her from the woods. He grabbed her by one of her pigtails and hauled her inside the cabin to call her folks. The boys – rapscallions all – had fled from the scene of the crime.
Vidar was sorry that he hadn’t been the one to get that call. Things would have gone far differently if he had. Instead, the Shelburnes came to collect their somewhat repentant daughter. They offered Edgar Holcombe money to repaint his home and grounded her for a week. That was hardly a punishment, as her bedroom was jam packed with every toy a child could possibly want. She was free to go about the house, eat meals with the family and watch her favorite television programs.
Vidar would have put her over his knee right at the scene of the crime. Then he would have equipped her with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, and insisted that she scrub all trace of the egg from the weathered siding. It would have taken her the better part of a week to complete and he was sure that combined with the well-deserved spanking, it would have taught her respect for the property of others.
He shook his head. Sadly, she was not his responsibility any more. Although he was her godfather, she was no longer a child when her parents had passed away. She did not need or want him around.
The miles fled by while he’d reminisced about the past. All too soon, Vidar parked in the gravel clearing behind Holcombe’s camp. With a wry grin, he realized he could still see the stains on the siding from those eggs. He didn’t know what Holcombe had spent the money on that the Shelburnes had g
iven him, but it hadn’t been on paint or siding.
“No need to get out of that fancy car, mister,” cackled an old voice.
Vidar looked up into the wrinkled face of the wizened old man. He ran a quick mental calculation – Holcombe had appeared to be in his sixties back in the 1980’s when Vidar had first started coming to the lake. He’d be in his nineties now. Vidar straightened, humbled. “Hello, Edgar,” he began. “Do you remember me?”
Edgar nodded, the action making him nearly lose his balance that he only maintained with the aid of the hand-carved cane at his side. “I know what you are,” he said menacingly.
Vidar didn’t move, clenching his fists as an ice-cold sense of dread ran down his spine.
“You’re a vulture. You hang around decent folk, ready to pounce on their corpses the minute life knocks ’em down. You were their friend, you weasel, you! And you stole that cabin right out from under ’em. About near killed ’em, it did.”
“Sir, you are speaking on something you know nothing about,” Vidar said coolly. “I assume you’re talking about the Shelburne’s Camp Birches. I had no idea he was doing so poorly financially. But when I saw that he was about to lose his beloved camp, I bought it from him and allowed him to live there for the rest of his life. I would have done anything for that man – I loved him like a father. But he was proud and would not take my help.”
“And you think I ain’t got pride!” The old man straightened and shook his cane at Vidar. “I ain’t selling to you, and that’s that!”
Vidar climbed the stairs and joined the old man on his porch. He opened the door, gesturing for Holcombe to precede him inside. “Let’s talk about this over a cup of coffee, shall we? Let me tell you what my plans are for the lake, and then if you still do not want to work with me, I will leave you in peace.”
Holcombe seemed to sparkle beneath his crabby, weathered visage. Vidar realized that it wasn’t pride or money that made him hold out against the development of Scrimshaw Lake, but loneliness. The old man had not one relative left in the world. Yes, he had often talked about moving south and living in a retirement village, but that was no longer possible. In his mind, he was simply too old to leave the only home he had ever known.
Forever Wife Page 2
