“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.” Like be evasive with children, Poppy thought, and in the next instant wailed a silent, I am not good at this. She tried another smile. It brought Star a bit closer. “I was thinking we could go home and make maple cookies.”
“Whose home?” Missy asked wisely.
“Yours,” Poppy said. Her own home might be better suited for working in a kitchen from a wheelchair, but she didn’t dare take them there,not with the phone lines blinking and Annie alternately discussing the day’s events with the locals and diverting the press.
“Is Daddy there?” Missy asked.
Poppy made a show of nonchalantly considering that. “I . . . don’t think he is yet.”
“He should be. He was supposed to be checking trees.”
Star had finally come within reach. Poppy drew her close to the chair as she asked Missy, “Checking trees for what?”
Missy sighed. “Fallen-down ones to chop. In the sugarbush. Is Heather gonna be back for dinner?”
More nonchalance. “I . . . actually, I don’t think so.”
“When is she gonna be back?”
Ten days? Twenty days? Thirty days? How in the world do you explain this to a child?
I’m no good at this, no good at all, Poppy thought again. She was starting to tremble. “Soon, I hope, but I’m real cold, Missy. Another minute and, forget the ten toes that I cannot feel, my wheels are gonna freeze. Let’s get in the car. Want a ride, Star?”
Star’s lower lip looked none too steady. Eyes sorrowful, she shook her head.
“Give Missy a hand back there, then,” she said and pushed at the wheels to start them turning. As soon as she and the girls were in the Blazer, she turned the heat on full force, and even then, it wasn’t overly warm, which said something about the cold outside.
But the cold was the least of Poppy’s worries as they headed out. Missy’s questions didn’t stop.
“What if Heather isn’t home by morning?”
“Then your dad will help you get ready like he did this morning.”
“What if he can’t? He leaves before Heather sometimes. What if we don’t get breakfast, like we didn’t today?”
“You did.” Poppy stopped, put her left blinker on, and waited for the trucks ahead of her to turn off the schoolhouse road onto the one that led through the center of town. “You got breakfast at my house.”
“Will you get it for us tomorrow?”
Pretending it was a game, Poppy sang gently, “I’ll get it for you any day.” She reached the head of the line, but had to wait for Buck Kipling’s rattletrap of a truck to pass. She had barely made the turn when she felt a small hand on her shoulder.
Star was there, saying in an even smaller voice, “Did Momma go away?”
“No, honey, she’s just over in West Eames.”
“Is she gone for good?”
Put your seat belt on, Poppy wanted to say, but Star seemed so frightened that Poppy couldn’t make herself say it. Instead, driving with greater care, she tipped her head and touched her cheek to the child’s hand. “She is not gone for good.”
“What if she never comes back?”
“She’ll be back. She loves you.”
It was a minute before Star spoke again, and then it was more an aching sigh than anything else. “I want Momma.”
Poppy had never felt so helpless in her life. “I know you do, baby. I know you do.”
* * *
Griffin passed the red Blazer before he realized who was driving it, but that was fine. He wasn’t ready to face her yet. He had to stop at Charlie’s for instructions and supplies, then drive around to the far end of the lake. He figured he had less than two hours to get to Little Bear, open the place up, and get the woodstove going and the electricity on before darkness set in. He didn’t have time to spare.The general store was packed with people coming in from West Eames and those wanting to hear what they’d seen. Some stood talking in the aisles of the store, while others headed for the café. The greatest number of them congregated around the woodstove.
Grateful that no one paid him much heed, Griffin found Charlie at the cash register. Quickly he explained what he wanted to do. Charlie agreed, albeit with more caution than warmth.
“Is there a key?” Griffin asked.
Charlie shook his head. “Nope. Door’s never locked.”
“What do I need to know?”
Hand on the till, Charlie considered that for a minute. “Wood’s in a pile on the porch. If you need to chip a little at the pipes for water, use the ice chisel inside the door. Electricity, just throw the switch.”
It all sounded easy enough to Griffin, who, wary of pushing his luck by mixing with the townsfolk, stayed only long enough to buy coffee, bread, eggs, cheese, deli meat, and canned soup. At the last minute, he added a six pack of beer and several gallon jugs of water. Figuring that he would need something to help start the fire, he topped off the three large shopping bags with several of the newspapers that were for sale. Then he went back out to Buck’s truck and, not trusting that the food wouldn’t freeze in the steadily dropping temperature if he put it in the bed of the truck, stowed it in the cab. It took several tries before the engine came to life, but then he was on his way.
Heading out of town on the road that circled the lake, Griffin followed John’s directions, going past quaintly named roads leading to coves that lined the shore. The bad news was that the closest access to Little Bear Island was at the far end of the lake from town, around myriad turns in the road, heading away from the lake and then back, making what would have been a five-minute drive had he been able to go directly more like a thirty-minute one. The good news was that Buck’s truck held the road well—and that Griffin would have his own place for as long as he stayed, not to mention those brownie points he would score with Charlie once the guy had a chance to think about it.
Little Bear Road was perfectly marked with the same kind of well-kept sign that marked the rest of the roads in town. Drive all the way down, John had instructed, then right out onto the lake.
Onto the lake? Griffin had asked skeptically. Can I do that?
Sure, John replied. We had some melt yesterday, but it’s frozen back up today. There’s trucks out to bobhouses all the time. No one’s fallen in yet this year.
Needing to convince himself that he was up for the challenge, Griffin set his qualms aside, particularly when he saw that Little Bear Road was plowed. He turned in, putting on his headlights when the road plunged him into the darkness of a thick forest of trees that blocked out what was left of the day.
No sweat, he told himself with a glance at his watch. He still had more more than an hour to get out there and get settled. Piece a cake.
When the road ahead brightened and the lake came into view, he smiled. Seconds later, his smile faded when the plowed portion of the road abruptly ended and the truck got stuck. Praying that it was a momentary aberration, he shifted, backed up, shifted again, and went forward with greater force. He moved ahead just a bit before stopping again. This time, when he tried to back up, he couldn’t do that either. No matter how he shifted, how he steered, what brilliant little tactic he thought he’d used, he couldn’t budge the thing. All four tires of the truck were in snow nearly to their upper rims, which Griffin discovered when he climbed out of the cab and sank in well above the top of the hiking boots of which he was so proud. He looked ahead at another ten feet of unplowed snow, then at the lake. Its surface sat two feet lower than the land and was covered with just as much snow.
Not wanting to waste time, with the shadows on the lake growing longer as he watched, Griffin studied Little Bear Island. A quarter mile out, John had said. It didn’t look far. He figured he could cover the distance easily enough on foot. He didn’t have gloves—they were back in Princeton—but he’d had cold hands before. Cold hands wouldn’t kill him.
So he pulled on his time-worn, good-luck Yankees cap and climbed out of the truck
. Putting his overnight bag on one shoulder and his laptop bag and briefcase on the other, he took a shopping bag in each arm and set off.
The good news was that the ice held him easily. It didn’t moan or crack or move, but showed every sign of being as thick as John had said it was. The bad news was that not only were his ears freezing, but his jeans didn’t keep out the snow any better than his hiking boots did.
Mindful of the lowering sun, he slogged on. He knew there was ice under the snow, because he slipped on it from time to time. Fortunately, he was athletic enough to keep his balance.
If the temperature was falling, he didn’t feel it. Lifting his feet high to cross through the snow, he built up a sweat in no time. This countered the wetness where the snow seeped through his clothes. Being warm,though, didn’t keep his thighs from screaming in protest. He wasn’t used to goose-stepping. It couldn’t be done with any kind of speed, particularly loaded down as he was. Worse, what had looked like a short distance from shore seemed to take forever to reach, and then there was the matter of his hands. Yes, he’d had cold hands before. But this was cold.
Determinedly, he kept his eyes on the pine trees ahead, and he forced his legs to keep moving. He couldn’t even see the cabin until he got close and rounded the island, but when he reached it, he felt a surge of pleasure. The cabin was made of logs, charming in its rusticity. It occupied the only clearing on the island, which, itself, was less than an acre.
He waded up to the front door. Firewood was piled immediately to its left, under a porch overhang that hadn’t kept snow from blowing over it.
Eager for shelter—not to mention for a place to unburden his arms, which were aching mightily, and a fire to warm his hands, which stung painfully—he tried to open the front door. When it resisted, he set one of the brown bags on the woodpile and tried again. It wasn’t until he had set the other bag down as well and put all of his strength into the push that the ice crusting the doorframe gave way. Snatching up the bags, he whisked them inside and closed the door.
Darkness. Cold. Mustiness.
Electricity, Charlie had said cryptically, just throw the switch. The problem was finding the switch in the dark.
Depositing his belongings, he quickly pushed back the little café curtains that hung on the windows. That helped some with the darkness, though the light outside was pathetically weak. He spotted a switch on the wall, threw it, got nothing. He tried another switch and another, finally realizing that there had to be a master switch. Intent on calling Charlie, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, only to find that he was in a no-service zone.
This did not please him. If he had no phone reception, he wouldn’t be able to talk to friends, access e-mail, or log on to the Web. Without phone reception, he couldn’t work. Unless he had an antenna installed. He could do that himself. But not now, not tonight, not with darkness falling fast.
Afraid of dallying, he looked around. The room in which he stoodhoused the living room and kitchen. Heading for cabinets in the kitchen, he opened one after the other until he found candles, a lantern, and matches. In no time, he had the lantern lit, but the relief was small. The woodstove sat inside the fireplace, looking as dark as the cabin and twice as cold.
Blowing on his hands for warmth, he rubbed them together to combat numbness as he went back outside. He brushed snow off the top of the pile of wood, but it was another minute before he was able to dislodge pieces that had been frozen together. Needing them to be as dry as possible, he whacked several together to free them of errant snow and ice, and, in the process, whacked his thumb.
The good news was that it hurt, which ruled out frostbite. The bad news was that it really hurt.
Ignoring the pain, he carried as much wood as he could inside. Making tight rolls from some of the newspapers he had bought, he placed them inside the stove, placed wood over them, opened the damper, and struck a match. The paper burned, then went out; the logs didn’t catch.
No longer working up a sweat, Griffin was growing colder by the minute. Swearing softly, he began chipping at one of the pieces of wood with the ax he found just inside the door. When he had enough kindling, he removed the logs, added more paper, then kindling, then logs.
He held his breath—a challenge, given that he was shivering—and watched the paper burn and the kindling catch. He didn’t breathe freely until the first of the logs hissed softly and burst into flame.
Buoyed by the thought that the heat of the fire would grow and begin to spread soon, he went to his overnight bag, dug out a sweater and knotted it around his head to protect his ears, pulled out a pair of socks and pushed his hands inside, then set off in the near-darkness to get the rest of his gear from the truck.
Chapter Five
Poppy was worried. The oven had long since cooled, the smell of maple sugar cookies had begun to fade, the milk glasses had been washed, and the girls would be wanting supper, which, taken alone, was no problem. She would happily make them supper. But they wanted Micah.So did she, if for no other reason than to find out what was happening. Poppy’s friends had begun calling her here, but she didn’t have any more answers than they did. With each call, the girls grew more uneasy. After an initial spate of questions, they had taken to sitting quietly by her wheelchair. She tried reading to them, but they were distracted, uninterested. She tried getting their imaginations going with the dollhouse village in the spare room, but they were quickly bored with that, too. Now, silent and serious, they were watching television. Not even Barney could make them smile.
Poppy had barely heard the sound of Micah’s truck when the girls were up and out the door. She hung back, waiting until Micah shooed them inside again. His face was ashen and his eyes so dark that Poppy felt a jolt. She hadn’t seen those eyes so dark in years. The light Heather had put there was gone.
The girls stood inside the door, watching their father and waiting.
Poppy raised her eyebrows, inviting him to speak.
Micah simply shook his head and set off for the kitchen.
* * *
By the time Griffin returned to the truck, loaded himself up with the rest of his things, and trekked back to the cabin, he was colder than ever. He wanted heat— high heat and lots of it—but everything in the cabin had been so cold for so long that the warmth of the woodstove was slow in spreading.He fought with frozen, snow-crusted laces and stiff fingers to get his hiking boots off, then pulled on two layers of dry socks and a dry pair of jeans. The sweater he’d used on his head went over the sweater he already wore, and the Yankees cap went back on his head. Using the candle in its lantern for light, he searched the cabin and pushed every switch he could find, but couldn’t get the electricity to kick on.
Without electricity, he had roughly two hours of laptop use. Long term, that would be a problem. Short term, he was more concerned with warmth.
So he searched the cabin again. This time he found an oil lamp and a tin of kerosene. With that lit, he went into the bathroom. It was a tiny room, with a tiny toilet, a tiny sink, and a shower stall that would have been tiny, too, had there been anything closing it in—not that Griffin cared. Taking a shower was the last thing on his mind. He’d had enough trouble taking off his jeans to put on a dry pair. The idea of stripping down in a room with the look and feel of a refrigerator did not appeal to him.
The toilet did. But there was no water in it. He pulled the flush knob that sat on top. Nothing happened. Same thing when he tried to run water in the sink. Nothing.
If you need to chip a little at the pipes for water, use the ice chisel inside the door. Charlie had said, so Griffin went looking for the chisel. Oh, it was there as advised, right inside the door near the ax and a shovel. Griffin picked it up and looked around. Chip a little at the pipes? What pipes?
It occurred to him then that he’d been set up. If John hadn’t known the pitfalls of the cabin on Little Bear Island, Charlie surely did. They wanted him to fail, wanted him to come running for cover on the mainland.
Well, he wasn’t about to do that. Dropping the chisel by the door, he pushed his feet back into his wet hiking books, and, with the laces hanging loose, went outside and relieved himself in the woods. He was retracinghis steps when he spotted the generator crouched low by the cabin’s rear wall. Feeling a small sense of victory, he waded through the snow and brushed it off. He checked the propane and the oil—he was no dummy. Then he found the pull-start and pulled. When nothing happened, he pulled a second time, then a third. Fearing that he’d flooded the thing, he gave it a moment’s rest, but he was no more successful when he tried it again.
So he kicked it for the satisfaction that brought and went back inside, where the woodstove had started to warm the area closest to it. Thinking that this was a good sign and needing to feel in control, he pulled an iron saucepan from the kitchen cabinet and set about heating soup on the woodstove.
The soup was barely hot when he realized that the small scratching sounds he heard weren’t coming from the pot.
* * *
Poppy stopped at Cassie’s on the way home and gave a short beep of her horn. A coatless Cassie ran out, slid quickly inside, and shut the door against the cold.“What is happening?” Poppy asked quietly. Micah’s silence had shaken her. It suggested serious problems, rather than what should be a simple case of mistaken identity.
Cassie’s face reflected only the red glow of the dashboard. “What did Micah say?”
“Not much. He was nearly catatonic, and I didn’t want to push things with the girls right there. But it should be easy to prove who Heather is. You produce something from her childhood—a relative, a report card, a high school yearbook, a doctor, a friend. Did she give you names?”
Slowly, Cassie shook her head.
“Why not?” Poppy asked, nearly as unsettled by that headshake as by Micah’s silence.
“She wouldn’t talk.”
An Accidental Woman Page 8
