Spirit Lake

by Christine DeSmet

  The eyes softened, the lines around them relaxed, and his smile rose like the sun. “I'm glad I have you to talk with. Laurel, you're a fine person."

  His tall frame loomed over her, wrapping her tight against him until she could feel nothing but the oneness of their warmth flowing back and forth.

  Her heart fluttered. She breathed in the earthy tang about him. “We'd all like to be young again for a few moments now and then. To be free, with the sun on our face, and nothing planned beyond that feeling of sublime warmth."

  She hugged him, and he hugged her back.

  She committed the elegant simplicity of it to memory.

  When she sat down on a chair to put her hiking boots back on, he knelt down and began lacing the hooks for her. “It's more than recapturing youth,” he said. “My dad would say it's a marketing thing. It's about us wanting to be heroes, but losing our audience. What does a hero do when he has no audience? Without one, he has nobody to play to, like an actor on a stage without anyone to please."

  “Heroes sure don't have it easy."

  “No, Laurel, they don't."

  Laurel fought the urge to dig her hands into his hair and to bring his lips back up to hers. This was the old Cole, the solicitous one, the kind and charming man and she could fall for him fast. If it weren't for something bothering her.

  “You always liked the easy life,” she ventured, “but when we grow up, nobody respects people who get things too easily."

  His confused look threw bedlam into her heart.

  Stiffening, he stopped lacing her boot. “I'm sorry,” he said for the second time, “but what's that supposed to mean? I made love to you because, ah, hell, forget it."

  Lumbering up, he shot an expletive into the air and steadied himself on a chair.

  She bit at her lower lip, not wanting to talk about what they'd just shared, and yet, it was there. Still, they had to disengage, to give each other permission to move on. “I'm making a mess of this. You're trying to be nice, trying to help us over the embarrassment of making love like hot teenagers again—"

  “And all I'm doing is bringing back bad memories."

  “No,” she said, surprising herself. “There were good things you did, but that was then. It's ... nostalgia. And that's how we should keep things between us."

  A flicker sparked in his eyes. “What was good back then for you?"

  She thought a moment. “The way you listened to me talk with your quirky smile on your face. You seemed so absorbed in me, as if I were ... special, though I know now you were only plotting new crazy trouble to get into."

  He chuckled. “You were smart. I was enthralled, jealous. I knew nothing about fishing and you knew the difference between a plug and a fly. Though I admit you were the cutest thing in the county and that may have been influenced my attention factor."

  Heat prickled up her neck to her cheekbones. She should be wary of this silly talk, and yet, it brought sweetness to the air they breathed.

  He crouched down again before her and continued lacing up her boots. She let him.

  She felt as if they'd walked part way across the bridge from the past and could now see the other side for the first time.

  His smile was almost quirky. “Remember those boat rides?"

  “You were careless and stupid,” she said, but the memory brought a sigh. “We went so fast it sucked the air out of my mouth."

  “And you got bugs in your teeth."

  “Did not."

  “Did too,” he said and she almost giggled. He plunged on. “The best was that time in the boat when we sprayed that couple of tourists all decked out in those beer can hats and matching plaid outfits. They'd shoplifted the rubber worms."

  Laughter whipped her insides fresh as sheets on a line in the breeze. “We hid behind the counter while they stood there sopping wet in the bait shop threatening to sue my father. He handed them the bill for the worms."

  Cole laughed harder. A brilliant twinkle danced in his eyes. “And because they'd never gotten a good look at you, you hired out to them as a fishing guide that evening. They gave you a ten dollar tip."

  “Which we promptly spent on more gas for the boat so we could drench our next victims,” she said, catching her breath, “though that time my dad didn't much like it. Wasn't the guy a mayor?"

  Cole nodded. “You were quite the devil in those days."

  “I was, wasn't I?"

  Impulsively she reached out to comb through his dark hair with her fingers. It seemed thicker than she remembered. She let her hand slide down along his jawline, so firm and ruggedly stubbled with whiskers he proudly shaved in those days. To touch him now was to emerge from a dark cave into sunlight.

  She pulled back her hand and got up. The late afternoon air held a chill in its shadows. “I need to tend my animals."

  “Don't go yet. I want your opinion about this.” He ran his palms over the maps laid out on the table. Her mind recalled the hot feel of them roving over her body only moments before.

  Again she could not resist his entreaty. She convinced herself a look at the map was harmless. “Railroad lines?"

  “Yes. Mike and I had marked my railroad adventure out with big Xs on the western states and up through Wisconsin. Up until last night, I thought the last X was here in Dresden, at the house."

  “But I don't see any other Xs."

  “After finding the crayons, I began going over this again.” He tapped a place near Milwaukee and then Chicago. “See those tiny dots?"

  She leaned closer. “Yeah. They're made in pencil."

  “Mike's sharp accounting pencil. The dots go on. I almost need a magnifying glass to see them, but they go all the way to D.C."

  “He wanted you to see someone there? Who? This is a break!"

  “Laurel, he made these marks only days before he died. I worked on the map before that and they weren't there."

  An awakening trundled ice down her spine. “This is big?"

  “More than a chat with our Congress rep, I'm sure.” Then his eyes lit up. “Come with me, Laurel Lee. I have to show you something."

  He grabbed her hand. They fairly tumbled down the staircases to the bottom floor. When he spotted the cooler in his way at the front door he scooped it up and gave it back to her outside.

  “What's this?"

  Sheepish, she said, “Egg sandwiches?"

  “My favorite. You're the best. No, wait, you used to say, ‘you're the cat's meow.'” The twinkle in his eyes warmed her all over again. “Wait here. We'll eat while we talk."

  He half-walked, half-skipped with his bum leg across the yard to his tent and was back in no time with his duffel. They sat on the top step to the verandah. The low sun bathed them in surreal lavender light. He fished out his wallet, then pulled out a photo.

  Eager and breathless, he asked, “Do you recognize him?"

  The photo was hazy with age. “No. Should I?"

  He sighed, but said, “Look on the back."

  She flipped it over and read aloud, “Aunt Flora has the key to everything about M.R. Look under her skirts, but don't tell Langley, V.” She glanced back at Cole and shrugged.

  “The man was a naval officer, World War II era. That much I know from the uniform. But Langley, Virginia is CIA headquarters. Whatever the connection is with this old man, Mike's warning me to be careful with the information."

  “And he lives here? He'd be in his seventies or eighties, maybe older. Finding an old man based on a fifty-year-old photo will be like needles in a haystack."

  “I know. That's why I need your help. Maybe your mother would recognize him."

  Now a chill rattled her. “How dare you even think of involving my mother."

  She soared from her perch on the step and stood in the weedy grass facing him. “Is that why we made love? Have a little sex with lonely little Laurel Lee and she'll be eager again to be your partner in crime? I had almost believed you'd changed."

  His face blanched under its whiskers. “That i
sn't why I made love to you and you know it."

  “Do I? What do I believe about you?” She thought about the letters he must have written to attorney David Huber. Why couldn't Cole tell her about them? “Maybe you made this whole story up about Rojas. Maybe your brother isn't dead—"

  He rushed to her, his hands gripping her upper arms. “That bullet you took out of my leg was real.” He shook her, his eyes glazed with dark fury. “I loved him. He's dead because of me. I have a son in hiding because of me, which you skewered me with a few days ago. Now make up your mind which Cole you believe in. The kid who left you or the man who's scared as hell who needs your help despite his better judgment."

  He let go of her, sank back onto the top step, raking his hair several times.

  Laurel's heart ached with the reality of how far apart they could be. “We're no longer carefree kids. I can't help you with this ... murder. And you could die, too. I feel as if you're not real because we're even talking about such things."

  “You didn't make love to a ghost moments ago."

  “But I did. I've just realized it. And I need more, much more, from a relationship. I want it all, Cole. I want my heroes to live. The man in my life has to live, and want to live. I want promises of a future."

  His eyes mellowed to a bronze glow, his jawline sliding into a hesitant rumination. “I need much more from me, too, Laurel Lee, but I won't apologize for wanting you, even if it was misguided. I loved you once."

  “You fell into the memory as if falling into a lost well."

  “You don't believe a man can be seduced by the romance of bygone days?"

  She blinked several times in disbelief. She'd forgotten how driven he could be, how convincing, and then how swiftly he could change course and be gentle, seductive. “No, I don't think you work like that. You hate going back into the past."

  “Which means what I feel for you isn't just a memory."

  The smoldering intensity of truth sent her heart rushing. Could the old bonds be rekindling this swiftly?

  Determined to deny such a bond that could only be temporary anyway, she held her long hair back, then leaned forward to retrieve the fried egg sandwiches with the other hand.

  Somersaulting butterflies cut loose in her stomach as she watched him bite into the sandwich, savoring it, a sublime countenance kissing his face. One of his eyebrows crawled into a lazy arch. It always did back then, too.

  “Enough catsup on it?"

  “Perfect.” But he was staring at her lips. “Do you think Flora could have a vault here?"

  It was her turn to raise a brow. “The basement looked ordinary."

  “Yeah. I couldn't find a weak spot in any of the walls."

  “Many of these old places have cisterns or root cellars built away from the house. Maybe Mike found one."

  His eyes lit up. “I never thought of that. But then there's the thing about her skirts."

  “That's odd to me, too. She hasn't lived here for years. I went through all the bedrooms earlier looking for you and didn't see a single old garment hanging anywhere. Just a piece of junky old picture frame or doo-dad here and there on the walls that even hobos or teenagers making out didn't want for souvenirs."

  Cole sighed. “The place used to be so gorgeous. Flocked wallpaper, shiny floors we'd slide across in our socks, fires in that grand fireplace—"

  “You're not thinking of—"

  He shook his head. “This place is beyond repair, even if I had plans to stay. I'll keep stripping out the good lumber for you while I'm here. Should be able to find enough to expand your animal shed if you need to."

  The gesture touched her. “Does it make you sad to see it this way? You spent a few summers here as a boy."

  “Yes and no. It used to be a living place. Vibrant, with my aunt swishing through it. But you can't turn a clock back, can you?"

  Despite her resolve, the heated imprint of their lovemaking undulated across her body. She thought about being upstairs, her hand running over the dresser with the carved initials of teenage lovers. She and Cole had let life slip past them somehow, like the mansion slipping into disrepair. Sadly, it was too late to fix things, so she squared her shoulders and thought about the here-and-now. “My mother has always sewn a lot. Maybe she remembers something about Flora Tilden's dresses."

  “You'd do that for me?” He stopped mid-bite.

  She wanted to laugh, for he looked innocent for once in his life. “We've got to get you out of Dresden. Alive. So what should I ask mother about?"

  “About where she thinks Flora Tilden bought her clothes, or if she donated anything to a charity or museum."

  “A museum?"

  “Even as a kid I recognized her ballgowns were special works of art. Mucho dinero."

  “Expensive ballgowns? In Dresden? I doubt she was a prom date."

  “But Gary said there're rumors about her being some gangster's girlfriend. I vaguely remember my parents mentioning she had interesting connections. It's likely why they weren't excited about coming back and claiming the property. They probably figured Flora's mob friends would have swooped in and who wants to argue with the mob."

  Laurel had to smile. “Evidently we were too clean-cut and boring around here for them."

  “Never boring.” He winked at her and she dove into another bite of sandwich to avoid his teasing. “It's possible Mike could have found where these dresses are and hid something in them."

  “It's a long shot but worth looking into I suppose."

  He licked catsup off his little finger and she found it the most sensual act she'd ever witnessed.

  He asked, “Then you'll ask your mother about what she remembers?"

  Laurel gave him a slow nod. She had no intention of involving her mother.

  “You're a gem, Laurel Lee. Thanks."

  A modicum of guilt at lying hit her stomach. Why did she suddenly feel like she was being sucked into a drain with no way out? She reminded herself of the letters that David Huber had received, presumably from Cole. It bothered her that she couldn't trust Cole completely. It bothered her even more that she desperately wanted to.

  “I have to head out,” she announced, needing to escape the tension of their lies, the dance they were insisting on playing.

  “Could we get together later tonight?"

  Her heartbeat tripped, but she was glad she'd planned to visit the graveyard to plant flowers that had long ago outgrown their plastic store pots. “Not tonight. I'm busy."

  She rushed off down the deer path toward her boat, breathing deeply of the fragrant summer air.

  He called out behind her, “Didn't mean it like a date. We can't go to a restaurant anyway. I'm outta cash. You'd have to buy."

  She licked her lips against a threatening grin, then shook her head and trudged on.

  * * * *

  ACTING ON Laurel's idea about cisterns and root cellars, Cole poked around the yard until well after darkness set in with brackish shadows that made further treasure hunting impossible.

  Near midnight, after washing up in the lake, he finally collapsed inside his sleeping bag under the stars. He watched a pair of raccoons skitter through his meager camp, lick clean the used yogurt container then head into the mansion. He meant to ask Laurel about them. The raccoons visited every night and acted as if they owned the place and he were the interloper. Wasn't he?

  He sat up. Why had he made love to her? The question hit with a bang in his head louder than any of Rojas’ bullets.

  How stupid could a man get? She was embarrassed afterward, but hadn't he felt her want him just as much as he wanted her? Or was that his ego speaking? A fever stormed over him. He'd taken her so fast his hands barely had a memory of her. He'd give anything—

  Stop it, man. Laurel vexed him. She never used to. When they were teenagers, they laughed and made love. A simple, joyous existence. Now she was complicated, foreign, a woman who needed subtitles for him to understand. First she hated him, now she was helping him. She yelled a
t him one minute, then smiled the next.

  A sudden, small, glowing light flickered across the bay. Laurel? He watched the glow progress past her cabin, then on down the path that led deeper into woods. What was she up to? And at this hour?

  He remembered the cliff off down that path, that it was a long way away and secluded, dangerous.

  He climbed out of the sleeping bag. He had to find out what his Laurel Lee was up to in the dead of night. An overwhelming need to keep her safe sent him after her.

  * * * *

  LAUREL RESPECTED night's gentle pace and peaceful song. She hadn't wanted to be so rude as to bring artificial light along, but tonight she'd need the lantern. She'd bought the geraniums days ago, but with Cole's arrival hadn't gotten a chance to plant them. Already the poor things were dropping petals and threatening to die on her. She'd had enough of death in her life. Perhaps she was planting them in defiance of Cole suckering her into his own deathtrap. How could she have let down her guard with him? She had to feel in control again.

  She glanced across the bay. This time, the porthole window seemed to wink at her with moonlight, taunting her about making love with a hunted man in the privacy of the dusty attic. The old mansion seemed to vibrate under its moonglow halo as if it'd been brought to life by what she and Cole committed under its rafters.

  Breathless, she began to trot along the path, hurrying out of sight of the hoary old place. She tried to convince herself that Cole was not at the root of her aching head and limbs.

  Earlier, Jim Swenson had brought by a pair of orphaned coyote pups, and the entire shed had gone into an uproar. Even Rusty seemed affronted that a dog cousin would deign to share his digs. The upshot was, she was forced to build a new outdoor cage for the pups. She had been grateful for the handful of lumber Cole had already delivered, but she'd also pounded every nail with extra punishing blows to assuage her guilt for making love with a man she shouldn't—no, couldn't—want.

  Being with Cole today had changed something within her. She felt more than an agitation, almost a fear of the unknown. Cole was forcing her hand, spinning her toward an unknown future. And she found herself craving a new, more mature relationship with him.