The Winter Lodge
Page 1
The Lakeshore Chronicles have captivated thousands of readers with unforgettable characters, warm humor and engaging stories. Return to the tranquil shores of Willow Lake with this story of uncovering the past and finding somewhere to belong.
On the longest night of the year, Jenny Majesky loses everything in a devastating house fire. But among the ashes she finds an unusual treasure hidden amid her grandfather’s belongings, one that starts her on a search for the truth, and on a path toward a life that she never imagined. The Winter Lodge, a remote cabin owned by her half sister on the shores of Willow Lake, becomes a refuge for Jenny, where she and local police chief Rourke McKnight try to sort out the mysteries revealed by the fire.
But when a blizzard traps them together, Jenny, accustomed to the safe predictability of running the family bakery, suddenly doesn’t feel so secure. For even as Rourke shelters her from the storm outside, she knows her heart is at risk. Now following her dreams might mean walking away from her one chance at love.
Praise for The Lakeshore Chronicles
“Wiggs’s prose is both compelling and moving, conjuring images of hot summer nights and painfully intense young love that anyone can relate to. Each and every character is finely detailed, and finishing the book feels like saying goodbye to dear old friends.”
—RT Book Reviews on Summer at Willow Lake
“Empathetic protagonists, interesting secondary characters, well-written flashbacks, and delicious recipes add depth to this touching, complex romance.”
—Library Journal on The Winter Lodge
“Wiggs’s uncomplicated stories are rich with life lessons, nod-along moments and characters with whom readers can easily relate. Delightful and wise.”
—Publishers Weekly on Dockside
“Wiggs is at the top of her game here, combining a charming setting with subtly shaded characters and more than a touch of humor. This is the kind of book a reader doesn’t want to see end but can’t help devouring as quickly as possible.”
—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Snowfall at Willow Lake
“Wiggs hits all the right notes in this delightful, sometimes funny, sometimes poignant Christmas treat, which will please Lakeshore Chronicles fans as well as garner new ones.”
—Library Journal, starred review, on Lakeshore Christmas
“An emotionally gripping tale centered on family. Wiggs is back in top form.”
—Booklist on The Summer Hideaway
Also by Susan Wiggs
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCES
Home Before Dark
The Ocean Between Us
Summer by the Sea
Table for Five
Lakeside Cottage
Just Breathe
The Goodbye Quilt
The Bella Vista Chronicles
The Apple Orchard
The Beekeeper’s Ball
The Lakeshore Chronicles
Summer at Willow Lake
The Winter Lodge
Dockside
Snowfall at Willow Lake
Fireside
Lakeshore Christmas
The Summer Hideaway
Marrying Daisy Bellamy
Return to Willow Lake
Candlelight Christmas
Starlight on Willow Lake
HISTORICAL ROMANCES
The Lightkeeper
The Drifter
The Mistress of Normandy
The Maiden of Ireland
The Tudor Rose Trilogy
At the King’s Command
The Maiden’s Hand
At the Queen’s Summons
Chicago Fire Trilogy
The Hostage
The Mistress
The Firebrand
Calhoun Chronicles
The Charm School
The Horsemaster’s Daughter
Halfway to Heaven
Enchanted Afternoon
A Summer Affair
In loving memory of my grandparents,
Anna and Nicholas Klist.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the Port Orchard Brain Trust: Kate Breslin, Lois Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, P. J. Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett, Sheila Rabe and Krysteen Seelen. Also thanks to the Bainbridge Island Test Kitchen: Anjali Banerjee, Sheila Rabe, Suzanne Selfors and Elsa Watson. As always, thanks to Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to Margaret O’Neill Marbury of MIRA Books.
Special thanks to Joan Vassiliadis; Anna Osinski of Warsaw, Poland; Matt Haney, Bainbridge Island chief of police; and to Ellen and Mike Loudon of Bainbridge Bakers on Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt from Dockside by Susan Wiggs
Food for Thought
BY JENNY MAJESKY
Kolaches for Beginners
It’s funny how so many bakers are intimidated by yeast. They see it listed as an ingredient in a recipe, and quickly flip the page. There’s no need to fear this version.
This particular dough is quite forgiving. It’s elastic, resilient and will make you feel like a pro. As my grandmother, Helen Majesky, used to say, “In baking, as in life, you know more than you think you know.”
BASIC KOLACHES
1 tablespoon sugar
2 packets active dry yeast (which is kind of a pain, since yeast is sold in packages of three)
½ cup warm water
2 cups milk
6 tablespoons pure unsalted butter
2 teaspoons salt
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ cup sugar
6-¼ cups flour
1-½ sticks melted butter
Put yeast in a measuring cup and sprinkle 1 tablespoon sugar over it. Add warm water. How warm? Most cookbooks say 105°-115°F. Experienced cooks can tell by sprinkling a few drops on the inside of the wrist. Beginners should use a thermometer. Too hot, and it’ll kill the active ingredients.
Warm the milk in a small saucepan; add butter and stir until melted. Cool to lukewarm and pour into a big mixing bowl. Add salt and sugar, then pour in beaten egg yolks in a thin stream, whisking briskly to keep eggs from curdling. Then whisk in yeast mixture.
Roll up your sleeves and add flour a cup at a time. When the dough gets too heavy to stir, mix with your hands. You want the dough to be glossy and sticky. Keep adding fl
our and knead until the dough acquires a sheen. Put dough ball in an oiled mixing bowl, turning it to coat. Cover with a damp tea towel and set in a warm place where the air is very still. In about an hour, the dough should double in size. My grandmother used to push two floured fingertips into the top of the soft mound, and if the dimples made by her fingers remained, she would declare the dough risen. And then, of course, you give it a punch to deflate it. A soft sighing sound, fragrant with yeast, indicates the dough’s surrender.
Pinch off egg-size portions and work these into balls. Place on oiled baking sheets, several inches apart. Let them rise again for 15 minutes and then use your thumb to make a deep dimple in each ball for the fruit filling. The exact filling to use is a source of endless debate among Polish bakers. My grandmother never entered into such a debate. “Do what tastes good” was her motto. A spoonful of raspberry jam, peach pie filling, fig preserves, prune filling or sweet cheese will do.
Create a popsika by mixing ½ cup melted butter with a cup of sugar, ½ cup flour and a teaspoon cinnamon. Sprinkle the popsika over each kolache. Now place the pans in a warm place—like above the fridge—and allow to double in bulk again, about 45 minutes to an hour. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake 20-40 minutes, until golden brown. Pay particular attention to the bottoms, which tend to burn if too close to the heat source.
Take the kolaches out of the oven, brush with melted butter and remove from pans to cool. This recipe makes about three dozen.
My grandmother used to tell me not to worry about how long this whole process takes. Baking is an act of love, and who cares how long love takes?
Chapter One
Jenny Majesky pushed away from her writing desk and stretched, massaging an ache in the small of her back. Something—perhaps the profound silence of the empty house—had awakened her at three in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. She’d worked on her newspaper column for a while, hunched over her laptop in a ratty robe and fuzzy slippers. At the moment, though, she was no better at writing than she was at sleeping.
There was so much she wanted to say, so many stories to put down, but how could she cram the memories and kitchen wisdom of a lifetime into a weekly column?
Then again, she’d always wanted to write more than a column. Much more. The universe, she realized, was taking away all her excuses. She really ought to get started writing that book.
Like any good writer, Jenny procrastinated. Idly, she picked up her grandmother’s wedding band, which had been lying in a small china dish on the desk. She hadn’t quite decided what to do with it, a plain circle of gold that Helen Majesky had worn for fifty years of marriage and another decade of widowhood. When she baked, Gram always slipped the ring into the pocket of her apron. It was a wonder she never lost it. She’d made Jenny promise not to bury her with it, though.
Twirling the ring around the tip of her forefinger, Jenny could picture her grandmother’s hands, strong and firm as they worked a mound of dough, or gentle and light as they caressed her granddaughter’s cheek or checked her forehead for fever.
Jenny slid the ring onto her finger and closed her hand into a fist. She had a wedding ring of her own, given and received with a sense of giddy hope but never worn. It now resided in a bottom drawer she never opened.
It was hard, at this velvet-black hour, not to tally up her losses—her mother, who had walked away when Jenny was small. Then Jenny’s grandfather, and finally, and perhaps most importantly, Gram.
Only a few weeks had passed since she’d laid her grandmother to rest. After the initial flurry of sympathy calls and visits, a lull had settled in, and Jenny felt it in her bones—she was truly alone. Yes, she had caring friends and coworkers who were as dear to her as family. But now the steady presence of her grandmother, who had raised her like a daughter, was gone.
Out of habit, she saved her work on the laptop. Then she wrapped her robe more snugly around her and went to the window, pressing close to the cold glass to look out at the deep winter night. Snow erased all the sharp edges and colors of the landscape. In the middle of the night, Maple Street was entirely deserted, washed in the gray-white glow of a single street lamp in the middle of the block. Jenny had lived here all her life; she’d stood countless times at this very spot, expecting...what? For something to change. To begin.
She gave a restless sigh, her breath misting the window. The snow flurries had thickened to flakes, swirling in a blur around the streetlight. Jenny loved the snow; she always had. Staring out at the blanketed landscape, she could easily picture herself as a child, hiking with her grandfather to the sledding hill. She used to literally follow in his footsteps, leaping from one hollowed-out bootprint to the next, pulling the Flexible Flyer on a rope behind her.
Her grandparents had been there for all the moments of her childhood. Now that they were gone, there was no one to hold the memories, to look at her and say, “Remember the time you...”
Her mother had left when Jenny was four, and her father was a virtual stranger she’d met only six months ago. Jenny considered this a blessing in disguise. From what she knew of her biological parents, neither had been as well-equipped to raise a child as Helen and Leo Majesky.
A noise—a thud and then a scratching sound—made her jump, startling her from her thoughts. She cocked her head, listening, then decided it had been thick snow or a row of icicles, falling from the roof. You never knew how quiet a house could be until you were totally alone in it.
Since her grandmother had died, Jenny had been waking up in the middle of the night, her mind full of memories begging to be written down. All of them seemed to emanate, like the smells of baking, from her grandmother’s kitchen. Jenny had kept a diary or journal nearly all her life, and over the past few years, her habit had evolved into a regular column for the Avalon Troubadour, a mingling of recipes, kitchen lore and anecdotes. Since Gram’s passing, Jenny could no longer check a fact with her, or pick her brain about the origin of a certain ingredient or baking technique. Jenny was on her own now, and she was afraid that if she waited too long, she’d forget things.
The thought stirred her into action. She’d been meaning to transcribe her grandmother’s ancient recipes, some of them still in the original Polish, written on brittle, yellowed paper. The recipes were stored in the pantry in a latched tin box that hadn’t been opened in years. Ignoring the fact that it was now three-thirty in the morning, Jenny headed downstairs. When she stepped into the pantry, she was struck by an achingly familiar smell—her grandmother’s spices and the aroma of flour and grain. She stood on tiptoe to reach the old metal box. Sliding it off the shelf, she lost her balance and dropped the thing, its contents exploding at her fuzzy-slippered feet.
She uttered a word she never would have said when Gram was alive, tiptoeing gingerly as she tried not to step on any of the fragile old documents. Now she would need a flashlight, because the dark pantry didn’t have a light. She found a flashlight in a utility drawer but its batteries were dead and there wasn’t another fresh battery in the house. She considered lighting a candle but didn’t want to have a mishap with the one-of-a-kind handwritten recipes. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Sorry about that, Gram,” she said.
Her gaze found the smoke detector. Aha, she thought. She dragged a kitchen chair over to it and climbed up, opening the smoke detector, removing its two double-A batteries and fitting them in the flashlight.
She headed back into the pantry, gently picking up the papers, which rustled like dry autumn leaves. She put the loose papers in the box and brought it out to the kitchen. There were old notes and recipes in her grandmother’s native Polish. On the back of a yellowed page with crumbling edges, she spotted a signature in fading, delicate strokes of ink—Helenka Maciejewski—practiced a dozen times in a girlish hand. That was her grandmother’s married name before it had bee
n Anglicized. She must have written it as a young bride.
There were things about her grandparents Jenny would never know. What had it been like for them, as newlyweds barely out of childhood, leaving the only home they knew to start a life half a world away? Were they frightened? Excited? Did they quarrel with each other, cling to each other?
She closed her eyes as a now-familiar onslaught of panic started in her stomach and pushed through her, pressing at her chest. These panic attacks were something brand-new for Jenny, a grim and unexpected development. The first one struck at the hospital as she was moving woodenly through the duties of the next of kin. She’d been signing some form or other when the fingers of her left hand went numb and she dropped the pen to clutch her throat.
“I can’t breathe,” she’d told the clerk. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
The doctor who treated her, a tired-looking resident from Tonawanda, had been calm and compassionate as he evaluated her and then explained the condition. Not uncommon, the intense attack was a physical response to emotional trauma, the symptoms as real and frightening as they would be for any illness.
Since then, Jenny had become intimately familiar with the symptoms. Practical, levelheaded Jenny Majesky was not supposed to succumb to something as uncontrollable and irrational as a panic attack. She was helpless to stop it now as a singularly unpleasant sensation rose through her, like a parade of spiders climbing up her throat. Her heart seemed to expand in her chest.
She cast a wild look around, wondering where she’d left the bottle of pills the doctor had given her. She hated the pills almost as much as she hated the panic attacks. Why couldn’t she just snap out of it? Why couldn’t she just suck it up and calm herself with a cup of strong coffee and a taste of her grandmother’s apricot-jam kolaches?
That, at least, could be a diversion. Right now, in the middle of the night. One of the few places in Avalon where she could find someone awake at four in the morning was the Sky River Bakery, founded in 1952 by her grandparents. Helen specialized in kolaches filled with fruit or sweet cheese, and pies that became the stuff of local legend. Her baked goods were in demand from the restaurants and small specialty shops that lined the town square, catering to the well-polished tourists who came up from New York City for Avalon’s cool green summers or blazing fall color.