As Waters Gone By Page 6
For months she’d been treading water with a flailing motion that made rescue impossible. Exhaustion served as her only reward. Now, here, she flipped onto her back and floated.
A beautiful delusion.
Emmalyn stood and shook herself as if dislodging a swarm of mosquitoes. Nothing had changed. Except her workload.
She’d hauled the unsalvageable furniture outside then realized it would have been smart to rent a Dumpster. Where did one dispose of the unwanted on Madeline Island? She pictured the comical scene—the back of Cora’s truck piled high with the saggy plaid couch, the not-rustic-enough-to-be-cute end tables, the untouchable mattress from the bedroom, and the two spindleless kitchen chairs riding the ferry to Bayfield for burial, Beverly Hillbillies style.
Maybe her first bonfire on the beach would smell like polyester, old varnish, and dense foam. Somehow, that seemed a sacrilegious thought. The beach deserved better than that.
Her skin prickled. She’d given up the tanning salon when the judge meted out Max’s restitution fine, which like everything else was hers to pay, not his. Would the warm weather hold out long enough for her to tan naturally before the colorlessness of winter? She rolled her shirtsleeves over her shoulders.
She flipped the sofa onto its back and slid it, toboggan-like, along the lane to the end of the drive. Whoever she hired to remove it would probably appreciate that extra effort. On her second trip—this time with the scarred leg of an end table in each hand, she noted movement near the couch. A dark, curved back. A bear looking to pad his hibernation den? She stopped mid-lane. She could retrace her steps backward, slowly, and hope the animal hadn’t noticed her approach.
It rose on its hind legs and stared at her. All six feet of him. A tuft of flannel peeked out between the sides of his open jacket. “You getting rid of this?”
Emmalyn felt her heart rate adjust from “BEAR!” to “Stranger Danger.”
“Yes.”
“Those too?” He nodded toward the bulky tables she gripped like dead chickens.
“I have more, if you’re interested.” She drew closer and laid the tables, legs to the sky, on the couch. “An old mattress, a couple of broken chairs . . . ”
“What’s your price?”
Price? He was willing to pay? Insane Stranger Danger. How could she quote him a price for what she’d been willing to pay to have removed?
“Want to make a trade?” His dark, bear-like eyes shone.
Cell phone. Front pocket. Speed dial 911. Someone could be here in . . . in time to shovel up the remains of her tortured body, attacked in the woods by a maniac with a penchant for plaid couches and broken women. She glanced at his booted feet. A monster chainsaw rested near his right ankle. So that was his method.
She slid one hand into her jeans pocket as slowly as she could while brushing the fabric of the sofa with the other. Magician trick. Distract the audience with action over here while the real action is taking place in your pocket.
“Trade?” he asked again, as if she hadn’t heard. “Stack of firewood for all of it?”
She swallowed against the reality. He really and truly wanted the ratty sofa. And was willing to barter firewood for it. “That’s more than fair, Mr . . . ?”
“Cranky. Cranzkolovski, but who can pronounce that?” He wiped his right hand—his chainsaw hand—on his camo pants and reached to shake a greeting.
Emmalyn resisted the urge to apologize for the filth on her own hand, the one she’d retrieved from digging for her cell phone. “Are we . . . neighbors?”
“That depends. Where do you live?”
His sixty-year-old eyebrows—apparently in a growth spurt since he was a toddler—wiggled when she indicated the cottage behind her.
“That so? Place’s been vacant a long time.”
“Thus . . . ” she answered, pointing to the pile of furniture between them.
“I live in Washburn. South of Bayfield, but you probably knew that unless you arrived here by kayak.” He smiled at his humor. “Come out once in a while to meditate,” he said, nudging the chainsaw with his foot. “It’s not quiet, but life doesn’t always have to be quiet to be peaceful.”
Such misguided logic turned his proverb into an old man’s folly. She couldn’t imagine finding any kind of peace with a chainsaw making its presence known.
“Cutting just down the road today. People still cleaning up after that last storm. Like you, I guess.”
The blue tarp was back over the hole in the cottage roof. The ground was littered with storm evidence.
“Tell you what. I’ll trade you the stack of firewood I have in the back of my truck plus clean up some of these fallen branches. That suit you? They’ll make great kindling.”
“That’s more than kind of you.”
“So it’s a deal? I can’t jaw long. Gotta get to The Wild Iris before Boozie runs out of that cream broolee she makes. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
“Yes, of course it’s a deal. But I’m afraid I’m coming out way ahead on this bargain.”
He paused and stroked his beard. “What means something to one person can’t always be explained by another.”
“One person’s trash is another man’s treasure?”
His upside-down-U mouth showed he was thinking on it. “If you want to say it that way. Tell me where you want the firewood and I’ll unload it. The tree branches will have to wait until next time I’m out this direction, if you take my word for it.”
With a roofing crew’s anticipated arrival soon, Lord willing, Emmalyn calculated the most out-of-the-way place for a stack of firewood. “There?” she said, nodding to a long-abandoned, vine-covered pile of half-decomposed wood chunks laid like rolled cannoli between two standing pines.
“Good as anyplace.” He picked up his chainsaw and started left down the side road—Chippewa Trail. She peered after him and noticed a larger-than-average and older-than-most truck parked near the intersection with Schoolhouse Road. “Back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder.
By dumping more firewood than Emmalyn could imagine needing for the fireplace, assuming it could be restored to working order, Cranky had enough room in his truck for every stick of furniture she labeled unsalvageable. Before the day’s end, the couch would wave its Beverly Hillbillies good-bye to Madeline Island from the deck of the ferry. Go figure.
* * *
Cora’s crew pulled in within minutes of Cranky’s exit. While they scrambled up to and on top of the roof, Emmalyn took advantage of the last light of the day to sweep the main living area, taking care to stay out from under the workers. Her cardboard makeshift dustpan collected dust, sand, and the decomposed remains of candy wrappers, potato chip bags, and unidentifiable rodents. It would take some doing to turn the cottage into a place she felt comfortable inhabiting, much less calling home.
The flattened braided rug that covered most of the living area was a bear to remove, no offense to Mr. Cranky. Rolled like a burrito, it weighed far more than Emmalyn. She tried nudging the roll toward the door with her foot, but produced more groans than progress until two of Cora’s crew members cut their water break short and assisted. Which means they asked her to step out of the way and shouldered the entire burden.
With the rug removed, she could see the potential for the hardwood floor. Where protected by the rug, the floor’s wide boards threatened to gleam when brushed by the broom.
Furniture moving had taken a toll on her back muscles. She was almost grateful—no, full-fledged grateful—when Cora called off her crew for the day.
“We’ll need to work both inside and out tomorrow,” Cora announced. “How early do you plan to be here?”
“How early do you want to start?” Emmalyn put both hands in the small of her back and stretched. How long would it take for her body to rebound? The enveloping white bed at The Wild Iris called to her as insistently as her hunger.
“Story Hour for the littles at the library at 9:30. Looks like we’re talking close to 11:
00 again. Hate to put it off until that late into the day.”
The littles.
“Emmalyn? That okay with you?”
Kidlets. Littles. Babykins. Wonderlings.
“Emmalyn?”
Deep breath in. Exhale to the count of five. Relax your throat muscles on the exhale. “That sounds fine. I’ll probably take the ferry into Bayfield and look for secondhand furniture and maybe pick up some paint before we meet up.”
“You can say no if you want,” Cora began tentatively, “but if you’re comfortable leaving me with a key . . . ”
“Oh. Sure. I should have thought of that.”
“Nothing in much danger of getting stolen in here anymore, if you know what I’m saying.”
Emmalyn tugged the spare key from the stainless steel ring. “Not that there ever was.”
“Oh, I bet this place has some stories to tell,” Cora said, patting the doorjamb. “They all do. And now”—she shrugged out of her tool belt—“you’ll have your own chapters to write.”
She dropped the key into Cora’s outstretched hand. Who wants to read—or live—a story with every page blank?
* * *
The little stark room at The Wild Iris welcomed her with a lamp lit, a plate of cookies on the dresser, a carafé of something hot—smelled like apple cider—and a note from Boozie.
Overcalculated on the daily special. Leftovers in the fridge. Second shelf. Help yourself. I’ll join you if I wade the rest of the way through this (what’s the opposite of glorious?) paperwork. I almost said a word that would make the missions jar richer. Check out the new bath salts we’re field testing for a friend of mine who makes them. Who needs a sleep aid with lavender bath salts? See you later. I hope. Hope floats, as they say. Hope springs eternal. Hope helps. It’s all about hope. B
If hunger hadn’t gnawed at her for the last several hours, she would have called cookies her supper and headed straight for the claw-foot tub. Instead, she washed her face and hands, slipped out of her work shoes and into cushioned sandals, and padded down the stairs and through the doors to the café. Boozie had a fire going in the fireplace and waited in her favorite wing chair.
“Beat you.”
Emmalyn smiled. “I see that.”
“Cora texted your progress. Slow going, huh?”
“Excruciatingly so.” Emmalyn couldn’t help staring at the plate in front of Boozie. A crust of what looked like banana bread and a wide-mouthed mug of a creamy soup. Boozie must have noted her interest.
“Chicken wild rice,” she said.
“Sounds divine.”
“The cooks and I still haven’t adapted to the off-season crowds. Made a gallon too much. Froze some. But there’s enough for seconds for both of us, if we want it.”
A few minutes later, Emmalyn joined her at the small round table that had already become familiar, already a landmark of comfort.
“I’ll wait,” Boozie said, her spoon ready for another dive into the pool of cream, celery, wild rice, carrot bits, and other delectables.
“For . . . ?”
“I assume you have a lot to be thankful for besides something for your stomach, after seeing your new home for the first time.”
Grace. She expected Emmalyn to say grace for the meal . . . and a few other things. She bowed her head. Nothing came. She waited in silence the length of time for a proper prayer of thanks, then raised her head and picked up her knife to butter her slice of banana bread.
As soon as she did, she realized banana bread, soup, a girl named Boozie, a lumberjack with only good intentions, and a librarian who repaired roofs would have made good thanks material. And that bed waiting for her at the top of the stairs.
The first bite of banana bread was satisfying enough to carry her until morning, but it begged for a second nibble, and another. She tested the soup while Boozie reported the LaPointe happenings. She detected a hint of nutmeg in the soup. Nice touch.
“Did you catch any of the sunset tonight? You’re probably better positioned for sunrises there, aren’t you? You’ll have to spend some time at Sunset Bay, where North Shore and Big Bay Road intersect. It more than lives up to its name.”
“I guess I will.”
“Here.” Boozie handed Emmalyn an electronic tablet. “Hit the arrow.”
Emmalyn’s finger hovered over the arrow as she studied the expression on Boozie’s face.
“I didn’t want you to miss it. The sunset.”
Emmalyn watched the short video, then watched it again. By the final frame, she had to swipe at tears. “I . . . it . . . takes your breath away.”
“Doesn’t it? No matter what’s going on in life, you get a sunset like that and you think, ‘I guess I’ll keep going another day or two.’ ”
Emmalyn drank in the afterglow of a newborn sunset, an hour old, that happened while she worked. Could she have seen glimpses of it if she’d walked to the end of the short pier in front of the cottage and looked back above the tree line behind it? Boozie had captured its image. Nothing could capture its essence. Emmalyn would have to be there for that.
“I have something for you,” Boozie said, pulling a small packet from her skirt pocket. A three-layered blush-colored tulle skirt with apron-like pockets. It poofed around Boozie like an awkward bridesmaid gown. Is that what she did? Buy up vintage bridesmaid gowns and convert them into her version of fashion? A few years ago, Emmalyn might have mocked someone with that kind of fashion sense. A few days ago. But every bit of it fit Boozie’s off-the-wall personality. The velveteen packet the woman had drawn from her pocket now lay near Emmalyn’s plate.
“What is this?”
“You may need them tonight.”
Emmalyn emptied the contents into her palm. “Ear plugs?”
“Church night.”
Emmalyn stared at the purple foam mini-torpedos.
“What we call church, anyway. I think God does, too.”
She fingered the squishy foam. The plugs had the feel of PlayDoh. “Here? Your church meets here? In the café?”
“You haven’t seen Pirate Joe when he gets his worship on. Or tonight might be one of those nights when he tries to argue us under that table about a verse of Scripture that sits crossways in his throat.” She sighed, but with that ever-present look of contentment. “One never knows.”
“Church. Here.”
“We tried calling it something else in the beginning. Life group. Bible Study. Turns out it was church.” Boozie shrugged her shoulders, palms up. “You’re invited to join us, if you want. We try not to go too late because my crew has to be back here early to make breakfast in the morning.”
“Your employees all attend?”
“Sooner or later. I ask them to serve the coffee and tea a couple of times and then they’re hooked. They come on their own.” Every word out of her mouth seemed so matter-of-fact, as if Emmalyn would have no reason to wonder over what she was saying.
“I think I’m going to take your advice tonight and soak in a hot bath and get to bed early. So, thanks for the ear plugs.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Would you like my help pushing the tables out of the way and rearranging the chairs?”
“For what?” Boozie asked, fluffing the mane of hair off her neck.
“Church.”
She chuckled. “Oh, you really should come sometime. If you’re thinking rows of chairs in a semi-circle and a pulpit and ushers and everything makes a church . . . ”
She had. What was wrong with that? “Well, thank you so much for another great meal. Loved the soup. And I don’t think I’ve ever had better banana bread.” She pushed herself to standing, using her hands on the edge of the table for fear her legs couldn’t do the job alone after her day’s labors. “Want me to take the dishes to the sink?”
“No, I’ll take care of them. You get a good rest.”
It sounded like something Emmalyn should have said to the woman half her age. Something a mother would say.
“Do you want me to pack your breakfast so you can get an early start?”
“Boozie, you’re spoiling me.”
“Sometimes caring feels like spoiling. Gratitude evens things out.”
Emmalyn would have to start taking notes when Boozie spouted wisdom. “Thank you. Breakfast to go would be a . . . a blessing.”
* * *
The worship music drifting up the stairway and under the door of Room 37 surprised her. She recognized many of the songs. None reminded her of “Kumbaya.” Somebody down there had a great bass voice. Faint as it was, Emmalyn thought she detected acoustic guitar and flute. And some other instrument that sounded a lot like ibuprofen rattling in a plastic medicine bottle.
Good reminder. She popped two gel-caps before turning on the swan’s neck faucet on the antique tub. The music, the steamy water, the light scent of lavender massaged soul-deep aches. Twice, she reached to unplug the tub and let out a few gallons of tepid water so she could add more super-hot. Submerged to the neck, she let the water wash away what had accumulated—the dust of the cottage’s past, the stiffness of the uninhabited.
She drew in a full breath and slid lower. Her hair, shorter now than Max liked it, floated around her head like stubby seaweed babies. She sat up and poured a dime-sized pool of almond shampoo into her palm. The pads of her fingers worked it through her wet hair. As the water and the day’s remains swirled down the drain, she leaned her head under the arched faucet and rinsed out the shampoo, lingering with the hot water pummeling the back of her neck until the rest of her threatened to cool off too much.
Sooner or later she’d have to break down and do some laundry. For tonight, another clean tee and capri yoga pants felt like a gift. As did the buttery-smooth sheets.
Somewhere hundreds of miles south and a little east of this spot, Max lay on a thin mattress. He’d eaten a colorless, tasteless dinner and retired to a room with steel bars for a door. The sounds drifting up to him scorched his ears.