Always on My Mind (8 page)

Darek said nothing as he set the pan on the floor. Then he went into one of the bedrooms. Came back with the remainder of the bedding and threw it on the laminate, sopping up the mess.

“Ivy’s pregnant.”

Pregnant.
That’s right. He’d completely forgotten the news his mother had e-mailed. He found his voice, wrestled it into something easy, cheerful. “Really, that’s great. Congratulations. When is she due?”

“April.”

“Boy or girl
 
—?”

“I dunno. Listen, here’s the deal.”

At his tone, Casper looked up from where he helped mop the floor.

“I can’t pay you. So if you’re going to stick around, you have to get a real job.”

Casper recognized Darek’s grim look. Something his father had worn during the lean years. The years when he worked with a skeleton crew and recruited his children to fill in as outfitters, trail guides, and maintenance. “What’s going on, Darek? What aren’t you telling me?”

Darek walked to the sofa and grabbed his hat, his scarf. “I had this brilliant idea to move up the opening to New Year’s weekend. We got the place up and running . . . for two guests.”

Ouch.

Darek looked at him. “I’m glad you’re home. Really. I just need to know that I can depend on you.”

“You can.”

Darek held his hat for a moment. “Dad used to say that you have to go out and make something good happen; you can’t just hope for it. Success isn’t magic
 
—it’s hard work.”

“I know.”

“Good. Because it’s time to make a choice. Treasure hunting or a real job.” He pushed past Casper.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the lodge for more towels. And then I’m going to have some of that soup my wife left me.”

T
WO WEEKS OF HIDING
and finally the sun had decided to emerge.

Slate-gray skies, blue-mercury temperatures, jagged icicles hanging from Raina’s porch, the mighty Lake Superior tossing blocks of ice onto the snow-crusted shoreline
 
—it had all trapped Raina inside her aunt’s house, drinking hot cocoa, reading books, and trying to figure out how to put herself back together.

She’d hoped that day after day she would feel just a little more whole, a little less fragile and stripped as if she’d left half of herself somewhere.

Instead, the hole seemed to burrow clear through her, the pain deep and embedded in every breath.

And the nightmares, the ones where she stood alone in a room, a baby wailing beyond an impenetrable cement wall, became more vivid.

There didn’t seem to be a night that she didn’t wake in a hot, tangled mess in bed, after throwing herself again and again at the fortress.

She needed something
 
—anything
 
—to help her move forward. A job. A plan. A hint of a future.

She’d purchased a local newspaper at the grocery store, scoured the ads, and found a listing at Wild Harbor Trading Post. It sold kayaks and fishing gear as well as outdoor clothing, but the thought of working there only dredged up memories of paddling with Casper in last summer’s dragon boat race.

The last happy moment in her dismal, chilly life.

A listing for a Meals On Wheels driver demanded a working, dependable vehicle. Hers worked, but at these temps,
dependable
might be sketchy.

Which meant she’d have to answer the ad for nursing assistant at the local care center. She could probably figure out how to change bedpans and transfer patients from bed to wheelchair.

She donned her powder-blue parka, a pair of earmuffs, and mukluks, wound a pink scarf around her face, and braved the subzero temperatures for a walk to the care center. How else was she going to get her figure back? But she felt stronger every day, and soon she’d fit into her old jeans.

The care center perched on a hill overlooking the lake. Raina found the entrance and, armed with the paper, approached the front desk. “I’m looking for the manager,” she said, pointing to the ad.

“She isn’t here, but go ahead and fill out an application,” said the nurse, who handed her a clipboard.

Raina took it to the nearby reception room and sat on the sofa.

The Price Is Right
played on a television nearby, a small con
gregation of elderly in wheelchairs, some with trays, watching the show. In a patch of sunlight, a woman stared out the window. A man with a feeding tube slumped at the table, eyes unseeing.

Despite the plants by the door and the cheery-pink scrubs of the nurses, the place reeked of age and despair.

Raina couldn’t take even a hint of despair. Not right now.

She returned the still-blank application to the desk and headed back out into the cold.

Now what?

She shoved her hands into her pockets, ducked her chin into her coat, and walked toward Main Street.

Down the hill, ice locked the harbor and someone had cleared a skating area. It gleamed clear and shiny against the brightness of the day. The smell of smoked fish seasoned the air, and the snow crunched under her boots. If she blew out her breath, it crystallized a moment, reflecting the sun before shattering.

Maybe Pierre’s Pizza would take her back. But the thought turned to acid inside her. No, Pierre’s stirred up too many memories of cooking with Grace and eating pizza with Casper. Back when she thought she might have a chance of living happily ever after.

The better of her wretched options would be a job at the Wild Harbor. She headed down Main Street, then cut over a block.

She passed a brick building on the corner. A row of bottles in a display window caught the sun, sparkled. Blue, like the frigid ice thrown onshore.

Below them, on another shelf, she spied a collection of figurines. Unicorns and rabbits, some of them crystal, others milky white.

She stepped back to read the store sign. The building seemed caught in time as if it had been erected during the frontier or
lumberjack era of Deep Haven. A brick facade, with a false front and hand-lettered, faded words across the top:
Deep Haven Collectibles
.

In the door, she spied a faded, warped Open sign strung on red yarn. Above that, tucked in the window of the door, a yellowed scrap of paper. On it, scrawled in block print, were the words
Help Wanted, Inquire Within
.

She opened the door. A bell jangled overhead.

The store stank of dust and neglect, the layout bearing the markings of a hoarder with towering racks of collectibles, from figurines, faded
Life
magazines, and crystal glasses to a row of gumdrop machines, a shelf of chess pieces in the form of Chinese warriors, and stacks and stacks of bundled newspapers. She barely fit down the narrow aisles, the displays made from doors on sawhorses, old wooden milk crates, and upended buckets.

Odd that she’d never noticed this place before. She picked up a glass basket with ruffled edges and ran her fingers over the bumps along the glass.

“That’s milk glass,” a voice said.

Raina turned to see a brittle-thin elderly gentleman dressed in a brown sweater vest and woolen trousers, with thick white hair above his ears, sparse on top.

“Very old. Very expensive.”

“Can’t be that old. Maybe the fifties.” Raina held the basket to the light. “See this pattern? It’s called hobnail. The Fenton company started manufacturing it in the early fifties. Also, see the color? If it was original milk glass
 
—which, by the way, was made with arsenic
 
—it would fade along the edges, turn almost translucent. This is more opaque, which dates it as younger. I’d guess this to be worth around $30 at most.”

She put the basket back and picked up a water bottle. “Now this is a barber’s bottle, the kind they used to wet hair. See the translucent edge? And the hand-painted poppies? This would probably sell for about $100 on eBay.”

The proprietor had come around his desk and now took the bottle from her hand, examined it before replacing it on the shelf. He peered at her. “How do you know all this, young lady?”

“My grandmother used to have a collection of milk glass. Had her own display room
 
—probably a hundred or more pieces. She taught me how to value it.”

“This particular piece just came in. It’s part of an estate we’re cataloging.”

Raina walked to the door, peeled off the handwritten ad. “Is this filled?”

The man pulled his spectacles off his head and looked at the paper. “That’s been there nigh about fifteen years, I think.”

“So . . . are you still looking?”

“Do you know how to run a computer?”

“I can manage.”

“Good, because my grandson gave me one for Christmas and I haven’t a hope of a duck in a snowstorm of figuring it out. I turned it on and counted myself a genius.”

She liked him. He had an aura to him, something sweet and gentlemanly. “Raina Beaumont.” She waited for the usual response of
I know a Beaumont
 
—Miss Liza, the local potter
, but the man said nothing about her name and instead took her hand.

“Gustav Hagborg. Local picker and collector. People around here call me Gust.”

“Nice to meet you.”

He shuffled behind the desk, pulling up a chair. Raina didn’t
know where to move without knocking something over. “Now, what do you know about the picking business?”

“I . . . um
 
—”

“My grandson Monte calls it estate picking, but I like to call it the unseen treasure business. It’s all junk to the owners, but it becomes a find with someone who sees its value. Right?”

She shrugged.

“Take that piece you’re holding. Used to belong to Aggie Wilder. She had an eye for antiques
 
—used to come in and browse. We’d sit and chew on old memories.” He shook his head, memory playing on his face as he pulled off his glasses, ran a thumb across his eyes.

“Did you know her well?”

“Her husband, Thor, was one of my best friends.”

“Thor?”

“Thorsen Wilder. Died, oh, thirty years ago, maybe.” He leaned toward her. Winked. “I always had a thing for Aggie, but she never loved anyone but Thor. She did know how to beat a man at bridge, though. And she could dance . . . oh, my, she knew how to dance. Used to hold parties in her backyard under the starlight, even after Thor was gone.”

Gust settled back in his chair.

Raina had the strange sense that she might be intruding. “Do you . . . ? Are you still
 
—?”

“Yes, yes, you’re hired. That’s just fine. That’s perfect, actually. We’ve been working on Aggie’s estate for her granddaughter in Minneapolis, cataloging it before the property goes to auction. Monte’s been pestering me for someone to help him dig through the homestead.” He held out his hand to shake hers. She found it bony and strong. “I think you’re an answer to prayer, my dear.”

He stood, gesturing for her to follow him.

Raina stepped over a crate of old signs and followed him down a hallway to a back room. There, in a tiny office crammed with a metal file cabinet and a matching desk shoved up against the wall, a laptop computer sat open, the Windows icon spinning.

He held out the chair for her to sit down. “Let’s make a deal. You teach me how to run this thing, and I’ll teach you about how to turn trash to treasure.”

The blue-skied day, the sharp brightness of the sun against creamy mounds of snow, the vast sheet of pristine white across the lake
 
—it all begged Casper to tear off his oxford and tie, grab his fishing pole and Clam ice hut, and escape to a quiet place. He could nearly feel the tug of a walleye on the end of his line.

“So you think these skis are the best for backcountry touring?” The man inquiring held a pair of Fischer Orbiters and looked like he might be more suited to lounging in front of a wide-screen than tromping through the bushy, untamed wilderness of northern Minnesota. Balding and carrying an extra fifty pounds in front, he wore an oversize ski jacket over a pair of suit pants and dress shoes as if he had left the office in a hurry, still undecided about his vacation north.

Casper met too many weekend wilderness enthusiasts
 
—in fact, Evergreen Resort had built its legacy business on these city folk who developed an itch to explore.

At 1 p.m. on a crisp, beautiful day, Casper understood that itch far too well. He tore his gaze away from the wide picture windows at the back of Wild Harbor Trading Post, showcasing the view of the frozen harbor, and onto his customer.

“Yeah, the Fischer is a great choice.” Casper took the ski, black and yellow, still fragrant with fresh wax. “It has a wider body, so you get more stability going down the hills and more traction as you trek up. It’s a fantastic cross-country ski. And it comes with a one-year warranty.”

“What do you think of these, honey?” a voice called across the store.

Casper’s gaze tracked over to the man’s wife. Similarly built, she had her eye on a pink ski jacket and black pants. She wore a parka, jeans, and a fleece headband over her dark hair. She held up the jacket to her husband.

“Pretty,” he said and turned back to Casper. “What bindings would you recommend?”

Raina had hair like that. Smooth and silky
 
—

“And do they come with boots?”

Oh. He found a smile for the customer and sorted through the options. “Fischer makes a great binding
 
—the Magnum. It’s an all-purpose binding for backcountry skiing. The steering plate is contoured, so you have better control and turning in the rough. And these here
 
—” he reached over and grabbed a pair of track boots
 
—“are the matching boots. Again, all-purpose, warm. They have a wool liner and a built-in gaiter. And the top zipper helps for easy slip-on. I myself have a pair of these and love them.”

That last bit was nearly true
 
—he’d taken the equipment for a spin just a few days ago with Ned, as part of his sales training. He’d also watched videos on all the products, tried out the line of demo snowshoes, and taken a snow bike out for a ride. He already owned much of the accessory gear
 
—the Nordic socks, the all-weather gloves, even the backcountry trackers.