Finding The Way Back To Love (Lakeside Porches 3) (25 page)

“You pull, I’ll push,” Gwen said. Thunder drowned out her words, but her accompanying arm motion communicated her plan.

“Good team,” he encouraged and raised his thumb.

Peter slid backward across the ledge and took a wave full in his face. He shook the water out of his eyes and reached out for the boat. The next three waves lifted it, and they floated it across in three easy moves.

At Peter’s nod, Gwen let go of the stern and slithered across, like a seal.

Another round of lightning and thunder warned them to get out of the water quickly, with no time to regroup.

After they trudged through the angry waves for ten yards, with the crippled canoe between them, they dragged it to the shore and shoved it onto its side to empty it as much as possible. A footpath wound upwards through wind-whipped shrubs. “Let’s climb toward that stand of evergreens,” Peter called back. “I’ll keep an eye out for a place to secure this, and you watch for a cabin.”

At first, the path was well worn and still dry. They carried the sixty-pound boat between them, with the wind eddying around their bodies, vying for possession of the canoe.

Gwen lost her grip once and fell to her knees.

Peter stopped, looked back at her, and encouraged, “We’re almost to the evergreens, and I see a clearing we can use. Worst case, we can flip the canoe and shelter under it. Can you make it another twenty feet?”

Gwen licked her lips and hauled herself up. Lightning approached the shore. She grabbed the gunwale, lifted the canoe, and signaled for him to move ahead.

By the time they had tucked the injured canoe into the clearing, a wall of water had advanced halfway across the lake. Peter wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders. “Did you see any sign of shelter?”

Lightning lit the hillside and flashed on a plate glass window fifty feet above. “There!” she yelled.

Peter grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

Rain turned the path to mud and lashed their backs. Finally, they clambered up the half dozen steps to the deep front porch of a log house. Gwen peered in the front windows while Peter hammered the front door.

“No one home. Just try it,” Gwen urged.

When he turned the knob, the wind flung the door open. Peter pulled Gwen inside with him, forced the door shut, and dead-bolted it.

Outside, the storm howled and rattled the door. Rain lashed the windows and drummed on the roof. Peter tried a light switch. “No power.”

His breathing eased, but Gwen coughed and struggled to catch her breath.

He helped her to the sofa, grabbed a blanket from the back, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Sit still,” he ordered. Lightning illuminated the room and showed him a lantern on a low table. He struck a match and lit the lantern, then adjusted the wick until it gave off a warm glow that transformed their refuge into someone’s cozy living room.

“You learned that in Boy Scouts?” Gwen rasped. She gave him a weak smile.

“Camping trip with the guys.” Peter chuckled. “Glad I paid attention.”

She shivered as she held out her hands to the warmth of the lantern.

Another lightning flash showed them a woodstove in the corner on a brick platform. “You know how to work that?” Peter asked.

Gwen nodded and took the hand he offered. When she opened the door of the firebox, she laughed in disbelief and sank down, cross-legged, on the braided rug. “Thank you, God.” Small logs, kindling and wadded newspaper had been laid, ready for a match. She reached for the box of matches on the hearth. “Whoever lives here is probably just away for the weekend.”

He squatted beside her and together they watched the flames catch the kindling and lick the logs. He tucked the blanket around her shoulders. “I’ll bring more wood.”

Gwen nodded, her face lit by the flames.

An iron caddy held split logs, large and small, stacked high. He carried half a dozen the same size as those already burning and set them beside the stove. He followed with half a dozen larger ones. Gwen never moved, but her body trembled with cold. He handed her two small logs and a larger one and watched her feed them to the flames. Her hands steadied as she worked.

He squatted beside her and put an arm along her shoulder. “Let’s get you into a hot shower, and I’ll use the stove to make us cocoa and marshmallows or whatever I can find.” He helped her to her feet.

In the compact, immaculate bathroom, Gwen peeled off her sodden T-shirt and bra and dropped them in a pile beside the shower enclosure. Too late, she sized up the towel situation. A man-sized bath towel hung from a hook on the back of the door.
Oh well
. She’d get warm first and worry about it after.

She struggled with the button at the waistband of her jeans, but her icy fingers could not undo the button or grasp the zipper pull. She stopped a moment, got the shower going, and let the hot water warm her hands. Undressing took no time with working hands. She kicked her panties and jeans and soggy socks on top of her other clothes.

Warm water streamed through her hair, down her face and her breasts and belly, warmed her thighs and knees and feet. She turned slowly, reveling in the soothing, body-temperature cascade. Steam opened her breathing passages. Her cough ceased and her throat relaxed. Energy surged as she lathered her body all over with spice-scented soap.

Peter knocked at the bathroom door. “Got enough towels in there?”

“None.”

“I’ll leave them right outside.”

“Hey,” she said, her voice playful.

“Hey what?” He opened the door a crack.

“Suppose I use up all the hot water?”

The door swung open, and Peter stuck his head in. With his eyebrows set in a V, he growled, “You better not.”

She grinned as steam escaped into the hallway and the glass shower door lost its layer of fog. Peter drank in the sight of her naked body, and she liked the sexy smile that lit up his face. “Join me while it’s still hot?”

He peeled off his polo shirt, kicked off his sneakers, and tugged off his jeans and boxers. Carefully. Gwen let out a quiet “Whoa” at the muscled, male anatomy a few feet away.

Peter slipped in beside her and drew her against him. “Some women go a long way for privacy.”

She locked her hands behind his neck. “I couldn’t let the opportunity pass us by. Get warm first.”

“Woman, I have never been so hot. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I’ve got my second wind.”

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, then hummed with anticipation as he backed her to the wall of the enclosure. He sucked one breast while he fondled the other with his fingers.

Gwen’s fingers raked through his wet hair and tugged at the curls. “Don’t make me wait,” she urged.

He eased back enough to drive inside her, and she moaned with total satisfaction. “That’s right where I want you.”

When she lifted her arms, her back arched, and he pinned her hands above her head. She struggled a moment before giving into his mastery. Through eyes wild with passion, she saw in his face the heat and hunger that burned in her.

He drove into her again and again.

On the verge of passing out, she gasped, “I can’t, Peter.”

He released her hands, and she circled his neck with her arms. He eased back, and she loosened her legs and collapsed against him.

She awoke beside him on a nest of chair cushions next to the wood stove. A pile of damp towels lay nearby. He had found warm, wool blankets to cover them.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Startled, she raised up on one elbow.

“Did I faint?”

“You collapsed in my arms. You had me worried.”

She flopped on her back and stretched her arms overhead with a chuckle. “You blew me away.”

“Couldn’t take it, huh?”

“I have never felt so ravaged and loved and pleasured.”

“It did get a little intense. Maybe because we could have died out there in the storm.”

“But we didn’t,” she said quickly. “We’re okay.” She rolled into him.

This time their lovemaking was tender and unhurried. Gwen straddled him and rode him until, with a growl, Peter rolled her under him and drove her to her peak. She held him tight inside her and shuddered when they climaxed together.

He lay beside her, trailing his fingers over her breasts.

Gwen dreamed she heard a car door slam. When she rolled to her left side, a wall of muscle lay in her path.

“Morning,” Peter whispered. “I think our host just came home.”

Gwen scrambled to sit up. “Where are our clothes?” she said in a panic.

“In the drier. Power came back on during the night. I’ll fetch them. Stay put.”

Soon after he left her, Gwen heard a footfall outside and saw a man’s head at the window. He ducked out of sight when he saw her.

“Peter,” she squeaked, her heart hammering.

Peter returned fully dressed and handed over her clothes. “He took off down toward the water, probably checking on damage from the storm. Get dressed right here. I’m going out to meet him.”

Remembering the muddy path from the night before, Peter exited the kitchen into the driveway and followed the path the owner had taken that wound through the copse of evergreens. He caught up with their unwitting host where he squatted by the canoe.

The man appeared to be in his sixties, clean-shaven, fit, and neatly dressed. His back was to Peter, but he gave a nod as Peter snapped a broken branch in his path.

“Did my ledge take you by surprise?” he asked. His fingers explored the rip in the canvas.

“Yes, sir.”

“Might be able to repair the canvas, but your backbone and ribs in the front are unstable.” Hand on the tip of the bow, he jiggled the boat. “It’s not going to get you home.”

“I see what you mean, sir.”

The man turned and held out his hand. “None of this ‘sir’ stuff. Name’s Foster.”

“Peter Shaughnessy.” Peter took the outstretched hand and admired the man’s strong grip.

“Either of you hurt?”

“My friend’s pretty shaken up, but nothing worse. We sure were glad to find shelter here. We owe you, Foster.”

“The roads were so bad, I stayed in Clifton Springs until this morning.”

“When did it stop? We were comatose.”

“Around two in the morning. Is the power still off?”

“It came on during the night. We used your drier for our clothes and the towels.”

“How about some eggs and toast before I drive you back wherever you came from? I’m famished,” Foster said.

“Gwen makes a mean omelet, Foster.”

They hauled the damaged canoe uphill and left it in the driveway. While Foster fastened a rack to the roof of the truck, Peter enlisted Gwen to fix them breakfast.

The aroma of fresh coffee greeted him.

“He had the coffee maker already set up, too, like the woodstove,” Gwen told Peter. “I just pressed the button. I figured this morning would go better for everyone with hot coffee.”

“Good thinking. He’ll take us back to your place after we eat.” Peter gave her a warm hug, followed by a sheepish look. “I volunteered you to make omelets and toast.”

“I’m on it.” She met his kiss and waved him back outside to load the canoe.

He and Foster helped themselves to the two chairs at the kitchen table. Gwen served them and ate her meal with her back resting against the counter.

“I used to have a dock over that ledge,” Foster said. “It broke up in a storm just like last night’s, probably ten or fifteen years ago now. I found planks all over the hillside for a year.” He took another bite and rumbled his approval. “Someone helped themselves to the posts the next summer. I never bothered to rebuild. I don’t need it with the kayak.”

“So last night was unusual?” Peter asked.

“We get storms all the time, but last night was something special. Same thing where you live, Gwen?”

“I have my parents old home which is protected some by the little round islands in the northeast corner of the lake.”

“The gumdrops,” Foster said.

“Hah. I thought I was the only one that called them gumdrops,” Peter chortled.

“No, to me they’ve always looked like spearmint gumdrops,” Foster said.

Gwen and Peter exchanged a smile.

“Best omelet I’ve ever had, Gwen,” Foster told her when they finished. “Are you folks ready to head out?”

“I’d like to do the dishes first and clean up the bathroom and living room,” Gwen offered.

“Appreciate it,” Foster agreed. “Peter, how about coming down to the shore with me to check for damage.” He stood and stretched. “Or bodies.”

When Gwen’s eyes opened wide, he relented. “Kidding.”

Chapter 12

Gwen sat between Foster and Peter in the cab of the truck as they bounced up his road to the highway.

“This road is as challenging as yours, Gwen,” Peter said.

“Hard to maintain them, don’t you find?” Foster asked her.

“I’ve slipped from proactive to reactive. It would be easier if I had a schedule of things that needed repair around the property. I’m actually wondering if the ash trees will still be standing when we get home. I meant to call the Extension about Emerald Ash Borer—”

“Gwen, did you call Haley to see if she’s all right?” Peter’s voice was anxious.

“I couldn’t. My phone was a casualty in the storm.”

Foster slipped his phone to her. “Your daughter?” he asked.

“My niece is staying with me. She had a baby a few weeks ago, and she was probably scared to death last night.”

Haley answered on the first ring, and Gwen explained that they’d be home shortly. Haley agreed to help them offload the canoe. “We never lost power, but it was a wild night,” she told Gwen.

“I’m glad you’re okay, sweetie. Please give Phil a call and make sure he’s all right.”

“I did. He’s fine.”

“Love you.” Gwen handed back the phone. “Thanks, Foster.”

They rolled along the highway in silence for six miles. Peter kept his arm along the back of the seat behind Gwen, and Foster appeared to be deep in thought. Suddenly he asked, “Gwen, don’t I see you at Clifton Springs now and then on a Friday evening?”

Gwen started. “Yes. I knew your voice was familiar.”

“I stay out in the hallway, because it’s a women’s meeting. I was a counselor there for thirty-two years. I still see a few clients and try to support them after meetings.”

A smile washed over Gwen’s face. “That’s right, you were there when I started my practice.”

“Ten years ago?”

“Nine. I’ve been sober eight years now.”

Peter’s body stiffened.

“I remember you before you made the decision—shaking and scared, probably just like you were in the storm last night.”

“I was a mess. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“If I recall correctly, you had a hard time for a few years.”

“My husband died and both my parents died. But I didn’t have to drink.”

“Still use a sponsor?” Foster asked.

“I do. She’s famous for tough love.”

“I don’t know about you, Gwen, but the sober life still feels like a miracle to me, even after thirty-one years in the program.”

“Maybe I’ll see you sometime at Clifton Springs. My Tuesday night group takes in treatment meetings during December and March, and a few of us go to the Friday women’s meeting, once or twice a month. My road is that yellow sign up on the left. Beware, the turns are very tight.”

Foster navigated her private road slowly, and Gwen kept an eye on the canoe as they bounced down the hillside.

Peter sprang from the truck the moment they stopped, and Haley rushed out to meet them. He undid the straps and directed Haley to help.

With her hand on the passenger door, Gwen said, “Foster, I’d like to bring you a couple weeks’ worth of groceries, to repay you for the unauthorized use of your home.”

“I wouldn’t say no, Gwen. You know where I live. Monday and Thursday mornings are the best times to catch me there, before ten.”

“I’ll be there Thursday. Thanks for everything.”

After he backed the truck around, Foster said out the window, “Sorry about your canoe.”

“There are worse things,” Gwen said and waved cheerily as the battered truck rumbled up the drive.
There’s a connection I want to keep
.

Silence behind her made her turn around.

Peter stood tight-lipped, halfway to his Jeep, glowering.

Haley fidgeted beside the canoe, her forehead puckered, as she glanced from Gwen to Peter and back again.

Gwen’s chin came up, and she instinctively folded her arms across her chest. “Thank you for offloading the canoe,” she said, her voice neutral though her heart hammered.

Peter grunted. “Thank Haley.”

“It wobbles in front.” Haley sounded flustered. “What happened?”

Gwen walked over to Haley and gave her a warm hug. “We were caught in the storm and collided with a ledge. We ended up at Foster’s, and he was kind enough to give us a ride home. Right now I need to talk to Peter for a minute, and you and I can catch up after, okay? Thanks for your help, sweetie.”

Haley shrugged. With another puzzled glance at Peter, she stepped into the garage and up to the kitchen. Slowly, she closed the door.

Gwen faced Peter’s anger, stood still, and let him make the next move. She didn’t have long to wait.

Peter demanded, “When you take meetings into Clifton, are you there to drum up business?”

Gwen jerked her head as though he’d slapped her face. Her voice shook when she replied, “I never ‘drum up business’ at AA meetings. We’re there only to stay sober and help others stay sober.”

Peter shifted his weight. “So why do you go?” His tone was nasty.

“To stay sober and help others.”

Silence.

“Treatment meetings are especially important to newcomers in a drug and alcohol rehab program,” she explained. “The women we see are usually desperate, and some are looking for a long-term solution.”

“You’re an alcoholic?” he said derisively.

Gwen’s mouth was dry. “You know I am.”

Peter studied the ground. He nodded. “I guess I do now.”

Gwen felt cold inside. She remembered Deirdre’s words, cautioning her to get her alcoholism out in the open for discussion. “Peter—”

He strode to his Jeep.

“I never kept that a secret,” she defended.

He laughed with scorn and wrenched the door open.

Gwen raised her voice. “You knew my life was—is—all about recovery.”

Peter turned back to confront her, “It was about
other
people’s recovery, the way I heard it.”

“And mine.”

“It’s interesting that detail never came into the conversation. You know how I feel about drunks.”

Gwen felt heat in her cheeks. “Which is basically why, once I knew that, I didn’t bring it up in conversation. Why try to talk about something we disagree about?”

Peter threw up his hands. “I think it’s called honesty.”

“I never lied to you.”

Peter’s laugh was hollow. “No, you just didn’t tell me. You quietly—silently—betrayed me.”

There’s that word again—betrayed
. “That’s bullshit. Maybe your wife betrayed you, but I didn’t.”

Peter’s face flushed an angry red. “You fucking led me on.”

Gwen yelled, “Peter!”

He slammed the door, ground the ignition, and peeled out. Gravel sprayed behind him and pelted, first the canoe, and then Gwen. When a sharp, flying stone hit her left wrist, it hurt almost as much as her heart.

Sobbing, she fled into the house, ran cold water on the welt, and splashed some on her face.

“Gwen?”

Gwen turned to Haley and held up her hands to fend her off. “Later, sweetie. I have to do something first.” She phoned Deirdre on the landline, arranged to meet her in the park, grabbed her keys and purse, and tore out to her car.

Late the next morning, Gwen squatted by the bow of the battered canoe and, with her finger, traced the jagged rip in the canvas.

“How bad is the damage?” Haley asked.

Startled, Gwen tumbled on her backside and laughed at herself. “I didn’t hear you come outside.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“To answer your question, I hope it’s repairable. Unlike my heart,” she added under her breath. She rose to her feet, but lurched to the left, with a hissing intake of breath, as her hip protested.

“You feeling okay?”

Gwen had no desire to discuss her painful muscle aches and bruises, or the details of Saturday’s stormy adventure and wild sex. “Nothing a good canoe ride won’t fix. Want to take it along the shore for a bit? I want to see if there’s more damage than the tear in the canvas, before I ask around for someone to repair it.”

“It looks wrecked, but we can try it.”

Gwen grabbed the front crossbar. Haley walked around the canoe, gave Gwen a nod, and lifted the stern. They struggled with the canoe, down the grassy path to the cobblestone boat landing.

To distract herself from the strain on her sore shoulders and hips, Gwen told Haley, “Your dad and grandpa made this boat launch when your dad was twelve. We were old enough by then to go canoeing without our parents, but it was too much for Bill and me to carry sixty pounds overhead through the woods to the area where the beach is now. We didn’t have the big lawn leading to the beach, back in those days. My dad proposed the boat launch, and your dad, for some reason known only to him, insisted we use genuine cobblestones.”

“You’re telling me they cleared this path and leveled the shore and hauled stones by themselves?”

Gwen thought back. “Not by themselves, no. Someone local—I can’t think who it was—did the clearing and hauled in the cobbles. The guy worked side by side with them to prep the site. Talk about sore. Mom made my dad and your dad quit after the site prep. She got tired of hearing them groan their way through breakfast and dinner. Anyway, there were at least two truckloads of cobbles brought in. Some big guy joined the first guy, and they spread and leveled the stones. The whole project took a week, and probably cost more than the garage.”

Haley’s voice was wistful. “It’s so cool that you did stuff like that. And you all ate breakfast together every morning?”

“Yes.” Gwen’s heart contracted with happiness. She flashed a smile back at Haley. “Every day. And dinner, too, unless Dad was at the hospital delivering a baby. Thanks for the memory.”

Haley flashed a smile. They eased the Green Lizard down the ramp and let it float. Haley stepped aboard and walked down the center seam to the bow. “The floor feels broken up here,” she said.

“I restocked the life belts. Grab one and put it on.”

Properly belted, Haley perched on the rush seat and readied her paddle. Gwen shoved off and hopped aboard.

“Let’s head toward Phil’s,” Gwen decided. “There are plenty of places along the way to put out if we take on water.”

Which we’re already doing
. She made mental notes of the leaks along the center seam.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Haley enthused. “I’m so glad I got to do this. I didn’t dare when I was pregnant.”

Blue jays screeched from the islands, making Gwen’s forehead throb with a headache. Just as Phil’s beach came into view, they encountered chop, which caused the canoe to bounce some.

“Hey, Phil’s on his porch.” Haley gave him a cheery wave, and he saluted with his mug.

Gwen lifted her gaze and added her own wave. By then, though, the canoe was lower in the water, and the bottom held a good two inches.

“Is the rip in the canvas letting in water?” she asked.

“No, but the whole front seam is.” She looked behind her and saw the water between her and Gwen. “Ohmigod, we’re sinking.” She squealed. “What do I do?”

“Paddle as hard and fast as you can.” Gwen angled the canoe toward shore. “It’s shallow here, don’t worry, and we’re closing in on the beach.”

They muscled the sinking ship another twenty feet toward Phil’s sandy shore. Haley said, “Phil’s freaked. He’s waving his arms and pointing to his phone.”

Gwen’s throat was too hoarse from yesterday’s ordeal to shout. “Haley, tell him we’re okay.”

Haley yelled as loud as she could, rested her paddle for a second, and waved her arms in a baseball ‘Safe’ gesture. “He’s cool. He’s coming down to the shore to meet us.”

“Paddle. Don’t let him put one foot in the water. Please.”

They made it a few yards further before the gunwales dropped to the level of the lake. Gwen slid off her seat and stood on the rocky lakebed in thigh-high water.

She reached a hand toward Haley. “Better climb out before it sinks under you.”

Haley followed orders and called to Phil, “Gwen says to keep your feet dry. We’ll tell you the story if you’ll make us hot cocoa.”

Gwen heard Phil’s hearty laugh. She sputtered, “I never said that about hot cocoa.”

Haley teased her. “But you’d drink some, wouldn’t you?”

“It sounds really good.”

She and Haley dragged the canoe to the beach and used their combined power to tip it. Water gushed onto the sand. The Green Lizard looked more like a beached whale.

“Two hot chocolates for two beautiful women wrapped in beach towels,” Phil said as he set the tray on the ottoman by his fieldstone fireplace. Yellow flames leapt and logs crackled. Edie’s old enamel mugs added calming blues and greens to the cozy scene.

“Sure you don’t want sweaters and socks?”

“I’m good,” Haley assured him.

Phil was less worried about Haley than Gwen, who looked bereft as she huddled on the loveseat, two feet from the grate, arms wrapped around herself.

Haley exchanged a worried frown with him. “Want me to check the drier, Phil?” she queried.

He nixed the idea with a dismissive wave. “Get a hot drink in you first.” He settled into his favorite chair. “I made a phone call to Joel, and he’ll be here in half an hour to take you both home. I don’t want you walking on the path in those waterlogged sneakers—either one of you.”

Haley opened her mouth.