Traveling Light (27 page)

“Well, thanks for tipping me off about the festival,” Paula said.

The woman looked puzzled.

“I’d better get back, just taking a break,” Paula said. “I’ll be sure to come down later.”

“Good,” the woman said. “Tell Rick Karin says ‘hi’ and that I better see both of you down here tonight.”

“Oh, you’ll see me all right.” Paula headed back to the Escape with her purchases, thinking about Bernie. She phoned him. “I’m so sorry, Bernie; something’s come up,” she said.

“Jeannine figured you got waylaid by some boyfriend or something.” Bernie chuckled.

She told him about Northern Lights Wildlife Rehabiliation.

“Well, we’ll be here, no rush, Paula. Jeannine’s been making noises about wanting to go to Grand Marais for dinner in the next few weeks; maybe we’ll see you there.”

The call ended, her guilty feelings assuaged. Excited, she started the Escape and headed back to get ready. She found Rick outside the otter enclosure.

“I just hiked out on Artist’s Point,” she said. “It’s amazing. And then saw everyone setting up for the festival.”

He looked over at her as they walked toward the raptor ICU. “I’m surprised you didn’t crash after the long night.”

“Couldn’t sleep. How’s he doing?”

“So far okay.”

“Someone named Karin and her husband say ‘hi.’”

Rick smiled.

“Are you going to the festival?”

“Maybe for a little while.”

She’d wanted to ask him why he hadn’t mentioned it but didn’t want him to feel cornered.

Later that afternoon after she’d finished her duties with the animals, hand-fed the eagle and had her daily chat with Eleni and Celeste she discovered a stackable washer and dryer in one of the closets plus laundry soap. It felt good to have clean clothes.

She left Fotis in the guesthouse with the lights and TV on along with three fresh bones so he wouldn’t feel lonely. She’d thought about taking him along but then wasn’t sure. “Bye,” she said. The dog didn’t look up.

*   *   *

She ended up parking almost as far away as Rick’s place, but on the other side of downtown. Music carried all the way from the heart of the town as she hurried, her pace accelerating as she got closer. Crowds of people lined the promenade; sidewalks were filled with displays of photographs, paintings and fabric sculptures—she didn’t know where to look first.

Then Rick tapped her shoulder. “Can I buy you a drink?”

It surprised her. He was wearing a brown plaid shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. His hair look freshly washed and fluffy on top, the sides still wet.

“Love one,” she said.

“Beer? Wine?”

“Wine. White’s perfect.”

He led her toward the Gun Flint Tavern, which had a makeshift bar on the sidewalk. The smell of barbeque, grilled fish and potatoes was intoxicating. On the way Rick was stopped numerous times by people calling him over, talking, chatting and slapping him on the shoulder. A few men swapped plans regarding a kayak expedition they were planning that winter in Patagonia. “Take Kate along,” someone said to him, and he laughed it off. Some made plans to kayak to the caves along the Superior shore that next weekend and a Boundary Waters trip in early October, weather permitting.

Each time she was introduced as the new trainee someone would make a scrappy comment about Rick, and she could tell people really liked him. This other side of him was dumbfounding; she kept blinking to recalibrate her senses.

They finally made it to the bar. Paula watched the outline of his shoulders as he negotiated the deal. Then he turned, carrying an amber bottle of beer and a glass of wine.

“Let’s go sit over there by the water; it’s quieter.” He motioned with the glass of wine.

She followed him across the pebbly shoreline toward the marina as he carried both drinks.

He waited as she sat down on the pebbly beach before handing her the glass. He crossed his ankles, lowering himself into a cross-legged position next to her, tipping back the beer bottle as he landed.

All around them the benches were occupied; families and couples had set down blankets to watch the harbor. A few kayakers were demonstrating Eskimo rolls—tipping underwater and then upright again, performing as the crowd applauded.

“That’s an old law-school buddie of mine, Derek, showing off,” Rick said.

“Can
you
do that?” she asked in a flirty way.

“What do you think?” The way he said it reminded her of men at graduate school parties at Berkeley. “You see Maggie and Ephraim yet?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t. I haven’t met Ephraim yet.”

“Just saw them over by the brat stand at Sven and Ollie’s.” Rick laughed. “Ephraim’s quite the character. Fell off the roof last winter trying to shovel it and broke a leg.”

“Shoveling a roof,” she stated in disbelief.

“I keep telling him it’s time for a metal roof rake, but he’s a stubborn cuss. Cheap as the day is long. Calls me from the hospital where they’re pinning his leg back together and asked me to bring his ninety-seven-year-old father, Chester, his ‘staples’—a gallon jug of muscatel, packages of summer sausage, bags of Brach’s dinner mints and a case of Archway oatmeal cookies. The old man still has a place, next property over from them.”

“What an awful diet.” She had no idea what summer sausage was.

“The guy’s pushing ninety-eight; the rest of us should be so lucky.”

“Why didn’t Maggie bring them?”

Rick laughed. “The old geezer grabs her ass every time she’s alone with him.”

Paula looked down at the pebbles, laughing.

“The old guy’s losing it, but you gotta give him credit,” Rick said, setting his beer bottle into the pebbles.

Thank God she had clean clothes and makeup. Her knockoff designer tank and shorts felt loose from days without ice cream.

“Pretty sunset,” she said.

“There’s a big storm front coming in, not till after midnight, though.”

“Is it always gorgeous like this?” she asked, watching a fog bank dreaming in again, slowly, gently like a promise.

“Got me to move here.”

“I can understand why.” She turned and looked at the outline of his profile against the changing colors of the sinking sun.

“Lake’s thirteen hundred and thirty-two feet deep, with two thousand, two hundred and twenty-six miles of shoreline,” he said.

“Not quite the drive from California to New York.”

“And takes one hundred and ninety-one years for all the water to replace itself,” he said. “Hundreds of shipwrecks dating from the seventeen, eighteen hundreds. Fun to dive. Because of the low acidity levels, the wooden hulls are amazingly well preserved. They’re protected historical sites.”

She looked out at the lake, thinking of the depth.

“How’s your wine?” he asked, looking at the lighthouses.

“Great, thanks.” She raised the plastic cup and looked at it. “So, I’m curious,” she asked. “What’s a
marais
?”

“It’s French for ‘safe harbor.’ This was a stop for fur traders. They hired French voyageurs to transport pelts from Lake Athabasca to Montreal. Have you ever felt a fox pelt?”

She chuckled. “My mother’s worked for a furrier her whole life. She still does,” Paula said. “On Sundays when I was a kid sometimes after church we’d go there. I’d watch her work when there was an important job. She was proud, still is.” Paula thought of Eleni. What other eighty-year-old woman was still working? “I used to put the raw fur pelts on my head as a kid and pretend to be the animal.”

Rick looked at her and she looked out to the lake, feeling her face flush. She’d forgotten that memory.

“The voyageurs used birch bark canoes, May through October, working the waterways until they froze. They needed
marais
when storms blew in during the fall—like Artist’s Point.” He said the word
marais
with a French accent.

“You speak French?”

“My mom’s French-Canadian. Spent summers in Montreal. My father was a surgeon in the Cities. They didn’t get along.”

“Fotis speaks Greek.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him.”

She laughed. “I’ve got to teach him English commands.”

“He’s picked them up all right.” Rick then looked at his wristwatch. She liked the fluffy sun-bleached hair on his brown forearms. “I can’t stay too much longer. Got people coming in.”

“More mysterious guests, eh?” The wine made her brave.

She felt his eyes as he turned to look at her. “How are they ‘mysterious’?”

“You’re all so hush-hush.” She pulled up the neckline of her T-shirt in jest to hide her face like a spy.

“We’re working on animal welfare legislation.”

“I know.”

He turned to examine her. “You know.”

“My best friend Tony de la Rosa’s a detective, NYPD,” she admitted. “He checked you out.”

“Well, I ran your plates before you’d even left my driveway that first day.”

She looked at him. There was a wry smile as he sipped his beer.

“Immigrant studies at NYU,” he started. “Paula Makaikis, resides on West Twenty-fifth Street, Manhattan, married to a one Roger xyz, Polish last name I won’t even begin to pronounce, particle physicist, Columbia.”

She started laughing, looking down at the rocks that for some reason made the whole thing seem even funnier. “Got me there.” She wiped her eyes.

“Criminal law,” Rick said. “Prosecutor.”

“Yeah, well, that explains a lot.”

He took another swig of beer.

“Maggie says you think I’m a spy.” It slipped out of Paula’s mouth before she could button it.

She watched his face carefully. He seemed to formulate his thoughts.

“Animal welfare’s a lot more complicated than you’d think,” he said. “Anytime there’s money involved, people get ugly.”

“You still think I’m a spy?” Her voice softened.

“Not competent enough,” he said conclusively but with a smirk. Finishing the last of his beer, he looked around as if deciding whether or not to get up and get another. “Wasn’t sure at first.” He looked out to the horizon and then back at her. It made her feel funny; maybe she was getting drunk. Wine on an empty stomach.

They sat a while longer. She asked him about growing up in Minnesota and he asked about NYC. She told him all about how she’d gotten Fotis from Theo and how worried she was about Eleni. How surprised she was at loving Grand Marais.

“Curious, what made you answer my ad?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.” She looked at him. “I didn’t even think about it; I just called.” She looked away. For an instant she felt him wanting to kiss her.

“Well,” he said, and stood. “Better go get ready to meet my mysterious guests.” He raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession and held out his hand. He pulled her up as she brushed off her legs. “We’re finishing legislation that’ll outlaw puppy mills.” He pointed west with his empty beer bottle. “Like that bastard up the road.”

“Who’s that?”

“This guy not far from here. Ships to dealers throughout the U.S. He’s moved his operation around. Buys old farms, sets up the barns with hundreds of breeding pairs.”

“That’s a lot of dogs,” she said.

“See ya.” He saluted with two fingers as he walked off toward his truck.

*   *   *

The festival was winding down just as the wind began to pick up. Napkins blew off the makeshift bar in whirlwinds of white paper. Dealers hurried through transactions; empty soda cans, plastic folding chairs and some of the lighter makeshift tables blew over with each gust. Paula stayed to help a few artists pack up.

By the time she drove home, after midnight, twigs and small branches were strewn on 61; rain blew in torrents across the pavement. Wet leaves covered the road like papier-mâché.

Turning into Rick’s driveway, she noticed his house lit up, with even more cars parked in front than last time.

As she drove down the grassy path to the guesthouse, a gust from the lake hit the Escape. The car lurched, frightening her. Her headlights flashed on her front door and she noticed a pile of firewood stacked under the porch overhang that hadn’t been there when she’d left. Another pile stacked off to the side was covered by a plastic tarp, its corner whipping in the wind like a flag. A fire in the wood stove sounded wonderful, though the only fire experience she’d had was lighting the pilot light in Roger’s kitchen stove.

She parked and ducked inside. Fotis jumped up, overjoyed to see her. She knelt and hugged him around the middle, shivering from the cold front while water gushed off the metal roof.

“Hi, good boy, sorry I left you.” She climbed the loft stairs and crawled under the down comforter in her damp clothes. Fotis stepped up and settled beside her. The pinging of rain against the window and crashing of waves against the rocks below began to lull her.

Just as she was drifting to sleep, a loud bang made Paula jump up. The ceiling logs groaned; she turned on the lamp next to the bed. Fotis had sat up, too.

“Hope we don’t wake up in the lake.” She reached to pet Fotis. It wasn’t clear who the gesture was meant to comfort. The cabin had seemed sturdy enough, though rattles, creaks and crashes revealed the structure’s vulnerabilities.

Another thud of branches startled her awake.

A loud crash down in the bathroom followed. She sat up. “Shit.” The rain sounded louder. Maybe a screen had blown in; she should have checked the windows. She looked at the clock on the night table. One am. Fotis listened for a few moments but quickly lost interest and groaned in a contented way as he leaned against her hip.

“Damn it.” Paula got up and descended carefully. Each stair felt colder than the next. The noise got louder as she set foot on the main floor. It was so much colder all of a sudden; the intensity of the draft made the hair on her body stand on end. Something was in the bathroom. Then a flash of raw hamburger and a pile of feathers on the couch—like a crime scene—made her scream.

Sigmund looked up and began vying for her attention with his huge wingspan. Feathers scratched the walls. The table lamps went crashing over; photos on the wall thumped off.

“What are you doing here?” she shrieked, her heart pumping madly.