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“I’m great.” Cassie’s brown eyes sparkled as she looked at Emerson. “I love this time of the morning. It’s so…brisk and fresh.”

“And quiet,” Emerson added, but Cassie kept smiling and didn’t seem to catch on.
Okay. Mundane conversation then.
“You run every morning?”

“I try to. Pretty soon, it’ll get too dark and cold, and I’ll have to resort to the indoor track at the fitness center. Stupid Daylight Savings Time.”

Emerson nodded.

“What about you?” Cassie asked. “You walk daily?”

“I usually ride my bike, but I didn’t bring it with me.”

“Oh, right. Bummer. How long are you staying?”

The question was innocent, but Emerson wasn’t ready to talk about the loss of her job. Of that, she was certain. “I don’t know yet.”

“I ask because my friend owns the bike shop in town, and she has a huge selection of rentals. I’m sure she has one to get you by until you leave.”

“I’m sure. Something with a bell and a basket isn’t really my speed.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decide whether Emerson was kidding. “Oh, I can assure you she has something much tougher than the little pink city bike you’re probably used to.”

Their gazes held for a beat until Emerson nodded. “I may look into that.” They continued their trek in silence for a moment or two, and Emerson found herself quickening her pace a bit so Cassie didn’t have to stop running completely. Soon they were both jogging, albeit at a very slow rate.

“You know,” Cassie said. “I’m not sure if you remember, but there’s a great trail up Jones Mountain. It’s tough, but it’s a hell of a workout. I’ve run it before, but people bike it as well. The view from up top is spectacular.”

“I remember.”

“You should give it a try while you’re here. I don’t do it often, but when I do, it’s a great workout and quite a rush.”

“I bet.”

“We should bike it together some time.”

“Sure.” Cassie was obviously not the kind of girl to easily take the hint from Emerson’s clipped answers, but she seemed to finally get it.

“It could be fun.” Cassie started putting her ear buds back in. “Well, I don’t want to infringe on your morning workout. I hate when people do that to me.” She grinned again, and Emerson found herself almost grinning back. Did this girl ever not smile? As Cassie jogged backwards, she pointed at Emerson’s torso. “And I own The Sports Outfitter on Main Street. Stop by if you want a couple of your own shirts to wear while you’re here. I’ll even give you a discount.”

Squinting down at her shirt, Emerson said, “How do you know this isn’t mine?”

“I gave it to your mom for Christmas last year. I help coach the girls’ hockey team.” With a final glance directly at Emerson’s chest, Cassie winked, turned, and sped away.

Emerson waited until Cassie had rounded a bend and was out of sight before she stopped jogging completely and doubled over. Hands on her knees, she stayed that way for long moments, squeezing her eyes shut and massaging her knee. Running was stupid and she knew it. Pushing the bike pedals was work, but it wasn’t jarring like running, which was hell on her knee. But for some weird reason, she didn’t want to show any weakness to Cassie. Her lack of endurance surprised her, though. She was slightly winded. Already. How the hell did she end up this out of shape? She biked often.
I am obviously not pushing myself hard enough.
There was no way she’d survive a journey up Jones Mountain by herself, let alone with Cassie, somebody who ran without breaking a sweat. The poor girl would end up carrying her back down. Not that she had any intention of doing anything around here. With anybody. She needed a plan to get done what needed to be done and then get the hell out.

When her knee finally stopped screaming its dissatisfaction at her, she looked around and realized she wasn’t far from the inn.

“Thank god,” she muttered as she walked to the entrance gate, then followed the little brick sidewalk to the cottage. Once there, she glanced at the lake, which immediately pulled at her, and her need to get away evaporated. She felt the tug of the water, recognized it, and went with it, following a narrow path that led to a small private dock. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Emerson sat down on the very end, sucked in a lungful of fresh air, and just relaxed.

The water was calm, smooth as a slab of marble. An occasional fish would jump, the splash seeming loud in the quiet of the morning, but other than that, there was nothing but the rest of nature. So shockingly different than the loud, dirty, obnoxious city she now called home, and for a moment, Emerson allowed herself to remember what it was like to be a child here in Lake Henry. To grow up here with the lake as her playground and Mount Hank as her backdrop.

In the distance, she could just make out the tip of the ski jump on Mount Hank, and then all of it came crashing back. The skis, the snow, the pain, the hospitals…

Emerson shook her head, willing the memories away, and for the first time since her arrival in Lake Henry, she wished her mother were there.

Walking was not going
to cut it.

Walking was nice for a little fresh air, some gazing at nature, to help digest a big dinner. But this morning’s walk didn’t help Emerson sweat off the stress. It hadn’t cleared her head, not like riding would have. It wasn’t nearly the same as biking. Biking gave her control. She could bike casually, easily. Or she could bike hard, get her heart pumping and her blood racing, the wind in her hair reminding her that nobody could touch her. The speed was her drug. It was what got her adrenaline flowing.

It was the closest she’d been able to get to skiing in over a decade.

The lack of biking was making her feel tense, stressed, and sluggish. She’d been walking as much as she could, but she’d left L.A. almost a week ago, and after that long not biking, she was beginning to feel it.

A tiny bell over the door tinkled her arrival as she walked into Wheels. It was the only bike shop she could find in the little downtown stretch of Lake Henry, so she had to assume it belonged to Cassie’s friend.

The shop itself was petite inside, but every inch of space available was used. Bikes hung on the walls, were suspended from the ceiling, and filled a rack that lined the left wall. In front of the rack and forming the only two aisles of the store, shelves were crammed with every bit of biking paraphernalia you could think of: helmets, gloves, seats, tire tubes, air pumps, pedal clips, water bottles, chains. The inventory was surprisingly complete for such a small space.

Behind the counter, a bike was up on a stand, and Emerson could just make out the top of a blonde head. Through a doorway beyond, a couple more bikes, as well as various bike parts strewn on the floor, could be seen.

“What can I do for you?” came a friendly female voice from the vicinity of the blonde head.

Emerson walked up and put her forearms on the glass counter top, leaned over a bit. The blonde woman was squatting, cranking a ratchet, and had her back to the counter. The soft, rapid clicking of the tool reminded Emerson of her grandfather, a guy who could fix just about anything and gave it his best shot, even if he failed.

“Um,” Emerson began. “Cassie Prescott suggested I come see you about renting a bike for a few days.”

The blonde woman stood—which didn’t change her height all that much, as she couldn’t have been taller than 5’1”—and when she turned to face Emerson, her bright blue eyes flew open wide, causing Emerson to stand up in alarm and quickly glance over her own shoulder. Nobody was there.

“
Holy shit!
Emerson Rosberg. In
my
shop. I can’t believe it!” The woman held out her hand, and Emerson warily took it. The blonde closed her other hand over Emerson’s and shook it heartily. “I’m Mindy Sullivan. You were so amazing on the slopes. I watched every one of your races. I’m a huge fan.” Suddenly blinking hard, her expression changed, and she lowered her voice. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry about your mother. I’m such an idiot. Here I am going on and on about me when you’re here under such shitty circumstances. I’m so sorry.”

It took Emerson a couple seconds to get her bearings after so many words, and when she realized that Mindy had stopped talking and was waiting for a response, she cleared her throat and spoke. “Oh. Um, thanks. I appreciate that.”

Mindy wiped her hands on a grimy rag and spoke like she and Emerson were old friends. “You haven’t been back to Lake Henry in a while, huh? Is it weird? I mean, the situation notwithstanding.”

Emerson felt oddly comfortable with Mindy. “Yeah, it is. The last time I was here was about five years ago, and even that was a short visit.”

“Crappy memories?”

Emerson blinked at her in surprise and thought,
You’re the first person to actually get that
. Aloud, she said, “You could say that. Yeah.”

Elbows on the counter now, chin propped in her hands, Mindy said, “Your mom was a really awesome lady. I liked her. And she talked about you all the time. Said you were working for some medical company in Los Angeles and doing really well for yourself. She was very proud of you.”

The words had a strange effect on Emerson, and she swallowed down a sudden lump of emotion. As if sensing a change of subject was needed, Mindy stood up straight and clapped her hands together. “You need a bike, you said?”

Emerson cleared her throat again and nodded. “Yes. That’d be great. I’m really missing mine.”

“Well, come on back here and let’s see if we can’t get you all hooked up.” Mindy waved Emerson around the counter and into the back room, which smelled of equal parts metal and WD-40.

Half an hour later, Emerson exited Wheels with a bicycle slightly nicer than her own back home, and a helmet to boot. Mindy had been extraordinarily helpful and had charged her next to nothing for the rental. Emerson had insisted on buying the helmet and pedal clips, deciding she could just donate them back when she was ready to leave. It was the least she could do to thank Mindy for her help and generosity.

Climbing onto the bike—and loving how perfect it felt, thanks to Mindy’s adjustments during the fitting—Emerson coasted gently down Main Street until she hit the path that circled the lake. Picking up speed a bit, she began a moderate pace, already feeling a thousand times better than she had just an hour ago.

The first lap went by quickly, and Emerson settled into a steady rhythm, letting her mind drift, focus, drift some more. Biking was her favorite. Nothing else helped her organize her thoughts, work through her anger until it dissipated, and maybe come up with a solution to a work problem. When she was young, she ran religiously, but running on a fake knee was a big no-no. Emerson was always amused by the irony; how bad must running be for your actual knees (made of cartilage and bone) that it is forbidden for you to run on your fake knees (made of metal and high-impact plastic) because you could break them?

That thought drifted away, and her mind settled on the work that lay ahead. She needed to decide what to do about the inn. She had to figure out what to do about the rental property. She had started going through her mother’s things, but it was harder than she’d expected. She’d been in Lake Henry for nearly a week, had met with the lawyer (and would meet with him again on Friday), had gone through scads of papers, and felt like she’d made very little progress. She’d be less confused—less torn, at least—if she hadn’t found herself unexpectedly unemployed, but the formal phone call had come yesterday, as promised. It was a “representative of the company,” which Emerson knew to mean “lawyer.” She was given a brief—and useless, in Emerson’s opinion—explanation of what had happened, told her belongings from her cubicle would be boxed up and shipped to her home address, and reminded of the confidentiality clause in her contract with McKinney Carr. She was not to speak to any of her now-former clients, nor was she to speak to anyone from the press, under penalty of legal action. Her work number and work e-mail had been disconnected, which she already knew, and her final paycheck had been deposited into her bank account the day before. That was it. End of conversation. No time for questions. Done. Six years of her life, just finished.

Her savings account had some money, but not much. The cost of living in L.A. was ridiculous, with her rent alone coming in at nearly two grand a month for her small one-bedroom apartment. She wouldn’t be able to pay that for more than a couple more months without finding other employment, and the thought of job hunting on top of everything else she was dealing with made her want to hide under the covers and not come out.

Another thing costing her money was the damn rental car sitting in the parking lot. She needed to return it, but she also needed somebody to come with her and drive her back to Lake Henry.
What a pain in the ass.

Shaking away the stressful thoughts, she focused on the trees flying by as she rode, the leaves boasting fiery reds, brilliant oranges, and sunny yellows. There was no denying the beauty of Lake Henry, especially in the fall, which used to be her favorite season when she lived here. It meant impending winter, and winter meant ski season. The Adirondacks got colder sooner than the rest of the state, and most years, she could get a head start on her runs. Fall meant school, but it also meant practice, and on the slopes was where teenaged Emerson could be found eighty percent of the time from October through April. There was nothing quite as breathtaking as flying downhill on manmade powder seeing those bursts of color fly by because the leaves hadn’t all fallen from the trees yet.

Emerson inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her childhood—the earth, the leaves, the water—and remembered what it was like to live here. Just as quickly as the sense memory hit, so did flashes of flying snow, of snapping skis, of blinding pain. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing away the recollection of everything this godforsaken town had taken from her.

“Enough,” she said aloud, and steered the bike off the trail back into town, her throat suddenly as dry as tissue paper and feeling just as brittle. She needed to stop, to breathe, to get something to drink, and to focus on what the hell she needed to do to get out of here and back to L.A. As soon as she possibly could.