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As I’m negotiating with Bluebell and deciding which groceries to return to the store and what clothing items I can shove into a nearby donation box, a woman in an apron approaches. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”
I startle, but then my nerves calm when I see the stranger’s friendly face and the warmth in her eyes. “Thank gods, someone who speaks English. My ride never showed up. Do you know if I’m allowed to take this bike to the lake? I promise to return it.”
The woman in the apron laughs. “Of course, of course! Do you think the police will arrest you if you don’t return a bike?”
I shrug. “Been arrested for less in Lower North,” I say, referring to the seedier neighborhood where I did my best rule-breaking as an adolescent. Shoplifting, skipping school, vandalism. Nothing too terrible, but enough to move me from one family to another. Jakob and I were both foster kids in the system at the same time. He was like my introverted brother, which is how we ended up renting a house together with Suzanna.
The woman in the apron studies me momentarily, and her eyes soften. “I know it well.”
“You do?”
“I was born there.”
Her nametag reads “Josephine,” which sounds more like an old money name than a Lower North name, but what does that matter?
“Small world!” I exclaim.
Josephine arches an eyebrow and shoves her hands into her apron pockets. “Small country. And speaking of small, if you’re taking all that to a lake house, that bike won’t manage it.”
Yeah, no kidding. “I was about to go back inside and see if I could get a refund on some of these groceries. I bought too much,” I say sheepishly.
She eyes my things. “How long did you say you were staying?”
“Two weeks.”
“You didn’t buy enough,” she says matter-of-factly.
“And that doesn’t help my little bike situation.”
“Tell you what I’ll do for my fellow Lower North friend. I’d love to give you a lift, but my truck is out making deliveries. When my brother returns, I’ll have him deliver your things to your lake house. Give me the address?”
As is tradition in Gravenland, I protest twice before accepting her kind offer.
“I couldn’t. That’s too kind of you,” I say.
“Nonsense.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Josephine insists. “We make deliveries all over the county.”
“Well, since it’s no trouble. Thank you so much.”
Josephine goes back into the store and returns with a shopping cart, filling it with my bags. “Friedrick will bring these to you later today, and I’ll keep everything cold for you.”
“You’re the best,” I say, surprising the stoic, orderly woman with a hug around her neck.
“Oh, my,” she chuckles, patting me on the back. “Yes. Well, thank you. Have a good day.”
And with that, she’s gone, and it’s just me and Bluebell hitting the road.
I take just enough bags that fit in Bluebell’s baskets, and I’m on my way.
My directions take me down the winding cobblestone streets, through a quiet residential area, over a greenway that eventually empties onto a dirt road that hugs the lake’s edge. The first row of cottages are tidy little Alpine structures that face the lake. The yards facing the street feature gardens so organized and well-kept that it looks like a Sims game. The flower boxes are perfect and overflowing with blooms. Everything is polished and spit-shined and postcard-worthy. The signposts along the lanes boast quirky names, some in English. “Lakeside Love Nest,” or “Papa’s Retreat.”
I wonder what it would be like to grow up in a family with a lake house. Not a terribly wealthy family, but one with just enough that we could build a little something extra. A small out-of-the-way escape from the city.
I still have a mile to go, and I am wondering if my directions steered me wrong. The cottages become rustic cabins, and then the cabins grow sparser and sparser, the woods to the right of me grow thicker, and the lake shore grows wilder and grassier.
