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But just as I round the bend, a narrow, private drive appears in the overgrown hedge line. My GPS shouts that I’ve arrived, and I double-check the address. Yes, 1313 Shadow Lake Lane. This is it.
My stomach gives a thrilled little jump and a wary lurch at the surroundings.
I never stopped to notice until now that the address sounds like something out of a horror novel. I was looking for something secluded, and boy, did I get it.
Willows and hemlocks bend over the rutted drive. I can’t even see the lake from this end. Boy, the rental company is going to hear from me if this is not in fact, a lakefront property as promised. Not to be a princess about it, but the property was listed as having a dock with its own rowboat and kayaks for me to use at my leisure. That implies waterfront, doesn’t it?
My heart sinks when I realize that, no, that doesn’t imply anything. It could mean adjacent to another waterfront property.
Damn, I was entertaining all sorts of fantasies involving sunning myself on the dock all afternoon after teaching myself how to paddle board.
My whining and whinging turn out to be meaningless, however, because soon I creep around a narrow bend in the drive, and on either side, two huge gnarled fruit trees frame a perfect view of the lake. The water sparkles like a diamond in the midday sunshine.
My heart rises. I exhale and smile. Finally, I’m here.
The cabin is exactly as shown in the photos from the outside: a small, square shack with wide wooden planks and an arched door painted a cheerful yellow. The cabin’s exterior features the faintest nod toward the decorative details as the rest of the places I’ve seen so far. A bit of wooden curlicues on the eaves, but none of the festive window boxes. Everything could use a trim, but thankfully, that’s not my job.
I unload Bluebell and type in the code on the lock. To my relief, the keypad lock gives me no trouble. The room inside is not what I expected based on the overgrown wilderness outside. While the lead-up to the drive was a bit worrisome, the interior exceeds all my expectations. It’s a rustic space with two rooms—one main room with a large bed in the corner covered with a gorgeous handmade quilt and a quaint kitchen with a rounded corner fireplace at one end. Along the front of the main room is a cozy sofa and smart TV—likely added recently to make the place more appealing to renters. It seems pretty clear this was, at one time, a place for a person to get away from everything.
Pulling back the floral yellow curtains, the grassy clearing with its concrete fire pit calls to me, as does the whitewashed dock with all the equipment.
I dump the contents of my pink suitcase on the bed and throw on my sportiest tankini top with a conservative swim short. There’s no telling what the vibe is at this end of the lake, so I don’t want to look too boobalicious if I run into any locals.
In the bathroom, I’m more meticulous about things. My makeup kit contents go into the medicine cabinet, and my lotions and potions go on the lid of the toilet tank.
Noticing the way I’m sweating from the bike ride—not to mention the way I smell after a long morning of traveling, I quickly grab my discarded bra from the floor and give it a quick wash in the sink with some gentle detergent I find in the linen closet, then hang it up over the shower rod to drip dry.
I tie my mass of red tresses in a top knot, noting my pinked nose in the bathroom mirror. Right. I’m not quite used to this much outdoorsiness, am I? I quickly rub some zinc over my nose and fly out the back door.
My choices on the dock consist of a stand-up paddleboard, kayaks, a rowboat, and a pedal boat. While I’m eager to teach myself how to stand-up paddleboard, I don’t want to injure myself right out of the gate. A kayak is right out, not with these hips and my dubious upper body strength. Rowboat it is.
The oars take some getting used to, but after a moment or two of struggling, I’m off the dock and sliding across the water.
The silence, the solitude, the nature—it’s all lovely.Why yes, Stasi. This is going to be a splendid vacation.
Everything is positively perfect on the lake. The water is calm. The herons? Enchanting. The little fish popping out of the water in the shady inlet? Darling. And not a soul out here. Not a single soul. No neighbors. No housemates. No bosses giving me dirty looks when I take too long chatting up high-tipping customers. No chefs cursing at me. It’s just…me. And I really like me.
Why on earth do I think that I need to find my thing? My thing is vacation. Vacation is my favorite thing ever.
When I return hours later to the dock, my palms and back are sore, and my thighs are slightly pink from the sun.
Alarmingly, a man stands on the edge of the whitewashed dock, watching me. A tall man. A tall, bearded man, with a pair of massive arms folded across his chest.
The closer I approach, the more evident one thing becomes: he is, as we say in the hospitality industry, disgruntled.
Uh oh. This must be the property owner. Or the grocery delivery man. Or a neighbor.
What did I do wrong?
Good gods. I’m on vacation for a few hours, and already I’ve pissed in someone’s porridge.
2
Sigurd
The first unusual sight upon my arrival at the cabin is the royal blue bike wedged between the hedge and the exterior of the place.
The style of it is familiar. It’s one of those rental bikes they have on the street corners in the village.
