Page 6 of Off the Trail

Marika goes on with her explanation. “Nolan is our chef—I stole him last year from the best restaurant in Boston.”

“Nolan—like Nolan Ryan?”

She gives me a puzzled look.

“A Hall of Fame pitcher.” Her brow remains wrinkled. “Never mind.” Clearly, she’s not a baseball fan.

“Finally, Blaze is our outdoor activities director. He’s in charge of any activity you might want to take advantage of while you’re here. Kayaking, hiking, you name it.”

I walk across the large room to the wall of windows that look out over the lake. It’s ridiculously stunning, like a postcard on a rack at a gift shop, dark blue-green water circled by a ring of trees the color of flame. A cluster of small cabins sits off to the side of the main lodge. A sturdy wooden dock juts into the water, and a small, half-sandy, half-rocky beach completes the picture.

“Sanctuary Lake,” I mutter under my breath.

“It was already named that when I came here, but it fits,” Marika says with quiet sincerity.

It’s so serene and calm; it’s clear I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands to think about my future, or lack thereof. I’m not sure I’m ready to face all of that. I fish around for a distraction. Fish. Fishing. “What about fishing?”

“Blaze can set you up with that if you’d like. The lake’s got trout and bass.”

There’s movement on the water. A square float bobbing on blue plastic barrels is inching closer to shore as I watch. “Your float is moving.”

Marika stands at my shoulder and looks out. “Oh, that’ll be Blaze. Water’s getting too cold for swimming, so he’s bringing it in.”

“Already?” It’s September for another week yet. Hartford’s still experiencing humidity and high temperatures.

She laughs her warm laugh again. “Our first frost will be any day now.”

I shiver at the thought. I’m originally from Florida. The cold’s never been my thing. “Are the cabins heated?”

“Of course, Mr. Camden.”

“Shawn, please.”

“Let me show you, Shawn.”

She lets us out a side door that leads directly down to the beach. The float is now practically at the shore, being towed by a dark-haired man. He’s got strong shoulders, the rope attached to the float straining against them, and a thick, close-cropped beard covers the lower half of his face. He emerges from the water one step at a time, revealing his body in parts, furred chest matching the denseness of his facial hair, a pair of simple dark blue swim trunks clinging to powerful thighs that pull the float onto the sand as if it weighs nothing. He looks younger than I thought he’d be when he gets closer, the light skin around his hazel eyes unlined.

“Blaze, great timing,” Marika says. “This is Shawn. He wants to go fishing.”

“Uh, yeah, if that’s not a problem,” I say, feeling like a city slicker with a clichéd idea of what people do on lakeside vacations.

“No problem at all,” he says, dropping the rope and shaking his hair out like a dog. It’s on the longer side, casually shaggy, and I feel like an uptight jock with my crew cut. “Fish get active toward sundown. Meet me back here around five?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll stow this and put together a tackle box,” Blaze says. “Good to meet you, Shawn.” He steps forward and sticks out his hand, which I shake. His touch is pleasantly cool and damp from the lake, and he has a nice smile behind his beard. I note his slightly crooked front tooth and wonder what it would feel like to run my tongue over it.

When I notice what I’m thinking, my entire body goes hot with confusion. Why on earth would I wonder that?

I remember it’s my turn to say something, so I push some words out along the lines of good to meet you, too.

When Blaze makes to pick up the float, I ask, “Need a hand?”

He looks surprised for a second, but smoothly says, “Nah, I got it. See you later.”

Marika leads me past what she calls the boathouse, the largest of the standalone structures. “That’s Blaze’s domain, so if you need anything in there, check with him first.”

I glance back. Blaze is carrying the wooden float like it’s made of matchsticks, arms bulging. It’s a sight I have a hard time looking away from.