Page 49 of Riding the High

“You guys made this?” Cole says to her.

“Yes! Ginger taught me her nonna’s recipe.”

“Can’t wait,” I hear him say as I head to my room in search of the perfect spot for my flowers. I place them on my end table and stand back to admire them. Cole could never know that this is the first time any man has bought me flowers. A simple gesture that shouldn’t affect me as much as it does. I swallow down my heart in my throat as I make my way back to Mabel and Cole, heading over to the counter to serve myself a slice of lasagna.

“I already got you one. And some salad,” Cole says, pointing to the table where a plate of food waits. He leans back in his chair and makes all sorts of exaggerated grunting noises over the dinner we made. For some reason, they lead my brain to all the wrong places.

“Mabel did the hard work. That perfect layering is all her.” I smile as I take a bite.

“Ginger made the sauce. We crushed up tomatoes,” Mabel tells her dad proudly, “and I squished them with my hands.”

Cole grins at her. “Hope it wasn’t after you made mud pies in the yard.”

“I washed my hands you know.” She says like it’s obvious.

He turns to me. “You made the sauce from scratch?”

I nod. “My nonna would disown me if I used jarred pasta sauce, Cole. And, trust me, she’d find out somehow.”

I can’t bring myself to look at him. The picture of Cole, sitting with us at the table in the late afternoon sun, is giving me all sorts of feelings I’m not prepared for.

Once we’re finished eating, we move to clean up as Mabel disappears to watch the end ofAnnie.

“Be careful, Sheriff. Keep being so nice and I’ll expect flowers every time I have to leave,” I blurt as we put the last clean dishes away.

Cole looks at me with a face I don’t quite understand. He leans down to kiss me on the cheek, taking his time before pulling away,

“Keep making lasagna like that and I won’t let you leave,” he says into my ear before backing away and heading off to the shower.

“Out the door in thirty, ladies!” he calls out over his shoulder, oblivious to the way his words just rendered me speechless.

As the door shuts to his room, I remind myself this is a business arrangement, then I realize his handcuffs are still in my pocket.

The drive to Lake Charles passes quickly and, in just over an hour, the blue expanse of the lake comes into view in the distance.

“I don’t know how I’ve never been here before. It’s so close to home,” I say, looking out the window.

“It’s a hidden gem,” Cole says. “Dad brought us fishing here every summer from the time I was thirteen until I finished college. We’d stay for a week, usually in this cabin we’re heading to, and always planned to come back after I became an officer. We never did. So, the summer he got sick I organized a weekend trip for the three of us. Mabes was only four when she came here forthe first time. Gemma was … away,” he says cautiously, which tells me she was MIA. If I remember correctly, that was one of the last summers before they split up.

“Papa comes here,” Mabes says so surely, that I almost believe her.

“Mabes thinks he’s a butterfly,” Cole explains. “We always see the monarchs flying around the same bush in the yard. They never used to be there, but now they fly around right in front of where my dad sat every morning. He loved it here. Said he would get a cabin up here when he retired.”

A look settles across Cole’s face. It’s something between fondness and grief.

“We’ll see him. He always comes,” Mabel states.

I look back at her and smile. Sometimes I wonder if she’s really a grown woman living in a little girl’s body. I’m sure we could leave her on her own for the day and come back to the house clean and dinner ready. A real-life Matilda.

“Well I, for one, am excited to see this magical place!” I say, propping my feet up on the dash as I watch the town roll by. My jean short cutoffs are sticking to the leather of Cole’s truck as we drive with the windows open. I throw a silent prayer up to the universe. Please let there be air conditioning.

We weave our way through the windy streets of Lake Charles. It’s a beautiful harbor town with a marina that runs alongside the main road and goes for a few miles. The whole strip is lined with boats of all shapes and sizes, and boaters that have taken up a sort of residence at their slip. There are gazebos and sun shelters everywhere, housing people cooking out and sitting on patio furniture. It’s a small town, with one grocery store facing the harbor, quaint shops, and an old-fashioned drawbridge for boats to escape into the lake. As we drive through town, I take a deep breath. Cole’s right; it’s relaxing and feels almost coastal, even though we’re in midland Kentucky. Theonly thing that reminds me we’re still in state are the rolling green hills in the distance.

“I love it already,” I tell them.

The three of us are chatting away as we reach a hill and start up to the top. After a few more minutes of driving, we pull up a long, hidden driveway.

“Home sweet home,” Cole says as the house comes into view. When it does, I gasp. It’s not overly big but is a good-sized log cabin. The property is framed with trees and pristine landscaping around the front porch. But it’s the view behind it that takes my breath away: the lake itself, glittering in the early evening sun as far as the eye can see, sailboats bobbing on the still water. I’m speechless as we pull up to the garage; there’s a basketball hoop attached, and a bucket filled with balls. I can see Cole grinning at my reaction in my periphery.

---