Page 33 of Wrong Number, Right Cougar

We weren’t really sure how to do this. We knew they wanted a tour—because they were nosy. I didn’t blame them. I’d want one also, and it was the main reason why we invited them. We just weren’t sure how it should look. Should we throw a party? Should it just be a walk-and-look, “see ya later” kind of deal? Was a presentation needed?

I hadn’t thought of any of that until my mate asked. And now that he had, it never strayed far from my mind.

“I have an idea,” he said as we sat outside watching the sunset. “Why don’t we set up a sort of… make-your-own-sandwich station, and have cookies and sodas and things? We can have some to-go boxes too, in case people don’t want to stay. If the cougars show up thinking there’s a party, a party it is. And if they just wanted to stop by to be nosy, it would look sort of like an open house.”

He’d clearly been thinking about it a lot more than I had or at least more productively. And the idea had been stuck in my head most of the day since he mentioned it. My mate was a genius.

“That sounds perfect.” We finished our coffee and made a list of what we needed, then set up the tables for the next day. It was a quick grocery store run to get everything. We were keeping it simple, which helped a lot.

Then all we had left to do was wait and see if anyone actually came.

Peter, Paul, and Frank showed up first—Frank wearing a suit and the other two in ripped jeans. All three of them holding a couple of six packs of local-ish beer. I was guessing there was a story to the suit but didn’t ask. It was getting close to go time, and I wanted to triple-check everything.

“Tell us what to do. We’re here to help,” Paul offered.

“Just… be here. And I don’t know, be hype men?” Thorn took the beer. “Let’s keep this in the fridge until we need it.”

Paul followed him with the other four packs.

“You mean… I put on a suit for nothing?” Frank elbow-checked Peter.

“Don’t pin this on me. You’re the one who said you could help with the food.” Peter cracked up. “Did you think you needed to dress like a waiter?”

“Need to? No. But you never know. It never fails to be prepared. Especially when you’re having a business event like this.” Frank righted his suit.

It was official, city folks were weird.

Slowly but surely, folks from town came in—and from some of the nearby towns, too. There weren’t a lot of cougars my mate’s or my age, most of them were older, and all of them seemed thrilled to see how much work we’d done on the place.

“Are your bookings open?” Gertrude, the town librarian, asked my mate.

“They are.” Thorn handed her a business card.

“I’m 60 years old,” she said, handing the card back. “How about we do it the old-fashioned way and book it right here and now?”

It took my mate a second to catch up, but he took her over to the desk so they could arrange a booking. Like me, he had assumed she was just mentioning it in passing as a way of chitchat. But no—she booked a cabin for her son and grandkids for an entire month.

And after she did, two others did as well.

We’d decided early on that we were going to have special rates for locals, and I was so glad we did. Giving them the ability to have their relatives over for extended visits without being in their spaces, but still in a place where they could be themselves, was huge. And it would only help return Cougar Lake into what it once was.

We took turns giving tours, showing people different areas we’d fixed up, our hype men making sure to “ooh” and “ahh” at different features as if they hadn’t helped make this place what it was.

And then Stiles, one of Alexei’s friends, who I hadn’t seen in a really long time, showed up.

I wasn’t sure how they’d first gotten to know each other in the first place. Stiles was a grumpy old guy and didn’t come out often. He perpetually lived in years gone by, always talking about how much better everything was back when he was younger—from food, to the lake, to the government, to clothing.

He even thought the sun was better back then.

Honestly, I’d thought I’d seen the last of him after Alexei died, that he’d go back home and stay there, isolated and grumpy.

Stiles introduced himself to my mate and handed him a paper grocery bag. Not a gift bag or even a fresh grocery bag. It had definitely been used often. “This is for you.”

“Thank you,” my mate said, holding the top closed, not looking inside until the old man grumbled something about it.

When Thorn reached in, he pulled out a picture—Old Man Blaze sitting by the lake, soaking in the sun, with a cougar stretched out beside him.

“Is this… you?” He kept his eyes on the picture.

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