Page 16 of Hidden Nature

“It can wait longer.” Still, she frowned at the phone. “Everything’sfine. I just hate not being connected. And I know that’s a little bit sick. Maybe I like being a little bit sick.”

“Maybe you should just hot-glue the phone to your hand.”

“I’ve considered it. Anyway, I need to be connected to work—just like you.”

“I hope I remember how to work.”

“As if.” Drea turned the phone screen down on her thigh. “What kind of shoes is Dad wearing?”

“Boots. Timberland, dark brown. That’s not a stretch. It’s pretty usual.”

“Don’t look down and tell me what shoes I’m wearing.”

“Black boots, over the ankle, black-and-white-checked laces.” Sloan squeezed her eyes shut. “They’re Uggs. Nice, look new.”

“They are nice and new. Don’t even think about borrowing them.”

Typical, Sloan thought. “I can get my own Uggs.”

“You should. They’re terrific. You see, you absorb, you remember. I wish I was half as good at it.”

God, she was tired. Unbelievably tired, and fought to stay awake, stay aware.

“It’s just paying attention.”

“No, it’s not,” Drea countered.

Either way, Sloan thought, she’d use that particular skill, keep it sharp. Keep her mind sharp.

And surely her body would follow suit.

Connections. She’d taken some yoga classes with an instructor who talked (a little too much) about the mind/body/spirit connection.

She’d use that now and work on all three.

She caught a glimpse of the lake, just a flash as the sun struck water. Then another turn, one more, and there it was, spread as blue as the sky with the mountains, the folds and peaks of them, the brown and white and pine green of the season reflected on the surface.

Her spirits lifted.

She watched a family of swans—mom, dad, and the six nearly adult kids sailing together. They’d migrate soon, and the parents, at least, would return to mate again, to glide the lake with their cygnets.

Another few weeks, she thought, if the weather held, the lake would freeze solid for skating, ice fishing.

Trails cut through the mountains, and skiers, small with distance, swished down.

She saw the trails of smoke from cabin and cottage chimneys tucked into the brown and green, and the lovely lakefront houses.

And in the sun, the glint of glass from her childhood home around the lake.

The tug, a hard one with the strong pull of sentiment, surprised her. She visited at least once a month, stayed the occasional weekend when work allowed.

But this was different, she realized. A different kind of homecoming.

And she found it soothed both mind and spirit.

Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to come home.

She wanted to sit, bundled up by the firepit, and watch the sunset, mirrored in the lake. She wanted to hear the loons, watch the heron’s flight, bask in the sight of the majestic bald eagle.

---