Page 205 of The Fine Line
And that alone is better relief than any painkiller they could offer me in this place.
fifty-one
CAROLINE
Lake Placid, NY, USA
The car slows to a stop outside a cozy log house perched right on the edge of the frozen lake. A string of old-fashioned bulbs glows warmly along the roofline, and I can just make out a skating path carved into the ice behind the house. It’s picturesque in a way that almost doesn’t seem real.
The front door swings open before we’ve even fully stepped out of the car, and a tall man with unruly brown curls poking out from under a backwards baseball cap and an easy grin leans against the doorframe.
“Well, look what the storm dragged in,” he calls, shaking his head.
“Guess it’s your lucky day, Di Fazio,” Rhett says, sliding out carefully on his crutches, the brace on his leg stiff and cumbersome. Even so, there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth—the most relaxed I’ve seen him in days.
Rhett’s old friend jogs down the porch steps and crosses thedriveway in just a few strides, pulling him into a quick, one-armed hug, clapping his back. “You know, if you missed me this much, you could’ve just called. Didn’t have to go bloodying up a perfectly good rink.”
“You know I’ll never miss a chance to put on a show,” Rhett deadpans.
Blake chuckles. “Well, maybe skip the concussion next time. You need all the brain cells you can get.”
Rhett shoves at his shoulder, and I can’t help but smile at the easy banter between them.
Blake turns my way. “Good thing he has you.”
I accept his outstretched hand, smirking. “Well, I try to do charity work where I can.”
Blake laughs, looking at Rhett. “Oh, I like her.” He reaches down, taking my suitcase along with Rhett’s. “Come on,” he says with a warm smile, waving us toward the porch. “Evangeline’s finishing up the soup she’s been making all afternoon. She’ll kill me if I don’t get you in there while it’s hot.”
Inside, the house smells like cedar and something rich and savory simmering on the stove. It’s rustic but beautiful—stone fireplace, soft blankets draped over leather armchairs, wide windows overlooking the greenhouse in the backyard and the frozen lake.
Blake carries our bags to our room as a woman with soft caramel-colored hair and warm brown eyes appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s striking in a golden-hour kind of way, freckles dusted across her nose, her smile lighting up her whole face.
“You must be Caroline.”
“Hi,” I say, smiling back. “Evangeline?”
“You can call me Annie,” she says, reaching for me immediately. Her hug is surprisingly tight, genuine.
“And this,” she adds, turning toward the hallway, “is Jackson.”
A boy, maybe seven, peeks out from behind the wall. He’s all limbs and messy light brown curls, his green eyes shining with curiosity.
Rhett’s face softens immediately. “Hey, buddy,” he says, crouching slightly despite the crutches.
Jackson steps forward shyly, a sketchbook and pencils tucked at his side.
“What have we got here?” Rhett asks, gently tugging on the book.
Jackson hands it over, and Rhett starts flipping through the meticulously illustrated pages full of drawings—lakes, plants, snowflakes, and toward the most recent pages, hockey gear.
“Dad says you used to kick his ass in rollerblade races,” Jackson says.
“Jacks!” Annie groans, palming her forehead. “Language.”
“Good to know your daddy’s honest with you.” Rhett chuckles. “And by the way, I still would.”
“Even with that?” Jackson points at the brace.
