Page 87 of Story of My Life
I saw a paddle and a splash as the kayak tipped over, dumping its occupant into the water. Goose landed smugly on the overturned kayak. “Classic Goose,” I said, shaking my head.
My attention was drawn to the small section of storefronts on my right. Most of them were empty, except for a colorful clothing boutique and a—ooh! I slammed on my brakes and came to a stop in front of Story Lake Stories, a tiny bookshop.
They weren’t open yet, or I would have performed a thorough inventory in all my humid glory. Probably for the best. After my first impression, it probably wouldn’t hurt to make my second and third impressions a little more friendly and competent.
Pushing off again, I followed the lakefront until Lake Drive became Lodge Lane. I could pay Zoey a visit. After so many decades of friendship, there was no need to impress her.
The road was wooded on both sides, and the lake soon disappeared behind a wall of forest. There were a few dirt lanes marked by mailboxes that cut through the trees toward the lake, and I wondered what kinds of houses lay at the end of them. The road snaked up and around the east end of the lake, gaining a not-so-subtle altitude.
My out-of-pedaling-shape legs began to protest the incline. My pelvic bones joined in, making me wish I’d taken the time to dig out my old padded bike shorts.
By the time I crawled past the handsome carved Story Lake Lodge sign, I was sweating like I’d been locked in a sauna. I shoved my damp bangs out of my eyes and huffed and puffed my way to the two-story timber-beamed porte cochere.
The lodge rose impressively from forest and rock with picturesque black board and batten siding and a mountain-green metal roof. Thick natural rafters held up the front veranda. Two wings jutted out from either side, angling toward the lake beyond. I came to a breathless stop in front of a conveniently empty bike rack near the front porch next to a glossy-leafed rhododendron. There were only half a dozen cars in the parking lot, which could have held over one hundred.
I parked my bike in the rack and hung the helmet from the handlebars. I took the stone stairs and was still fluffing out my bedraggled hair when I hit the huge glass-front doors. They opened automatically and I stepped inside, worshipping the cool air.
The two-story lobby offered sweeping views of the lake through a wall of glass. Leather couches were positioned in a U around a massive stacked-stone fireplace. There was a small library-themed bar in one corner and a dozen small tables and chairs scattered around the stamped-concrete floor.
“Come on. Be a big girl and take one bite,” a disembodied female voice insisted from behind the backlit granite of the front desk.
“You know I don’t like cabbage,” a perkier voice complained.
“Babe, it’s kimchi, not cabbage.”
“Kimchiiscabbage, and I’m sorry to say, but I never cared for your grandfather’s recipe. And before you give me the speech again, yes, I know it’s part of your Korean heritage, which you know I love. I just don’t love cabbage.”
“Gramps’s recipe sucked. Mine is amazing. Eat.”
“I don’t wanna—oh, hey. That’s not bad.”
“Not bad? Truffle fries with aioli are not bad. This omelet is gastric perfection.”
“Not bad gastric perfection.”
I was just debating texting Zoey for directions to her room when a coughing fit caused by my own saliva overtook me.
A woman jumped to her feet from behind the front desk.
“Welcome to Story Lake Lodge!” she chirped. Short, curvy, and smiley with dark skin and a cascade of curls atop her head, there was something about her that reminded me of a camp counselor ready to reassure nervous parents that their children probably wouldn’t be emotionally scarred under her care. It may have been the polo shirt, khaki shorts, and lanyard.
She greeted me while not so subtly kicking the woman slouched in the desk chair next to her. A pair of Tory Burch combat boots slid off the counter and hit the floor. They were on the feet of a well-dressed woman who had a good eight inches in height on the first. This one was wearing a double-breasted vest that showed off two arms’ worth of simple blackwork tattoos. She wore her glossy black hair in a short side comb. Everything about her made me thinkconfidentandedgy.
“Can we help you with your bags? Or get you a gallon of water?” she offered in a husky voice. Both women looked me over from head to toe.
“Uh, no bags,” I rasped. “I’m just here to see a friend.”
The dueling looks of disappointment made me instantly feel guilty. The lobby was emptier than the parking lot, and with a property this size, that probably wasn’t good.
“Oh! You must be here for Zoey. You’re the romance novelist, right?” the camp counselor lookalike said. “I didn’t recognize you. Last night you…” She trailed off, too polite to mention my bedraggled appearance.
“Had all my hydration on the inside of my body?” I offered, tugging at the damp neck of my shirt.
She wrinkled her nose apologetically. “Kinda. Yeah.”
The edgy combat boot wearer leaned an elbow against the granite. “Heard your first town meeting was a memorable one.”
“Well, only if you call being exonerated for bird murder memorable,” I quipped.
