Page 141 of Lavender Lake
I could use a good rub down too.
Not seeing Cas for more than a few minutes at a time was making me ornery. I missed him in my bed. I missed sleeping next to him.
“Let’s get the show on the road,” Wyn said from the truck bed.
I climbed into the driver’s side and Hadley rode shotgun. I cranked the key and the truck rumbled to life.
I rolled down the window and let the warm air enter the cab. It teased the hair at my temples and I suddenly had a vision of what life would be like in a few years. Hadley and I, taking our tots to the hot spring, Cas and Declan going with us and camping under the stars.
I’d sleep out under them tonight. No light pollution. No city noise.
New York was a living entity of entropy and constant stimulation. I loved it. And not just because I found my footing there. But because it had given me a chance to go out on my own. Discover who I was and what I wanted to be.
But it wasn’t a place I wanted to raise a child.
Once I had stripped away the loss of my mother, I realized I didn’t hate the Ridge or Huckleberry Hill. But sometimes it took leaving home to fall in love with it.
“Oh my God,” Poet exclaimed when she saw the hot spring. “This is going to be so much fun!”
“I can’t believe you never told us about this place,” Wyn said.
“Did we really never tell you the story?” Hadley asked as she went to the back of the truck and pulled out the tent that slept four.
Wyn shook her head and grabbed the tent stakes.
“Our great-great grandfather built a cabin a few hundred feet from the spring. It’s why he settled here,” Hadley explained.
“Oooh, story time,” Poet said.
“This valley is known for its silver mines,” Hadley explained. “Our great-great grandfather was an Irish prospector and struck it rich in the early 1880s. He homesteaded the first 160 acres,and he kept buying up land until the mine went dry. Salem actually still has a nail from the original cabin.”
“You do?” Wyn asked. “That’s really cool.”
“I keep it in my jewelry box,” I said. “Nails were hard to come by back then. People would literally burn down their houses or cabins and take the nails, and then go settle someplace else and rebuild.”
“No kidding,” Poet said. “I bet the history of Huckleberry Hill is fascinating.”
“No doubt,” Hadley said. “You should write a book about it.”
“Me?” Poet laughed. “Write a book? I have no interest in writing a book.”
I helped Hadley spread out the tent. “We should tell them about the myth.”
“Myth?” Poet asked. “What myth?”
“About the hot spring,” Hadley said. “Supposedly it has healing powers. Eamon cut his leg so bad he thought they’d have to amputate it—but when he went to the hot spring and soaked his leg, it healed. Poof, myth created.”
“Okay, yeah, Poet should definitely write a book,” Wyn added.
“I’m not a writer,” Poet insisted.
“But you love stories,” Wyn said.
“Yeah,otherpeople’s stories,” Poet said.
“This would be other people’s stories,” Wyn fired back.
“Stop pushing me,” Poet snapped.
