Still Lake

Sophie didn’t plan to waste any time—the sooner she got him off the property and away from Marty the happier she’d be. Not that Mr. Smith was Marty’s type—her sister tended to go for young and buff and brainless. Smith had gray in his hair, for heaven’s sake, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. Hardly the stuff teenage dreams were made of.

And yet Sophie knew with a gut-sure instinct that Mr. John Smith would be just about irresistible to any impressionable young woman. Even she, armored and totally, determinedly uninterested, could feel the inevitable pull. All that mysterious, brooding beauty, even the hint of danger, was ridiculously tempting. Fortunately she wasn’t the sort to be tempted.

He hadn’t waited for her on the porch, which didn’t surprise her in the least. He’d wandered down the lawn to the edge of the lake, and he was staring across the shimmering blue expanse toward the unseen village, his back straight and tall. And he was no longer alone.

At least it wasn’t Marty this time, though the alternative wasn’t much more reassuring. Gracey was looking up at him, her gray hair tumbling to her shoulders, her mismatched clothing drooping around her too-thin body. Doc was there, as well, a small buffer, but Sophie almost took a header off the wide front porch in her haste to get down to the water’s edge.

“You didn’t tell me we had a new neighbor,” Gracey said as she approached.

Sophie bit her lip in frustration. “Yes, I did, Mama. We already discussed this yesterday, remember?”

Gracey’s eyes brightened for a moment. “Oh, yes, love,” she said. “I remember now. I told you you needed to get laid.”

Mr. Smith’s choking sound didn’t make the hideous situation any better. Doc had jumped in quickly, taking Gracey’s thin hand. “Now, Gracey, you know you’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“But it’s true. Sex is very healthy for a young woman like Sophie. Besides, he’s very attractive. Isn’t he, Sophie?”

Sophie tried not to cringe. “He’s not my type, Mama. Why don’t you go back to the house with Doc and…”

“What do you mean, he’s not your type? You’re too picky.” She swung her wicked gaze to the silent stranger. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, are you married?”

“No.”

“Involved? Gay?”

“No,” he said. The monosyllable was delivered entirely without inflection, and Sophie refused to look at him to see his reaction to her mother’s outrageousness.

“You see!” her mother said triumphantly. “He’d be perfect. You go off and have sex with him and I’ll look after the inn. Marty can help me.”

“Come along, Gracey,” Doc said kindly. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Sophie didn’t wait any longer. She headed toward the narrow path through the woods, not stopping to see if John Smith was following. If he wasn’t, just as well. She’d keep going, hike out to the main road and circle back to the inn.

He was close behind her—there was no escape. He waited until they were out of sight of the inn, almost at the edge of the Whitten place, before he spoke.

“Why are the women in your family so interested in my sex life?” He sounded no more than vaguely curious, but Sophie wasn’t fooled.

It was now or never. She stopped, turning to look at him. He was closer than she’d realized, and she had to look up. He was the kind of man you’d need to wear high heels around, so as not to let his height intimidate you. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you think I want to have sex with your seventeen-year-old sister, your mother thinks I ought to have sex with you, and I imagine Marthe probably has ideas of her own.”

“Well, you can just ignore any ideas Marty might have. She’s an impressionable teenager. And ignore my mother, as well—surely you can see she’s got some kind of senile dementia.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I think she’s a lot sharper than she pretends to be.”

“And you base that on what? Five minutes in her company? Or the absurd notion that I would want to go to bed with you?”

“See? Obsessed with sex,” Mr. Smith said in a calm voice.

“I’m not! We’re not.” She took a deep breath. “I have no interest in you at all, Mr. Smith, except to help out a neighbor in need.”

“And to keep your sister away from me.”

It would be foolish to deny it. “There’s that, too.”

He nodded. “As long as you’re honest,” he said. “I don’t like lying.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Smith.” Another man might have missed her slight emphasis on his anonymous name. He didn’t.

His faint smile was self-deprecating, but he didn’t say a word. He just moved past her down the path to the derelict old house.

A weaker woman would have simply turned and headed back home. Sophie squared her shoulders and followed him, pushing the tall grass out of her way as she kept his back firmly in her view. Not that she would have had any trouble finding her way. She’d explored the property around the abandoned Whitten house not long after they moved to Colby, and whenever things were overwhelming at the inn she’d disappear for a few hours, sit on the porch and watch the quiet glide of the water as it moved past the rocky point of land just beyond the house.

She took her time, and he was waiting for her on the porch when she got there. “Did you know I’ve got an option to buy this place?” he asked abruptly.

She doubted she could keep the stricken expression off her face. “Why?”

“I like it here. The peace and quiet. The remoteness.”

“The house is a mess. I doubt it could be winterized, and there’s no way to earn a living year round…”

“Maybe I could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

She stared at him in horror. “What?”

His slight smile was far from reassuring. “I’m kidding,” he said. “Do I strike you as the hospitable type? I’m not sure I even like sharing this end of the lake with anyone, much less my house.”

She took a deep breath. “No wonder you’re unattached.”

“Are we back to sex again?”

“No!” She moved past him, pushing open the torn and rickety screen door and walking into the old cottage. She’d never been inside before, only peered through the windows, but it looked and smelled just as she’d imagined it. The furniture was old and solid—a mission oak sofa and table that had probably been built at the same time as the house; a couple of sturdy rocking chairs; a wide table and chairs. The fieldstone fireplace held nothing but ashes, the bookshelves were crammed with the detritus of vacationers over the years—Reader’s Digest condensed books and paperback mysteries. The floor creaked beneath her feet, and the mice had gotten into the braided rug. And if the so-called Mr. Smith bought this old wreck out from under her she’d kill him.

If there’d been any way to turn this place into a bed-and-breakfast she would have bought it in a snap. The Niles homestead was bigger, with more lake frontage and the good-size wing in back for when she wanted to expand. But the Whitten house called to her soul, a hidden little jewel in the forest by the lake.

“What do you think?” he asked, oblivious to her covetous thoughts.

“I think you need an army of people to come in and shovel out this place,” she said frankly. “The screens are torn, the chimney probably needs cleaning, the cushions have been chewed by animals. What’s the roof like?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said wryly.

Without thinking she started up the long, narrow stairs to the second floor. There were four bedrooms and a bath off the center hallway. The claw-footed bathtub was stained with rust, the old linoleum on the floor was cracked and torn. Three of the bedrooms were abandoned, smelling of mice and mildew, the fourth was relatively more habitable.

It had a fireplace, as well, probably connected to the same sorry chimney. The old iron bed was high and wide, covered with quilts and a myriad of pillows that had somehow survived the mice. The casement windows stood open to the lake, and an old wicker chair had been drawn up close. There was a book open on the floor beside it, and she moved closer, curious. Then she realized that Mr. Smith had followed her up the stairs and was leaning in the doorway, watching her while she poked around his bedroom.

“Looks like the roof needs replacing,” she said calmly. “Or at least mending.”

“Oh, really?”