Lake Bittersweet

Chapter 3

In December, the lake was painted in shades of steel-gray and deep evergreen. Creamy curls of foam danced on the surface, chased by the winter wind. Even though Gina didn’t compete anymore, she still loved paddling, especially on a misty morning when ice crystals danced against her face with every stroke.

She didn’t often run into anyone else this early in the morning. But of all people of course it would be Ronnie Kenosha, her very first canoe teacher. She’d know his canoe anywhere; he still made birch bark canoes in the traditional Ojibwe style, with pine lashings and beautiful patterns painted on the side.

He was up ahead, gliding close to the piney shoreline. She made a “caw-caw” sound that traveled through the mist.

He turned to greet her, then paused his canoe so she could catch up.

“Thought I’d see you out here,” he told her when they were rafted up together in the shallows. Ronnie was one of her very favorite people in the entire world. He wore his long graying hair in a single braid and didn’t bother with neoprene paddling gear, even in December.

“You were looking for me? Aren’t there easier ways than paddling in twenty degree temps?”

“Is there?” He seemed unconcerned. “My granddaughter needs a coach. She’s got some real talent. Reminds me of you.”

“Then it’s a good thing she has you for a grandfather. You’re the best coach in Minnesota.”

In fact, he’d spoiled her. She’d thought all coaches were like Mr. Kenosha—fair, kind, patient.

“No no, firecracker. She needs you. I’m too old now. Don’t got the energy.”

Panic flooded her. “Are you okay?”

“Yah, I’m okay. Just old. Think about it. She’s sixteen, name’s Amber. Amber Kenosha. Come see us sometime.”

“You know I’m not a coach. I just teach group classes. Has she taken one of my classes? I don’t remember her name.”

“Nah, I’ve been teaching her. She goes to school in Braddock. She’s real good, I promise. Olympic good.”

The word made her freeze. She had no business getting near the Olympics, not after what had happened. Teaching classes was one thing. Canoe basics, the strokes, proper technique, no problem. But private coaching was an entirely different matter. Who was she to teach anyone, when she’d failed so utterly in her own quest for excellence?

She hated to turn down her favorite teacher, but it was for the best. “Can’t do it, not even for you. I’m the fulltime manager at the Blue Drake now. And actually,” she checked the waterproof watch strapped to the outside of her neoprene glove, “I’m late. I have to do a favor for Sally Trammell.”

“Dream Getaways?” She could read his thoughts behind his impassive expression. Why are you wasting your talent serving tourists?

Why are you wasting your talent serving tourists?“Yeah. She needs me to check someone in. But I’m honored that you thought of me, Ronnie. I’ll see if I can find someone really good for Amber.”

She released her paddle from his canoe and they drifted away from each other.

Biting her lip, she refused to allow herself to look back at Ronnie. They’d never talked about her failure at the Olympic training camp. Had he been disappointed? How could he not be?

She dug her paddle into the water, increasing her speed until it felt like she was flying across the lake. At least her Olympic-size failure hadn’t destroyed the joy she felt while paddling. She’d be happy to stay out here all day.

But she’d promised Sally.

Sally had ambushed her two days ago at the SweetBitter Café. She’d even gone so far as to buy Gina a chocolate chip muffin, which meant she was really desperate.

“Okay, I’m going for the hard sell, kiddo. It’s Christmas and if you don’t do this, I won’t make it to my daughter’s and my grandkids might forget who I am. My daughter has twenty people coming and she’ll have a completely emotional breakdown if I’m not there to help.”

Sally fluffed her bob of silver hair and adjusted her orange-framed eyeglasses. She had retired to Lake Bittersweet from a career as a high-powered advertising exec, and still seemed to move twice as fast as the locals.

“Oh brother. That’s low, Sally, even for a recovering marketing expert.”

Sally blinked at her pleadingly behind those orange frames.

Gina sighed heavily. “Which house are we talking about?”

“The Mason house. The high-tech one on the eastern shore.”

“Mason. He’s the security expert, right? The one with all the computers?”

“Yes, and he’s extremely particular about who sets foot in his house. You’re the only one I trust.”

Security expert. A little bell had rung in Gina’s head.

For the last few weeks, she’d been trying to locate the man who had stolen her mojo, Coach Peters. The general idea was to confront him and tell him what a piece of s**t he was, and hope that would help her move on from that experience. But she’d had no luck.

Would a security expert know how to find him?

Maybe she could ask Jerome Mason for a little help in exchange for stocking his cupboards and vacuuming his carpets?

Gina blew on the foam of her extra-shot cappuccino. “What’s Mason like? Is he pretty friendly to us lowly locals?”

“Mason?” Sally c****d her head. “I hear he’s recently divorced. I’ll set you up with him if you’ll do this tiny favor for me.”

Gina coughed on a mouthful of foam. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Word is you’re open to setups.”

Oh God, Sally knew? This was getting out of hand.

Sally knewSally went on. “I have a rolodex full of contacts who have grown sons—”

Gina cut her off with quick zip of a gesture. “One more word and I’ll shove the job off on my brother Frank. Last time he used a vacuum cleaner he nearly vacuumed up my nephew’s pet gerbil.”

Sally shut her mouth with a snap. Then, cautiously, “Is that a yes?”

“Lord, you’re relentless. Yes, fine, I’ll do it. Go save your daughter from holiday mental collapse.”

“You’re an angel, darling girl.”

“You know that’s not true. I have one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Please don’t try to set me up with anyone. I have to set some limits. People are getting way too into this.”

“Fine. Honestly, if I knew anyone really eligible I’d save him for my other daughter.”

After her morning paddle, Gina stopped in at the SweetBitter for her usual cappuccino.

The owner—and her good friend—Rick brought her a glass filled with thick foamy liquid the color of grass.

“What’s this for?”

“How was your date last night?”

“Well, I hid out in the bathroom while he made a date with someone else. And I still don’t understand Bitcoin.”

He grinned with satisfaction. “I knew Frankie would f**k it up. Here, this is my bad date antidote. I’ve honed the recipe over years of dating disasters, and it has a one hundred percent success rate.”

Gina eyed it suspiciously. “What does it do, exactly? Make you so ill you forget about the date?”

“Pretty much,” Rick said cheerfully. “Enjoy.”

She took it to go, and headed for the eastern shore of the lake, where the fancy houses were located. The smoothie sat in her cupholder, changing from a disturbingly vibrant green to a horrifying brown as it oxidized. If a bad date had a color, that would probably be it.

* * *

* * *

A loud sound was blaring at him, telling him to wake up, get out of bed. But Kirk was trapped in the past.

It was just before Christmas and someone was knocking at the door of their house. No one ever came to their house. Why would they? It was dumpy and miserable and Poppa would yell until they left anyway. Kirk ran to open the door before the knocking woke Poppa up. As usual, he was in his recliner in front of the TV.

It was just before Christmas and someone was knocking at the door of their house. No one ever came to their house. Why would they? It was dumpy and miserable and Poppa would yell until they left anyway. Kirk ran to open the door before the knocking woke Poppa up. As usual, he was in his recliner in front of the TV.A couple—a middle-aged man and woman—wearing Santa hats stood on the doorstep. One carried a bag full of wrapped presents. “Merry Christmas!” they sang together. “We hear there’s a little boy in this house who’s on the nice list this year!”

A couple—a middle-aged man and woman—wearing Santa hats stood on the doorstep. One carried a bag full of wrapped presents. “Merry Christmas!” they sang together. “We hear there’s a little boy in this house who’s on the nice list this year!”He shook his head, even though man-oh-man, he wanted those presents. Whatever they were. But it was too embarrassing and his father would flip out. “No, thank you, ma’am. Sir.”

He shook his head, even though man-oh-man, he wanted those presents. Whatever they were. But it was too embarrassing and his father would flip out. “No, thank you, ma’am. Sir.”“You aren’t,” the woman checked her list, “Kirk?”

“You aren’t,” the woman checked her list, “Kirk?”Could he say he was George Moretti? Or Frankie? No, he couldn’t lie right to her face. “My Poppa already got me so many presents. There’s a big pile under the tree.” He tried to come up with some specifics, calling on the Christmas lists the Morettis had been obsessing about. “I think there’s a Nintendo and a new hockey stick and a scooter and a hula hoop.”

Could he say he was George Moretti? Or Frankie? No, he couldn’t lie right to her face. “My Poppa already got me so many presents. There’s a big pile under the tree.” He tried to come up with some specifics, calling on the Christmas lists the Morettis had been obsessing about. “I think there’s a Nintendo and a new hockey stick and a scooter and a hula hoop.”The Santa lady looked puzzled. Oops, the hula hoop was Gina’s Christmas wish.

The Santa lady looked puzzled. Oops, the hula hoop was Gina’s Christmas wish.“You should go over there.” He pointed to a house across the street where a family had just moved in. They had seven kids and could probably use some extra presents. “But thanks anyway. Merry Christmas.”

“You should go over there.” He pointed to a house across the street where a family had just moved in. They had seven kids and could probably use some extra presents. “But thanks anyway. Merry Christmas.”“You’re a sweet boy, you know that?”

“You’re a sweet boy, you know that?”“Imagine,” he heard the woman Santa saying to the man Santa as they crossed the street. “Imagine being so generous at such a young age. Quite the little hero.”

“Imagine,” he heard the woman Santa saying to the man Santa as they crossed the street. “Imagine being so generous at such a young age. Quite the little hero.”I’m not a hero! He wanted to yell. You don’t understand!

I’m not a hero! He wanted to yell. You don’t understand!

The loud sound came again. He blinked himself awake on the cushiony workout mat. Right. Lake Bittersweet. The Mason house.

He dragged himself into a sitting position and rubbed out a kink in a neck muscle. Squinting, he looked around, grounding himself in the here and now. Lackluster daylight shone through a glass sliding door, which opened onto a brown lawn with patches of snow. Outside, a gray, roiling sky threatened more snow. Stark, bare-branched trees mingled with evergreens at the edges of the lawn. Winter in Minnesota. Somewhere out there was the lake. Lake Bittersweet.

He’d slept until morning. And someone was pounding on the door.

He found his phone. It was after nine-thirty, holy s**t. How had he managed to sleep all night and half the morning on a damn workout mat?

This was probably someone from the management company handling the house rental. Dream Getaways or something like that. It had to be; no one else knew the house was even occupied. Jerome Mason had mentioned that the manager would be stopping by soon after he arrived to make sure everything was in good shape.

Groaning, he rolled off the mat and began the awkward process of getting himself upright and onto his crutches. Why did it always mean sticking his ass in the air? It was a good thing no TV cameras or autograph-seekers were around to see this. But it might give Gina Moretti a good laugh.