Iron Lake

38

MOLLY STEPPED OUT THE BACK DOOR of the Pinewood Broiler. Her skis and poles stood propped against the wall beside the Dumpster. She lifted them, cradled the skis on her shoulder, and hiked three blocks to the lake.

Sunlight exploded out of a sky as blue as she’d ever seen. The lake was empty, not even a snowmobile breaking the stillness. Far out stood the ice shanties, clustered here and there like isolated little communities. They reminded her of the deserted towns in westerns when all the cowardly citizens hid themselves just before the outlaws rode in.

She skied north, skirting the open water behind the brewery, where Russell Blackwater had drowned after trying to shoot Cork. Thank you, she found herself saying, with a little upward cast of her eyes, for keeping Cork safe. She passed North Point, where the judge had been found dead and Sheriff Wally Schanno had been wounded. She knew that somehow it was all tied to the killing of Joe John LeBeau. Terrible events, for sure, but on that glorious afternoon, with the sun at her back and the vast pure white of the lake all her own, she didn’t want to dwell on tragedy. She felt no guilt about that at all. In fact, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt better.

Halfway home she stopped and turned back. Leaning on her poles, she stared toward Aurora, which was mostly a distant feathering of chimney smoke. She had never loved the town, never felt a sense of belonging there. Years before when she’d run away, she’d left nothing behind her. After her father died, she’d returned only to take care of business, with the idea of selling the old resort, which she put immediately on the market. No one made an offer. The big cabin was run-down and the smaller ones fallen into even greater ruin. She took the job at the Pinewood Broiler and began to fix up the big cabin, at first with no greater intention than to ensure the plumbing worked reliably and she could eat a meal at the kitchen table without a chair leg snapping under her. She worked alone, learning as she went. The more she accomplished, the more she planned. She refinished the kitchen table. She tuck-pointed the fireplace chimney and repaired the mantel. She replaced the copper tubing to all the faucets so the water flowed hard and fast.

In her second summer, she received an offer. An architect from the Twin Cities wanted to buy the big cabin, gut it, and fashion it to his own taste. The offer was good money. But in the end she turned it down and took the place off the market.

She smiled as she looked back at Aurora. It wasn’t heaven, not by a long stretch, but she had something there that no other place offered her. She had history, which some people might call roots, and she had a future now.

She stopped at the sauna and started a fire in the stove. She was hoping that Cork might have finished his business and come back already, but when she reached the cabin, Cork’s Bronco wasn’t there. She leaned her skis and poles beside the back door and stepped into the kitchen. The cabin felt empty. She shook off her disappointment and decided to go ahead and sauna alone. After that, she’d come back and clear a space for the Christmas tree.

While the sauna heated, she cut herself a slice of dark bread and ate it with butter and honey. She poured a big glass of juice. As she drank it, she made a decision definitely to take the next day off. She’d spend it with Cork somehow, the whole day. Maybe get him on his skis over on the North Arm trails. Or maybe just lounge in bed all day. It would be a first, whatever they did, because at the end of it, he wouldn’t have to leave.

She went to the wall phone by the refrigerator, intending to call the Pinewood. The phone was dead. That wasn’t too unusual. Ice on the lines sometimes brought them down. Or a tree that fell in the wind. She’d take care of it later.

She rinsed out the juice glass, put away the butter and honey, and wiped the bread crumbs from the cutting board. She was just about to step outside and head down to the sauna when she heard the groan of an old plank on the stairway.

“Cork?” she called, startled. “Is that you?”

Stepping into the main room, she looked toward the stairs and listened. On impulse, she checked the woodbox. The paper sack that held the plastic bag full of negatives was still hidden under the logs. She walked to the stairs and stood looking up toward the second floor. Not a sound anywhere. The old place often gave a groan here or there, and she never took notice. But the bag was in the cabin now, and that made a difference

A single knock at the back door brought her around suddenly. She made her way cautiously to the kitchen. She couldn’t see anyone waiting on the back steps, and she debated opening the door. Why only one knock? she asked herself. And who would knock once and then leave? Finally she reached for the knob and opened the door.

A ski fell in. She jumped back startled, then laughed at herself. It was a ski that had come knocking. One of her skis that had fallen against the door. She laughed at herself. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was getting to her.

She went upstairs and took a fresh fluffy towel from the bathroom and a pair of white socks from her bedroom dresser, then headed down to the sauna. In the dressing room, she took her clothes off and laid them carefully on the bench. Between the heat from the stove and the sunlight streaming through the windows, the room felt warm and inviting. She took the pair of white socks to wear when she ran onto the ice and she stepped into the sauna. Except for the firelight through the grating of the stove, the small room was dark. She dipped water from a bucket and threw it on the heated stones and an explosion of steam rose up. She sat on the highest bench. In a few minutes she was sweating profusely.

Closing her eyes, she began to let herself dream. Not sleep dreaming, but dreaming of how her life might be. It was a thing she didn’t often do. In her experience, good things came with great difficulty and were too easily snatched away. She’d long ago learned to accept what she had at any given moment and try to be happy with only that. She could think about the future, plan even, but not expect. It was the expectation that was the trap.

But there she was, dripping in the sauna, expecting great things of her future with Cork. It was foolish, she knew, but she let herself indulge, just this once. She was happy, happier than she could ever remember.

The door toward the lake swung open and blinding sunlight invaded her dark. She blinked at it, saw a big silhouette fill the doorway.

“Cork?” she asked, shielding her eyes, trying to see.

The silhouetted figure took a step toward her, coming in with the cold. “Guess again.”