“I was going to go for a walk. Didn’t you tell me there’s a natural hot tub—like a pond—out here somewhere?”
“Yes. If you can find it. It’s a bit of a hike—about two miles from where you are.” He gave her general directions—which included having to walk from the small island across the short bridge to the mainland. “Not many people know where it is, and no one really goes there because we have Lake Michigan and Wicks Lake.”
“Well I’m in the mood for a walk. I really need to clear my head before I can get to work. Why don’t you just pick me up down there by the hot tub—hot spring, I mean—instead of having to make a detour and come all the way up here to the island.”
“Sure. That makes it even easier. I’ll text when we’re close.”
Teddy disconnected and looked thoughtfully at her bathing suit. Something about churning, warm water in a natural habitat seemed like it would be a good way to clear her mind, get her creative juices flowing. If she could find the hot spring, maybe she could sit in it and veg for a while. Just let things flow. Relax. Get rid of the stress so the story could come to her.
With a satisfied smile, she dragged on her bluebell-colored one-piece suit.I really have to start working out, she thought. Having a sedentary job didn’t do a thing to help the size of her butt.
Then, after tossing a towel, a comb, and dry underthings into her large leather tote, she pulled on a loose but pretty sundress, stuck on her sunglasses, slid into sturdy sandals…and left the house. Feeling only slightly guilty.
Harriet would never have to know.
And an evening out in the fresh air, then with friends, would surely get things moving.
* * *
“What do you mean, there’s been a mistake?” Oscar London swiped a forearm across his forehead to catch the trickle of sweat, and the heavy bag of equipment he was holding clunked into his shoulder.
The college kid who’d obviously been sent as sacrificial lamb stammered, “Uh…well, Dr. London, I’m so sorry, but there was a last-minute booking that came in, and someoneelseapproved it, not realizing you’d already leased Stony Cape Cottage for the month—I mean, no one’s stayed here for years, and then all of a sudden two people wanted—and…so…well, there’s someone else staying here already.” He glanced at the door as if expecting said rival boarder to make an appearance.
Oscar looked at the three man-sized equipment bags he’d just lugged onto the porch of the keeper’s house, then back at the Jeep where a fourth one, as well as his backpack, sat, and shook his head firmly. “I’m not leaving. You people made the mistake, I paid for the rental, so you can just move your other client to another location.”
“Uhm…but, like, there’s…not any other location available. You see, it’s the beginning of July—that means high season in Wicks Hollow, and everything’s been booked for—”
“Look.” Oscar squinted out at the rippling blue of Lake Michigan. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but I need to stay here. I rented this place because of its location near a water ecosystem I’m going to be studying, and because I won’t be disturbed. Plus it has the space I need to set up my lab. So I’m not giving it up.”
“Well. Uh. You brought your ownrefrigerator?” The kid looked at the compact unit next to the rest of the equipment, then at Oscar, who just nodded wearily. “Well, uh…therearetwo bedroom suites. The other—er—tenant is staying in the bottom of the lighthouse. You could, like…both of you could stay.” He rushed out this suggestion. “I mean, the place is set up, like, for that. You each have your own suite.”
“Fine. I don’t care. As long as they don’t get in my way. Wait. How many of them are there?” With his luck, Oscar would end up sharing the damned place with a couple on their honeymoon.No fecking way.He thrust away visions of Marcie and Trevor.
“Just one person. A, uh, writer named Teddy Mack.”
“Right. He can leave if he wants, but I’m not going anywhere. Now let me finish unloading my stuff so I can get to work.” Oscar looked toward the narrow promontory from the mainland that was connected to this tiny island by a wood and metal bridge. The hot spring—the only known one in Michigan, and deliciously close to the Great Lake—was supposedly located just to the southeast of the finger-like peninsula.
“Do you…uh…want me to tell Teddy?” asked the kid.
“Huh?” Oscar turned from scanning the horizon. The sacrificial lamb was already edging off the porch, clearly ready to bleat and flee, so Oscar took pity on him. “No. I’ll take care of it. But if there are any problems, I’m sending him to you.”
“Yes. Of course. Oh, and the agency is offering a thirty percent discount on your stay for the inconvenience, or you can apply it to a future booking.” The kid was already at his car, preparing to climb in.
“Thirty percent? With a double booking, it should be at least a fifty percent discount,” Oscar grumbled under his breath. But the reality of solitude dangled in front of him, so he decided to hold off arguing about that in favor of being left alone.
Happily, for both of them, the young man drove off in his car as Oscar lugged the rest of his supplies inside.
Thirty minutes to set up the basics, then I’m off to find the only natural hot spring in Michigan.
It was a ridiculous way for a well-published PhD from Princeton to spend his summer, analyzing a tiny pool of water in Michigan when he had four other research projects he was managing with his grad students. And Oscar was fully aware that his plan would be little more than busywork. But it beat staying in New Jersey.
He just didn’t want to be anywhere near the city when Marcie married Trevor next weekend—because with his luck, he’d run into them, or her parents, or their mutual colleagues who’d been invited and had come to town. Including his sister, who was one of Marcie’s bridesmaids. So, since he wasn’t teaching any summer classes at the U, he got the hell out of Dodge.
So he was here. In a small, white, blue-shuttered cottage attached to a non-working lighthouse. It consisted of a one-room kitchen/dining/living space that didn’t appear to have air conditioning, but was equipped with very large ceiling fans. A space he was going to have to share with a writer. Oscar mumbled a curse.
At least writers were supposed to be antisocial. Maybe the guy would be locked up in his bedroom in the lighthouse all day, working on whatever he was working on.
One thing was sure: the bloody writer wasn’t going to be using the living room or kitchen, because that was where Oscar was setting up his lab.
