The Lost Women of Lost Lake (3 page)

“Why are you going to Lost Lake?”

“Why not?”

“Is this a philosophical debate?”

“No. Strictly practical. I promised Tessa I'd take over the last week of rehearsals for the play she's directing.”

“Is that really necessary? She'll be in a walking boot tomorrow.”

“You know Tessa. A hangnail is cause to summon the paramedics.”

It was true. Tessa was a world-class hypochondriac.

“I see this as an opportunity to right a wrong. We haven't been up there to see Jill and Tessa in three years. Don't you think we owe them a visit? And beyond that, the last week of rehearsals for any play is crucial. If Tessa misses a day or two, it could be fatal.”

Tessa and Cordelia had a lot in common, in Jane's opinion. They were both drama divas.

“It's an Ayckbourn farce,” continued Cordelia. “A staple of small community theaters. I've directed it so many times that I can jump in quickly. I don't have anything pressing at the Allen Grimby right now, and Melissa's on assignment in Rochester. Sure, Tessa might be able to find someone to carry her on a bier to the theater for the final rehearsal on Wednesday night, but before that, we have to get through the tech stuff. The preview is scheduled for Thursday. Once the play opens, the director becomes irrelevant. I'm not saying
I
would become irrelevant.”

“Of course not.”

“A few days of my time is all she needs. Jill said they'd give the two of us adjoining rooms. All meals comped. Come on, Janey. What are friends for?” She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head toward the car in the drive. “We'll have a blast. It'll be just like old times. You and me tearing up the backroads. Cruising the lake on the pontoon. Cannonballing off the dock. Playing shuffleboard by flashlight. Remember those caramel rolls they make at the Jacaranda Café in town? Ambrosia.” She kissed her fingertips.

Jane and Cordelia had been friends with Tessa and Jill for nearly twenty years, ever since Cordelia had produced and directed one of Tessa's plays at the Blackburn Playhouse. While Jane's partner, Christine, had been alive, they'd visited Thunderhook at least once every summer. And because Tessa was a dedicated foodie, and Jill loved the cross-country ski trails at Lebanon Hills in Apple Valley, they usually came down every winter and stayed for a week. Cordelia was right. They both had great memories.

“And we wouldn't be gone that long,” said Cordelia, continuing to make her pitch.

In Jane's opinion, Tessa could be a lot of fun, but she was also a true pain in the ass. “She can't be an easy patient. I'm sure Jill could use some help.”

“You could do a few meals. And I could handle the rehearsals.”

Jane crossed into the living room, to a picture window overlooking Blackberry Lake. A black man in denim overalls and a canvas boonie hat sat in a rowboat a few hundred yards from shore, his fishing line in the water. Mouse relaxed in the sun at the end of the dock, keeping him company. “I don't know. I'm not sure I can leave him. He's only been here a few days.”

A. J. Nolan was a retired homicide cop who worked these days as a private investigator. In early May, he'd taken a bullet in the stomach—a bullet that was meant for Jane. She already loved him as a friend, and now she owed him her life.

“He'll be fine,” said Cordelia, searching through the refrigerator for another soda. “He's just here to recuperate. He can do that with or without you. Don't you have any more blackberry soda?”

“Try the clementine.”

She dug around. “Nolan's got his car, so he can drive himself into town if he needs groceries.”

Jane had a couple more weeks before she had to return to work. She'd invited Nolan out to the cabin to stay as long as he liked. His digestion was still giving him problems, as was his back, although he was growing stronger every day. If she did agree to go with Cordelia—and she had to admit that she was tempted—she and Nolan would still have some time together when she got back. He didn't have any pressing reasons to return to the Twin Cities and seemed to be enjoying himself fishing and just hanging out. “Let me talk to him.”

“I'll help.”

“No. Just me. And if I catch any hesitation from him
at all,
I'm not going.”

*   *   *

Several hours—and a stop at a roadhouse for lunch—later, Jane and Cordelia were on their way up Highway 169, driving through a patchwork quilt of small towns, prairie, and corn fields.

“Nolan said he'd enjoy a few days by himself,” said Jane, cleaning her sunglasses with the edge of her blue chambray shirt. “He's lived alone since his wife died and said he's grown to like it. Besides, without me around, there'd be more fish for him.”

Cordelia roared around a slow-moving truck. “See, what did I tell you? And you'll be back before you know it.”

“It'll be fun to see Jill and Tessa again. It's been too long. I would guess that Tessa isn't in the best mood.”

“Is she ever? As Bertie Wooster once put it, she's ‘experienced some difficulty in detecting the bluebird.'”

“I don't think she trusts many people.”

“Why should she? Look at where she lives. Jill and Tessa are the only out lesbians in all of Lost Lake. Small towns are steaming cauldrons of gossip to begin with. If Tessa wasn't a playwright, successful in the eyes of the world, and if Jill's family hadn't built the one truly great resort in the area, they might not find the populace quite so friendly.”

“The world is changing.”

“Granted. But in small-town America, I wouldn't bet on finding a lot of social ecumenism. That's all I'm saying. Tessa has a right to protect her privacy.”

“Then again, it's hard to be private when you lead such a public life.”

Cordelia turned to stare. “No it's not. That's the beauty of her chosen profession. If you want to be creative and at the same time fade into the woodwork, become a playwright. It's a nearly invisible career path.”

“Seriously?”

“Are you kidding me? The only other writer I can think of who's more invisible is a poet.”

“Doesn't say much for our society.”

“You mean when teenage blondes with bad attitudes, bad voices, and brutal boyfriends become entertainment icons? It's our culture, Janey. Love it or leave it.”

*   *   *

On their way through Grand Rapids, Cordelia insisted on stopping so they could put the top up on the convertible. It was beginning to look like rain and she wasn't interested in getting her costume wet.

“I wear clothes,” said Jane. “Not costumes.”

“I know,” said Cordelia dryly. “And with all the holes in the knees of your jeans, I'd be more inclined to call them rags.”

“I'm on vacation.”

“Your point is?”

They sped out of town on Highway 38, heading for the Chippewa National Forest.

“So many lakes up here,” said Jane. “Did you know that there are at least a thousand in just this one area?”

“Easy to imagine one of them getting lost,” said Cordelia, slipping a Cheryl Wheeler CD into the Harman Kardon CD player and turning up the volume.

Years ago, Jane had found a brochure that detailed the history of the resort and the town. Lost Lake owed its existence, in no small part, to Jill's great-grandparents, Lars and Maj Ivorsen. A black-and-white photo on the brochure's cover showed the two of them in work clothes, sleeves rolled up past their elbows, swinging a hammer along with four others, the partially built three-story log structure in the background. In constructing Thunderhook, they'd created a resort that wasn't just state-of-the-art for the nineteen twenties, but unique in its own right. The artistic influences were various—art deco, Native American, Scandinavian. A vacation resort and fishing lodge in the summer, a cross-country ski lodge and snow playground in the winter, Thunderhook had become
the
destination in the Chippewa National Forest for those who wanted something more than the plain, rough fishing and hunting cabins the smaller resorts offered.

Thunderhook had kept the economy of the town alive through the worst of the Depression, primarily because, even then, there were enough wealthy people around who could pay to get away from the hurly-burly of the city to spend some quality time enjoying nature—as long as nature afforded them a respectable dining experience every morning and evening and had the amenities they considered essential.

Many years later, because of its reputation inside the state, Lost Lake had become what it was today—a picturesque, quaint lakeside town with a jewel of a resort at its center. The downtown featured art galleries stocked with artwork by local artists and artisans, half a dozen gift shops, a local newspaper, and another half dozen excellent restaurants and cafés. “We turn right up ahead,” said Jane. “That should be Larson Lake Road.”

“You know, Janey, there's something terribly manly about being in the woods.” Cordelia puffed out her anything-but-manly chest. “Good thing I brought plenty of plaid with me.”

“Seems like you packed for an army.” Jane glanced around at the trunk in the backseat.

“I never know what my mood will be on any given day.”

Seven miles and three Cheryl Wheeler songs later, they made another right, this time heading through the outskirts of Lost Lake. The closer they got to the center of town, the more
FOR SALE
signs they saw in front yards.

“This is depressing,” said Cordelia, her gaze sliding from one side of the street to the other.

When they reached Main Street, Jane noticed that several of the gift shops, a couple of the galleries, and one of the restaurants had closed their doors. Other businesses were shut down too, with
FOR RENT
signs displayed prominently inside bare windows. In years past, the central downtown streets had been festooned with large hanging flower baskets. These were also gone, perhaps another victim of the economic downturn.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they passed the old painted wood sign for Thunderhook Lodge, dark blue letters on a canary yellow background, Cordelia hung a left toward the lake and parked in the circular drive in front of the building. The lodge, which faced the lake, sat nestled into a broad stretch of tall, straight, white pine.

Trying to work a little something positive back into the gloom, Jane rolled down her window, breathed deeply and said, “Smell that air.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Cordelia. “The great outdoors. Pine. Wood smoke. Silage. Cow. The occasional skunk. Can't get enough of it. Let's go in and scare up Jill.”

The main lobby featured a stone fireplace, beamed ceilings with log trusses, full round chinked and varnished log walls, and a series of small paned windows that overlooked the lake. The furniture was old and rustic. Even in summer, a fire burned in the fireplace, welcoming guests inside.

Coming through the heavy log door, Jane waved at Jill, who was standing behind the reception desk.

Jill hooted. She disappeared into the back room and came out a side hall a few seconds later.

“You made it before the storm,” she said, wrapping them each in a hug. “Where's your luggage?”

“Still in the car,” said Jane.

Jill's enthusiasm was as infections as ever. “I've put you on the second floor. Both rooms have a bedroom and a sitting area. One of them has a small kitchenette, the other a Jacuzzi. I'll let you fight it out for who gets what.”

“Dibs on the Jacuzzi,” said Cordelia.

Jill held their hands. “It's so great to see you two.”

Like Dorian Gray, she must have owned a painting of herself in an attic, one that aged for her, because she looked the same as ever.

“How was your drive up?”

“Uneventful,” said Cordelia.

“Which means we didn't run in to any moose,” said Jane. “Cordelia thinks the woods up here are lousy with them.”

“They are,” said Jill, directing her gaze at Cordelia's clothing. “They especially like women in leopardskin dresses. I'll help with the bags. We'll get you all settled in your rooms and then we can walk down to the cottage. Tessa's waiting for us.”

“I think we may need a forklift for Cordelia's trunk,” said Jane on their way outside.

“Ah, yes,” said Jill. “The trunk. Not many people travel with them these days.”

Cordelia huffed. “If it was good enough for John Jacob Astor, it's good enough for me.”

“Astor died on the
Titanic,
” said Jane.

“Which is why I never travel by steamship.”

4

Jonah Ivorsen ambled along the shoulder of Highway 169 with his thumb out, iBuds planted firmly in his ears and his iPod playing an old Stones CD. He'd been lucky all day, first by catching a semi from Iowa City up to Albert Lee, and then climbing aboard a Mayflower Moving van all the way to Hill City. From where he stood right now to Lost Lake was about sixty-five miles. Too far to walk and yet enticingly close. After a couple of days on the road, he felt totally grody and was looking forward to a shower and some clean clothes.

Jonah had spent the last few days feeling like a traitor for leaving his mom and dad in St. Louis, especially with the mess they were in. Without him around, he figured they could scream at each other 24/7 without needing to censor themselves. Sometimes he thought they should just bag it—get a divorce and move to opposite ends of the universe. All he knew for sure was that he had one year of high school left and he intended to spend it in Lost Lake, not that lame-ass Webster Groves High with its billion students, all of whom knew each other and had no room for a new guy. Family solidarity be damned. This was
his senior year
. If he could somehow get his aunts on his side, he might be able to persuade his parents to let him move back. At least, that was the working theory.