Read Online An Accidental Woman by Barbara Delinsky - Free Book Online Page A

lake of the same name in central New Hampshire, and this, folks, is the stuff of which getaway dreams are made. There’s no making a wrong turn in a maze of avenues here; a single main street runs through the center of town and continues all the way around the lake. Uh, excuse me”—he thrust the mike toward a man who approached—“excuse me, could you tell us—”
    The man walked by before the request was out.
    Undaunted, the reporter resumed his narrative. “Behind me, you see the police station, the church, and the library. These three buildings hold all of the official business that is part and parcel of town life.”
    Griffin had been in each of the three buildings, and felt pleasure seeing them again. Each was made of wood and painted white with black shutters. The police station was low and long; the library was stately and tall; the church had a storied look, with a spire that stretched high into the tops of the trees.
    â€œThe town clerk and the registrar work out of the police station,” the reporter explained. “The library rents its top floor to the Lake Henry Commission, and the basement of the church houses the historical society. The Commission, by the way, focuses on environmental issues, and since these are the top priority for the local folk, the Commission is the powerhouse of the town. When it comes to deciding other issues, Lake Henry is one of the last in the state to retain a town meeting form of government. Led by a duly-elected moderator, the townsfolk gather in the church for two nights every March to vote on issues of concern to the town for the upcoming year.”
    Griffin knew all this. Having grown up in Manhattan, though, he was as charmed hearing about these things now as he had been learning them last fall.
    â€œThe post office is that brick building across the street,” the reporter said, and the camera zoomed in. “The yellow Victorian behind it is the local newspaper office. But if you want to experience the heart of this little town, you cross the street to my right.” The camera shifted to a sprawl of crimson clapboard. “That is the general store, owned for generations by the Owens family. This is where townsfolk pick up groceries, medicines, newspapers, greeting cards, and gifts. Charlie Owens and his wife, Annette, run it now, helped in shifts by their five children, and they have expanded and changed it to keep up with the times. The café still serves breakfast all day, but the quiche on the menu is as likely to contain porta-bello mushrooms as cheddar cheese, the bread is homemade, thick, and filled with goodies like wheat germ and nuts, and the lunch sandwiches are served on baguettes with avocado slices and bean sprouts. Uh, excuse me?” He tried to snag another passerby, a woman this time. When she too walked on, he smiled at the camera without missing a beat. “Back at Charlie’s, though, some things never change. The main part of the store centers around a woodstove, just as it did when Charlie Owens’ grandfather had his little one-room shop. Townsfolk gravitate toward the chairs around that stove to talk about the weather and share the latest gossip. This is particularly true in winter,” he added, pulling up his collar over cheeks that were already ruddy.
    It was cold in New Hampshire, but that didn’t discourage Griffin. He had initially seen Lake Henry in autumn, when the roadsides were awash with color and the air smelled of sweet cider. During his last trip there, it had snowed. As frustrated as he had been at making no progress with Poppy, he had loved that snow. Seeing it there on the ground now, he smiled.
    The reporter went on with a billow of white breath. “I’m told that the weather here today is typical. But along with the chill in the air comes something else—the peace and splendor of winter in an out-of-the-way New England town. Standing here in Lake Henry is