amused with himself. “And it’s not Calhoun.”
She brushed off the butt of her jeans. “You’re going to pay for that. I don’t know how yet, but trust me...”
“Someone has to teach you how to have a little fun, Maggie,” he said.
“Well, it’s not going to be you, Carlisle.”
He just shook his head and laughed. Then he worked on tilling the garden plot.
To find yourself, think for yourself.
—Socrates
Chapter 4
The days were getting just a little longer, a little warmer. Flowers were starting to sprout along roadsides and trails. It was turning beautiful in and around Sullivan’s Crossing. Sully wasn’t able to plant his bulbs around the house but Maggie did it for him, with his relentless supervision.
Maggie and Sully had been back for five days and she’d driven to Timberlake as many times. First for some fresh vegetables and salmon, then for seedlings for Sully’s garden along with fertilizer, then for some fish and chicken breasts. She went ahead and stocked up on frozen shrimp and ground turkey and she spent a lot of time on her laptop looking up heart-healthy meals.
This was not how Maggie envisioned her escape from reality. She’d been hoping to relax and empty her brain of all those disappointments and worries. But this? She was working her tail off. She was not used to cooking, for one thing. When she was working she typically ate hospital food which, paradoxically, was not the healthiest. It was so starchy, cafeteria quality. It wasn’t the food they served patients, either. If not eating at the hospital, she’d grab something on the way home, something light—there was a conveniently located grocer and deli that sold prepared meals for one. And then there were the times she went out with friends or some of the staff for a meal and they were partial to either sushi or Italian.
But now she was working hard at feeding Sully delicious things to at least intrigue him rather than bore him to death. Before, when Maggie was at the campground, they’d decide what they were having for dinner and meet at about seven, throw a steak, burgers or maybe some chicken breasts on the grill. And they’d eat their meat with fries or potato chips.
She was already tired of this new routine.
She also watched while Cal got the garden ready. This was not his first garden. He created neat, straight rows of slightly raised dirt, ready for planting.
There were two fishermen in the campground and one older couple in an RV. The couple was interested in getting pictures of the wildflowers that were springing up all over, some even popping through the snow at the higher elevations. Because there was still so little traffic there was a sign on the front door of the store—Winter Hours, 8-5.
After dinner one evening, she walked over to the store to pilfer a beer and she saw there was a campfire on the beach, one lone man enjoying the mild evening. She grabbed two beers and walked down to the lake. He was sitting on top of a picnic table, feet on the bench, his elbows on his knees. His short brown hair was wet, as was the collar of his sweatshirt. He’d had a shower and shave.
“Evening, Caldwell,” she said.
He turned toward her in surprise and she handed him a beer. “Caldwell?” he asked. “You’re getting desperate.”
“That’s true, but not about your name. I’m getting a little restless.”
“Maybe it’s time to go back to work,” he said. He toasted her, clinking the neck of her beer with his.
“I do a lot of chores around this place. Sully has always been a tough taskmaster. I’ve always had to haul stock, sweep, clean, chop wood, dig out trenches, clean gutters, clean that damn bathroom and shower, work in the store, but never what I’ve been doing this time—cleaning house, cooking dinner. I’m already bored with my little housewifely duties and I’m getting cabin fever. I’m sick of heart-healthy food. If I see one more hunk of fish I’m going to gag. Sully
She brushed off the butt of her jeans. “You’re going to pay for that. I don’t know how yet, but trust me...”
“Someone has to teach you how to have a little fun, Maggie,” he said.
“Well, it’s not going to be you, Carlisle.”
He just shook his head and laughed. Then he worked on tilling the garden plot.
To find yourself, think for yourself.
—Socrates
Chapter 4
The days were getting just a little longer, a little warmer. Flowers were starting to sprout along roadsides and trails. It was turning beautiful in and around Sullivan’s Crossing. Sully wasn’t able to plant his bulbs around the house but Maggie did it for him, with his relentless supervision.
Maggie and Sully had been back for five days and she’d driven to Timberlake as many times. First for some fresh vegetables and salmon, then for seedlings for Sully’s garden along with fertilizer, then for some fish and chicken breasts. She went ahead and stocked up on frozen shrimp and ground turkey and she spent a lot of time on her laptop looking up heart-healthy meals.
This was not how Maggie envisioned her escape from reality. She’d been hoping to relax and empty her brain of all those disappointments and worries. But this? She was working her tail off. She was not used to cooking, for one thing. When she was working she typically ate hospital food which, paradoxically, was not the healthiest. It was so starchy, cafeteria quality. It wasn’t the food they served patients, either. If not eating at the hospital, she’d grab something on the way home, something light—there was a conveniently located grocer and deli that sold prepared meals for one. And then there were the times she went out with friends or some of the staff for a meal and they were partial to either sushi or Italian.
But now she was working hard at feeding Sully delicious things to at least intrigue him rather than bore him to death. Before, when Maggie was at the campground, they’d decide what they were having for dinner and meet at about seven, throw a steak, burgers or maybe some chicken breasts on the grill. And they’d eat their meat with fries or potato chips.
She was already tired of this new routine.
She also watched while Cal got the garden ready. This was not his first garden. He created neat, straight rows of slightly raised dirt, ready for planting.
There were two fishermen in the campground and one older couple in an RV. The couple was interested in getting pictures of the wildflowers that were springing up all over, some even popping through the snow at the higher elevations. Because there was still so little traffic there was a sign on the front door of the store—Winter Hours, 8-5.
After dinner one evening, she walked over to the store to pilfer a beer and she saw there was a campfire on the beach, one lone man enjoying the mild evening. She grabbed two beers and walked down to the lake. He was sitting on top of a picnic table, feet on the bench, his elbows on his knees. His short brown hair was wet, as was the collar of his sweatshirt. He’d had a shower and shave.
“Evening, Caldwell,” she said.
He turned toward her in surprise and she handed him a beer. “Caldwell?” he asked. “You’re getting desperate.”
“That’s true, but not about your name. I’m getting a little restless.”
“Maybe it’s time to go back to work,” he said. He toasted her, clinking the neck of her beer with his.
“I do a lot of chores around this place. Sully has always been a tough taskmaster. I’ve always had to haul stock, sweep, clean, chop wood, dig out trenches, clean gutters, clean that damn bathroom and shower, work in the store, but never what I’ve been doing this time—cleaning house, cooking dinner. I’m already bored with my little housewifely duties and I’m getting cabin fever. I’m sick of heart-healthy food. If I see one more hunk of fish I’m going to gag. Sully
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