A Dark Path #7
Certain places make an imprint on your life. They stay with you long after you’ve left. No matter how many years pass, all it takes is a smell or play of light or even a song to take you back. And for an instant, time ceases to exist; you’re back in that place, and it’s as if you’ve never left.
The power of a young mind, I think.
After breakfast, Tomasetti and I spent the day walking the trails.
We saw our whitetail deer again and eventually made our way to the beach.
From there we headed west, toward the cabin where my family and I stayed when I was a kid, some twenty-three years ago.
It’s chilly this afternoon, and some of the snow still covers the ground.
But the sun is shining, the sky is brilliant and blue, and I didn’t want to leave without seeing this place one more time.
“That’s what I call rustic,” Tomasetti says.
We’re standing on the beach at the back of the Meadowlark Cabin. According to Lovina, they retired the aging structure nearly a decade ago, when a spring storm damaged the roof. From the looks of it, nature is slowly reclaiming what was hers to begin with.
I’ve looked back on this place a thousand times over the years, imagining what it would look like and how I would feel seeing it again.
As a kid, I couldn’t put into words exactly what it meant to me, how much I loved it, or even why.
Standing here today, I still can’t. All I know is that this cabin, the forest, the majesty of the lake, and those carefree days I spent with my family made one hell of an impression on the twelve-year-old Amish girl I’d been.
“Brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘shabby chic,’” I add, feeling the one-two punch as the memories strike me.
“Not much left,” Tomasetti says.
“Enos says they’re going to salvage everything they can this spring.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Repurpose all that gorgeous wood.”
Twenty years ago, the cabin was run-down. Of course, I didn’t notice the 1970s stove or the faux knotty-pine paneling, or floors that weren’t quite level. In my mind, the cabin was fanciful and exotic; it held mysteries I was destined to explore and the promise of endless adventures.
I study the ramshackle rear deck, the broken windowpanes, the siding that has been left unpainted and peeling. “A few more storms and she’ll be gone.”
“Must have been pretty back in the day,” Tomasetti says. “Big lot. Huge trees. Nice beach.”
I gesture to the side yard, which is now overgrown and wild. “Used to be a tire swing on the lowest branch of that oak tree.” The memories come fast and furious. “Jacob showed me how to lean back and stretch out my legs so I could swing higher.”
“Good to know he wasn’t always such a surly guy.”
“Stoic,” I say. “It’s just taken a little while to warm up to the Englischer I’m living with in sin.”
“I stand corrected.”
I give him a gentle elbow to the ribs anyway. “I’m glad I got to see this place one last time. With you.”
“Me, too.”
Turning, I look out at the lake, and for an instant I’m that Amish kid again, seeing the endless expanse of water for the first time, wondering about all the things beneath the surface, realizing just how big the world really was, and feeling the knowledge take the breath from my lungs.
“The lake was a far cry from our farm pond in Painters Mill,” I say.
“A little less muddy.”
“Fewer hogs.”
We grin at each other; then Tomasetti takes my hand and we start down the beach toward our cabin.
It’s been three days since the debacle at the marina. The snow is nearly gone and the sun has raised temps to a more seasonal fifty-two degrees. This is our last full day here. I wish we could stay another week, but I’m also anxious to get home. There’s a new life waiting for us there, too.
We’re enjoying the view, the rolling waves, the cries of the gulls when Tomasetti’s cell chimes. Giving me an I’ll-get-rid-of-them-quick look, he fishes it out of his pocket. His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller.
“I appreciate the update,” he says after a moment, and ends the call.
“News on the case?” I ask as we continue down the beach.
“That was the Ashtabula Sheriff’s Office,” he tells me. “Evidently, our friendly neighborhood firebug, Mr. Pawtowski, isn’t enjoying his accommodations at the county jail and asked to speak with the prosecutor this morning.”
“That’s an interesting development.”
“I thought so. According to the lieutenant, Pawtowski sang like a canary and has already started naming names.”
“I wonder if he included Louis Devlin.”
“First name out of his mouth.”
“So we were right,” I say.
He nods. “Pawtowski asserts Devlin hired him to set fire to the cabin that burned a few weeks ago. When that didn’t work, he asked him to do it again.
Evidently, Pawtowski is an accomplished pyromaniac with enough experience to cover his tracks so that the fire marshal ruled the cause of the blaze as undetermined. ”
“Is it enough to implicate Devlin?” I ask.
“The lieutenant wasn’t at liberty to get into the details.” Tomasetti clears his throat, telling me he was indeed briefed on the details. “But he intimated there’s a money trail. He thinks they’ll have enough to get a warrant and charge Devlin by week’s end.”
“Not quite a happy ending, but close.” I think about the Amish families that already sold their land and left. “At least the Nisleys can live out their golden years without the threat of someone burning down their cabins.”
“If it’s any consolation, the sellers were generously compensated for their land.”
“That helps,” I say. “A little.”
“It’s nice when justice prevails.” Tomasetti looks over at me. “I think there’s a moral in there somewhere.”
“I think there are a lot of morals to this story. Don’t ever forget about those special places. Don’t compromise when your heart tells you not to.”
He arches a brow. “Don’t mess with an Amish woman when she’s got a broom in her hands?”
I laugh. “If the broom fits…” Then I think about all the other ways the situation could have played out. “It took a lot of courage to do what Mrs. Nisley did.”
“It did,” he agrees. “I suspect Pawtowski didn’t stand a chance.”
Sharing a smile, we join hands and look out across the impossible blue of the lake. I’m considering taking off my shoes and braving the ice-cold water when Tomasetti speaks.
“Okay, Chief, since this is our last night, what do you say we break the seal on that bottle of Sangiovese and grill those nice yellow perch fillets chilling in the fridge?”
“Tomasetti, you’re a font of good ideas this afternoon.”
“I do my best.”
We reach the back of our cabin. I’m about to start up the steps that will take us to the deck when Tomasetti takes my hand and pulls me to him. “One more thing,” he says.
I fall against him, feel him press a kiss against my forehead, and then he eases me to arm’s length. “I’m sorry the cabin you stayed in when you were a kid is going away. I know you made some good memories here with your family. That’s important.”
I study his face. “Those memories got me through some dark times,” I tell him. “The summer when I was fourteen. After I left the Amish and I was alone.”
He brushes hair away from my face, touches my brow with his thumb. “That’s because the good things in this life always get us past the bad. I think it’s wise not to lose sight of that.”
“Since when did you become so philosophical, John Tomasetti?”
“I have my moments.” Hand in hand, we go up the steps to the deck. “Speaking of, I think this is probably a good time for us to start making some memories of our own.”
“Starting with that sunset?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“Hold that thought.” Standing on my tiptoes, I brush my mouth across his. “I’ll get the wine.”