Chapter Thirteen
Kelsey
Marc has just told me he is making Cady Springs his home base, and I am standing in his arms worrying about rental policies. There may be something fundamentally wrong with me.
Around us, the Fletcher reunion continues at full volume.
A child races past carrying a paper plate with nothing on it except three cookies.
Someone calls for more ice. The oldest Fletcher sits beneath a quilt near the firepit while four generations move around her, and the lights above them glow without so much as a flicker.
The gathering has become exactly what Suzanne wanted. Loud, crowded, and full of people who traveled a long way to be together. I look at Marc in the middle of it and realize he has made a journey of his own, although he has not promised where it will end.
Neither have I.
“Your strict policies include a rental agreement,” I tell him. “And a security deposit.”
“I can provide references.”
“I spoke to your employer before approving the reservation.”
“Then you already know I am responsible and excellent with my hands.”
“I don’t remember anyone mentioning the last part.”
He gives me a sly smile. “I can arrange a demonstration.”
Heat rises beneath my shirt despite the cool air moving off the lake. “You already did. Several of them.”
“And yet you still sound undecided.”
“About the security deposit, not the demonstrations.”
Marc bends and kisses me. It is brief enough for the crowd around us, but his hand spreads across my lower back, and I feel the promise of later in the way his thumb moves once against my spine.
When he lifts his head, someone begins clapping. We turn together. A cluster of Fletchers has gathered near the picnic tables, but only the ninety-one-year-old grandmother is looking directly at us. She raises one hand in a regal little wave.
“That’s Grandma Ruth,” Suzanne calls from beside the fire. “She doesn’t miss anything.”
“I can tell,” I mutter.
Marc waves back without the slightest embarrassment.
The next hour disappears into the work of hosting.
A breaker trips in Cabin Two when the Fletchers plug two slow cookers, an electric griddle, and a coffee urn into outlets served by the same kitchen circuit.
The repaired branch has nothing to do with it, and the breaker does exactly what it is designed to do.
I begin moving the coffee urn to a different circuit while Marc stands beside the panel.
“May I?” he asks.
The question is quiet, meant only for me. I know what he is doing. He is not asking because he doubts how to reset a breaker. He is showing me that our argument did not disappear merely because we kissed afterward.
“Yes,” I say. “Please reset it after I move the urn.”
He waits until I call from the kitchen, then restores the circuit. The slow cookers begin bubbling again. No one applauds this time, although Uncle Dean does offer Marc a deviled egg.
By nine, the youngest children are asleep and the older ones are roasting marshmallows.
I make one last circuit of the cabins before allowing myself to sit beside Marc at the edge of the lake.
The moon hangs over the dark ridge, laying a pale path across the water.
Beyond the fire and the strings of lights, the mountains rise in layers beneath a clear Colorado sky.
Marc hands me a mug of coffee. “Decaf.”
“How did you know?”
“Millie warned me about giving you caffeine after six.”
“Millie has become far too involved in my life.”
“She also told me you hate canned whipped cream and pretend not to like the cinnamon rolls she saves for you.”
“Millie is a little traitor.”
“She seems proud of it.”
I take a drink and lean against him. Marc tucks one arm around me, his body warm against the chill settling over the shoreline. We sit without talking for a while, watching the moonlight move whenever the lake stirs.
“You asked what living here requires,” I say at last. “This is the easy season.”
“I assumed the frozen pipes came later.”
“Usually January. Sometimes December if winter is feeling ambitious.” I pull my feet onto the bench and turn toward him.
“Eight Pines stays open year-round, but winter is different. Weekends fill with couples, families who want snow, and men convinced the fish will bite better through a hole in the ice. Midweek can be quiet. I close one or two cabins at a time for maintenance, keep the paths cleared, and watch the weather like it owes me money.”
“You plow all this yourself?”
“I have a man who handles the parking area and main drive. I clear the porches and paths unless the snow is deep enough to require help.”
“And the lake freezes?”
“Most years. Not always evenly, which means I spend a great deal of time telling visitors that pretty ice is not necessarily safe ice.”
Marc looks out over the black water as if he can already see it under snow. “I want to be here for that.”
The simplicity of the statement tightens my throat. He does not tell me how he will improve winter operations. He does not begin listing the equipment I should buy or the work he could take over. He merely wants to see the place I love in a season that is harder to love.
“Cabin Seven isn’t ideal for a long-term tenant,” I warn him. “It is one of my smaller rentals.”
“I noticed.”
“You barely unpacked.”
“I attempted to shower this morning. My shoulder hit one wall, and my ass turned off the water.”
I laugh into my coffee. “That sounds efficient.”
“It was cold.”
“Then you may need a bigger cabin. And definitely a bigger shower.”
“Eventually.” His arm tightens around me. “For now, I spend most nights next door anyway.”
“That is an assumption.”
“Is it wrong?”
I should tell him we still need boundaries. I should point out that he has chosen a job, not signed a lifetime contract with me. Instead, I remember waking inside his arms and how natural it felt to find him in my kitchen.
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t wrong.”
Marc sets our mugs aside and turns me fully toward him. “I have to go to Denver tomorrow after the project handoff.”
The happiness inside me flinches. “For how long?”
“One night, maybe two. I need to close out the apartment, collect the rest of my things, and meet with the regional director Monday morning. Then I’m coming back.”
I hear the old instinct telling me to protect myself before he can change his mind. It sounds like my ex. It sounds like every guest who promised to return next year and never did. It does not sound like Marc.
“All right,” I say.
He studies my face. “That’s all?”
“Would you prefer a dramatic scene? I can throw myself across the hood of your truck tomorrow.”
“Tempting, but hard on the paint.”
“Then I will trust you to come back.”
The teasing leaves his expression. “You can.”
“I know.”
The words are new and frightening, but they are true.
Marc kisses me beneath the moon while the Fletchers laugh around the fire behind us. When his mouth moves over mine, I feel all the risks I have been counting since he arrived. I also feel the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. For once, I allow myself to count that too.