Johnny
It had only taken me a matter of days to ruin Poppy's life.
That was all I could think about as we rode along the lake from Chicago to a little town called Fennville, about twenty minutes from my place.
Poppy had that old helmet on, her arms wrapped around my waist, her head tucked into my shoulder.
I'd told her we could take the car and leave the bike, but she said she wanted the thrill of it, the time to think with the wind in her hair.
I appreciated her warmth behind me, but I was worried as hell.
She wasn't okay.
She loved her job. She loved helping people fall in love, loved seeing their families grow. She was a force of nature of her own particular kind, spring flowers and melting snow. I didn't want to ruin that.
But she was coming with me to Due North. Because she’d asked.
I wasn't going to tell her no.
We pulled off the highway and onto the two-lane road that ran along the lakeshore, the water visible through the bare trees to our left—grey and enormous, nothing like the manicured lakefront in Chicago. This was the real character of the Great Lakes, unruly and cold, beautiful in its enormity.
I felt Poppy lift her head slightly.
Slowed down to give her a second with it, with this vast thing that had been here long before us and would outlive us by millennia.
Eventually we turned off the lake road and onto the gravel drive, trees closing in on either side, bare branches against the grey November sky.
It was almost dark out; I normally would have reserved morning for a ride, but she wanted out of the city right away.
The driveway was a quarter mile, and it just got prettier as we approached the distillery.
In Chicago, I lived sparingly…but that was because it wasn’t really home. It was where I did business, where I had family, yeah. This, though? This was home.
The distillery had been here for a decade, a repurposed barn I’d bought cheap while I lived in a trailer on the property and saved up.
The house was new; three years ago, I’d hired an architect to design and build the place from the ground up.
It wasn’t finished yet…the east wing still framed out, wrapped in Tyvek for the winter, waiting for spring and the crew I’d booked through march.
I’d been in no hurry. Didn’t know what I was finishing it for, exactly, until about five days ago.
I cut the engine in front of bar.
The quiet surrounded us, wrapped us in its embrace. All you could hear was the wind off the lake and the tick of the cooling bike and the distant sound of water. Poppy had mentioned once that she loved going to the lake in Chicago, especially in the winter when it was bitter cold and beautiful.
I’d filed that away, not knowing why until now.
She climbed off and pulled the helmet free, her red hair flying around her in the lake wind. She didn’t touch it; just stood there looking at the property in the last of the grey November light.
The barn. The house. The framed east wing. The treeline…and beyond that, the water.
I got off the bike and took her hand.
“You wanna go down and see the lake before it gets too dark or do you want to get inside where it’s warm?” I asked.
She looked at me, eyes wide. “The lake—it’s that close?”
I pointed through the trees. “About ten minutes through those woods.”
“The lake,” she said, a smile on her lips.
We went.
It was dark, but I’d had a little boardwalk put in last summer, lit by solar lanterns. Our feet drummed on the wood as we walked, the sound of Lake Michigan getting closer, louder. The weather had been windy; the waves were bigger than usual, crashing on the rocky shore.
Poppy let out a long exhale when it came into view.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
She rubbed her arms, shivering even in her jacket. “You don’t realize how big they are, you know?” she said. “Like…yeah, I knew they were great, but coming from Kansas—they’re like an ocean. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with Chicago. I’ll never get over it.”
“Different further north,” I said. “And they all have a different character. Michigan, Huron, Superior…different beasts, every one, and that’s not even considering the different coasts.”
She nodded slowly, watching the water come in. “Is it always this rough?”
“November on the lake? Pretty much.” I hummed. “Summer it goes glassy some mornings. You can see straight down to the bottom near the shore.”
She looked up at me. “So this is where you actually spend money?”
I laughed softly. “Yup. This is where all the money goes. Right here into this property…into our home.”
Shit.
Our home.
I hadn't planned to say it. It had just come out.
I watched her face, waiting to see if it was too much.
She turned back to the water.
"Our home," she repeated quietly
"Too fast?" I said.
She was quiet for a moment. The waves came in and broke on the rocks and pulled back and came in again.
"You know what's funny," she said. "I've been telling myself this whole week that it's too fast. That five days isn't enough to know anything. But…then I stand here and I can't make myself believe it."
"Because it isn't five days," I said. "Not really."
"No," she agreed. "Not really."
She leaned into me and I put my arm around her and we watched the lake together. It was almost full dark now, just the white of the waves visible and the last grey light on the water.
"Growing up in Detroit," I said, "kids from certain families had lake houses. You knew who they were. You knew what it meant. I told myself when I was maybe fifteen that I was going to have land on this lake someday."
She looked up at me.
"Took me a while," I said.
“But you got here," she said.
"Yeah." I looked out at the water. "I got here."
She smiled. “And now I’m here too.”
I couldn’t help but kiss her.
I lifted her chin with my other hand and pulled her face up to mine…closing my eyes, enjoying it, standing here on this property. Three kids with red hair playing on this beach in the summer. The picture ran through my head on repeat.
“You wanna see the house now?” I asked.
She nodded.
We walked back up the boardwalk, and I pulled our things out of the saddlebags on my bike. Unlocked the door…reached in to hit the lights. Poppy stepped in behind me, her breath leaving her in a woosh as she got her first glimpse of the place.
It was a good house; I wasn’t modest about that. Open floor plan, fieldstone fireplace taking up most of the far wall, kitchen running along the north side with good counter space and a floor to ceiling window over the sink that looked out toward the barn. Wide plank floors, real wood.
It still smelled like sawdust at times, probably always would.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not finished.”
“It’s perfect,” she breathed. She walked toward the fireplace, trailing her fingers along the mantel. “But…could use more decorations. Family photos, some artwork maybe? House plants?”
My lips curved. “Guess you could say it needs a woman’s touch.”
Her eyes found mine. “One specific woman, I hope?”
I chuckled and went to the fireplace to get it started.
Poppy was in the kitchen now, opening up the fridge. “I’m starving,” she murmured. “And—you have real food?”
“I have a nice lady from town deliver groceries once a week and stock up,” I said, stacking wood in the hearth. “Pay her well to keep an eye on the place.”
“What’s town like?”
“Small, cozy, friendly.” I paused. “They don’t know much about me, other than that I bring rich tourists through every so often. Might be less charitable if they knew about my past.”
Poppy was quiet for a moment, moving things around in the fridge.
"Do you worry about that?" she asked. "People finding out?"
"Used to," I said. The fire was catching now, the kindling taking. "Less now. The people who matter already know.”
“And who’s that?”
“Just a select few,” I said. “Elle. Kim. The boys.” I glanced back at her. “You.”
She smiled over at me, looking up from where she was already cutting a block of cheese on a wooden cutting board, making herself at home. She popped a piece in her mouth.
“It never bothered me,” she said. “Gave you…texture.”
I stood and walked toward her. “I think you liked it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Mmhm.” Boxed her in against the counter, hands on either side of her. “I think…obviously I don’t have a file on you like you do on me—but I think you like an element of danger. Good girl like you needs a little bad in her life.”
“Hey, you don’t know everything about me,” she laughed under her breath. “Maybe I have some dark past…like I was part of a heist crew.”
“Right.”
“Picture this,” she said. “Me and ten other people, very attractive, coordinated outfits, robbing a casino in Vegas.”
“That’s the plot of Ocean’s Eleven.” I reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You have a plant named George. You’re not robbing anyone.”
“Fair enough,” she laughed, her whole face lighting up. “Fine…you’re onto me. I’m not part of a heist crew. Just fun to play at it.”
She paused, biting her lip.
“But—how about tonight you just let me play your wife?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
“Let me cook for you,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “Clothes…optional?”
“Not gonna say no to that.”
I leaned down and kissed her once, slow. "I'll open a bottle of wine."
She smiled against my mouth.
I stepped back and let her have the kitchen, pulling the Traverse City red from the rack—a different bottle than the one I'd opened at the Bridgeport apartment, older vintage, one I'd been saving without knowing what for. I poured two glasses and set hers on the counter beside her.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, then shooed me out toward the living room. “Now go sit by the fire like you’re my husband or something. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
So I did.
Sat by the fire…watched her pick through the ingredients in the fridge, pull out pots and pans and seasoning.
Start to take off her clothes one piece at a time.
And I wondered how I ever got so damn lucky.