6. Cole
I stay firmly cemented to my chair in the corner of the dining room until I’m fairly certain Sydney won’t be coming back. With one last cautious look around, I slide out of my chair to approach the bar.
“Thanks for breakfast, man.” I throw more than enough cash on the bar top and lean on it, pushing my weight against my elbows.
“You bet. Hope you enjoyed it.” Graham smiles wide before it fades into a straight line. “Hey, don’t let Syd get you worked up, okay?”
A huff escapes my lips at the fact that he picked up on the animosity between us. At the same time, I can’t help but wonder how much he knows about our history together. I’m positive he would have heard the rumor circulating about why I left Baudette, as the whole town did, but I doubt he knows the plague-like-case-of-chicken-pox story started from his sister.
“She means well.” He cringes. “Honestly, it’s a bummer, but we completely understand that you don’t want to sell. It’s a lot to ask. I get it—no hard feelings whatsoever.”
“I think she feels differently.” I smirk. Not that I care what she thinks, necessarily, but I have a feeling she’s going to continue making me aware of her thoughts whether I want to know them or not.
“She’ll get over it. Hey, do you need any help around your property? I noticed a few shingles coming off the roof last time I was out there checking on things, but I haven’t made it back in a while. I haven’t seen your uncle in a while either, so just let me know if anything turns into more than a one-man job. I’m happy to help.”
“Nah, I can handle it. Thanks, though. I always forget how much maintenance comes with having a place out here.” I keep the conversation surface level, as I do with most conversations in my life, and shut down the opening to talk about my uncle.
“Mother Nature can definitely be unforgiving,” he agrees.
“Hey, congrats on the renovation,” I tell him. “This should draw some big crowds out here. Good for the economy.”
“Thanks. Yeah, that’s what we’re hoping for, anyway—if we can survive the renovation process.” He chuckles.
I smirk, silently agreeing with him with a nod of my head.
“How long are you in town for?” Graham asks.
“I’m not sure yet. My plan is to get the cabin and property cleaned up, and then I’ll probably head out.” I’m not sure where I’ll be heading to next. I usually just see where I feel like going when it’s time to move on. My job can be done from anywhere, so it’s become a habit for me to wander around. I tend to swing in and out of Longville, where my house is, and then off to wherever the wind takes me.
Most often, I head over to Duluth to sit in a pub overlooking Lake Superior or over to The Boundary Waters with not much more than a canoe and a tent strapped to my back. Solitude and a few tools are all I need to get by in this life.
“Are you meeting up with any of the guys while you’re here?” he asks. I assume he’s referencing our football teammates from high school, most of whom I haven’t seen in many years and haven’t spoken to for even longer than that. Graham is really the only one I still talk to on a semi-regular basis, even though he was a grade older than me back then. Truthfully, if it wasn’t for this island, I probably wouldn’t keep in touch with anyone from that time in my life.
“Maybe.” I shrug, pushing off the counter. “I’ll let you know if I do, though. See ya later.”
“Have a good one.” We nod at each other before I head back outside to where I parked my uncle’s old ATV.
I can’t help it when my eyes flick around the entire area surrounding the lodge. It’s subtle, and not at all something I do on purpose, but I scan the property for any signs of a feisty woman who might follow me home—or maybe even sabotage my trek. I wouldn’t put anything past her, truthfully.
Once satisfied that she’s nowhere in sight, I rev it up and head onto the trail. As I ride past the row of cabins and into the dense woods, I let my mind zone out. Taking in the true beauty of this island is something I don’t often appreciate as much as I should. But every time I’m back here, I’m reminded why my uncle chose this serene island for his home in the first place.
Eventually, I reach the property and bring the ATV to a stop next to the barely standing shed that’s tucked back by the line of trees. I climb off and head toward the cabin.
My cabin.
It’s been years now since Uncle Paul signed the papers over to me, but I have yet to see this place as anything more than his. In my mind, it will always belong to him. My attachment to it is largely out of respect for him and the sanctuary this place has provided me.
I push the door open with a loud creak, kicking my boots off on the faded rug. Instantly, I’m enveloped by an aroma that conjures up a hefty dose of nostalgia. The cabin air smells like earthy wood with a subtle hint of cinnamon and worn rubber from the rain boots that still sit in the front closet. There’s a dampness to it—likely due to moisture in the walls somewhere—but it adds to the overall somber vibe of the place.
All of it evokes a comforting sentiment that’s hard to accurately put into words. This place was a reprieve for me—a safe haven—back when I was just a pawn under my father’s thumb without autonomy of my own life.
A coil of heavy anger runs up my spine at the thought of my father, the same way it always does when he crosses my mind. The fact that I let him affect me after all these years of no contact only deepens the anger, twisting painfully like a knife. I sit with it for a breath, allowing myself to feel it, and then I bury it.
This cabin was built as a one-story open floor plan way before that particular layout was trendy. To the left of the front door, there’s a small couch and a worn La-Z-Boy chair surrounding a TV that hasn’t worked in years. Beyond that, tucked in the back corner, is a queen-sized bed with a single nightstand on one side. A small bathroom is nestled against the back wall that runs into a few kitchen cabinets, a rusty old stove, and a fridge that doesn’t have a single thing in it. The whole cabin is dimly lit with just two small oil lamps for lighting.
There’s not much to it—definitely worthy of being torn down—but that doesn’t make me any more inclined to let go of it.
As I sit on the edge of the bed to adjust my socks, I wonder where in the world Uncle Paul is at this very moment. It’s something I wonder almost daily ever since the last time I saw him—over five years ago.
It’s never been hard to pinpoint where I get my wandering tendencies from. That man has never stayed in one spot for more than two days for as long as I’ve been alive. For a while there, he would come to Baudette to check in every so often when he came to spend a day or two here, but ever since he signed the cabin over to me, it’s as if he released himself from needing to come back. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
With a grunt, I shove off the mattress, running through my mental checklist and pondering what chore to get started on first for the day. I shove my feet back into my boots and head outside. At the bottom of the porch stairs, I grab a rake that I left propped up against the side of the cabin and head down to the beach to finish the cleanup I started there yesterday.