3. Shawn
Shawn
It’s a five-hour drive from my apartment in Hartford to Laketon, Maine, and then another fifteen minutes on a back road so narrow I hold my breath when my driver passes a cyclist while a delivery van is coming the other way.
Maybe I’m a little nervous after my own recent incident, but we arrive at Sanctuary Lake Retreat unscathed.
I can’t say I’m happy to be here, still smarting from the fact that my friends felt like they had to hold an intervention.
Once I was discharged from the hospital and got a good night’s sleep, I was completely fine.
I didn’t even have a headache after the second day.
I’m lucky it wasn’t much, much worse. I couldn’t believe the footage of the crash that was on the internet.
My silver Lambo takes off when the light turns green, and I immediately lose control, fishtailing, barely missing a parked car, and plowing into a telephone pole on Asylum Avenue.
Kind of scary to watch unless you know I came out of it just fine.
Dr. Russell agreed with Callie and Jett that a change of scene would do me good.
Since my exile coincides with a planned two-week hiatus while he takes his wife to Paris for their twenty-fifth anniversary, the skeptical part of me thinks he’s just glad to have me off his hands for a while.
Not that I care exactly. It wasn’t like therapy was my idea.
But it has been nice having someone to talk to, even if what we talk about sometimes doesn’t always leave me feeling all that great.
The day after the accident, I called my mom to reassure her and my dad that I’m no worse for wear.
Mom lectured me on driving safety and, notably, didn’t hand the phone over to my father.
When I told her I’d be spending a few days recuperating in Maine, she sounded relieved.
Maybe I’ve been in worse shape than I realized if my mom down in Florida thinks I need this, too.
The Lamborghini was towed to a body shop, but Callie’s wish may come true—my insurance company will probably total it. I’ll be left with the other two vehicles in my garage: a new tricked-out Bronco and an older Porsche.
Neither of which I’ll have up here in the actual middle of nowhere.
As the driver of the town car pulls up to a large dark green wood frame building with a parking area out front, I wonder why the hell I agreed to this.
Am I going to be stuck here with nothing to do until Callie deems me fit enough to return to the real world?
The real world, where I have literally nothing to look forward to except a lifetime of being a has-been.
A former pro who doesn’t know how to be anything else.
The driver parks and rushes to get my bags from the trunk.
He probably can’t wait to get rid of me after five hours and fifteen minutes of silence.
I doomscrolled on my phone for the first four hours, bouncing around from app to app reading news coverage of the latest games and trades, then finally pushed the phone into my back pocket after reading a third post about the Laurels’ playoff chances.
My team is probably going to make the postseason for the first time in three years.
I should’ve been a part of that—not for the glory, but to do my part to make sure they advance.
Out of the car, I’m grateful for the chance to stretch my legs and look around.
Despite myself, I’m curious about this so-called retreat.
I haven’t spent much time in Maine, but I can’t argue that it’s not living up to its reputation for beautiful fall colors.
The leaves on the trees grew progressively more colorful the farther north we drove, and the woods around Sanctuary Lake seemed to be practically on fire with the amount of red, yellow, and orange leaves bursting like terrestrial fireworks.
I was expecting a hotel, but when I walk in, the building feels more like a camp recreation hall.
I can smell the pine it’s been built with.
Big double doors lead away from the small entryway.
I peer through into a large room with a vaulted ceiling.
“Shawn Camden?” A woman about the same age as my mom, with creamy, barely lined skin and silver hair that nearly hits her waist, comes through the double doors and greets me with a warm smile.
“I’m Marika Morse, owner of Sanctuary Lake Retreat.
” She’s wearing jeans and hiking boots and a cable-knit sweater, but she has some kind of green gems glinting at her ears and more colorful rocks sparkle in the rings on her fingers.
Her sophistication seems at odds with the rustic surroundings.
“Josh’s aunt, right?” I offer her a hand to shake, and she brightens even more at his name.
“That’s right. You know each other?”
“He works with my agent, Callie Roman,” I explain. “They’re the ones who sent—well, who thought this would be a good place for me to check out.”
“Of course.” Her voice holds no judgment. “We’re so happy to have you. I’ll show you to your cabin right now, unless you want to poke around here first.”
“I am a little curious,” I admit, nodding toward the open room. “It kind of feels like summer camp.”
She laughs, a warm chuckle. “That’s right.
I based the design on the kind of summer camp I wished my parents would send me to when I was growing up in New York City.
” She backs through the double doors, and I follow.
“We’re very informal here—if you want to hang out in the ballroom, feel free to do so anytime.
We’ve got games, a ping-pong table, and we sometimes host events here, but I confess we only play at being a camp—our guests generally like their privacy.
Still, all guests are welcome to join me and the staff for a community meal in here every Sunday evening.
Otherwise, you can order meals a day ahead from our chef, or you can write up a grocery order, and I can have things delivered to the kitchen in your cabin. ”
“What if I want to go to town?”
“You can hire a car to take you into town and back, of course. Or one of the staff might be able to give you a ride.”
“What kind of staff do you have?”
“We’ve got Nita—she’s in charge of housekeeping. Roger takes care of the buildings and grounds. Davy is our wellness director; they’ll be who you’ll go to if you want to book a spa session.”
“Like a massage?”
“Exactly, or one of our other treatments. Manicure, facial, salt scrub. Davy’s in charge of a small team of local service providers.”
I miss my regular massages from when I was on the team. Not sure about a salt scrub, but maybe I should broaden my horizons.
Marika goes on with her explanation. “Nolan is our chef—I stole him last year from the best restaurant in Boston.”
“Nolan—like Nolan Ryan?”
She gives me a puzzled look.
“A Hall of Fame pitcher.” Her brow remains wrinkled. “Never mind.” Clearly, she’s not a baseball fan.
“Finally, Blaze is our outdoor activities director. He’s in charge of any activity you might want to take advantage of while you’re here. Kayaking, hiking, you name it.”
I walk across the large room to the wall of windows that look out over the lake.
It’s ridiculously stunning, like a postcard on a rack at a gift shop, dark blue-green water circled by a ring of trees the color of flame.
A cluster of small cabins sits off to the side of the main lodge.
A sturdy wooden dock juts into the water, and a small, half-sandy, half-rocky beach completes the picture.
“Sanctuary Lake,” I mutter under my breath.
“It was already named that when I came here, but it fits,” Marika says with quiet sincerity.
It’s so serene and calm; it’s clear I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands to think about my future, or lack thereof. I’m not sure I’m ready to face all of that. I fish around for a distraction. Fish. Fishing. “What about fishing?”
“Blaze can set you up with that if you’d like. The lake’s got trout and bass.”
There’s movement on the water. A square float bobbing on blue plastic barrels is inching closer to shore as I watch. “Your float is moving.”
Marika stands at my shoulder and looks out. “Oh, that’ll be Blaze. Water’s getting too cold for swimming, so he’s bringing it in.”
“Already?” It’s September for another week yet. Hartford’s still experiencing humidity and high temperatures.
She laughs her warm laugh again. “Our first frost will be any day now.”
I shiver at the thought. I’m originally from Florida. The cold’s never been my thing. “Are the cabins heated?”
“Of course, Mr. Camden.”
“Shawn, please.”
“Let me show you, Shawn.”
She lets us out a side door that leads directly down to the beach.
The float is now practically at the shore, being towed by a dark-haired man.
He’s got strong shoulders, the rope attached to the float straining against them, and a thick, close-cropped beard covers the lower half of his face.
He emerges from the water one step at a time, revealing his body in parts, furred chest matching the denseness of his facial hair, a pair of simple dark blue swim trunks clinging to powerful thighs that pull the float onto the sand as if it weighs nothing.
He looks younger than I thought he’d be when he gets closer, the light skin around his hazel eyes unlined.
“Blaze, great timing,” Marika says. “This is Shawn. He wants to go fishing.”
“Uh, yeah, if that’s not a problem,” I say, feeling like a city slicker with a clichéd idea of what people do on lakeside vacations.
“No problem at all,” he says, dropping the rope and shaking his hair out like a dog. It’s on the longer side, casually shaggy, and I feel like an uptight jock with my crew cut. “Fish get active toward sundown. Meet me back here around five?”
“Sure.”