Chapter Eight Luke
Eight
Luke
The lake was quiet, the kind of stillness that only showed up when the sun was barely awake and most folks were still tangled in their sheets.
Maple Island loomed ahead, mist clinging to its shoreline like it wasn’t quite ready to reveal itself.
The shoreline was exactly as it had been since Luke was a kid: a rugged collar of stones worn smooth by decades of the lake’s patient touch, interrupted only by the small natural harbor.
Maple trees stood along the spine of the landmass, their roots stretching down into the rocky soil like they were determined to keep the whole place from floating away.
In the fall, the place really came into its own.
Those maples would catch the autumn sunlight, turning blazing red and gold and orange, until the island looked like it was burning from the inside out.
On still mornings, you could see smoke curling up from the inn’s old stone chimney and threading through all that color.
No wonder folks traveled hundreds of miles just to sit on the inn’s wraparound porch and watch the leaves drift down onto the water like scattered coins.
He could see glimpses of the inn now, a fifteen-minute walk through the trees if you knew the path.
The old stone building had stood there for over a century like it had grown straight out of the island’s bones, lording over a small inlet that came in like a teardrop from the main lake.
The stone tower attached to it had been there even longer.
Old Abe’s father had built the inn around that tower with his own hands, hauling every stone across the water on a barge that probably should’ve sunk under the weight.
Three stories of gray granite that had withstood every storm the lake could throw at it, standing stubborn as the day it was finished.
Used to be the place folks came for their honeymoons, back when this was supposed to be some grand resort destination.
These days it wasn’t as popular: too old-fashioned for the Tripadvisor crowd who expected marble bathrooms and room service.
Abe and Margaret were too stubborn and set in their ways to modernize it.
They didn’t much care what city folks thought about their threadbare carpets or the way the floorboards creaked.
But hell, the bones were still solid. Just needed some spit and polish to bring it back up to standard.
Maybe something newborn from the very driftwood the island produced.
Every spring and fall storm washed new treasures onto the island: driftwood bleached silver by sun and salt, twisted into shapes more interesting than anything you’d find in those fancy art galleries in Seattle.
Luke guided his boat through the familiar channel, feeling each subtle shift in the current through the wheel.
He’d made this trip a thousand times, could practically do it blindfolded, but today the weight of having company—her company—made everything feel different.
He’d been a damn fool to bring her here.
But he’d felt that gnawing guilt about how he’d snapped at her the day before, so showing her the island seemed a good way to make her truly see what these waters and buildings meant. What was worth preserving.
Then she had to go and mention Claire, prodding at wounds he thought had finally begun to heal.
The island’s shoreline drew closer, revealing a small wooden dock.
Luke eased back on the throttle, feeling the boat respond to his touch as he approached at just the right angle to counteract the morning current.
He looped the bowline around the nearest cleat, then secured the stern before hopping onto the shallow shoreline.
He turned, holding out a hand to help Sophie down.
“Watch your step. Wood here gets slick.”
She hesitated just long enough to be stubborn before taking his hand, her palm warm against his calloused one.
As Luke stepped off the dock, his boots hit the boards with a dull thud, then something sharper. He looked down.
A broken bottle lay near the edge of the path. Not shattered, just cleanly snapped at the neck, like it had been set down and forgotten. Too intact to be lake debris. Too deliberate to be driftwood junk.
Frowning, he crouched beside it. There were faint scuff marks nearby. Maybe a boot print, maybe just wind. But something about it didn’t sit right.
Sophie stepped down beside him. “What’s wrong?”
He stood, brushing off his hands. “Glass. Fresh.”
“Probably teenagers sneaking beers, right?”
“Maybe.” He looked toward the trees, quiet and still in the morning mist, then carefully picked up the glass, throwing it in his boat’s bin.
“The wood we’re looking for will be over there,” he said, nodding toward the eastern edge. “Current brings in the best pieces after a storm, and we had a good one last week. Should be plenty to choose from.”
“I’ve always liked driftwood,” Sophie said as they headed to the eastern edge.
“It’s got history in it, you know? Like it’s been places and survived all kinds of things.
Anyone can buy furniture. But this”—she leaned down to pick up a small broken piece of driftwood, tilting it toward the light—“this has a story.”
Luke caught himself watching the way her lips moved as she spoke, that British accent flowing smooth as a current over river stones.
It was like she actually understood the place and what it meant.
Then he snapped back to his senses. He wasn’t here to get hypnotized by some fancy accent.
He was here to show her what real lake history looked like, not the kind you could pack up and rearrange to match some modern idea of “rustic charm.”
The eastern shoreline opened up like nature’s own junkyard, littered with driftwood scattered across the expanse.
Some pieces were just splinters, but others were whole branches, tree trunks even, bleached bone-white after years battling the lake.
Morning sunlight lit up the water droplets still clinging to the wood, making everything glitter like Grandma’s old crystal glasses when the light hit it just right.
“Amazing the lake produces all this,” Sophie said as she picked up another piece.
“Yep,” Luke said. “Tides, currents, storms. All of it knocks it around, strips the bark, wears down the edges. Turns something rough into something smooth.”
“Will it be strong enough to be used for bookshelves?”
Luke tapped the wood against his palm. “This stuff is stronger than it looks. The water pulls out the softer parts, leaves the denser grain behind. It’s lighter, tougher.
Doesn’t rot as easy.” He ran a thumb over the driftwood in his hands, the way the grain twisted like an old map.
“It’s like you said. Every piece has a story.
You can see the way the water shaped it, the places it’s been. No two are the same.”
When he glanced up, Sophie was watching him with an expression that made him feel like she was figuring him out piece by piece.
He cleared his throat. “So, you gonna help me collect some, or are you just here to ask questions?”
Sophie grinned. “Oh, I’m definitely here to ask questions.”
Over the next hour, they worked as Sophie kept her promise, asking him all sorts of questions about the place as they collected the best pieces, piling them near the boat.
Sophie was efficient, determined, hauling wood like she’d done it a hundred times before.
She was stronger than she looked, that was for damn sure.
He’d expected her to struggle, to slow down, maybe make some flippant comment about manual labor not being in her skill set.
But she just rolled up her sleeves and got on with it. No fuss. No whining.
After a while, Sophie stretched her arms over her head, arching her back slightly as she let out a satisfied sigh. “I’m starving. I didn’t have time for breakfast.”
“Well, that wasn’t clever.”
She shot him one of her sassy looks. “Actually, I am clever.” She strode over to the huge impractical bag she’d brought with her and unzipped it, pulling out a neatly packed container. “I brought sandwiches for an island brunch.”
Luke blinked. “You brought—”
“Chicken and avocado,” she continued, unwrapping one. “All purchased from town yesterday afternoon. And before you say anything, I also packed a turkey and cheese one, because I had a feeling you’d be the kind of man who doesn’t trust avocado.”
“I trust avocado just fine.”
Sophie arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Sure.”
She held out the sandwich like it was some kind of challenge. He took it, more to prove a point than anything else, and sank his teeth into it. And damn it. It was good. Really good. He chewed, watching her pop open a flask and pour herself a cup of something steaming. “Is that coffee?”
She hummed in satisfaction, taking a sip. “Obviously.”
Luke peered at the book she’d set beside her on the log. “You brought a book?”
“Always,” Sophie replied, giving him a “why on earth wouldn’t I?
” look. “As my mum always used to say, never leave home without one. Or a brolly.” Sophie paused, peering up at the blue skies.
“Though the brolly thing isn’t so important now that I’m not dealing with London weather every five minutes. ”
Luke reached over and picked up the book, studying the cover with obvious confusion. “You’re reading a book about…hockey?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “It’s so much more than just hockey!” Her eyes lit up as she talked about what was clearly her favorite topic. “The hockey players just happen to be the romantic leads who—”
Luke shook his head, already putting the book back down. “I get the picture.”
“You’re not even going to let me explain the plot?”