Chapter Two

I wake up early the next day. It's quiet, with only the earliest rising birds chirping their hello to each other and the sun. I stretch and look up the ceiling. Our cabin is the smallest, the simplest. There's only one bedroom and a loft. Since my Mom stopped coming to the lake, I have taken over the old bedroom. The bed is larger and you don't have to climb down a ladder to go to the bathroom. I still love the loft and it's expansive views, but it's not very practical.

I think of last night, of everyone's arrival, of Roscoe's incessant barking as car after car arrived, spilling out family and friends, luggage, more dogs, food, of chaos. Most of my aunts and uncles looked stressed, but Grampa Joe and Gram couldn't hide their pleasure.

It wasn't always this busy here. The main house was originally built, in a smaller form, by my crotchety Great Grandpa William. I never met him but Grampa Joe said he was an “accomplished introvert.” He was from Atlanta originally. Even though it wasn't near like it is today, it was recovering from the war, growing by the day. Grandpa Will worked his way away from the city, moving from farm to farm, finding work and money where he could, until he arrived in Abbadon, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. He heard some property on a lake eight miles from town was for sale. No one wanted to live out that far, so he was able to buy up all the property around the lake. It was all wilderness, but he put to taming it. He cleared land to farm, the land that is mostly now our playing fields. He built a small house. He tilled the red soil, forcing it to grow pumpkins, okra, corn, pole beans. He kept some pigs, chickens, and cows. He reveled in the quiet. He only left to find a wife and did, a beautiful, shy woman named Rose, who wanted to be alone as much as he did. They Depression hardly fazed them. They were already living a hand-to-mouth existence. The only major event of their life was probably the birth of Gramps.

Grampa Joe grew up lonely. As soon as he could, at the age of twelve, he lit out for Abbadon, then to the hydro-electric plant outside Toccoa. There, a foreman took him under his wing, seeing how bright he was and taught him how to read and build. At sixteen, he had learned all he could, so he went onto Athens and college. He met Gram, who was still in foster care at the time. She was fifteen. He courted her, finished his studies, married her, and when word came to him that his father had died, he found a job at a small college in the area and took a pregnant Gram with him, determined to fill his once lonely childhood home with family.

Over the years, my aunts and uncles grew up and moved away, closer to the bigger suburbs of Atlanta, but as soon as money allowed, they too built a small house for their family until the entire south end of the lake was lined with Jennings family cabins. Someone's here almost every weekend, giving them their fill of company, just as they dreamed, Gramps from his small attic cot, Gram from more places than she could count. One time, at the end of an especially hectic day, I asked Gram is she ever wished for alone time. She says she gets it every morning, when she rises at four. In this quiet space, she does her Bible Study, bakes the day's bread, and sips a coffee so slow it goes cold long before she finishes it, often after the sun has started breaking over the ridge opposite their house, as it is right now.

I decide to get out of bed and onto the lake. I dress and make my way down the thin path I've worn to my small dock. I uncover the kayak, swipe out the spiders, wave away their webs, pull out the leaves that have accumulated since my last visit. I lower myself into the boat, wobbling until I balance out my weight. The only movement on the water comes from the disturbance of my boat. I center the paddle and slip one end into the water. I push off and move away from the shore, out to the left. The splashing of the oar is the single sound I can hear. I take it easy to start, loosening up my muscles. The sun is only just warming up the sky and it casts a golden light on the surface of the water. I think of Grandpa William, understand for a second his love of the desolate outdoors, but once I clear the last family cabin on the left, I pick up the pace and the strain of exercise clears my mind of this thought. Before I know it, I'm looking out across at where I started, the lake now silver with the already intense Georgia morning sun. I pull up for a second and drift with my momentum. The light has come fully over the mountain and the windows reflect the clear early morning light. I see movement on the main deck, but I'm not ready to re-enter the fray. I start again, pushing as fast as I can, sweating in the humid air.

I'm nearing the final turn before I slow again. My breath is coming fast and even. I'm in the zone. I can't help but slow at the inlet approaching on my left, however. Tucked away back in a small indentation in the shore line a sheer, rock face glistens with wet. I pull closer to the shoreline, slowing until I hear the sound of a stream falling into the lake, churning and breaking the surface tension into bubbles and foam. I would love nothing more than to pull up on the red clay beach to its left, drag my kayak onto the land, and hike the length of the creek to the waterfall that feeds this feature. But I promised Gram I would help with breakfast, so I turn wistfully, and instead resolve to follow this last bit of shoreline, to traverse the mouth of the river fed by the lake, and to return to dock, knowing I'm probably already a little late. I again lose myself to the rhythm and breeze of the action of paddling. I lean back in the seat, gaze at the blurring green of pines, kudzu, and oaks.

I'm still hugging the shoreline, when I see the bleached dock of the old Fuller house come into view. No one's lived there in over a decade and the blazing summer sun has punished the untreated wood. I know what I'll see, but I still look up the steep stairs that lead up the steep bank to the abandoned timber frame house above.

My heart skips a beat as I see the outline on the deck, shadowed by the risen sun. Gram would have told me about any new neighbors, so I realize it must be one of the dead though I've never seen one here. I'm mentally deciding what to do when a shape moves into my periphery, and I realize, too late, that I'm headed straight for the dock. I jam the end of the paddle into the water, trying to reverse and change course, but I overcompensate and send the boat on its side and myself into the water.

I come to the surface and look up the hill, searching for the dark form. It's gone. I tread water, muttering to myself for my double stupidity. Then: “Um...hello. Are you okay?” A male voice, young, asks.

Here, we go, I think. I used to try to ignore the ghosts, but that's never once gotten rid of them, so I respond. His face is still back-lit by the sun. I see that he is tall, slender.

“Yep. I just feel like a jerk. Mind if I pull myself up on the dock so I can get back in?”

“Of course not.”

I have the edge of the boat, but I look around for the paddle. I see that he is kneeling over and pulling it out of the water. That's unusual, I think to myself. They're rarely helpful.

I make my way to the ladder, completing the climb of shame for the second time in 24 hours. I lean to one side and shake the water out of my ear. I lean to the other side, shaking, until I'm stopped by the sight of his face, now clear at this angle. He's gorgeous—all angles and depth. Brown messy hair, a strong jaw, strong nose, full lips, and light brown eyes. And he's shirtless. Just then I realize I am too, having gone out in only some shorts and a sports bra--black, thank God. Then, I laugh to myself. Why would I care if a ghost were witness to my humiliating performance and now public exposure?

He, however, looks abashed. Interesting. That's a new one.

“So, what's your deal?” I ask, anxious to get on with it.

“Huh? Oh you mean, why am I here?”

Cute, but dumb, I suppose. “Sure. Why are you here?”

“I don't know. It just seemed like a good idea...” He trails off uncertainly.

“Well, I don't have time for this. I have to go help Gram with breakfast. I don't mean to be rude, but if there's nothing you need from me, I'd better head back.”

“Okay.” He looks like he's unsure what to do next. Then, he looks past me, over my shoulder. I turn and see Ellie arriving on a kayak. Great, I think, imagining her view of me in this moment. It's been a while since I've been seen talking to myself. As she approaches, I hear her laughter skipping off the water. She looks at me curiously.

“What?” I ask in exasperation.

“I was just wondering what you said to get a complete stranger to throw you off a dock this early in the morning.” She's grinning from ear-to-ear. It dawns on me. This guy isn't a ghost. He's a real person. A real, half-naked, hot guy. And I'm half-naked and have just rammed into his dock. I go red with embarrassment.

I have to get off this dock. I turn, force my eyes up to his. He has a bemused look on his face. I can't make myself speak, so I just look at the paddle. He follows my eyes. “Oh, sorry. Here's your oar.” He gives me a heart-melting sideways smile.

I manage a soft thanks and turn, trying to find the kayak. I realize it's floated out in the current, but that Ellie's towing it towards us. “You know, technically it's a paddle, not an oar. An oar generally rests on the edge of the water craft, while a paddle is held in the center.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Good to know.”

She turns and brings my kayak in between her and the dock. “She's really smart,” I unnecessarily state.

“I can see that. I'm clearly going to have to brush up on my nautical terminology.” He smiles wryly at Ellie. My heart drops. Another guy lost to my insanity and Ellie's perfection. “Well, we'd better go. I'm only here after you because Gram says you promised to mix up the biscuits.”

I turn to back down the ladder, putting my foot into the kayak. I am half trying to cover myself up, and start tipping into the water again. He has followed me, however, and he quickly offers his forearm to provide a counter-balance. It's been years since I've touched someone not in my family and if possible, I turn even redder, scarlet with heat. I lower myself into the boat.

“So are you staying here this summer?” Ellie probes. “I didn't think anyone lived here.”

I'm desperate to shove off, hoping he's as inept at answering her as he was me, but he's got his act together now. “My Dad just bought this property as an investment. It needs a lot of work, and he's too busy to do it himself. He was just going to pay someone but I wanted to get out of town, so I asked to do it.”

“A man after Grampa Joe's heart. You should come over and visit. He basically hand-built all our cabins and has tons of tools lying around. Plus, it's sure to get lonely over here by yourself.” I know Ellie's not flirting, but he surely doesn't.

“I thought you said we had to go,” I shortly state.

“So, we do. See you later...” she trails off, waiting for his name. There's a long pause.

Maybe he isn't real, I think. Maybe Ellie's finally started to see. Maybe...

“Luke. Luke Martin.”

“Luke, nice to meet you. I'll Ellie and the klutz is Persis.”

She starts to paddle. She knows when to leave a conversation in control. She looks back over her shoulder, gives him her genuine, warm smile and yells back, “hope you come visit soon!”

I push off from the dock with my hand. I can feel him looking at me. “It was nice meeting you Persis.”

I manage to look up, stealing one last look at this faultless face. I manage a “likewise” and a faint smile and follow in Ellie's wake. The water is no longer glassy like it was when I started. Small, choppy waves break against the bow until I gain enough speed to cut a path. I don't look back.