Love on the Lake (Lakeside 2)

It’s also not super flashy as far as convertibles go. It has a hard top for winter and a soft top for summer. It’s probably one of the very few things I still have from our previously lavish and frivolous lifestyle. Over the past year I’ve gone from weekly spa appointments and expensive dinners out several times a week to painting my own toenails and learning how to cook meals. I had no idea how pampered I was until I wasn’t anymore. And honestly, I don’t miss it that much.

The highway soon turns into tree-lined two-lane roads, the brush growing thicker and increasingly lush with every passing mile. The farther I get from Chicago, the easier it is to breathe. I try to appreciate the beauty of the drive and not think about Dad and Danielle or what the house is going to look like when I get back on Sunday.

I arrive in Pearl Lake just after noon. A Footprint Construction truck is parked in the driveway, in front of the garage, which isn’t unusual. Dillion is Van’s fiancée, and they’ve been living together for months. She often drives into work with her father, who owns the construction company in town, since she and Van live right next door to her family.

I decide I should go ahead and make myself comfortable in the apartment above the garage rather than heading for their love shack. If I don’t, there’s a chance that they’ll try to convince me to sleep in one of the spare rooms in the cottage.

I grab my suitcase from the trunk and heft my weekend bag over my shoulder, along with my purse. It’s a lot for a long weekend, but I’ve never been particularly good at packing light.

Originally, Van planned to convert the garage into a self-contained apartment, but he decided it would be better to keep the garage space as is, and instead he ripped off the roof, added dormers, and turned the space above it into an apartment. That way, the garage still functions as it should.

It has a small workshop, loads of tools, and Van’s BMW, which he rarely drives anymore, favoring the ancient pickup truck that once belonged to Grammy Bee, our grandmother, who drove it until she passed away a year and a half ago. She left the cottage and its contents to Van. Turns out there was literally millions in uncashed bonds and piles of cash tucked all over the cottage. I tried to tell him I didn’t want any of it, but he set up an investment account for me. I plan to leave it where it is until I retire, or maybe pass it on to my own kids one day, if I have any.

There’s a set of stairs inside the garage that aren’t as steep as the ones that run up to the second floor from the outside. But I can’t remember the code to open the garage door, so this is my only option.

I manage to clunk my way up the outside staircase with my suitcase in one hand and my other bags hanging over the railing. The landing is small and narrow, making it difficult to maneuver with my bags.

I turn the knob, assuming it will be open, since the only reason people lock their doors around here is to keep out the wily raccoons. I step inside and drop my purse and overnight bag on the floor, which I instantly regret because the surface is still plywood—so much for 85 percent finished—and there’s a lot of sawdust.

My suitcase is still on the landing and the door wide open when I realize I’m not alone in here. It’s also not a raccoon keeping me company. Or a family of squirrels. Or bats.

Beyond the spiders, which I’m fairly certain there must be a few of, is a man. A shirtless man. He’s crouched down with his back to me, and he’s wearing a pair of huge headphones that look like they came out of the eighties or something. But there aren’t any wires, so they must be new. They look clunky. They might explain why he has yet to notice that I’m standing here, gawking at his very bare, very muscled, very tattooed back.

A sun sets over a frozen lake, the watercolor design bright and beautiful; the snow-covered trees hold hints of pink, orange, and yellow, a reflection from the sun peeking through the clouds on its descent toward the horizon. Snow swirls across the landscape, making it seem like the sun is trying to fight its way through a snowstorm. There’s script arching over the sun, but it’s too small to make out from this side of the room. On his left triceps is an hourglass with only a few grains of sand left in it, as if time is running out.