Her Sister's Children. Roxanne Rustand

Part-time.” Holding the receiver farther from her ear, Claire winced at the applicant’s petulant response. “Yes, I know you can make more on tips at a restaurant.”

      After hanging up, she slashed through the ninth name on her list and rubbed the tense muscles at the back of her neck. The advertisement for cabin help and general maintenance had run in the Duluth Herald for weeks. She hadn’t come close to finding a suitable employee.

      The phone rang before she got to the back door.

      “Pine Cliff, Claire Worth speaking,” she said automatically.

      “Ms. Worth? I’m one of Randall’s former business partners. We’re missing some records from the past two years.”

      “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you—”

      “We’ve got to get them back...need ’em for taxes.” The voice raised a notch. “We figure those records would have been in his desk at home. Uh...his wife did some of the books.”

      Brooke? “Look, Mr....” Claire paused, waiting.

      “Bob. Bob...Johnson.”

      “None of that was sent up here. All of Randall’s business records were turned over to the estate lawyer and accountant.”

      “They don’t have what I need. I’ll come up this weekend and help you look. I’ve got to have those records.”

      Claire bit back a sharp reply. “Then you’ll have to talk to the lawyers, because I have nothing of the kind. And you’ll certainly not be going through his personal effects.”

      Resisting the urge to slam the receiver down, she hung up and headed for the door, thankful that she’d had nothing to do with the business aspects of the estate.

      Randall’s choice of business partners didn’t surprise her at all.

      

      “YOO-HOO! Ms. Worth!”

      Straightening, Claire dropped a sponge into the bucket of pungent disinfectant at her feet and rubbed the small of her back, then stepped out onto the pine-planked deck of cabin five. A deep breath of fresh air helped slow the spinning sensation in her head.

      Mrs. Rogers scuttled down the lane bordering the cabins, one hand waving above her head. She looked like a broken-winged duck coming in for a rough landing.

      “Anything wrong?” Thankful for a moment’s respite, Claire took another cleansing breath and wiped away a stray tear. Cleaning was certainly hard on the nose and lungs.

      The older woman pulled to a stop a few feet away, sniffed, and frowned. “What are you—Never mind. Come quickly—the laundry building!”

      A vision of the commercial washer and dryer going up in flames filled her with disbelief and horror. Claire ripped off her yellow rubber gloves, dropped them at her feet and broke into a run. “Fire?” Mrs. Rogers huffed along in slow pursuit. “Flood,” she wheezed.

      Flood? Oh, God. Claire skidded to a halt in front of the small building.

      Thank goodness she’d left the double doors open to the morning sun. And thank goodness, Mrs. Rogers had seen the problem.

      The washer was still chugging along. Frothy water spewed from its base, and had already flooded the entire laundry area. An island of dirty sheets and towels stood marooned in the middle of the floor.

      Mrs. Rogers caught up, panting with exertion. “Quite a mess, eh?”

      “I can’t believe this.”

      Squinting against the sunlight angling across the lake, the older woman studied the situation. “Looks like a whopper of a repair bill to me.”

      “Great.” Claire grimaced. More money—just what she didn’t have. She’d already dipped into her savings to replace two cabin roofs and repair the old furnace in the house. With projected winter cabin rentals at a dangerous low, she couldn’t afford any major problems.

      She reached around the door frame, fumbled for the fuse box and cut the power to the building before stepping inside.

      The flooring was uneven beneath her sneakers. Though the water hadn’t yet flowed out the front doors, it was at least six inches deep through the center of the room—and very, very cold. Claire shuddered, imagining spiders and other crawly refugees clinging to the bits of laundry lint and debris floating past her ankles. Gritting her teeth, she sloshed forward to unplug the machine and turn off the water supply behind it. Claire turned to face Mrs. Rogers, who was standing in the doorway.

      “It’s going to take a lot of mopping,” murmured Mrs. Rogers, a sympathetic expression on her face. She started to turn away, but stopped, putting both hands on her broad, paisley-draped hips. “By the way, dear, have you ever done much housecleaning?”

      Claire felt a twinge of embarrassment. No, I’ve been a princess all my life. Until now. “Why?”

      The deep, rasping laugh of an inveterate smoker echoed through the small building. “Most people dilute their cleaning chemicals, dear. Check the directions on those bottles.”

      Watching Mrs. Rogers trot toward her cabin, Claire groaned. A business career had not prepared her for this. Cleaning. Laundry. Book work. And most important of all, the children. Without help, she would have endless days and very short nights.

      A quick survey of the room revealed no extra-large, heavy-duty mopping equipment. The dainty pink sponge mop and bucket waiting for her in cabin five would be as effective as using a teaspoon to shovel a Minnesota snowdrift Worse, the pile of laundry was now slowly floating piece by piece toward the perimeter of the room.

      Moving here had been a mistake. One huge, impossible mistake. Claire closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle. Why had she ever thought she could handle all of this—?

      A footstep sounded against the slab of pavement at the door. Claire turned to speak, expecting a cabin guest, but her words died in her throat.

      In the doorway stood a grizzled old man, worn and bent, wearing grease-stained overalls loose as clown pants. Claire thought she detected the smell of alcohol, but there was no denying the distinctive smell of unwashed male.

      “Name’s Fred Lundegaard. I worked at Pine Cliff most all my life. Tried the sunshine down south, but missed the pines and this ol’ lake too much, so now I’m back.” He grinned and lifted a hand, his broad gesture encompassing the laundry-room mess and the resort grounds beyond. “And it looks like I’m the answer to your prayers.” With that, he walked toward the washing machine, a determined look on his face.

      

      

      AN HOUR LATER Claire stood at her desk in the kitchen, handed a receipt to the middle-aged couple checking out and prayed they couldn’t hear the string of oaths coming from the laundry building where the old guy was tackling the washing machine.

      “I’m so glad you enjoyed your stay,” Claire said brightly.

      The woman smiled as she glanced around the entryway and into the kitchen beyond. “Lovely place. Have you thought of turning the house into a B&B?”

      “It would be perfect,” Claire agreed. “But with three kids and their pets we’re a bit too noisy.”

      Stepping back through the door held open by her husband, the woman nodded. “Probably true. Actually, I did hear footsteps outside our cabin last night. Probably games of hide-and-seek in the dark?” She reached up and touched her cheek, looking apologetic. “Not that it bothered us, of course.”

      “I’m sorry, I’ll certainly check into it right away,” Claire murmured, waving goodbye.

      The children had all been in bed and asleep by nine-thirty last night. Hungry raccoons had to be the culprits, she decided, slipping the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. They’d already shimmied through the windows of the boathouse and pried open the door