Sky Lake Summer. Peggy Dymond Leavey

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       Sky Lake

       Summer

       Sky Lake

       Summer

      Peggy Dymond Leavey

      Text ©1999 by Peggy Dymond Leavey

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

      Cover art: Alan Barnard

      Napoleon Publishing

      an Imprint of TransMedia Enterprises Inc.

      Toronto, Ontario, Canada

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program

      05 04 03 02 01 00 5 4 3

      Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

      Leavey, Peggy Dymond

      Sky Lake summer

      ISBN 0-929141-64-4

      I. Title

PS8573.E2358S59 1999

jC813’ .54

C99-930230-2

      PZ7.L42Sk 1999

      For Sarah, Kate and Emma

      Who know about outdoor adventure

      And for the little ones,

      Tyler, Alexis and Ben,

      With love.

       Chapter 1

      1930

      The fire bell rang for hours that night. Flames leapt from the walls of the house on the rock, shooting up through the roof and into the sky. To the boy, frozen at a window on the opposite side of the lake, even the clouds over there were on fire. A flotilla of boats had gathered below the rock face, silhouettes in the eerie light, tossing on a lake flecked with gold.

      There was nothing they could do, the men said later, shaking water from their raincoats as they gathered downstairs in his father’s store. Shivering, the boy crouched on the stairs, listening to the rough sound of the men’s voices, their coughing, watching the steam which rose from their hair and the way the tobacco smoke curled around the lamp on the ceiling. No way to reach the house, they said, no place to land. Even the dock had disappeared. High above them, the fire had raged, unabated.

      “Dang fool place ever to build a house anyway,” one of the would-be rescuers pronounced, and this was followed by mutters of agreement. The boy’s mother, tight-lipped, dressed in her housecoat, moved among them, a tea towel clamped to the top of the coffee pot.

      At daybreak, only a pall of smoke hung over the scene on the other side. By noon, even that was gone.

      “But those people,” the boy’s mother wondered out loud. “Did those people get out?” No one seemed to know.

      1998

      When she got on the four o’clock bus for Sky Lake, Jane Covington had already made up her mind that she was not going to talk to anyone. Her bad mood, which resulted from another early morning argument with her mother, still hovered in the back of her mind like some dark-winged bird. Right up to the last minute she had hoped her mother would change her mind, and for a change let her spend the summer in the city.

      “I don’t see why Nell can’t come here for once, if you’re that worried about her being alone,” Jane had grumbled. “Besides, I really wanted to visit Dad this summer.”

      Mary Covington, who was fitting newly-washed pairs of socks, like so many dinner rolls into Jane’s dresser drawer, had paused for a moment. “And is that convenient with your father?” she had asked, in that see-how-well-controlled-I-am tone of voice she used whenever the two of them talked about Dan, Mary’s ex-husband.

      Jane had fallen back on her bed, expelling air from her lungs loudly and looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. He hasn’t asked me yet, but I want to be here when he calls. And I won’t be if I have to spend the whole summer up at Nell’s.”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane!” Mary had sputtered. “It’s not for the whole summer.” She had wedged in the last pair of socks and slammed the drawer shut. “I said for the month of July.”

      Jane had closed her eyes.

      When someone drifted onto the empty seat beside her on the bus, Jane deliberately opened her book, sneaking only a brief peek at the reflection in the window. The bus driver pushed the passenger’s carry-on luggage onto the shelf over their heads and promised to let her know when they had reached Sky Lake. “This young lady’s getting off there too,” he said.

      Shifting over towards the window, Jane took another look in the tinted glass. In spite of the heat of early July, the woman was dressed in something long and flowing, gauzy, with flowers and numerous scarves. Her voluminous hair, which was neither blonde nor white, floated around her head like soft clouds. It was hard to tell from the window how old she was. Older than Mary, who had turned forty last week; closer perhaps to the age of her grandmother, Nell. To Jane’s relief the woman did not want to talk and settled her head against the back of the seat with a sigh.

      Shortly, the bus left the heavy traffic of the four-lane highway behind and turned north, away from the acres of car dealerships with their fluttering neon pennants, and into the rolling countryside where farms stretched out on either side.

      As the miles disappeared under the wheels of the bus, Jane felt her heavy mood gradually lifting. There would still be the month of August left when she got home. And remembering the freedom she enjoyed at Nell’s cottage brought an involuntary smile to her lips. It wouldn’t be so bad. At My Blue Heaven she could sleep late, read all day if she felt like it and swim whenever she wanted to, within reason. Or do absolutely nothing at all. And Nell never reminded her that she really should be watching what she ate. Why, she was still a growing girl!

      “I dreamed about coming here last night.” The voice beside her startled Jane. “I believe in dreams, don’t you?” the woman asked, smiling expectantly.

      “Not really,” Jane admitted, closing her book but keeping one finger in it to mark her place. “I never really thought about it.”

      “Oh, yes,” the woman continued, “I believe dreams are meant to connect us somehow. Connect us to some other person, some other time perhaps.”

      Jane thought about this for a moment. It was an intriguing idea.

      “My name’s Mimosa,” the woman said, turning in her seat and offering Jane a slim, cool hand. “Mimosa Granger. But everyone just calls me Mim.” Her voice was soft and lilting, reminding Jane of music, or water running over stones. Maybe the woman was some sort of mystic. She certainly looked the part, with her loose garments and long, delicate neck. And ever since she had taken the seat beside her, Jane had been aware of the fragrance of flowers in the air. Was it roses? Lilies-of-the-valley? Something delicate, spring-like.

      Mim wanted to know all about Sky Lake, and Jane, who had spent part of every summer there since she was eight, found herself describing it with growing enthusiasm. “And just wait till you see the big rock,” she promised. “It’s so high, it’s amazing.”

      “It all sounds quite lovely,” Mim agreed when Jane finally wound down. Ms. Granger had inherited a piece of property on the lake and