“Looks like something out of a Stephen King novel.”
So much for him having romantic associations of the place. “Oh, hush. It’s perfect. If I can’t finish my book here, then I don’t deserve to call myself a writer.” Excitedly, she opened the door.
The place had been refurbished the previous summer and now it was spectacular, its river-rock fireplace rising two stories to the vaulted timber ceiling. Near the kitchen and dining area was a red enameled wood-burning stove. At one end under the eaves was a sleeping loft accessed by a ladder. The bedroom had the old-fashioned luxury of a bygone era, with an adjoining bath and a rustic slant-top writing desk at the window overlooking the lake.
Rourke ignited the hot-water heater and made fires in both the woodstove and fireplace. Jenny came out of the bedroom, beaming.
“I’m starting to like being a Bellamy,” she said.
“I still think you’re crazy.”
“Are you kidding? People pay a fortune for places like this up on Lake George or Saranac Lake. I wish you could be happy for me.”
“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here in the middle of nowhere.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, this ‘nowhere’ is a short drive from town. It’s got electricity and phone service, so it’s not like I’ve been set adrift on an ice floe.” She had an urge to touch his forehead, to smooth away the scowl from his brow, but she resisted. “I need this, Rourke. This time away with myself—it’s something I probably should have done long ago. And it’s perfectly safe. Remember, my grandfather used to come up here ice fishing every winter. I might even try it myself.”
“I swear to God, if you go out on that ice, I’ll take you back to town in handcuffs.”
She laughed to cover an unexpected visceral reaction to the idea of him handcuffing her. “News flash, Rourke. I’m a grown-up and you’re not in charge of me.”
“Maybe not, but guess what? I’m the chief of police and this place is in my jurisdiction. So don’t be surprised if I decide to patrol—”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re nuts.”
“What’s nuts is you staying here. Dammit, Jenny. Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
“It’s not me being stubborn,” she said. “It’s a declaration of independence. I’ve lost everything, Rourke. And the only thing that makes it bearable is that I have a chance to start over from scratch.”
“This isn’t starting over. It’s hiding.”
“Screw you, Rourke.”
“We tried that,” he snapped. “It didn’t work.”
“That’s it,” she said, about to lose it. “You’re out of here. You’d better leave, or I’ll—”
He tugged on his gloves, one at a time. “You’ll what? Call the police?”
Food for Thought
BY JENNY MAJESKY
Comfort Food
There is almost always food involved in the happiest moments of our lives. Maybe not the big fireworks moments—a marriage proposal, the birth of a baby—but the quiet times, like when you’re a kid, and you bring home a good report card. Someone almost always gives you a cookie.
And then there are the not-so-happy times. That’s when comfort food means the most. As a girl, my grandmother had scarlet fever and, tucked in bed, she could smell the scent of cinnamon from her mother’s baking and forever after, the scent of cinnamon was the scent of love.
Comfort food is also important when you get together with your girlfriends to sit around and talk. It’s not possible to do that without food, if you ask me. My grandmother always baked with great joy, and she knew that food can be comforting because of the associations we make between the food and the people around us, or the emotions the tastes and smells evoke. Spiced with nostalgia, scented with love, a taste of true comfort food is like getting a hug from someone special.
POLISH APPLE STRUDEL
3-4 tart apples, peeled, cored and sliced thin
1 piecrust
2 tablespoons butter
1 (5-ounce) jar walnuts in syrup
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
3 tablespoons brown sugar
3 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon cornstarch
¼ cup plain breadcrumbs
Preheat oven to 375°F. Sauté apples in butter over gentle heat until they soften. Add walnuts, spices, brown sugar and honey. Then add cornstarch and stir to dissolve. Cook until the mixture thickens.
Roll the dough into a rectangular shape and place on a piece of parchment on a large baking sheet. Spoon apple mixture down the middle of the rectangle, bring the edges up and pinch to close. Score the dough with a few slashes along the top. Sprinkle breadcrumbs over the top.
Bake for about 30 minutes, until golden brown. Let stand for 10 minutes or more. Serve plain or with a dollop of sweetened sour cream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1998
Dear Mom,
I’m still engaged to Joey. I know you’d probably say I’m too young, if you even cared, but we decided on a long engagement because he doesn’t want to leave me alone on some army base, far from home. Marrying Joey makes sense once he gets out of the service. Gram’s not doing so hot and she needs me to stay close. And all Joey wants is to settle down in Avalon and make a life here. Gram is just crazy about him. She keeps telling me what a wonderful guy he is and what a great husband he’ll be. When he came back on leave last year, we picked out wedding bands at Palmquist’s, and they were on layaway forever. I just brought them home and I feel a very strange giddiness—nerves, maybe? Because the wedding bands make the future seem so real.
We’re not rushing into anything, though. The rings will wait. Everything will wait. Joey’s been deployed, and since he’s a ranger, he can’t even say where and what he’s doing because it’s a top-secret mission. He had forty-eight hours to say goodbye to me. Rourke
