She straightened and turned to crack the window beside his bed, letting in the pine-scented autumn air, hoping the slight chill would help keep his covers in place. The full moon was shining starkly, drawing a runway on the lake, just like when they had landed two hours ago. That had been another first for her guest, and one he’d argued against. But again, Michael had calmly told him not to worry, that his aunt had been making night landings on moonlit lakes for years.
The lights in cabin three winked out. Emma leaned her head on the glass, breathed in the smell of what had been her personal heaven for the last fifteen years, and wondered how heavenly Medicine Creek Camps would be without Michael.
Even if Ben didn’t take him away to start the new life he was entitled to, Mikey would be going to college, and then on to bigger and better things. And she would be right here, ready to push him or pull him in the right direction—waiting for him to return a grown man.
The wheels of change had begun turning today.
“Why does the boy call you Nemmy?”
Emma didn’t turn around, unwilling to let him see her tears. “Because when he was a two-year-old he found Aunt Emma too big of a mouthful. He shortened it to Nemmy and it stuck. I hope that’s what he writes on my tombstone.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“Gone.”
“And his father?”
“I hope he’s dead.”
There was a moment’s silence. “You’re raising him all by yourself?”
She turned to face the bed. “No, Mr. Jenkins. Michael has been raising me.”
“He’s a remarkable boy.”
“There is nothing boylike about Michael, Mr. Jenkins. He’s older than all of us put together, most of the time. Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating my nephew, if you want his respect.”
“You clearly have it.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, and it took me many frustrating years to get it. Have you ever tried urging an infant to crawl when he’s determined to walk instead? Or tried to explain to a five-year-old why he has to go to school to learn finger painting when he wants to learn how airplanes stay up? Or tried to tell a seven-year-old with a genius IQ that being a tree in a school play is a noble pursuit?”
“No.”
“Then you should try telling a fourteen-year-old that he can’t drive to town for supplies, or fly sports up from Bangor when we’re shorthanded. Or try to comfort a grieving child when his mother leaves when he’s too busy trying to comfort you instead. I gained Michael’s respect by never, ever underestimating him.”
“I’ll remember that, Miss Sands.”
Emma walked to the door of the bedroom and looked back at the bed. “Be sure that you do, Mr. Jenkins.”
Ben sat at the expansive kitchen table and watched Michael move around the kitchen until the boy eventually came to sit across from him. “Where did Medicine Creek Camps get its name?” Ben asked into the silence.
“From the mist that sometimes rises off the creek in winter, when it should be frozen tighter than Pluto.”
“There are hot springs here?”
“There might have been at one time. Now the creek just runs unusually warm, fed by springs deep in the granite. Medicine Gore was settled by some Swedes back in the early eighteen hundreds. Apparently the creek ran even warmer back then.”
“Ever see these springs?”
Michael took a bear-size bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly, then washed it down with half a glass of milk. “They’re contrary wonders, only active when the mood strikes them. Nemmy took me to the headwaters of Medicine Creek once.” He looked at Ben with unreadable, assessing gray eyes. “I was about eight.” He shrugged again and raised his sandwich back to his mouth. “Maine doesn’t really have any geothermal activity,” he said just before he took another bite.
Ben waited until the whole sandwich was gone before he asked his next question. “Who built the lodge?”
Michael got up and went to the fridge, pulled out a bucket of ice cream, and put it on the counter. Then he got down two bowls from the cupboard and began to spoon a mountain of ice cream into each of them.
“Local tribes would come here and soak in the creek in winter, believing the mist held great medicine. That’s probably why the settlers built this old lodge here.” He gave Ben a cocky grin. “To lure city folks with tales of healing powers.”
Michael returned to the table with the two heaping bowls, spoons stuck in them like chimneys. He slid one in front of Ben and sat down with the other one. “Eat, Mr. Jenkins. The ice cream will feel good on your mouth. It’ll help the swelling.”
Ben stared at the bowl in front of him, wondering what small nation he could hire to help him eat it. “So your aunt bought the lodge and built the new cabins?”
“My aunt and my mother.”
The boy filled his mouth with a huge spoonful of ice cream. Ben wasn’t ready to go down the path of Michael’s mother yet, so he picked up his spoon and dug into his own monstrous bowl. And it did feel good rolling around in his mouth and sliding down his throat.
Between silent bites, Ben looked around the huge kitchen. Everything was aging but as neat as a hospital. There was a polished old wood-burning cookstove backing the great room, its pipe going into a massive wall of stone separating the rooms. There were yards and yards of countertops, worn patternless in places and chipped in others. A sink big enough to bathe a cow in sat under a bank of windows that looked out on Medicine Lake, making the water and nearest mountains appear almost touchable. And on the windowsill over the sink, running in each direction, was an eclectic assortment of rocks, moss, gnarled twigs, and Mason jars full of sand and broken glass and pebbles.
The old but obviously well-maintained lodge was more of a home than an inn, and a child’s gifts brought in from the wild had been lovingly kept and displayed.
Michael had arrived home from school less than an hour ago. He had built a small fire in the cookstove, and then he had begun the task of filling his tall growing frame with food. He hadn’t stopped eating since Ben had limped in and sat down.
“Your aunt doesn’t make dinner?”
He had to wait for Michael to swallow. “Sometimes. Usually I cook supper.” The boy suddenly smiled, as if he were comforting a worried child. “We’ll eat in about an hour, Mr. Jenkins. Nem usually forgets to have lunch, so she’ll be as hungry as a bear. I hope you like venison.”
Ben didn’t know which bothered him more—that Michael was expected to look after himself or that the boy took it upon himself to look after Emma. He should be playing football after school, not cooking dinner. Or he should be on the phone making plans with friends, not making meaningless small talk with a stranger.
“You got many friends around here?”
Michael gave Ben a look that said he was nearing a no-trespassing line. He pushed himself away from the table, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, then picked up his empty bowl and Ben’s half-full one. He took them to the sink and started filling it with warm soapy water.
“I’ve made friends of sports from all over the world,” he finally said, his back to Ben. “I still write to many of them. I’ve been invited to Germany next summer to stay with a family that vacationed here this past summer.”
“You going?”
“No. Not without Nemmy.” He turned and pierced Ben with serious eyes. “My aunt is all that’s important to me, Mr. Jenkins. I would give my life to protect her, and my soul to see her happy.”
Where in hell had that come from?
“Is this your standard warning to all male … sports?”
Michael shot him another serious look, then turned back to the sink and shut off the water. “Not all of them. Just the potentially dangerous ones.”
“You think I’m a danger to your aunt?” Ben couldn’t believe this. He might be a danger, all right, though not in the way Michael was suggesting. But how had the boy sensed anything at all?
“Yeah, I think you are, Mr. Jenkins. But I don’t think you realize just how much.”