Indian Foot Lake Love Story Page 2

  “Does the refrigeration still work, and the cooking equipment?” Sylvia asked, not sure if she even knew what she might be considering.

  “It was operational just a year ago, when the owner and his wife had a little snack shop here.”

  “Did it go out of business? Why did it close?”

  “The owner's wife got cancer, and without her, he just gave up on it, I think,” asked Ms. Avery. “That and the economy didn't help, I'm sure. The town people are not going to drive out here to eat a meal when there are plenty of failing restaurants close by. Are you thinking about having a food business way out here? Are you a cook? Or did you just want an investment?”

  “Is their name Kraft?” she had to ask, ignoring the myriad of other questions put before her.

  “It isn't,” she said quickly, “and I must tell you that it wouldn't be ethical for me to disclose the name of my client until an offer is made. Are you serious about purchasing this property at all?”

  Sylvia was trying to remember the Kraft's daughter's married name, but she was just too young to pay attention back then.

  “I'd like to go sit under that tree by the edge of the lake for a while and then walk over to the cabin where I used to stay on weekends when I was a child,” Sylvia stated.

  “I cannot permit that,” Ms. Avery said. “Neither the owner nor my company can afford that liability. If you are not considering buying this place, then this is really a waste of my time.”

  “I am considering buying this property,” said Sylvia raising her voice in protest. “I'm not sure what I would do with it exactly, but I know I would love to have it.”

  “I'm sorry,” she answered, not sounding sorry, “but I must have misunderstood you. Would you like to make an offer? The owner is likely to accept much less than the asking price. He has enormous hospital bills and a funeral to pay off.”

  “That's a terrible thought,” said Sylvia shaking her head in disbelief at the callousness she had just witnessed. “I have a lot to consider, ideas to work through, and I definitely want to see that cabin, sit under that tree—and maybe even swim in the lake before I sign any papers.”

  Ms. Avery was stunned. Not only had she not been prepared for such a confrontation, but she was perplexed as to what to do. The owner surely did not want strangers wandering all over the place.

  “You can rest assured, Ms. Avery that I am not going to get hurt. And if I did get hurt, I have insurance. I promise I will not sue anyone.”

  “You win, Miss Marshall,” she finally conceded. “Please do not stay long, and please lock the chain across the road when you leave. You have my card. Call me when and if you are ready to make an offer.”

  When the woman was almost to her car and out of hearing distance, she groaned under her breath, “What a difficult woman!”

  As soon as Ms. Avery left, Sylvia could not wait another instant to see if her beloved Nippy was the horse she spotted, so off she headed down the trail to the neighbors.

  A tall man peered at her from behind a screen door as she walked up the front porch steps. Sylvia was taken back by this, wondering if new owners had moved in and neglected to change the name on the mailbox. He looked confused and not pleased at all by her presence on his doorstep. She knew that look. It had been directed toward her many times when she went into town with her dad to get supplies. People out here were naturally suspicious of outsiders, a label she would always carry if she ever moved to the country—even if she stayed for twenty years.

  “Can I help you, Ma'am?” he said, not opening the door.

  “I was hoping to find the Devines,” she said meekly, a little put off by his lack of friendliness. He must think I'm selling something, she thought.

  “Why? Are you from a collection agency? I already told you I'm doing the best I can on making payments, so there's nothing more to talk about.”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “I'm an old friend of the Devines, and I mostly wanted to know about the horse in your field, the pinto.”

  “It can't be,” he said with a smile of recognition beginning to appear on his face. “You're not Sylvie.”

  “No one has ever called me that except Greg Devine and his dad.”

  He swung open the door, smiling largely, showing a beautiful set of straight, white teeth. His eyes were unmistakably those of her old friend. They were dark blue like the sky before a rain. Everything else about him had grown larger and matured remarkably. He had become handsome on her when she wasn't looking. But, of course, she hadn't looked in a long, long time.

  “You have really changed,” she said with amazement, noticing his tanned muscular arms bare under his faded blue overalls. “What happened to that skinny scalawag I used to know?”

  “Talk about change,” he said. “You haven't changed at all. I'm surprised I didn't recognize you right away. Except you got rid of the pig tails, I see. That must have been what threw me off.”

  “Believe it or not, I sometimes still wear braids—braids, silly. They are not pig tails.”

  “Maybe they're braids in the big city, but out here they're pig tails. Live with it,” he tossed back at her.

  They both laughed, and then stood there looking at each other for what seemed a long time.

  “How's your father?” she said, breaking the awkward silence.

  “See for yourself, he's on the back porch watching the baby while I fix supper. You've got to stay. I absolutely insist. It's dad's chicken and dumplings.”

  “Oh, I'm not so sure you wouldn't try to poison me,” she laughed. “But, I'd love to anyway, and there’s nothing I'd love more than to visit for a while. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping dead in her tracks. “Baby? Did you say baby?”

  “I have a daughter, Sylvie,” he said proudly. “Can you believe it?”

  “Hardly! I hope she looks like her mother,” she said teasing in the same old way they used to torment each other when they were kids.

  “Oh, I prayed for that,” Greg admitted. Sylvia followed him through the familiar old house with all the same furniture, and it seemed that even the curtains were just as she remembered. These people do not replace anything unless it falls apart, she thought, admiring that quality.

  “I can't imagine you with a wife,” she said. “Nor can I imagine you six foot tall, either. And what happened to your red hair and buck teeth?”

  “Six-foot-four,” he said. “And I wore braces for years. My hair just faded for some reason. It still looks a little red sometimes in the sunlight. Hey, Dad, you'll never guess who's here,” he called as they approached the back screen door on the porch facing the field and barn. It was where they used to play card games on rainy days that prevented them from being with the horses.

  Mr. Devine was seated in an old wooden rocking chair, a chubby blond baby sleeping on his chest. His hair was completely white, but as thick and unruly as ever. It wouldn't have surprised her if he were wearing the same patched-up overalls from seventeen years ago. That, of course, was not possible. He must buy them old, she thought, because she had never seen him wearing a new pair. The old man tilted his head and squinted to see her better, then reached to a side table for his glasses. After adjusting them to his head, he screamed a loud “woo hoo!” which miraculously did not wake the beautiful child who stirred. Apparently she was accustomed to her grandfather's noises.

  “Sylvie Marshall? Is that you?” he said as his mouth broadened into a full smile.

  “You're a lot smarter than your son, that's for sure,” she teased.

  “Always was,” he snickered. “Always will be.”

  “She came to see Nippy,” Greg interjected to offer some explanation for her sudden appearance, which he himself did not yet understand.

  “Well, Nippy just might have a heart attack when he sees you, but he'll sure die happy. Go on out there and show yourself to him. I'll go lay little Debbie in her bed and then join you.”

  “I've got to check on our supper,” Greg said unobtrusively. “She'
s going to eat with us, Dad,” he beamed, a facial expression which Mr. Devine noticed as he struggled out of the chair, jostling the baby back to sleep and patting her gently.

  Sylvia sped as fast as she could toward the field rich with wildflowers and green grass just as she often saw it in her imagination. She wanted to call him, but hesitated when she thought about Mr. Devine saying he might have a heart attack. Her father had died having one, so that frightened her a little. Following from a short distance behind, Mr. Devine whistled loudly and shrilly from between his fingers, as she had never learned to do. It was not for lack of trying. Her two horse buddy friends had laughed relentlessly over her attempts.

  Nippy's head jerked erect at the familiar sound, but he hesitated as if confused that he was being called at such a strange time of day. It wasn't evening yet. It wasn't time to go into the barn for the night. He walked slowly toward them, and then, once he had gotten a good look at her, he suddenly bolted toward Sylvie, whinnying with excitement. He jumped around in a circle, and then lowered his head in front of her to receive hugs and kisses from his long-lost girl.

  “He's as beautiful as ever,” Sylvia cried with tears of joy, “And, I have missed him so much. He seems to be the one thing that has grown smaller over the years. I think I'm too big to ride you anymore, boy.”

  “Oh, he looks pretty good for his age,” explained Mr. Devine, “but he has arthritis pretty bad in his legs, so I don't feel right having him ride even little kids anymore. I'm surprised he was able to do that little dance for you without cringing up in pain.”

  “Isn't there any medications or some kind of therapy that could help?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mr. Devine hesitated to say, probably feeling guilty that they didn't have the money for Nippy to see a vet as often as he should.

  “I will check into it, and I'd be happy to do anything to help him feel better,” Sylvia stated with insistence. She knew his pride, though admirable, would not permit him to let Nippy suffer.

  “He went through a really bad time, you know, when you never came back. Wouldn't eat, looked heartbroken. I felt so sorry for him. I kind of bonded with him over his sorrow, and that's why I vowed to keep him for as long as he has left, or as long as I have left, which ever comes first. We all missed you, Sylvie.”

  “After Dad died, my mother didn't want to come back here. I wanted to that first summer afterward, but she said that the only purpose for the place was to prevent Joe from having a heart attack, and it didn't work. She never even came back to get our things. I assume it was sold to someone else with all our belonging still in it.”

  “It somehow or other went back to the Indian Foot Lake estate, if I remember correctly,” Mr. Devine paused, straining to pull up the memories from his head. “I don't know the details, but I know it was part of the lake property when Greg bought it.”

  “Greg bought it!” she gasped. “Greg owns the lake?”

  Mr. Devine nodded, and Sylvia quickly put together the whole scenario. His wife succumbed to cancer, and he has a baby. It is he who is selling the lake because of financial problems. The shock of this knowledge ran through her system, and Nippy, feeling it on some animal instinct level, nibbled kisses on her cheek. She patted the sides of his neck, and then kissed him back, right on his nose which was as soft as a newborn kitten.

  “I could swear he is smiling,” commented Mr. Devine. “I haven't ever seen a horse get an expression like that.” His face was a pure depiction of bliss, if only an artist could capture it.

  “Supper's ready,” yelled Greg from the porch. They turned to walk back, Nippy following his beloved girl all the way to the gate.

  “I'll be right here,” she assured him, and he seemed to understand, nodding his head up and down. Sylvia wondered how she could bear to leave him again, and she determined then and there that she wouldn't. St. Louis was only an hour away. I should have been coming to visit over all these years, she thought. I will come—every weekend. That was that.

  The familiar aroma of chicken and dumplings filled the whole house and even seeped out onto the porch as they came up the stairs.

  “What wonderful smell,” commented Sylvia as she walked to the table. “That sure brings back memories. I have never been able to find anything that comes close to your secret recipe, Mr. Devine.”

  “It's so simple, I feel guilty,” he answered. “That's why it's so good. I don't add a lot of fancy crap to my food. It's not even written down. I just did what my wife did, and I'll be glad to tell you how to make it.”

  “Great, but sorry to admit, I'll have to put it in writing.”

  They sat in their old places at the table, the same as when she used to visit them at supper time accidentally-on-purpose when she was a child. She wondered which chair had been Greg's wife's and if she should ask about her. An empty high chair stood against the wall to the left of Greg. When a tiny cry soon emerged from the bedroom, Greg rose to get her.

  “You must be so proud,” she said to both of them, as Greg put the baby in her chair and tied on a bib. Greg brought out a few open jars of baby food. “She's a beautiful baby. God answered your prayers, Greg.”

  “He did—those anyway,” he said somberly. An uncomfortable silence followed.

  “I'm so sad to hear about what happened,” she cautiously started what could be an uncomfortable conversation. “I was sad even before I knew it was you the real estate lady was talking about.”

  “Real estate lady?” they said together.

  “That's really what brought me here,” she answered quickly. “I came to see about the lake property. I am interested in buying it.”

  The two men stared at her, with forks in hand and mouths open for the next bite, frozen in a stunned state. Why were they looking at her like that, she wondered. Was it shocking that she would consider such a thing? Did they think she just suddenly decided after all these years to come for a visit? Were they pleased at this revelation or not?

  “But, now that I know the full story,” she continued, “I'm more concerned about why you're selling it. Is it something you really want to do? If not, perhaps we can think of some other options. I wouldn't want to take it away from you.”

  “If someone has to buy it,” Greg said, shoving a spoonful of applesauce into Debbie's little open mouth, “there's no one on earth I'd rather see have it than you, Sylvie.”

  “I couldn't help but pick up on the fact of your financial problems,” she said cautiously, not wanting to pry. “I don't want to invade your privacy, but I have a pretty good sense of business, inherited from my father, I guess. It doesn't seem like making a profit is even possible in this situation, at least from the things Ms. Avery told me. But I haven't had time to think on it much yet.”

  “I think your business sense probably came from your mother,” Mr. Devine said. And she remembered that the two of them did not get along very well. “Your Dad was a good guy.”

  “He was,” she stated. “But, it is possible to be a good guy and a good businessman. My father proved that to me.”

  “You're right about that,” Mr. Devine agreed. He really liked Mr. Marshall, who asked him for advice about fixing things and negotiating with local suppliers.

  “Ms. Avery, the real estate agent, told me that the problems are almost insurmountable—with disrepair, regulations and codes, the economy, and lot of other things. I can't say she impressed me as someone whose advice could be trusted. It almost seemed like she didn't want to sell the property. Maybe she just didn't like me, although I don't know why. What were your plans for the place, Greg?”

  “My wife and I did all right for a while,” Greg began. “We had the best french fries in the world—honest, they were—and teenagers seemed to like the food, the oldies music on the juke box, and the seclusion of the woods, I think.” He rose a suggestive eyebrow to Sylvia, who blushed.

  “What went wrong?” she asked, trying to remember that this was Greg, her old buddy, not the handsome grown man sitting
across from her.

  “My wife's illness, at first,” he said painfully. “It took all of our time—going to the hospital for treatments, being so sick she needed to practically stay in bed all day and night, caring for Debbie, who was only a newborn—it was all really hard. I had no choice but to close up the lake. Then she died. I haven't even been back there since all the trouble began even though it's right next door.”

  “Have you given much thought to possibilities for the place? It could be a great campground. My original idea was to return it much to the same kind of operation it was during my time here. I know people nowadays want cable TV, air conditioning, a pool, and lots of modern conveniences. But, I believe there is a segment of the population—I don't have any facts to back up this notion, granted—that are nostalgic about those days. No phones, no television, no outside world at all—that could be an attraction to some. Why not make it a fifties or sixties paradise? Play up the name of the place, and why it's called Indian Foot Lake. Remember the Krafts telling us about the archeologists from the college who studied the footprints in the rock on the south side of the lake? Have camp sites built, serve burgers and shakes, maybe build a playground for kids, clean up the lake, sell fishing gear for dads and kids to catch those crappies that used to be there, as I remember. You could have pony rides for the kids, not using Nippy though. Where are the other ponies? We could buy more. Why is the lake polluted, by the way?” She finally stopped herself from rattling on and on to wait for a response.