“I see thatnow, Rodney,” she bristles. “But from back there, I thought it was …something else.”
“A bear, perhaps?” her husband says.
“Oh, shut up.” She doesn’t wait for him to say anything else; she just storms off toward the lodge.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t have that grizzly encounter,” I murmur when she’s out of earshot.
Mr. Baker starts laughing while I pat my leg to release Moose. I wait while he trots up to me and butts his head into my thigh—which is his version of a high-five—then he walks stride-for-stride next to me as we make our way to the porch.
The smell of freshly baked buns hits my nose, reminding me it’s almost time to fire up the grill. Grandpa Jack whips up bread, cakes, and cookies so good, you’d think he’d been trained in Paris, France. But he wasn’t. Everything he learned was here at the Whistler Lake Lodge.
Mr. Baker and I jog up the ten wooden steps to the double front doors. I open the one on the right for him, and follow him in, glancing over my shoulder at Moose resuming his place on the porch. I look around inside to see what Mrs. Baker is up to. Evie has left a “back in five minutes” sign on the front desk. That means she’s out cleaning one of the cabins that was vacated this morning. I sigh in relief. Evie’s tough, but at the moment, my money is on Mrs. Baker if those two come to blows. Our discontented guest is currently trailing Grandpa Jack as he lights candles at each of the ten tables. And surprise, surprise, she’s complaining about not seeing a bear.
I overhear my grandfather tell her, “I bet if you slept out on the front porch tonight you’d have yourself a grizzly encounter. Want me to make up the hammock for you?”
“You can’t be serious.” She sounds totally appalled.
“I’m just trying to figure out how badly you want to see a bear,” he says with his lopsided grin. “How ’bout a glass of whiskey? You look like you could use one.”
“I really could,” she replies. “I was almost knocked over by a giant wild dog. My heart is racing like a rabbit.”
“I bet,” he tells her, gesturing for her to sit down on one of the stools. “Let’s have a couple of drinks to help calm your nerves, then you can tell me all about how my grandson disappointed you.” He flashes me a conspiratorial smile, letting me know he’s going to make everything all right with Mrs. Baker.
I hold up one finger to my grandpa. He has a heart condition which means he shouldn’t be drinking scotch, but I won’t complain if he has one. He flicks his fingers under his chin mobster-style to indicate what he thinks of my opinion, then pours two generous servings of the amber liquid.
Chuckling to myself, I make my way over to the fridge to grab a beer, then take my cold Bud out to the deck and wait for the grill to heat up. Moose is lying nearby, watching a dragonfly dive down near his head to catch a mosquito. I take a deep breath of warm summer air, happy that I get to live here in the most beautiful place in the world—and one of the last few places on Earth where a guy can truly be free.
Mrs. Baker comes out onto the porch with her cocktail and aPeoplemagazine in hand, all thoughts of bear sightings forgotten. “Can you believe Harper and Brett Kennedy are getting divorced? I’m completely devastated. They’re the perfect couple.” She stares at the page she’s reading, and amends that to, “Werethe perfect couple.”
“I don’t have the first clue who they are, but if they’re famous, I’m not all that shocked that their marriage is on the rocks.”
“You don’t know who they are?” She looks personally affronted by my lack of Hollywood knowledge. She shakes her magazine at me, and demands, “Haven’t you seen theHeliomanmovies?”
“Can’t say I have.”What the hell is a helioman?
“What about the TV showConspiracy? Harper played the double agent for the CIA.”
NowherI remember. If the woman who starred inConspiracyis Harper Kennedy, wow. She has a face you won’t forget. But even I know that looks alone aren’t enough to keep a marriage together, especially a Hollywood one.
Mrs. Baker continues to lament the end of the Kennedys’ marriage like they’re close personal friends of hers as she makes her way to the far side of the deck. She finally settles onto a lounge chair to flip through her magazine, leaving me alone with the sound of a pair of Arctic loons calling to each other as they search for their dinner. Thank God I live in Alaska instead of in LA. where all the phonies of the world like to congregate. Up here, we’re so far removed from the entitled veneer of that world, we wouldn’t know what to do if we came face to face with it.
Not that we ever will …
Chapter3
Harper
Dear Reader,
Ask and ye shall receive!
Just when I thought Tinsel Town had given up on scandal, Helio-hunk Brett Kennedy gets caught with his pants down, quite literally!
He’s not servicing his wife, the ethereally lovely Harper Kennedy, either. Word on the street is that he’s sticking it to the nanny!
I know what you’re thinking, that’s SO last summer. It’s so Ben, Arnold, and Jude. But men never seem to learn, do they?
A note to Hollywood wives: Stop hiring cute nannies. Think Mrs. Doubtfire and Nanny McPhee. If you keep letting Mary Poppins into your house, you’re tempting the fates. Even I would bang Mary and she lacks all my favorite body parts!