Uncommon Ground

By Robert T. Schuetz

“SAVE THE LAKE!” That was the battle cry of Sommers and his unusual group of friends as they struggled to preserve the natural beauty and retain the quiet comforts of life on Lake Victoria. But, with time running out, would they be able to overcome crooked cops, greedy lawyers, and violent gangsters? Dale Sommers came pre-programmed, raised to be a defender. Lake Victoria was like no other place on earth; he believed it was his duty to protect her. The only place he’d ever called home, Sommers promised to safeguard the lake at all costs. A solitary mountain of a man with a mysterious past, it would take Dale’s supreme strength to repel unscrupulous invaders and conquer his unforgiving inner demons. Claimed in the late 1800s by homesteaders for less than the price of a caffe latte, the coveted waterfront property accounted for three-quarters of Lake Victoria’s pristine shoreline, eight hundred acres, passed down through four generations. With a current valuation of more than one hundred million dollars, the stakes had become so high; no one close to Sommers appeared to be safe from injury or even death. A power-hungry U. S. Senator, backed by a corrupt sheriff, a team of shady lawyers, and a Native American crime syndicate, set her sights on snatching this crystal-clear sapphire in the rough, and no price would be too high. But ultimately, it would take a monumental team effort led by Sommers, an elderly squatter named Grumpy, and his loyal dog, Phelps, to save the day, and save the lake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Aug 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781977248428

Robert T. Schuetz

A professional educator of thirty-plus years, Bob became immersed in the practice of using stories as a powerful conduit to advance learning and transfer knowledge and culture from one generation to the next. His next life chapter, writing, will draw upon Bob’s passion for travel and outdoor adventure.

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Prologue

God Only Knows

Brilliant morning sunshine warmed Pop Sommers as he sat snug in his leather-bound easy chair on the front porch of his lakeside cabin. The heavily upholstered back and seat of the old rocker worn shiny and smooth from hundreds of afternoon cat naps. Sommers squinted through his thick, black-framed glasses as he looked out across the shimmering water and splendid shoreline punctuated by an occasional boat dock. He watched a young couple in an aluminum fishing boat putt-putt across the lake towards the famous Townsend Dropoff below Victory Bluff, fresh walleye and crappie in their plans. Their Evinrude fifteen left a faint whiff of pre-mix and two-stroke exhaust in her wake.

A tattered copy of "Field and Stream and a stained S & E Lumber" coffee mug, partially filled, rested on a knotty pine end table beside him. Father Time, still unbeaten and untied, stalked Pop, watching, lurking, the most relentless tracker. Sommers was making the pesky rival go the distance. He wasn’t going down without a tussle. It was early morning, and he was feeling drained. His eyelids felt heavy, and his back felt stiff. Alone but for his best friend lying against his feet, Sommers blinked several times then scanned the horizon. With chirping finches and croaking frogs in the background, his mind wandered down a well-traveled historical path.

Folks wondered if preserving this place was worth his troubles. He certainly thought so, looking with pride upon acres of old-growth timber and the crystal-clear water of Lake Victoria. Was he a good man? Did he live a good life? Would the good Lord tap Sommers on the shoulder with approval when his number got pulled? Mornings like this allowed his spirit to run freely without distraction nor interruption, no fences, not at this lake. But, as he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifted back to another warm spring many years earlier. It was a time when greed and violence nearly washed this humble slice of heaven entirely away. Decades after the fact, Sommers could recall exactly when and where the trouble began.

Peace, purifying freedom, harmony manifesting. She thought this to be one of those glorious mornings that feed your soul and restore your faith in the recuperative powers of spring in the north woods. God’s Country, they call it. Andie Hansen was enjoying the final stretch of her rigorous twelve-mile training ride. The golden rays of the sun, promising a warm afternoon, were beginning to peak over the treetops. A translucent full moon clung tenaciously on the western horizon. The sky cloudless, the early morning air fresh and crisp, with an overnight fog rising from low areas and distant bean fields. It had been an unseasonably warm spring, and the ice had been out for almost two months, one of many signs of climate change in the upper Midwest. Distant lakes by the dozens sparkled like aquamarine gems scattered across a parquet floor. The lakes were calm, dotted with an occasional fishing boat or blissful waterfowl; cormorants, ducks, and loons, mostly. The intense greenery contrasted with the multi-colored wildflower blooms. A gentle breeze stirred up the unique country aroma, part agricultural, part conifer, and part aquatic. Most would agree, the earthy scents are as fresh and captivating as the visual spectacle. As she crossed over meandering Spring Creek for the fourth time, Andie envisioned a souvenir postcard. She pictured this enchanting panorama with "Welcome to Minnesota" in bold block letters splashed across the top. It wasn’t Coronado Beach, but to call this a beautiful morning was to sell it considerably short.

Andie felt solid and fast aboard her racing bike; gloved hands relaxed on the bars, her shoes clipped to the rotating pedals. Her movements were smooth and powerful, yet she displayed an effortless rhythm. Sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, Andie glanced down at her fitness band. She was about to shave forty-five seconds off her personal best for this hilly route. Her record pace was another step forward as she trained for the grueling and prestigious Iron-Girl World Championships. She placed in the top forty and achieved a qualifying time last summer in California. She was eagerly looking forward to competing in Hawaii this coming fall. Andie pulsed with energy, anticipating a summer season of training at the lake. It had been quite some time since she felt this alive.

Hansen had arranged to meet Sommers for lunch and was planning a leisurely five-mile swim after work. Maybe lunch would lead to something more, and she’d have to reschedule her workout. She cracked a smile acknowledging the adjustments would be worth it. She was craving some conversation, some companionship, and honestly, the touch of a man. A Spotify mix played Beach Boys songs through her Airpods as she passed a yellow sign, "Caution Soft Shoulder. She found the warning alluring and poignant. Carl Wilson sang longingly, I may not always love you…."

One last gradual climb, Andie heard a vehicle, odds favored a careworn, dusty pickup truck, approaching from the opposite side of the rise. Unusual for this early hour, she typically had highway eleven entirely to herself. Seconds later, almost as predicted, a dark pickup truck, shiny clean, with big tires and tinted windows, met her at the crest of the hill. She muttered to herself, "Hmm, foggy morning, no headlights? Good thing I’m on the opposite side of the road." The truck was traveling much slower than the posted fifty-five and slowed, even more, when Hansen and her bike came whistling over the rise.

During the past few weeks, she became familiar with nearly every vehicle that traveled these carefree highways, but she didn’t recognize this truck. Her eyes tried to penetrate the dark windows in the prospect of identifying the occupant. She shuddered, and a chill ran up her back as she sensed a dangerous driver peering at her from behind the reflective shadow. Then, out of habit, she started to reach for her iPhone, center-mounted on the handlebars. A quick photo, emergency call, or feigned protection, she felt uncertain; even with a spotty data connection, her smartphone gave her a subtle sense of security.

She took a quick peek into her rear-view mirror, and then she exhaled a full cleansing breath as the mysterious truck continued slowly beyond her view. "Maybe a lost fisherman was looking for his turn." Her apprehension fizzled as the unmistakable scent of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls told her Gray’s Corner Market was only two miles away. During her training, rare treats included a steaming latte and a sweet pastry. They would top off this gorgeous morning perfectly — a tasty reward for achieving her personal best.

Andie’s thoughts jolted back to the present as the roar of a speeding vehicle shuddered the pavement behind her. Following another split-second glimpse in her mirror, she instinctively jerked her bike to the shoulder, fearing the worst. Drowned by a roaring engine and howling tires, Andie wanted to scream, cry, jump, or fight. There was no time for any of that. The glancing impact of the truck’s front fender smashed into her left side, launching Hansen and her prized racing bike over the skirt of a steep embankment.

Time lost all standard measure as she toppled face-first end over end just beyond a guardrail and between two large trees. Strange what our memory chooses to reveal during traumatic events. Her mind flashed back twenty years to her father’s laughter, Did you see that? Abbie just flipped ass over applecart! She could see her dad sitting up high behind the wheel of their boat, waving peace signs with both hands held high over his head. His words were barely comprehensible as he described Andie’s beautiful sister catapulting her water skis during a spectacular head-over-heels wipeout. Abbie, as usual, had been showing off, provoking her father’s jabs.

Andie’s left foot came out of her riding shoe, her right foot strapped tightly to the pedal. The front wheel crushed flat as her bike crashed headlong into a discarded utility pole. The handlebars drove into her side, causing a sickening grunt and a blinding sting to her ribs. Two or three dizzying rotations came to an abrupt halt with the loud crack of her helmet striking a hollowed hickory stump.

Her body still, her mind whirling in dark confusion, Andie could hear the slowing clicks of the bike’s spinning rear sprocket and the bubbling flow of a nearby stream. From somewhere behind, up higher in the distance, she heard truck tires skidding to a stop. Still dazed, her momentary hope soon dashed, hearing the echoes of an indistinct voice, a door slam, and the squeal of tires as the wicked truck sped away. Her head pounded, her side throbbed with pain, the weight of her mangled bike lay twisted across her legs as the warm, acidic taste of blood and vomit filled her nose and mouth. Wavering, sputtering, unable to catch her breath, she reached out blindly for something, anything. The bicycle clicks slowed to a stop. Resignedly, she closed her watering eyes tightly and dreamed of waves tumbling along a scenic sandy beach. She drifted off, whimpering, "If you should ever leave me…"

Halfway up the embankment, the Beach Boys repeated tenderly, "God only knows what I’d be without you."

Chapter 1

So Far Away

He could have gone anywhere, could have done anything, could have been anyone. This glorious spring morning had Dale Sommers reciting Thoreau, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." His quiet confidence, giant stature, and unique survival skills made him a living legend in these parts — indeed, a man amongst men. Right here, right now, on this tranquil lake, he felt something uncommonly close to pure contentment. It had taken him many years to get to this state of mind. Sommers wondered how many other people were fortunate enough to be living their destiny. His longtime neighbor, Grumpy, seldom cracked a smile, but Dale couldn’t picture him anywhere else.

His best friend, Joy, was always exuberant but seemingly in search of personal fulfillment. Was contentment enough? A puzzled Sommers wondered aloud, "what if this is as good as it gets?" But, on the other hand, if being content was all there is, Sommers was all good with it. They say time wasted at the lake is time well spent. They also say a bad day fishing is better than your best day at work. They, as he had come to learn, were right more often than wrong. It turns out they were intelligent folks.

Perched at the end of his dock, Sommers spotted the telltale black stripe of his revered nemesis. Twenty-two inches long with a pink scar running along its dorsal fin, a largemouth bass hovered in the shallows twenty feet away, near the edge of the bulrushes. The blazing morning sunshine, low in the east, and the calm, clear water made fishing incredibly gratifying. Even when he didn’t catch fish, Sommers enjoyed watching them. He was comforted knowing they were thriving in an environment he nurtured. Like gazing into a supersized aquarium, Sommers and "Ol’ Fatty" observed small bluegill by the hundreds darting in and around the pilings of his wooden dock.

Next door, his cranky old neighbor clanged pots and pans loud enough to wake the dead. In contempt of this peaceful morning, Grumpy is madly making his usual Sunday breakfast of thick-sliced bacon, three farm-fresh eggs, wheat toast with strawberry preserves, and dark roast coffee, black. A morning cup of Joe seemed to fuel Grumpy’s crankiness. Then again, it could be one of those cases where the shoe fits just right. The smell of his sizzling bacon grease and percolating brew put an aromatic stranglehold on the picturesque western shore of Lake Victoria.

Grumpy’s dog, Phelps, sat patiently at Dale’s feet, tail wagging, peering down into the water, watching fish, anticipating an ensuing catch. A pair of red-tailed hawks circle overhead, a blue heron, stalking her breakfast, takes long-legged, delicate strides along the shore. Here and there, painted turtles poke their pointed snouts above the water for air. Sommers opened the bail on his spinning reel, pulled the graphite rod back just a few inches. Then he flipped an olive-green rubber frog elegantly through the air with a skillful flick of his wrist. It landed quietly and softly on the water, barely causing a ripple, several feet past the massive fish. He was careful to retrieve the lure slowly with subdued anticipation along the weed edge and over the top of the waiting largemouth.

Quicker than you could say, Jack Robinson, Ol’ Fatty charged at the lifelike decoy, batting it clear out of the water with a smashing strike from the side of its head. The giant fish rocketed entirely out of the water, landing with a clamorous "sploosh that echoed across the lake. Phelps sprang to his feet and barked excitedly at the commotion. Grumpy, naked except for a cook’s apron and dark socks, stuck his head out his creaky screen door, Fish on?"

Sommers shook his head, smiling, Not this time. Why don’t you do us a favor by putting some close on?

Grumpy turned to give Sommers a full view of his saggy pale backside. Do me a favor and kiss my ass!

Sommers waved him off. He sensed that Ol’ Fatty was toying with him, mocking him and his eight-dollar rubber frog. Phelps slumped back on his haunches, his flopped ears and sad eyes expressing disappointment. They say fishing lures catch more people than fish. Judging from the half dozen over-stuffed tackle boxes in Dale’s tool shed, they were right.

No catches this morning; with luck, Sommers and his cagey rival would square off again later in the evening. Holding up two fingers, Dale flashed a peace sign, a "V for Victoria" sign, to the lake as he turned to leave. For many, including Sommers, the lake is a long-time trusted friend. A moody confidant who’s there to listen patiently, speak subtly, and occasionally wash us of our sins. Following the commonly harsh winter, this northern Minnesota morning was picture-postcard perfect; it didn’t matter the fish got away. Catch-and-release was Dale’s fishing commitment. Live and let live, as they say.

Sommers checked his wristwatch. Gray’s Corner Market would be opening soon. Dale spends every Sunday morning having breakfast with his mother at the senior center down in Fergus Falls. She lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve when he arrives with warm cinnamon rolls. With a bit of reluctance, he parked his trusty flippin’ stick on the front porch, pointed Phelps for home, and climbed into his beat-up old SUV. A mile of washboard gravel followed by four miles of rolling country two-lane, Gray’s was a welcoming and comfortable oasis only a few minutes from home.

They say the early bird catches the worm. Sommers is usually the first customer of the day. He appreciated the welcoming old-time ringing of the shop doorbells and the wood-on-wood clap of the old screen door as he strolled in and approached the counter, Mornin’ Sunshine! What’s good today? A pointless question since every waking soul within a mile or two can smell Gary’s savory cinnamon rolls released fresh and hot from the oven.

His good buddy, Gary, is covered with flour and shouting over the whirl of a blender, Sommers, surprise, surprise! Good day, eh? Their attention shifts outside as a shapely young woman painted in black spandex coasts past the windows on her racing bike. They look back at each other and nod in agreement. Yessiree, it’s going to be a beautiful day! Shaking off his oven mitts, Gary continued, Speaking of hot, I just lugged two trays of rolls from the oven. Give me a minute while I frost a couple of the fresh ones for you. I’m assuming you’re driving down to see your mom this morning?

Yep, today she’s leaving me a little bonding time between yoga class and cross-stitch club.

Gary wiped his hands on a dishtowel, How’s she doing?

Well, about the same. Ma doesn’t recognize me as often as I’d like, but you know her as well as I do. She’s always smiling and laughing, telling corny jokes. I believe she thinks she’s Carol Burnett. Now and then, she will have amazing moments of clarity. She likes telling stories about fishing with my dad. The fish are getting bigger and more numerous as time passes.

Gary nodded and pondered this tidbit of Minnesota truth as he frosted the second tray of steaming cinnamon rolls. Dale’s attention was focused on the beautiful cyclist checking her tire pressure at the air pump outside. Her medium-length blonde hair unfurled as she removed her helmet. Like a movie star, she shook her head from side to side, running her fingers through her shiny hair. Her skin-tight riding suit leaves little to his imagination. She’s tall, tan, trim, and way too glamorous for these parts. Sommers catches himself gawking at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in person. To avoid getting caught in a gob smacked stare, he turned back to the counter just as she turned from her bike to enter the quaint little convenience store.

Gary slid two boxes the size of pie plates into a white paper bag, Five bucks, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. Dale placed a twenty on the counter, grabbed the bag, and practically sprinted for the door. Gary shouted, Say hi to your mom for us! Sommers looked back to acknowledge his friend at the counter and walked headlong into the enchanting cyclist standing in the doorway, nearly knocking her down. Gary winced, thinking his antique door was about to get knocked from its hinges.

Sommers barreled into the woman like a defensive tackle sacking a quarterback, with him being almost a head taller and more than one hundred pounds heavier than her. He grabbed the athletic woman around her narrow waist with his free arm to keep her from falling over. Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Sommers blushed, feeling awkward and self-conscious.

The blonde woman instinctively threw her arms around Dale’s thick neck. Then, laughing, Well, howdy, neighbor! Hand over your pastry bag, and we’ll call it even. There’s an offbeat pause as the two of them smile at each other. Gary, as Dale would come to learn, noticed the romantic sparks immediately from across the store.

Sommers regained his balance, propped her up, and tipped the bill of his black Zebco ball cap, Excuse my clumsiness. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Enjoy your ride.

As the doorbells jingled, the attractive woman said, Thanks, you too! soon realizing her reply didn’t make a lick of sense. Prioritizing her training diet, she grabbed a fresh apple from the fruit stand. She was about to order a smoothie when Gary shouts, Ah, the big oaf forgot his change again!

The attractive cyclist set her apple on the counter, I’ll run it out to him. Can I get a medium strawberry banana with whey, please? She grabbed the fifteen dollars and jogged out to meet Sommers just as he climbed into his rusty old truck. Hey, mister, you forgot your change!

Dale looked back over his shoulder, smiling. No, not really. That’s a donation to help Gary modernize his pathetic air compressor. He pointed at her bike parked near the timeworn sputtering air hose. There’s a nicer air pump behind the wash bays around back. Only us old-timers know it’s there.

She laughed, He called you a big oaf. Maybe Gary doesn’t deserve your generosity. Sommers playfully scrunched his face into a menacing expression as he looked over her shoulder back into the store.

She handed Sommers the cash, and they shook hands, I’m Andrea Hansen. I’m over on Lake Victoria.

Sommers smiled, It’s been a while, but I seem to remember you and your sister being very dedicated to your water sports. Twins, right? Looking at her racing bike, You’ve already put in at least five miles, and you’re barely breaking a sweat. That’s impressive. Name’s Sommers. I’m on Lake Victoria too. The two simultaneously flash peace signs and share a laugh. What brings you back to the lake?

You have a good memory. My sister, Abbie, and I summered at the lake when we were younger. Our family moved to California when we were in middle school. I moved back into my parents’ old lake house a few weeks ago. Sommers nervously adjusted his ball cap. How long have you lived at the lake? Andie recognized his name from her research of property documents at the county courthouse. Regardless of the coincidence, she decided digging into business at this juncture could disturb the positive vibes. Real estate and property deeds could wait.

Sommers took a long look east beyond the highway eleven sign, All my life, just a hair under five decades. The Sommers family has been on LV for more than a century.

Get outta here! You don’t look a day over thirty-five. She punched him solidly in his thick chest, you must have a great workout routine."

Sommers thought Hansen could probably kick his butt at everything from checkers to mud wrestling, Well, sort of. He paused for a few uncomfortable seconds, thinking about his next move. He punted. I’m off to have breakfast with my mom. She insists on eating her rolls warm and gooey. It was nice meeting you, Andrea. Thanks for running out here with my change. You’re pretty light on your feet for a California girl. What he said sounded stupid, but Andrea laughed.

Hansen was as determined as she was beautiful. Call me Andie. Say, Mr. Sommers, I think you can help me with something. I’m researching some property holdings in this county, and I’ve hit a few snags. You probably know everyone and everything there is to know about this area. Could we meet over lunch sometime later this week?

Sommers, a notorious recluse, was momentarily tongue-tied. A beautiful young woman just offered to buy him lunch, Call me Dale, I’m not sure if I can be of much help, but I’m good at trying. How does Wednesday sound?

Sommers nervously adjusted his ball cap as Hansen continued, Wednesday’s perfect. I don’t have a business card.

I noticed you don’t have pockets, Andie smiled, catching his bright blue eyes. He pulled out his cell phone and tapped the numbers as she recited them to him. I’ll text you later this morning; call or text me with time and place. He held up the fifteen bucks, I’m buying. She shook her head and grinned.

Have a good day, Dale, she said while turning back towards the store. Sommers watched and appreciated her every step.

You have a better one. See you Wednesday, sooner if I’m lucky. He noticed Gary watching them through the store window as Sommers climbed back into his truck. Dale shot him a V for victory sign.

Gary stuck his head out the drive-up window, Have a nice day, Dale! Using a mocking, high-pitched feminine tone.

Hardly anyone, except possibly his mother and Gary, when he acted childishly, called Sommers by his first name. Still, Andie did, and he kind of liked it. Maybe his mother would remember his name today. No matter, they would enjoy a tasty breakfast and a competitive game of cards. He started his old K-5 Blazer, hit a few FM presets on his radio. Protestant sermon, Baptist sermon, a series of ag reports, ah finally, Marty Stuart. The twisting two lanes of southbound fifty-nine traveled better with classic country.

"There’s a girl trying to steal my heart

And I’m tempted"

Seven songs and a few John Deere commercials later, Sommers parked out front of the Pioneer Senior Cottages in Fergus Falls, just off the highway. He sat in his truck, thinking about his mom, Gracie, and her endless string of stories. He could picture her looking out at the lake while doing the dishes. His mom provided the neighborhood watch before there was any neighborhood worth mentioning. Dale wished she could live out her remaining days at the lake. However, it was becoming too dangerous after a couple of aimless wandering episodes. Then, during Gracie’s last excursion, they discovered her in her pajamas more than a mile from home, hiking alone in the woods. Dale was afraid she would get shot by hunters, carried off by a bear, or worse, eaten alive by the notoriously savage Minnesota mosquitos.

If there was any place close to what Gracie knew as home, it was here at the cottages. Nice, but not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. Dale’s father, Jacob, was detailed and farsighted with his financial planning. Seemingly foreshadowing his accidental death, Jacob established an account at a local bank to take care of Gracie and Dale should anything catastrophic happen to him. Pop’s life insurance and the sale of the family sawmill set them up to live comfortably, hopefully, for a long time. God willing, and the crick don’t rise, as they say.

Sommers signed in at the front desk. Carla, the office manager, said, Those rolls smell heavenly. Your mother will be thrilled to see you.

Sommers adjusted his ball cap and asked, How’s she doin’?

Well, you know, a few good days, a few not so good. She paused momentarily, thinking. Gracie’s so sweet; you can’t help but love her. They’re just finishing the yoga class over in the rec center. Do you want to meet her over there?

Dale walked the short distance across the grounds, "always nice landscaping here," he thought. His mom would be helping to plant the flower gardens soon. Before moving to the senior center, Gracie worked several hours each week at the nursery in town. She made enough to pay for gas and groceries. She loved flowers and would’ve done the work for free. Dale spotted his mom marching cheerfully with a few of her classmates down the hallway. She was holding a white towel and her pink exercise mat. Recently built, the recreation center smelled like pool chemicals and antiseptic spray. Yet, it was clean and well-maintained, with cheerful colors and tropical decor. Several seniors from the class spotted Sommers coming down the corridor. Sadly, all were hoping he was there to see one of them.

Sommers said, Hey, Mom. She looked up at him with a curious smile. He immediately realized it would be one of those Sundays. He adjusted, Hi Gracie. Dale. I brought you a fresh breakfast roll. You up for a game of cards?

The small elderly woman smiled brightly, Dale, of course! G’mornin’. You’re right on time. I could eat a horse! She pointed to a small group of round tables in a sun-soaked corner of the dining hall. A couple of the ladies from her class asked if they could join in the card game. Before anyone could answer, the fitness instructor herded the small group back towards the swimming pool. Gracie, genuinely enthusiastic, C’mon, young man, grab a couple of forks, have a seat.

Dale filled two cups with chocolate milk, their favorite, and grabbed forks and napkins from the service counter. The morning sun beaming through the windows warmed them as they ate. Sommers helped her cut her roll into bite-size pieces, the dark brown cinnamon filling and ivory cream cheese frosting oozing across her plate. Gracie looked younger than her years, with white hair streaked with strands of blonde. Her blue eyes looked pretty and alert through her tortoise-rimmed glasses. The staff at Pioneer said Gracie was fit as a fiddle, but most days, she had trouble remembering the essential things. Alzheimer’s, they say, is an unrelenting thief.

Sommers wiped a dab of frosting from the corner of her mouth. I nearly caught Ol’ Fatty off the dock this morning. Phelps got all excited, and Grumpy popped outside to see the fuss. Everything looks so green. You should see the aspen trees over on Victory Bluff. Gracie listened and chewed with zeal. She smiled and told a couple of jokes the yoga instructor shared earlier with her class. She was looking forward to working in the gardens and asked Dale if he would help. With his mouth full, he nodded and mumbled, You betcha.

After a few more minutes of small talk and silly jokes, Sommers cleared away the breakfast dishes and pulled a deck of Uno cards out of his shirt pocket. Best of three?

You better bring your A-game, Mister! The others are threatening to stop playing cards with me. I’m on quite a roll - pun intended! The two of them enjoyed a laugh,

Sommers shuffled and dealt the tattered colorful cards. They each told a few fishing stories. Gracie complained mildly about the annoying classical music they played in the dining hall, stating she preferred Willie Nelson and George Strait. Dale gave her a rundown of the latest scuttlebutt overheard at Gray’s.

Gracie looked up at the clock, Cross-stitch club starts in twenty minutes. I need to get a few things from my room. I’m making a pair of his and hers hand towels to use when me and Jake go fishing for sunfish. Worms are full of nasty poop, ya know. Sommers nodded approvingly and walked her back to her cottage, where he hugged Gracie. She blew him a kiss and flashed a V for Victoria sign as he walked back to the office to sign out. Leaving was never easy, but she was safe, physically healthy, and utterly content. Sommers peered up at the cloudless blue sky, grateful for this morning and thinking that’s about all that mattered.

Rounding the on-ramp for fifty-nine north, Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits lamented about distance with poignant timing. Dale rolled down the window, turned the radio up, and thought about his mother, he thought about his flirtatious encounter with Andie, and he thought about his best friend, Joy. All vaguely similar, yet all unique, and all distant in their own way.

"See, you’ve been in the sun, and I’ve been in the rain

And you’re so far away from me"

Chapter 2

The Waiting

Most folks treat Monday mornings with low regard, but this morning was a delicious slice of spring, Minnesota style. A dusty, wrinkled, ordinary farmer enters the First Community Bank of Lac Clair just after opening, exactly nine o’ one. The old-timer wore crusty overalls, shabby work boots, cheap sunglasses, and a dingy red Farmall ball cap. Both his sinewy weathered hands are grasping a brown paper bag filled with one-hundred-dollar bills. Following the same process he and his brother have used for decades, the farmer asks the teller to deposit the bag’s contents to the account number scrawled across the bottom. There’s no deposit slip for him to fill out, no identification taken, no bills counted, and there’s nothing for him to sign. Within a New York minute, the hayseed farmer is out the door, no questions asked. He’ll return in a month with another grocery sack.

Across the street, a tall man wearing a tan sport coat and expensive European shoes pretends to be talking on his cell phone. He’s looking around as if he was trying to spot his Uber driver. He seems entirely out of place in small-town mid-America. He watches the farmer exit the bank, turn the corner, and climb into the passenger seat of an old Ford pickup truck. From this distance, the driver appears identical to the passenger. The tall man walks two blocks in the opposite direction, settles into the driver’s seat of his silver Audi, and starts to follow the dusty old truck from an inconspicuous distance.

Just a few blocks away, Andrea Hansen has finished her morning swim at the LCCC, short for Lac Clair Community Center. Entering the county administration building, she has a black leather attaché in one hand and a shaker cup containing a disgusting-looking but healthy green sludge in the other. The clerk at the window, displaying her voluminous cleavage, recognizes her, G’mornin’ Ms. Hansen. Back again?

Good morning Julie. You know how it goes, one step forward, two steps back. Andie requests the property tax records, deeds, maps, and any ownership documentation corresponding to a group of parcels bounding Lake Victoria’s north and western shores. She tells Julie she’s been on a bit of a goose chase, but in a stroke of luck, she ran into a promising development at the convenience store.

Oh yea, what was that? asks Julie.

Hansen said, Big guy. Handsome but rather shy. Have you heard of Dale Sommers?

Oh my gosh, Sommers! Just about every woman over the age of twenty-one with a fishing license and the last name ending in S-O-N has been trying to toss a landing net over him. He’s been single for as long as anyone can remember, works for the DNR, super sweet guy, but he’s kind of a hermit. You’re right about his looks. He’s all that and a bag of chips! Julie winked while sharing a devilish grin. Kinda old for you, isn’t he? Julie snapped her gum and twirled her hair, waiting for Hansen’s answer. Andie stood stone-faced, not giving Julie any satisfaction. Finally, giving up, Julie waved her hand dismissively, Anyway, he lives in a little cabin with his mother. They’ve been out on that lake forever. If anyone knows what you’re looking for, it would be Sommers.

Andie thanked Julie for the unwanted gossip, scanned her identification, and signed in to access the public records room. The beige-colored room was long and narrow, brightly lit with no windows. It smelled of fresh paint and disinfectant spray. A bank of five computers and a multifunction printer lined one wall. Several study carrels ran parallel along the opposite wall. A large chest of drawers formed an island down the center of the room. On top, large books containing property maps, some dating back more than two hundred years. Julie closed the heavy steel door behind Andie.

Typical for this hour, the room was silent, unoccupied. A few minutes later, a large metal drawer opened from the wall. Hansen grabbed the folder of papers, and the drawer slowly folded shut. Back at her receptionist’s station, Julie dialed her desk phone, It’s me. She’s down in the records office. Following a short pause, yes, she looks beautiful. I don’t know, but she’s counting on help from Dale Sommers. Julie heard a click and a dial tone. She frowned and replaced the handset.

Confident she could confirm an ownership connection to Dale Sommers, Hansen opened the property parcel book to the simple map she often referenced. Deeds and property tax records indicated the existence of five original parcels totaling approximately eight hundred acres. She learned there were no existing liens on the five properties in question. Multi-Met Mining commissioned Andie to research property boundaries and ownership records and then arrange for soil sample procurement with the current owners’ consent.

Primarily because of the burgeoning tech economy, copper and nickel were in high demand. These minerals, along with gold and silica sand, were readily available across the northeast region. Multi-Met expanded its operations westward with rapidly improving mining processes, making considerable profits by purchasing mineral rights from cash-strapped landowners. In some instances, MMM acquired mineral rights to pay back taxes or absolve long-standing, debilitating debts. It wasn’t uncommon for family farmers to sadly discover they’d been taken advantage of, settling on financial deals for pennies on the dollar.

She looked more closely at the Lake Victoria properties. The most precise alignment of ownership records dated back to the late 1800s, with multiple parties paying property taxes on five large tracts. The one-hundred-year-old map identified the five parcels reading west to east, Peterson, Erikson TC, Erikson HD, Sommers HD, Sommers TC. Andie learned settlers purchased these properties at virtually no cost due to the Homestead Act of 1862 and the Timber Culture Act of 1873.

During the Civil War, the United States government encouraged westward expansion by permitting the sale of up to 160 acres of public lands at the cost of no more than $1.25 per acre. In addition, the contract stipulated a small filing fee and a promise to reside in, and improve, the property for the ensuing five years. Occasionally, depending on political connections, the cost per acre was just a few cents, and the filing fee was waived.

A decade later, to boost a sagging economy based on lumber, the U.S. government permitted the acquisition of up to 160 acres. The land was free with the promise from the claimant at least forty percent of the holding would be planted with trees. The tree requirement got reduced to ten percent coverage, but this was rarely monitored or enforced. Andie had developed a straightforward awareness of how the parties obtained the original Lake Victoria properties. However, the map’s boundaries and markings were either absent or ambiguous. More recent developments were clouding her ability to contact the current owners. She believed Dale Sommers, aside from being ruggedly handsome, could provide clarity to her assignment. Hansen theorized Dale’s mother owned the entire eight hundred acres. The key was obtaining contact information and documentation.

Andie logged in to a computer as the steel door unlocked with a metallic clang. A short, round, balding man with steel-rimmed glasses entered the records room. Ms. Hansen, good to see you again. You’re looking quite, um, healthy. How’s your research coming along?

Hey, Mr. Potter. Like I told Julie, some days I feel like I’m gaining some traction, other days, sliding back. However, I did run into Dale Sommers yesterday. Do you know him? I’m hopeful he can fill in some of the missing historical gaps and maybe put me in touch with his mother. But unfortunately, I don’t have any contact information on her.

Miles Potter was the county clerk, quickly approaching retirement. He had something condescending to say about everyone and everything. Seemingly everyone was indebted to him for something. Sommers. I remember his father ran a successful lumber business quite some time ago. His mother was a knockout if you know what I mean. I’m not sure what became of her. Anyway, many of the houses in that area, probably yours, were built with S & E Lumber. There was a tragic accident sometime back in the late seventies. He died in a fire, as I recall. There were rumors of arson. A Google search on Jacob Sommers might provide you with additional detail. Honestly, it was before my time.

It’s interesting you mention the fire of ‘79. Unfortunately, that is about the same time the records for these properties become puzzling.

Standing uncomfortably close, staring at Andie’s chest, What seems to be the sticking point?

Andie, smelling Potter’s cheap aftershave and pungent coffee breath, leaned away to create some space, glanced up at the security camera, and walked back to the property book. She pointed to the parcels on the map. Even though the last recorded deeds are from the early 1900s, the property tax records show payments made by a single individual beginning in the late 1960s. Then, beginning in 1979, the taxes were paid by a trust held at the community bank on Washington Street. The ownership trail vanishes, yet the property tax and insurance payments seem to be current.

Potter said, I have a couple of contacts over at First Community. Let me see if I can track down some information for you. Are you going to be back here tomorrow? Miles stood with his four strands of hair combed over the top of his head as he attempted his best sultry smile. Andie, appearing preoccupied with the map of Lake Victoria, nodded yes and half-heartedly said thank you.

Potter stepped outside, pulled out his cellphone, and sent a text message, "Call me. Urgent. Moments later, his phone vibrated, Miles here. The landman I told you about is smokin’ hot! More to the point, she’s getting warmer, if you catch my drift. So, when will the new deed get recorded?"

The woman’s voice at the other end said, Judge Svoboda’s motion gets filed with the state later this week. I’ll check with my guy at NARA, but these things take time. There are many bureaucratic hurdles. Keep putting her off. We’re getting close.

Potter said, "She’s contacted Sommers. This acquisition could all unravel if we don’t act swiftly and with precision.

The woman replied with urgency, Tell her she will need to obtain a subpoena for background information on the trust. I will contact Svoboda; he will deny the request. Tell your guy at the bank to block access to both Hansen and Sommers. We don’t want them doing an end-run on us. My associates are working on a couple of contingency plans. They will be in touch. The call disconnected with a click.

The female caller dialed a different number, Jack, make the offer to the old lady and have Hawkins throw roadblocks in front of Hansen. She paused to listen, then said, Doesn’t make much difference. Chalk it up as collateral damage. Look for a bank transfer from me, tell Potter and Svoboda to take long vacations. The woman clicked off and dialed another number,

Hey, you! My flight arrives tomorrow at 6:15. Terminal one. How about meeting me for dinner? She listened for several seconds, Great. Can you book a room at the Ivy? A two-hour drive doesn’t sound appealing. I’m starving for affection, and I’m going to be craving a little oral attention with my dessert. Bring your tablet; we need to discuss business. She listened for a minute, Can’t wait! Finally, she tapped to disconnect the call and sat back in an oversized leather chair in her spacious Washington D. C. office, thinking big.

Several minutes later, Trish Bradley-Doyle called her contact at the digitization department of the National Archives. Forgetting the office was closed during the COVID shutdown, she hung up without leaving a message. She dialed a private number, Yea, it’s me. The relevant physical records are shredded, and Svoboda’s petition will be filed in St. Paul early next week. What else do you need from me? How soon before the new deed gets recorded? She listened for about a minute. Can this be expedited? I want the excavators to break ground before Labor Day. Listening again. OK, see what you can do. Keep me posted. She clicked off.

U. S. Senator Trisha Bradley-Doyle, TBD to her friends and some of her enemies, acquired her wealth the old-fashioned way. She married into it. Her first husband died abruptly and mysteriously, allegedly from a food allergy. Insurance benefits and the sale of a very successful paper recycling business set Trish up with generational wealth, but it wasn’t enough. She divorced her second husband, citing irreconcilable differences immediately after selling three of his Harley Davidson dealerships. Her current husband was a highly successful, albeit not entirely ethical, lawyer specializing in real estate. Drew Doyle, rich, young, and handsome, auspiciously helped Trish stuff ballot boxes and bank accounts. He met her needs for the time being. She met his needs by clearing red tape and providing easy access to a diversified collection of lucrative deals. But Trish often wondered, could too many hyphens keep her from the presidency?

Dialing another number, Sheriff Bradley, please. Senator Doyle. No, I can’t fucking hold! She waited a few seconds as the call pushed through. Jim, I won’t ask how you are because I haven’t got the time right now. Listening for a moment, Jim, stop. I’m calling because a couple of my associates will be up in your county, cleaning up a couple of potential investment complications. I’m asking you as directly as I can. Please stay out of the way and don’t go trying to be a damn hero. Listening again, That’s fine. You and your boys need to keep a low profile and let my people finish their work. I’ll be in touch.

Before pocketing her phone, Trish sent a text message, "If the old lady doesn’t sign, begin the Peterson Plan. Leave Sommers to me."

Later that evening, the setting sun cast gold sparkles across the lake. A pair of loons wailed in the distance, and a couple of fishing boats trolled slowly