Page 14 of Meeting Me, Loving You (Hearts of Maple Lake #1)
CAMERON
S tepping out of Jules’ apartment building, I run my hands through my hair and take a deep breath of fresh mountain air.
A smile spreads across my face. This day with Jules was amazing.
I’m not sure if my absence all these years will cause Tyler to have the same welcoming reaction to me, but it’s a relief to know that Jules is happy to have me back in town.
I head toward the small parking lot near the diner that’s just across the street.
The remains of the last snowfall scrape under my boots.
Several tourists mill about, making their way into the few shops lining the street.
I hop into my truck as the winter cold washes through my lungs, causing my breath to turn frosty.
Blasting the heat on the highest setting, I allow the engine to purr for several minutes before I reverse out of the lot and make my way home.
Even in the daylight, bare trees are still strung with white Christmas lights along the main street, casting a twinkling glow throughout the town, like they’re trying to hold onto a remnant of Christmas cheer in the bleakness of late January.
It last snowed almost two weeks ago, but it’s typical for the low temperatures to cause snow to stick around.
We’re at a higher elevation here in the mountains, which extends the winter tourist season into nearly the beginning of spring.
After the winter enthusiasts have had their fair share of skiing, snowboarding, snow tubing, and ice skating, it won’t take long before the summer tourists are in town.
Almost as soon as the river is melted, there will be rafters on the water and hikers looking for clear views at the mountains’ peaks.
The sunshine this afternoon is finally warm enough that the snow is beginning to melt, dripping from gutters and sliding in large chunks off of rooftops, leaving snowdrifts on the sidewalks.
And thanks to the plows that made their way through the town during the snowfall, there are snowdrifts piled high along every roadside from here to my cabin.
Once I’m outside of the town limits, I reach an intersection and take a left, heading deeper down the wooded mountain road.
Every day I drive this road, I’m thankful that the local men plow and spread salt on it, because the deeper into the woods I drive, the more intense the incline becomes.
My 4x4 has never struggled with it, but I worry for anyone who doesn’t have a four-wheel drive vehicle.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that’s one of the prerequisites for living in rural Pennsylvania: must have a four-wheel drive vehicle unless you live within walking distance of everything needed to survive.
I might have to bring it up with the mayor to put a sign at the town entrance stating that very thing.
It takes about fifteen minutes of driving before I make it home, pulling into my long dirt driveway.
The house is a quarter of a mile from the main road, hidden away in thick woodlands.
The drive is lined with maples, and the house itself is made of cedar logs.
Many of the houses in this area are log cabins, or at least have a close resemblance to one.
I lucked out when I found this gem. It’s surrounded by five acres of land, and a small stream flows through the back of the property, so I can hunt in my own backyard.
Although I prefer fishing to hunting, I’m all about being able to live off the land if need be.
I hop out of the truck, grabbing my gloves—the ones I still envision Juliet wearing—and shove them into the pockets of my coat.
When I moved back to the area, I was excited to have a place with some land, hidden away in the trees, not only living close to nature, but a part of it .
I feel fully at home here, relaxed and able to be completely myself, with no one to judge or pressure me but the wildlife and the cold breeze swiping at my cheeks.
I’ve always loved the great outdoors, where there are so many possibilities, so many chances to risk it all and to test my skills.
Spending lots of time at Pops’ lake house, I became somewhat addicted to the tranquility that it brought me.
Not only was it a chance to escape from my parents’ house for a while, from their incessant squabbling and their need to nitpick everything I did, but fishing at Pops’ house taught me to hone the skills of waiting and listening.
There were days I’d fish for hours with nothing to show for it besides the sunburn on my shoulders and a scrape or two from hooks pricking my fingers.
But most days, I had the opportunity to listen to my grandpa talk about life and about his history, our family’s history, which he was mighty proud of.
He’d talk my ear off and tell me not to interrupt my elders when I’d start to get bored, but he always had a gleam in his eye and a bit of playfulness hinting on his lips.
I chuckle at the memory of Pops. He was a force, and I owe the better part of myself to him.
The next few days of school drag on. Although my classes run smoothly all morning, my mind is elsewhere.
Today being Wednesday, it’s my one and only free period of the day.
I slowly make my way to the teachers’ lounge, waving at kids and smiling warmly at my colleagues as they rush through the crowded halls, each individual heading in one of two ways: upstream or downstream.
I can’t help but chuckle at the image my mind conjures of a school of fish students flooding the hall, each wearing backpacks and smelling of pubescent teenagers.
The teachers stand out from the rest, holding stacks of papers ready to be graded as they swim with or against the current.
After catching the eye of a familiar face, complete with blue eye shadow and red lips, I shake my head, leaving my daydream behind.
I reach the door to the teachers’ lounge at the same time as Mrs. Simons, the high school art teacher.
Her bright yellow dress speaks volumes about her personality, which is also bright and exciting, while slightly eccentric.
She’s a favorite amongst the students here, known for telling the cold hard truth in the most loving and motherly way.
Her wavy grey hair is pulled back in a clip. Strands fall around her face, and her glasses frame her grey eyes.
“Thinking about fishing again?” she asks.
She knows me too well.
“Umm, maybe,” I say, smirking. I open the door for her to step inside, and she walks past me, heading straight for the coffee pot on the counter across the room.
“You haven’t changed a bit since you were a student in my classroom, always daydreaming about fishing. I was genuinely shocked when I heard you were coming back here as a teacher, seeing as you hated being stuck indoors as a child.”
She refills her thermos and opens the fridge, pulling out a peppermint flavored coffee creamer and adding an excessive amount to her cup.
I cringe and try my best to not gag. Instead, I smile at her and wait for my turn at the coffee pot.
“I think I surprised myself, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say. “I love what I do; the kids—when they’re behaving—are a joy to be around.”
“And you’re back at your alma mater! The kids absolutely adore you, and the teachers are all thrilled to have you. Classes sound like they’re going well.” She sits at one of the small tables near the wall, sipping on her coffee and looking at me with enthusiasm.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself a cup, passing on the sugary creamers the school keeps our fridge stocked with. I prefer to drink my coffee black; none of that girly sugary nonsense shall touch these lips.
“Classes are going great.” I take the seat across from her, and she sets her cup on the table.
She leans forward. “Okay, I can’t keep myself quiet any longer. I heard you were spending some time with a certain nurse last weekend.” Her voice raises slightly at the end of her statement, making it sound like a question.
I cross an ankle over the opposite knee and slowly take a sip of my coffee, humming a noncommittal sound. I knew someone was going to eventually poke their head into my business. And I knew, without a doubt, that somebody would be Mrs. Simons.
Being in her fifties, she’s old enough to be a mother figure to someone my age, but young enough to still be cool; enough that the teenagers can’t wait to see her in class every day.
When I was fourteen, she taught my ninth-grade drawing class, and I’ll always remember the day she told me, with the sweetest voice possible, that my black and white drawing of a boat on the lake looked like an eyeball thrown into the center of a giant forehead.
I knew then that art wasn’t my thing, but I appreciated her honesty and her help in making my “giant eyeball” transform into a baseball resting in a pitcher’s glove instead.
She’s exceptionally talented in her skill, and I’ve always been amazed at the art she creates.
“Well?” she nudges.
“Well, what?” I ask.
If she’s going to pry into my social life, I’m not going to make it easy for her.
“Were you on a date with Juliet Berns?” She smiles wide with anticipation, her eyes trained on mine relentlessly.
There’s no way we’ll be parting ways without her getting an answer.
“It wasn’t a date. We were just catching up.” I place my cup down, resting my hand beside it. “I ran into her a week ago and we agreed to have lunch over the weekend, that’s all.”
“That’s all, my butt.” She scoffs.
I look up at her in shock. It’s not like she swore, but to hear sweet Mrs. Simons be uncouth is unheard of.
“Mrs. Simons!” I gasp, eyes wide.
She waves me away, ignoring my astonishment.
“You can call me Francine, you know that. You’re a teacher now, an equal!” She trains her eyes on me. “You were seen walking around the lake together, and it looked quite romantic,” she singsongs.