Chapter 9: Ice House

Henrik's father's friend owned an ice house a quarter mile out on Lake Vermilion, and Henrik said he knew where the key was.

"We need to get away from the lodge," he said.

"I need to think."

I said yes before he finished the sentence.

I needed to think too.

We walked across the lake in the afternoon light, our boots squeaking on packed snow.

The lodge shrank behind us until it was a smudge of gold on the point.

The ice house was a plywood shack painted fire-engine red, with a stovepipe and a hand-lettered sign that said BAIT AND PRAYERS.

Inside were two stools, a propane heater, a bench along one wall, and two round holes cut through a foot of ice.

Black water lapped in them.

Henrik lit the heater, and we sat with our lines down.

For ten minutes neither of us said a word.

"Rolf told me," I said.

He didn't move.

His line stayed perfectly still in the dark water.

"He wasn't supposed to."

"He's a coach. They can't help it."

"Astrid..."

"Seven hours of road, and you left before I could see you," I said.

"I couldn't walk up," he said.

His voice had gone small.

"Everybody was crying, and you were in that black coat, and you looked so..."

He stopped.

"I didn't have the right," he said.

"Henrik."

"You told me not to call."

"I know what I told you."

I could hear myself breathing.

My hand drifted toward my ear, and I clamped it between my knees.

"I'm glad you came," I said.

"That's all I'm saying right now."

"I'm glad you were there."

"I didn't know."

"I know you didn't."

He set down his rod, turned on the stool, and looked at me.

His eyes were bright, and he blinked hard.

"I missed him," he said.

"I used to hide in your dad's office when it got too quiet at home after Mom died."

"He gave me chocolate milk in the Zamboni."

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