But tonight I was too tired to care. I snuck to the end of the hall and used the crusty porcelain. A flick of the handle failed to render a flush. I groaned and turned on the faucet. Nothing. I’d been a fool not to heed the agent’s warning. But any self-reproach would have to wait until tomorrow. Fairly certain I’d locked the back door after coming in, I fumbled into a warm pair of sweats and climbed under the quilt. For a while, I listened to the logs creak and groan, hoping it was only the wind blowing against the rafters. Then I fell asleep.

The next morning, gray light poured through the naked bedroom window. I squinted, trying to pinpoint my surroundings. Blue wallpaper flecked with shiny silver leaves told me I was in my old room at the cottage. The bed pulled me into its saggy warmth, and I indulged the urge to lie there a little longer.

I stared at a crack in the wallboard and thought about the kiss he’d given me just before I drove away. Was that only yesterday morning? His mouth had been so soft, so comfortable touching mine. And gentle. He’d barely pressed against my lips. Then, he’d pulled back just as heat rushed to my face.

I scrunched my nose into the coolness of the pillow, trying to drive away the burning sensation that coursed over my cheeks at the memory. The linen smelled of an overdose of fabric softener, the kind my grandmother used to use. The scent brought me back to the memory of last night’s discovery.

Leaning off the edge of the bed, I picked up the halves of my mother’s picture from the rug where they must have fallen while I slept. I matched the ragged inner edges and looked past the fat black script that marred the surface.

Mom had had beautiful eyes. The bottom lid curved up when she smiled, giving her an exotic look. I forced a smile to my own face and ran a finger along my bottom lid. My eyes did the same thing.

Memories of him snuck back into my mind.

Our final weeks together had been wonderful. I’d been recovering from the sting of a short but disastrous relationship, so I’d known better than to let things get romantic. We were friends. Just friends. But I suspect he’d felt differently about the romance department. He’d called my eyes bewitching. He loved how the color changed with the lighting: turquoise in dim light, bright green when the sun hit them. One day, he touched my hand. And instead of camaraderie, I’d felt a jolt of lightning deep in my stomach. And I knew I had to leave. Fast.

I threw back the quilt and landed on the floor. If I was going to get anything done today, I had better get started.

The bedside table had a slim drawer, and I set Mom’s picture on the bottom. I shut it, cutting off thoughts of her, and anybody else, until later.

I wiggled out of my sweats and put yesterday’s clothes back on. The first thing I’d have to do was crank up the heat in the drafty old cottage. The propane wall furnace down in the kitchen did nothing for the rest of the house, which still used an ancient boiler system. I remember huddling near the wall heater on a cold U.P. summer morning as a kid. Now, I pulled on fat wool socks and raced down the steps, anxious to snuggle up to its warmth in the dead of a U.P. winter, twenty-odd years later.

Holding my hands to the heat of the steel grate, I felt my circulation pick up. All I needed was a cup of hot coffee and I’d be ready to tackle my first day at the new place.

I pulled on my boots and stepped onto the porch. The air crackled with cold. Clumps of snow dropped from the trees onto the ground, breaking the silence with muffled thuds. Low white clouds raced through the sky. Above them, a solid sheet of gray promised more snow to come.

I scurried out to the car for my coffeemaker, one of my few possessions. My quick move to the U.P. was made easier by the fact that I owned only enough to fit in the back of my SUV. I’d always rented furniture to fit the houses I’d renovated, and only to aid in schmooze-appeal. I wasn’t into personal comforts. My cot and sleeping bag had served me well enough over the years. Of course, last night had seemed like heaven in a real bed.

I opened the back hatch of the Explorer and dug through suitcases, duffels, and tools for the coffeepot and accessories. Arms full, I picked my way through the drifts, rushed inside, and slammed the door against the cold.

I stomped my boots, leaving Abominable Snowman tracks on the tattered welcome mat. I walked in stocking feet over to the sink and stuck the carafe under the faucet. I turned the handle.

Again nothing.

Of course. The cottage would have been winterized to keep the pipes from freezing. That meant no flushing the toilet, taking a shower, or washing the dishes until the water situation was cured. And as for the coffee, I’d have to use bottled water until the tap was available.

I wrinkled my nose. I used to be a big bottled-water proponent. But back in Rawlings, I found out I was being slowly poisoned by arsenic in my personal supply of bottled water. After that, I decided to accept whatever the ground had to offer.

I walked down the hall to the first-floor bedroom. The summerhouse must have been a hunting lodge back in the ’30s or ’40s, with its six bedrooms and three bathrooms. But by the time Mom got a hold of it, the place was in such a state of disrepair that we’d always used the most functional bathroom in the downstairs bedroom. And for the ridiculously low price I’d paid, I couldn’t imagine that subsequent owners had made any upgrades. I’d make time later to give the home a complete inspection.

The bedroom door squeaked open. I poked my head in. The bare, blue-striped mattress of a full-size bed caught my eye. The scent of musty wood caught my nose. I sneezed.

The walls and ceiling of the room were paneled with cedar that had darkened to a rich golden hue over time. A good washing would take care of the dust. The floor, on the other hand, had been done over in the ’50s with some gray-and-black-speckled linoleum-type stuff.

I smiled. Things were the same as when my mom had slept here, although she’d had a soft white comforter on the bed, a colorful braided rug on the floor, and a vase of wildflowers on the dresser. When I was scared, I’d slept in here with her.

I traced a finger in the dust on the dark oak dresser. It was odd that whoever had made up my bed had known which room I’d slept in as a kid. Anyone else would have made the bed in this room for me. It was the logical choice.

I looked at the trail I’d made in the dust. DON’T ASK WHY, I’d written.

But I would ask why. And I wouldn’t stop asking until I had some answers.

I walked into the bathroom. The toilet bowl was filled with pinkish liquid, probably anti-freeze, but I used it anyway, reserving the flush for later when the water was turned on.

I checked my hair in the mirror. I’d been growing it out from its former chin length to its now shoulder length. I had chosen the shorter style to avoid looking too much like another resident of my old town. But with five hundred miles between me and Rawlings, Michigan, I was free to look any way I wanted.

I ran my fingers through reddish-brown tangles, deciding I looked good enough for a run to the store the day after a snowstorm.

The driveway had drifted over during the night, but the Explorer cut through scattered three-foot-high snow mounds without any trouble. I would never have made it in my inherited classic Buick, the one I’d finally unloaded for this dream machine.

The end of my driveway sloped upward where it joined the two-lane highway to Port Silvan. I slowed to look for traffic. All clear. I pressed the gas. My wheels started to slip. The car skidded sideways on the incline. I punched the vehicle into four-wheel drive and burst onto the lonely highway like a colt trying out its new legs.

“Woo-hooo!” I grinned at the swell of exhilaration rushing through my veins.

The county plow had already been through. Salt left clear patches on the otherwise slippery blacktop. I put the Explorer back in two-wheel drive and took it easy for the eight-mile trip to Port Silvan. Just down the road, a red wooden sign with white letters identified Cupid’s Creek. This time of year the creek was nothing more than a trickle of water at the bottom of an icy trough. The sign had been there when I was a kid. I wondered what else had stayed the same even after all these years.

Farther ahead, the roofs of farmhouses and barns were white with caked-on snow. Horses huddled over bins of hay. The fields around them looked like wrinkled sheets of bleached cotton.

A little ways up, the road straightened. In the distance rose the blue water tower of the Village of Port Silvan. The houses grew closer together as I neared town. Some I remembered from my time here as a kid, some looked new.

I reached the village limits. I nearly choked on the dry air in the SUV. Or was it nerves? I turned the fan to low and cleared my throat. There was no reason to be nervous. No one would recognize me. I wasn’t seven anymore. I was all grown up.

I pulled into Sinclair’s Grocery and shifted into park. I left the car running while I scoped out the neighborhood. The ancient building in front of me had been recently updated with a bright white coat of stain on its clapboard siding. The store’s name was traced in blue on a sign swinging over the entry. Painted-on letters in the big picture window said OPEN. Across the full length of the front ran a snow-covered boardwalk. I could picture its row of benches filled with kids eating ice-cream cones in the summer. I’d been one of them, of course. Blue Moon had been my favorite. Next door, a house had gotten new vinyl siding. So had the old gas station. Behind me across the street, a couple buildings, at least a hundred years old, had gotten fresh paint jobs as well. Port Silvan Museum, one of the signs said. Blinds covered the windows and the place had a vacant look.