Page 2 of Skipping Stones

Linney squealed and leaped up to hug him, making the dock sway beneath them. “I’m so happy for you. I know how much you love her.”

“I sure hope she says yes.”

Linney put her hands on her hips in a show of false exasperation. “Of course, she will. You’re a great catch, and she’s lucky to have you.” She hugged him again and whispered in his ear, “You’ll be a great husband.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Derek pulled away and grabbed another blanket to fold. He threw a longing glance at the kayaks that sat on the shore. “And now, my friend, I really need to go. As much as I’d like to be out on the lake, I couldn’t cancel my afternoon meetings. I need to get back to the city and my clients.”

“Thank you so much for staying for the sunrise today. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

“Here.” He pressed the stone he’d found on the shore into her hand. “Another one for your collection. Be safe, okay? Don’t do anything dangerous, and come back home soon.”

“Call me when she says yes. Love you!” He nodded, and then took long strides through the garden and up to the small single-story clapboard house painted a buttery yellow next door.

She waved as he turned back before pulling the door closed. Then Linney opened her hand to see the stone he’d given her. She kept a jar of them in London. Special stones with meaning—either gifts or souvenirs of places she’d been. Derek had been giving her perfect stones as gifts forever, it seemed. Tucking it into her pocket, Linney folded the rest of the blankets and, with one last longing look out to the lake, carried them up to the porch.

* * *

“Oh, Linney, this is too much!” Linnea McDonnell, after whom Linney was named, looked at the pitcher of black-eyed Susans and Michaelmas daisies that her granddaughter had cut from the garden and set on the old pine farmhouse table. Like the house and the china, the table had once belonged to her late husband’s family. Four generations of McDonnells—five now, if you counted her great-grandchildren—had sat around the table and it bore the scars of many happy meals.

“I just wanted our last breakfast to be special.”

Gran was the only parent Linney could really remember. She had landed abruptly at the century-old house at Silver Lake after her parents had been killed in a car crash. Her brother Jake was much older than her—she’d been her parents’ surprise baby, born seventeen years after him—and had begun working at an architecture firm. Six-year-old Linney was a sad, skinny, and scared little girl with buck teeth, limp dirty-blonde braids and coke-bottle glasses. Time had healed Linney’s pain, years of braces had fixed her smile, and she’d eventually learned what to do with her hair, which had darkened to a rich, warm brown, but the glasses had always been a constant, thinner now, thanks to new technologies, but still thick enough to correct her extreme nearsightedness.

It was a far more put-together Linney who pulled out a chair for her grandmother this morning, at least on the outside. On air, and in the newsroom, Linney exuded confidence and looked the part of the successful journalist. On the inside though, some of that insecure little girl remained, seeking affirmation that she was doing the “right” thing and looked the “right” way. It left her second-guessing herself, and she put a lot of faith in Mac’s advice.

Her cooking was something she didn’t question. She’d learned from the best. Linney filled Gran’s plate and poured orange juice. Gran was eighty-four now, and time was beginning to catch up with her. Linney had listened to the same stories many times and walked more slowly than usual with Gran on this trip home. She knew she’d have to talk to Jake about it soon so that they could support their grandmother in these later years.

The sun streamed in the window as the two women enjoyed thick slices of French toast drizzled with maple syrup and preserves. Linney poured cups of coffee, adding milk and sugar for Gran and leaving her own black. They chatted while they did the dishes, putting them away in the old milk-painted cupboards that hadn’t changed since Linney was young. So little had changed in the dove grey board-and-batten house with its wraparound porch and darker grey metal roof that during Linney’s vacation, she had made a list of some updates that she wanted to make Gran more comfortable. The carpet in the bedrooms could use replacing, the living room needed new paint, and she’d noticed the porch was starting to peel. It would need to be dealt with before next summer.

“They’d have been proud of you, you know.” Linney almost dropped a plate as she looked at Gran in surprise. “And Jake too, of course, but you’re the one that followed in their footsteps. They’d have been so proud,” she repeated, smoothing her blue dress.

Before the accident, Linney’s mother had been a radio producer and her father a print reporter in Toronto. Jake had settled in the city too, but architecture was his passion. Linnea had encouraged her granddaughter’s love of storytelling and supported her dreams. Linney was one of the few people allowed through the blue door and up the tight winding stairs to Gran’s office above the sunroom—her personal creative space, built lovingly for her by her late husband. Linney knew the townspeople had whispered that the McDonnell family was putting on airs when they’d put on the addition back in the 1950s, but it made the house unique and she loved it. Gran had let her write her first stories there, curled up on a soft and well-loved leather chair.

“Gran, you’re making me cry!” It was an emotional morning, and tears welled up again in Linney’s eyes. She took off her glasses to wipe them away.

It was all the excuse Linnea needed, and she hugged her granddaughter tightly. Finally, Linney disentangled herself from her grandmother’s arms. She squinted. It didn’t help. The world didn’t come clear again until her glasses were perched back on her nose where they belonged.

Slowly, she hung up the tea towel she’d been using to dry the dishes. “I guess it’s time then,” she said with a pang of regret. “I love you, Gran.”

“Have a safe journey back, my dear.”

Gran followed Linney out onto the porch and they shared one more hug before Linney climbed into her rental car and slowly drove away.

* * *

Several hours later, when Linney had dropped off the car, given her bag to the handling agents with crossed fingers, and passed through security, she sipped a cup of steaming coffee, nibbled on a cheese scone at an airport coffee shop and began the mental transition from small-town lake girl to sophisticated big-city journalist. She texted Mac.

Boarding in half an hour. Can’t wait to see you. Dinner at my place tomorrow? I’ll cook.

Sounds great. Grabbing a pint with the guys. Can’t wait to see you too. Safe flight.

Her next text was to MJ, her best friend in London, and fellow Canadian. MJ—short for Marie-Josée—also worked at TCN and provided radio and television reports for both the English and French sides of the network. When they weren’t working, she and Linney could often be found thrifting around the city—looking for great TV-appropriate outfits and cost-effective second-hand furniture finds for their walk-up flats. The spunky francophone from the Ottawa Valley tolerated Linney’s abysmal attempts to use her high school French and was helping her up her style game.

Wheels up soon. See you in the office in two days.

---