Page 4 of Summer Showdown
"Did you see, Mr. Foster?" Sophie asked as we made our way back to the dock. "I didn't panic this time!"
"I saw. You kept trying, and you believed in yourself," I replied, boosting her up onto the wooden planks. "That's what it's all about."
I pulled myself up in one smooth motion, lake water leaving patches of dampness on the weathered dock boards beneath me. The familiar weight of the rescue buoy at my hip reminded me why I'd started this non-profit program—and why I'd moved back to Wintervale exactly three summers ago, trading my high school shop teaching position in Bozeman for a similar role here.
By ten thirty, we'd wrapped up the lesson, and the kids were heading home with wet hair and proud smiles. Loganlingered behind, helping me collect the scattered pool noodles and kickboards.
"Mom found that old kayak in the shed yesterday," Logan said, trying to sound casual though I caught the note of excitement in his voice. "She said I could have it if you'd help me fix it up."
The significance wasn't lost on me. After Logan's accident, my aunt had been understandably paranoid about anything water-related. For the first year, she'd barely let him near the lake, even with me there. It had taken months of gentle persuasion to convince her that learning proper water safety was better than avoidance. When Logan started showing up to watch my classes from the shore, I'd suggested making him my assistant—part of his therapy, I'd argued. Turned out he had a gift for teaching kids just a bit younger than himself.
"She's finally ready to let you have your own boat?" I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
Logan nodded, a flash of pride crossing his face. "She said after watching me help with the little kids all summer, she trusts me to be smart about it. But I have to promise to always wear my life vest and never go out alone."
"That's a huge step, buddy," I said, ruffling his hair. "Your mom's come a long way."
"So will you help me fix it up?" he asked, eyes bright with the prospect of a project. "It's pretty old and the seat's coming loose."
"Absolutely," I replied, already mentally cataloging what supplies we might need. "We can work on it in my workshop attached to the garage. I've got marine-grade epoxy that would be perfect for any cracks in the hull."
Logan grinned, then checked his watch. "Mom's picking me up for my dentist appointment. See you Saturday for the advanced class?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I promised, watching him jog up the path toward the parking area.
After Logan left, I took a moment to appreciate the quiet. The lake stretched before me, surface glittering under the late morning sun as an osprey circled lazily overhead. The jagged outline of the Bitterroot Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks still holding the last patches of snow even in August. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the calm water, my features distorted by gentle ripples.
Days like this made me grateful I'd returned home. With school starting soon, I was balancing prep for my shop classes with these final summer swim sessions. The program might be running on a shoestring budget, with the quarterly grant application deadline looming next month, but at least it was making a difference.
I grabbed my t-shirt from the hook on the lifeguard stand and pulled it over my head. My phone buzzed in the waterproof pouch I kept on the stand, and I fished it out to find three missed texts.
The first was from my mom, asking if I could fix her porch swing this weekend—the cedar slats I'd hand-planed last summer apparently needed re-securing. The second was from the high school principal, confirming my budget request for new safety equipment in the wood shop. But it was the third that made me pause—from my buddy Tyler Jenkins, with a link to something called "Wintervale Whispers" and a string of laughing emojis.
Dude. When were you going to tell me about your secret girlfriend? Get your ass to the shop. You're famous.
Famous? The word hit me like a misaligned table saw blade—sudden and jarring. The last time I'd been the subject of local gossip, it had been watching Vanessa drive away from our shared apartment with her belongings packed in Bradley Chamberlain's Range Rover.
***
The walk from the lake to Main Street took ten minutes, enough time for my t-shirt to dry in the August heat. Tourists strolled past the storefronts, a reminder that summer would soon give way to the quieter autumn months. A thunderhead was building over the western peaks—typical Montana afternoon weather, promising a brief but dramatic storm by evening.
As I approached the Wintervale Trading Post, I spotted Mayor Snowcroft chatting with Edna Twinkleberry outside Mistletoe & Mochas. They were deep in conversation about their upcoming wedding, no doubt. I'd been surprised when Mayor Snowcroft had commissioned me to create a special jewelry box for Edna as a wedding gift after seeing the set of hand-carved serving bowls I'd made for the high school's silent auction fundraiser last winter. "Something worthy of becoming a family heirloom," he'd requested, handing me an envelope with a deposit that had helped keep the water safety program afloat during a particularly tight month last spring. The box was almost finished, needing just final sanding and a coat of Danish oil to bring out the tiger maple's natural shimmer.
When the mayor noticed me, he raised a hand in greeting before returning to their conversation.
The Trading Post's wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze as I pushed open the door, triggering the bell that had announced customers since Tyler opened the place. The shop had been Tyler's dream since high school. When he'd returned from his two-year stint on a fishing boat in Alaska,he'd poured his savings into the ramshackle building on Main Street and transformed it into the kind of place where you could find everything from high-end climbing gear to hand-tied fishing flies. The cedar-paneled walls were lined with kayaks, backpacks, and outdoor apparel, while glass cases displayed Swiss Army knives and compasses. The whole place smelled like leather and pine, with a hint of the coffee that was always brewing in the back room.
"I don't even know her name!" I protested moments later, watching Tyler's shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter as he leaned against the counter. "We didn't even speak. She was just...there."
"According to Zoe's blog, you're 'Wintervale's Most Eligible Bachelor finally falling for a sophisticated city lawyer,'" Tyler read from his phone, his sandy hair falling over one eye as he squinted at the screen. "You two apparently shared 'smoldering glances' yesterday evening at the lake."
My jaw clenched involuntarily. A customer browsing fly-fishing lures glanced our way, then quickly looked back down with a poorly concealed smile. Just like eighteen months ago, when the checkout girl at Timberline Market had asked if I needed extra ice cream after Vanessa's departure made the local grapevine.
Sure enough, there was a photo of me standing on the dock, water beading on my shoulders, apparently looking toward a blonde woman on the shore. The angle made it seem like we were gazing at each other, when in reality, I'd just noticed someone unfamiliar watching the swimmers. The woman—Lark Hayes, according to the blog—certainly was attractive. She’d caught my attention, I'd admit that much, but "smoldering glances"? Pure fiction.
"This is ridiculous," I said, handing the phone back. "Zoe's really outdone herself this time."
Tyler snorted, pocketing his phone. "At least she picked someone hot. That lawyer's staying at the Evergreen Inn, apparently."
