The Charm Bracelet(72)

“What brings you to Lost Land?” Lolly asked. “Come to fish?”

Lolly was a trusting soul, but there was something about this man—almost an aura, if you believed in such a thing—that made her feel a bit off-kilter.

“Came to build,” he said.

“Build?”

Lolly reeled in her line and pushed off on the dock to stand. After the buying boom of the 1980s, Lolly hated the word “build.” Scoops—and Lost Land—didn’t take kindly to renovation, gentrification, and escalation. Things were just fine as they were. She took a step toward the man, and nervously zipped and unzipped her jacket.

“Just a little house,” he said. “A peaceful place, somewhere near the lake.”

“Do you have property?” Lolly asked.

The man laughed, revealing perfect white teeth that didn’t fit his aged, whisker-stubbled face, Lolly thought.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Where are you staying?” Lolly asked next.

The man’s eyes twinkled, like the lake, and seemed to turn a hundred shades of grey, before settling on slate. “In an old stable just up the road.”

“Whose barn?” Lolly asked. “I grew up around here. Know pretty much everyone.”

“Just some nice folks,” he said. “I help look after their animals in exchange for room and board. Gives me a chance to build in the afternoons. I’m looking for some help, if you’re interested.”

Lolly narrowed her eyes and gave the man a wary look.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sensing her distrust and stepping slowly backward until he was off Lolly’s dock. “I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. Just looking for someone who might have some skills to offer. You have a good day, ma’am.”

“I don’t have any skills!” Lolly called, surprising herself. She hadn’t even considered responding. The words just came out as if she couldn’t control them.

“We all have skills, but most of us don’t have faith in ourselves,” the man said. He pointed a swollen finger that hooked at the knuckle. “Meet me on the opposite side of the lake tomorrow—over there by the weeping willow, see?—around three.”

Lolly knew the willow well, but turned just to make sure. When she spun back around, the man was gone, not even a puff of breath hanging in the fall air to indicate he had even been there.

The next day, Lolly walked the edge of the lake, arriving at the willow promptly at three. A stack of two-by-fours and knotty pine wood sat under a tarp, alongside bags of concrete, saws, hammers, wheelbarrows, buckets, a spade, and a rusty toolbox. The man was already up to his waist in the wet ground, digging up shovelfuls of Michigan sand mixed with dark mud.

“You own this land?” Lolly asked, looking around the spot. “Millers own that cabin up the hill from here.”

“This is the right spot,” the man replied.

Lolly considered his response odd but conclusive. She glanced back up at the Millers’ cabin.

I could call them. Do I have their number? she considered.

“Why don’t you start hauling up some water from the lake?” the man asked, distracting Lolly from her thoughts. “I’ll need it for the concrete. Need to finish fast, before the ground freezes.”

“What are you building, exactly?” Lolly asked once more. “Seems small.”

“Tiny of space, huge of inspiration,” the man said.

Lolly began hauling water, and asking the man questions: Was he married? Where did he live? Why did he come here? Did he have a family? What did he do for a living?

The old man worked feverishly, with the inexhaustible drive of youth, dispensing little personal information but much wisdom.

“I have no family,” he would say, “save for the world.”

And, “I come from everywhere. My home is wherever one will accept me.”

The man never tired, only stopping on occasion to drink water from the lake, like one of the deer. Once, when he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow, Lolly gasped: The old man had the body of a young one. His stomach was taut, muscles rippled.

Over the next few weekdays, at three, Lolly did what she could to help the man: Hauling water, raking dirt, stacking lumber. She didn’t know why she returned, but she felt compelled to do so. She found the hard labor as comforting as fishing or sewing.

“Told you I don’t have any skills,” she would tell the man over and over.

“You have many gifts,” he would repeat. “You just need to believe in them.”

The following Monday remained drizzly and cool, and Lolly walked around Lost Land Lake, her galoshes leaving sloppy, wet footprints in the muddy grass. When she neared the willow, she looked up, stopping dead in her tracks: The structure was complete.

In front of her stood a tiny white chapel, no bigger than a back-yard playhouse for two children, a cross made of birch jutting from the roof. There were small windows on each side, empty pine window boxes underneath both. The back—facing the lake—was all glass. The front double doors were painted red, and a steppingstone path led to the lake.

“What?” Lolly stammered, as the man emerged from inside. “How did you? When did you?”

“Labor of love,” he said. “Come inside.”

Lolly ducked to enter the front doors and again gasped once inside: The cathedral ceiling soared toward heaven, and was outlined with wood beams. It was tall enough for Lolly to stand fully and stretch her body. The walls were knotty pine, the floors painted white. Four tiny pews, two on each side, big enough to hold two people each, were burnished and lacquered to a high shine. One step up led to a tiny altar that was lit with candles. A single Bible sat in a wood stand in front of the glass window, the lake shimmering beyond.