The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

The next morning, wearing the red-checked dress, I ride in a horse-drawn carriage that clatters over cobblestones to the Mount Bedford train station, grateful for my borrowed clothes among passengers dressed as elegantly as Grandmary, and a train car with carved woodwork, velvet curtains, and plush chairs. Samantha and I sit behind Grandmary. Elsa and the Hawkinses ride in a separate, surely less comfortable, servants’ coach. I feel bad for all of them, especially after everything they did to prepare for this trip.

The day-long journey to Piney Point means switching trains several times. On the last one, I squirm against the scratchy wool of the long underwear Grandmary insisted I wear so I won’t “catch cold.” Samantha shrugs apologetically. She wears hers from September to June, Grandmary’s rule. But once we board the steamboat across foggy, chilly Goose Lake, the last leg, mist beading on the railings, I’m actually grateful for it. As we near shore, the whistle blasts, and Samantha searches the dark dock for Uncle Gard.

The moment their eyes meet, Uncle Gard breaks into a little jig, arms flung wide, that makes me giggle. I think I’m going to like him. The boat hisses to rest at the dock, and Hawkins helps me off.

Uncle Gard swoops Samantha into his arms. He’s handsome, with dark hair swept back and a neatly trimmed mustache. Then, he bows dramatically over my hand, kissing it and making my cheeks burn. Behind him stands white-haired Admiral Beemis, Grandmary’s English friend and retired ship captain, a Piney Point regular. On shore, a ginger-haired woman waves and shields her eyes: Miss Cornelia, Uncle Gard’s friend, here for the first time, too.

Walking ashore into the cool, pine-scented air, pine needles crunching underfoot, Samantha leads me up the wooded path toward the log-cabin-like house, then veers off toward something called the Wood Tick Inn. The name alone makes my skin crawl, but she’s already running, so I follow.

Along the way she points out Rose Cottage, where Uncle Gard sleeps, and the boathouse, where the admiral stays. Everything’s so spread out, I remark, glancing between the scattered buildings. She laughs. It’s funny how everyone at Piney Point stays scattered, yet it’s the only place Grandmary, Uncle Gard, the admiral, and she are ever all together, the people she loves most, and now me. She grins and races me down the path.

We settle into a tiny one-room cottage overlooking the lake, two twin beds and a chair woven from gnarled branches, and thankfully no actual wood ticks. Samantha says it’s comfortable, though sometimes she sleeps on the porch under the stars instead, which sounds a lot like camping, and it turns out staying there feels that way, too. After dinner we wash up in cold well water, goosebumps rising on my arms, and talk by candlelight, already so comfortable together despite knowing each other only days. The last thing I remember before sleep is the mournful call of loons on the lake.

The next morning, sharp knocking on the roof jolts me awake, and I bolt upright, heart hammering. Samantha says it’s just a woodpecker. She’s already dressed in a navy dress and bonnet, and I wonder what for.

Samantha asks if I want to swim with Uncle Gard, offering me a spare bathing dress, but hers covers knees to elbows plus stockings and shoes. How does anyone swim in all that? Seeing my hesitation, she offers a picnic hike up the hill instead. That sounds much better than swimming fully dressed, though I can tell she’s excited for the water. Maybe I can just watch from shore and cheer her on.