Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Now to put all of that in a cohesive blog post when my mind is a whirl with way too much.
I was glad I had sent off my most recent book, Prepping for the Doubting Thomas, to my editor and on schedule. It was one less thing on my to-do list I scratched off. I had begun work on my series of journals, my next writing project, but the first book wasn’t due for a while yet.
My prepper stock was up to date so there was no worry there. The attic was far from being cleaned out in preparation of the renovation. I decided to have a closet built in the section of the attic to house my aunt Effie’s designer clothes from her modeling days. Many of them fit me as if they were made for me, except for the length. My aunt was taller than me, but with my mom talented at sewing, Aunt Effie having taught her, she could alter the length of any of the garments.
I closed out the document I had been staring at and decided physical work would better suit me today.
“Attic here I come,” I said with a grin, then it hit me suddenly. “Ian’s cellar!”
I recalled when Amy and I explored it just before Halloween, we had found a bunch of old bookings and billing receipts. They could hold a wealth of information.
“Mo,” I called out when I entered the kitchen, “we’re going to Ian’s.”
He sprang to his feet as I sent a text to Ian.
On my way over. Need to get into your cellar.
Mo didn’t need his vest, but I took my small backpack because as a prepper I don’t travel in the woods even if it’s a short walk to the lodge without one… though I did once and I ended up meeting Ian.
I smiled at the memory.
Ian, the love that he is, had the cellar doors cleared of the snow and opened by the time I reached him. Mo remained in the lodge with the women fussing over him with snacks and lots of hugs.
“You’re not going down there alone, Pep,” Ian cautioned. “Not after what happened the last time.”
I had to smile, though he wore no period costume, dressed in present-day garb, his stance in front of the cellar was that of a hero on the cover of a romance book—arms crossed and a defiant lift of his chin.
“I’m in no danger. The person who tried to kill me is in prison and never coming out. And while I appreciate your bravery in going in the cellar with me, with your aversion to spiders, it’s not necessary. I’m going to collect the receipts and be done, though I will need something to put them in.”
When four years old, Ian had had a bad incident with false widow spiders, having wandered into a shed full of them. Ever since then, spiders were his Kryptonite and that he would brave them for me endeared him to me all the more.
“You are not going down there alone,” he repeated.
I could tell this was a battle I wasn’t going to win, but it was one I could at least turn some of the tide on.
“Okay, but I enter first and clear it of any spider webs,” I said, spiders never bothering me thanks to my three brothers who had constantly played tricks on me with spiders when I was young and making me immune to the frightening buggers. He looked to argue, and I kissed his cheek. “I know you’re a hero. You saved me from drowning. My turn to save you.”
I quickly scooted around him and down the stairs, flashlight on and in hand, calling out, “Grab some totes to carry the papers in.”
I hurried to clear the area of cobwebs and spider webs and hoped the spiders that scurried off stayed hidden while Ian and I gathered the receipts.
Ian showed no signs of fear when he returned and started helping me, after insisting we both wear leather gloves, a wise decision on his part. Most of the boxes the receipts had been kept in had collapsed into one another, making it a messy task.
“I wonder how far back these receipts go,” Ian said as we worked.
“Possibly to when the lodge opened, which I believe was the late ’50s. It was expanded and renovations were done in the ’70s, with more updates made in the ’90s, from what my mom told me. It closed down after fifty-plus years. I was so upset. We had so many good, fun times at the lake and seasonal parties and events Max had here. Though, when I look back now, knowing the lodge actually belonged to my aunt, I realize now that she was the one who had organized so much here. She was the reason for its success.”