Once Upon an Alaska Summer: Once Upon a Summer

By Lisa Bergren

THIS BOOK WAS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED AS PATHWAYS. Now edited and updated!

Sometimes It's the Right Guy, but the Wrong Time…

Bryn Bailey has taken a special father-daughter trip to his beloved Alaska every five years of her life. There he taught her to appreciate the wild, rugged country that surrounds their remote cabin on Summit Lake—just outside of Talkeetna—and created treasured memories.

On Summit, there were only two neighboring families, and one had a son just about Bryn's age. An impossibly cute son. Fifteen years ago, Eli Pierce didn't give Bryn the time of day. Ten years ago, he definitely took notice of her too. And five years ago, their serious crush hovered on the edge of love. But Bryn had no intention of staying in Alaska, nor had she quite determined what she thought of God—a serious roadblock for Eli. They separated, each thinking that they were just not meant to be.

Now, Bryn is officially "Doc Bailey" and has volunteered to work for the summer for Housecalls, an outfit who responds to medical needs for those living in the bush, while Eli Pierce's bush plane operation services Housecalls's contract. Thrown together again, neither can deny that sparks are flying. But even if it's finally "The Right Guy and The Right Time," is Bryn in "The Right Place" to welcome love at last? It all unfolds Once Upon an Alaska Summer…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BCG Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393657712

Lisa Bergren

Lisa T. Bergren is the author of over sixty books, with a total of more than three million books sold. She writes in many genres, from romance to women’s fiction, from supernatural suspense and time travel YA to children’s picture books. Lisa and her husband, Tim, have three big kids and one little, white, fully dog. She lives in Colorado but loves to travel and is always thinking about where she needs to research her next novel. In the coming year, she hopes to get to Hawaii and Ireland. To find out more, visit LisaTBergren.com.

Book preview

Part 1

Trailhead

CHAPTER ONE

Ten Years Ago

C ’mon, Bryn. Come out in the canoe with me. You haven’t been out of this cabin for two days. It’s summer. You can study later.

No thanks, Dad, she said, barely looking up from her anatomy textbook. I’ve heard this class is going to be a killer. I gotta prep. Besides, the longer she could bury herself in her studies, the faster this once-every-five-years trip would be over.

She heard her father, Peter, walk to the front window. C’mon, honey, he said, a slight begging tone to his voice. The rain’s let up. We haven’t even been over to the Pierces’ to say hello.

Thoughts of cute Eli Pierce flashed through her mind. People up here in Alaska had something against Californians. She and Eli had played together when she was at Summit Lake with her dad the year she was ten, but when she’d arrived over her fifteenth summer, the guy had pretty much avoided her. Sure, he was all kinds of cute, but Bryn was twenty now, and she had better things to do than get snubbed by the small-town jerk. You go, Dad. I’ll just hang out here, she said.

Suit yourself, he said. Inwardly, she winced a little at the shrug of defeat in his voice and sighed heavily as he walked out the door.

She looked out the picture window at the dark clouds that drew so low, they practically capped the trees that ringed tiny Summit Lake. It felt more like evening than eleven in the morning, when rain drops pocked the still, silver sheen of the small lake. For the tenth time since she arrived, she wondered what her dad saw in this place. It took hours to fly to Anchorage from Southern California, and a couple more to drive to Talkeetna. Then they had to take still another hour to get the floatplane loaded with their gear and fly in to Summit Lake.

All day to get here. She turned over and looked at the two-room log cabin, built by her father twenty years before. Her eyes floated over the hand-hewn logs and white, crumbling chinking. She lay in the bedroom in back, which held a bunk bed on either side. The front room was reserved for a tiny kitchenette and sitting area. It was dark, with no electricity, and it smelled musty, like an old basement blanket at her Gramma Bruce’s in Boston. Bryn had to read by the light of a kerosene lamp when it rained during the day. It was no mystery why her mother, Nell, soon decided this should be a father-daughter trip every five years.

She closed her eyes as the hollow, scraping sound of her father dragging the canoe off the rocks and into the water reached her ears. She wished she were home working a summer internship at the hospital, heading to the beach, catching a movie with friends—anywhere but here for four weeks. In a couple of years she’d be a college graduate with a degree in pre-med. Next time this trip came up, she’d be in med school. And she would finally tell her father that their days at Summit Lake together were probably going to have to be indefinitely on hold. She would, after all, be an adult, on her own path. He’d have to accept that.

A pang of loss pierced her heart and she frowned, then sighed again. Probably guilt pangs. The dude just wanted some quality time with his daughter. She could at least make the most of this trip with him. Make the proverbial memory together. Dutiful daughters did such things all the time.

Bryn tossed aside her textbook and shoved her feet into shoes, hurrying to catch him before he was too far out. Bumping her head on the top bunk, she grimaced. Dad, wait! she called, hoping he would hear her from outside. She rubbed the top of her head and rushed out to the front room, then out to the lakeside where her father was already fifty feet out. Dad, wait! I changed my mind!

Her father dragged his paddle deeper into the water on one side, turned and flashed her a white-toothed grin. He was olive-skinned and handsome—Bryn’s roommate had once referred to him as the sexiest man alive, which always made Bryn’s skin crawl. No matter how others saw him, he was still just her dad. But she had to admit that his Athabaskan grandmother’s dark complexion and hair—which she’d inherited—looked really good on him.

Oh good, Bryn Bear, he responded, using her childhood nickname. I was already missing you. The warmth and welcome in his eyes made her glad for her decision. It seemed his eyes were too often full of sorrow and longing these days, although she couldn’t think of a reason for such emotions.

Bryn turned and ducked her head in the cabin door, grabbing her rain coat from the hook inside. She walked back to the shoreline, pulling her long, curly hair into a quick knot. Her hair was the same color as her father’s—although his was straight—and they shared the same dark olive skin. Her nose was his too, straight and too long. But her eyes were her mother’s—wide and a bit tipped up in the corners. Smoky brown, a boyfriend once told her. Just like the rest of you, he had whispered. Smoky.

He was long gone. She had seen to that. Keeping a straight-A average at the University of California at Irvine was not easy, and he had been in the way, always wanting to party and go out rather than study. But she wanted to graduate at the top of her class and go on to Harvard. That took discipline and concentration to accomplish. And vision. No man was going to get in the way.

The canoe crunched to shore again. Hop in and push us off, Bryn Bear.

Okay, she said, wrinkling her nose a bit when her boots got wet and the cold lake water seeped through her socks. While they glided backward, Bryn balanced on the bow, then carefully climbed in.

There’s a jacket and paddle beneath the seat, Peter said from behind her.

Thought I was goin’ on a ride, she tossed back.

If you ride, you paddle, her dad responded. Can’t make an Alaskan out of you if you sit up there like a Newport Beach princess.

She pulled out the life jacket, pausing to flick off a rather large spider, then put it on and reached for the paddle. Thirty feet out, a bald eagle swooped low, his long wings spread wide, almost touching the surface as his thick talons snatched a trout from the waters across the lake. Wow! Bryn said.

They watched as the massive bird struggled under the new weight—the fish still wriggling beneath him—the lake perfectly mirroring their reflection as the eagle rose, higher and higher, until he disappeared among the trees and wispy clouds.

Isn’t it something here? Peter replied, resting his paddle a moment. They drifted for a few feet, marking the complete silence. I never get tired of seeing things like that. If only your mother would share it with me... His voice trailed away, as if the admission were painful.

She considered that. He rarely spoke of her mother up in Alaska. She’d always thought it was because he considered this father-daughter time, but maybe... You’d live here if you could, wouldn’t you, Dad?

Summers anyway. Your mother wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t even come and see it more than once. There was a shiver of anger in his tone, frustration, as well as pain.

It is a bit isolated, Bryn said, wondering why she felt compelled to defend her mother. She considered her father’s words as she dug her paddle into the water. She had to admit that it felt good to be out on the lake, out from the dank little cabin.

The solitude is part of what I love, Peter said, finally breaking the silence. Where can you find this in So Cal?

I dunno, she said, again trying to force away any defensiveness in her tone. Sometimes if you’re first at the beach...

That’s true, Peter said. But from the first day Scott brought me here, I knew a part of my heart belonged here. Don’t you feel it? Even a little? I used to think it might be genetic. Native roots and all. My grandmother used to say that many wander far from Alaska, but they always feel the hole it leaves in your heart.

Bryn considered that, and wished she had known her Athabaskan great-grandmother, from whom she and her dad had inherited their dark looks. Her eyes traced the small, shallow lake, edged here and there by thick, swampy areas full of reeds. Above the clouds, thick-treed snow-covered mountains shot up on all three sides. A river fed into Summit from the mountain streams to the south, right by their cabin. This place is wild, she said, shivering. Mom would not like it.

He was quiet for a moment, paddling. I know. There’s something about being here—it’s so primal, in a way. Reminds a person of who he is and who he wants to be. He dug in his paddle again and Bryn remained silent, waiting for him to go on. Scott says the bush teaches a man about what he wants and what he needs, and the difference between them. Every time I come here, I remember. And I leave rededicated to remembering it in Newport too.

Bryn’s mind flew from this thin-aired, low-maintenance hideaway to their rather ostentatious home in Newport. Her mother had made a career out of volunteering with the Junior League and decorating their home with only the finest furnishings and accessories. How did you and Mom ever get together? She looked over her shoulder to see his rueful smile.

We were more alike once. In college, I thought... His words drained away like the water off of his paddle. At some point, your mother changed. I changed. He halted, as if trying not to say too much.

She’s been pretty stressed lately, Bryn said, digging her paddle into the water again. Are you two okay? I mean, your marriage and everything?

He was silent for a long moment. Sure, Bryn. We’re fine.

Bryn licked her lips and kept paddling, searching the approaching shore for the Pierces’ cabin. The sounds of sharp axes cutting through soft wood carried across the lake, as they had since morning, and she caught sight of Eli and his father as they stood around an old, dying tree. Built the same year as the Baileys’, the Pierces’ cabin had been completed first, then Scott and Peter had moved on to finish the Bailey abode. All in one summer. We were young then, her father would say wistfully. But there was something in his eyes, in the way he held his shoulders slightly back, as if still proud of the accomplishment, that made her ask him to tell the story again and again.

As college students, Peter Bailey had met up with Scott Pierce in Germany one summer. Both born and raised in Anchorage—but never meeting until they reached the same mountain town—the pair had stayed at a youth hostel overnight and went out the next day to try the locals’ fabled Gewürztraminer. Wineries often set up tents along the road, and the duo stopped at the first one they saw. It was only much later that they learned they had crashed a wedding party, when the father of the bride tossed them out.

From then on, the men were like blood brothers, and Scott, having spotted the pristine site on a hike years before, brought his new friend to Summit Lake the following summer. Both purchased several acres from Ben White, who owned much of the land surrounding the water. Ben was an older man who had been living on Summit since he was in his late twenties, when he was discharged from the army. His home was at the center of the lake. No one else lived in the small mountain valley.

There she is, Peter said from behind Bryn. I’m always amazed that I can’t see their place from the water until I’m nearly on top of it.

Deep in the shadows, the cabin did blend wonderfully with the trees, hidden behind a copse of alder and white spruce.

ELI STRAIGHTENED WHEN he glimpsed the canoe, ax in hand, panting. He and his dad had been working on felling an old-growth, rotten spruce that threatened their roof in the next winter storm. His dad wiped the sweat from his upper lip and took a step closer to the water, grinning. Finally decided to pay an old friend a visit! he called to Peter.

Finally figured this weather wasn’t ever going to let up, and now look! the man said, gesturing toward the sun.

God honors the adventurous, Scott called. He turned back to Eli. That’s Bryn with him, he whispered. Man, she’s turning out to be a beauty!

Eli met his father’s knowing eyes.

She was always like catnip and you the tomcat, Scott said in gentle warning. Watch yourself.

I don’t think she’s interested, Dad. The girl couldn’t even manage to say hello last time I saw her.

She was a kid then. Now you’re adults. And that makes your dance a little more dangerous.

What’re you talking about? Eli asked crossly.

Trust a father’s intuition and watch your step, son. Judging from the last I’ve heard from Peter, you two are on very different paths, he said, looking upward into the dense alder and spruce boughs above them. He slammed his ax into the tree trunk and left Eli’s side to greet his old friend.

After a moment’s hesitation, Eli followed. As he walked down the path, he tried to get a covert look at Bryn. When he saw her grin up at his father on the bank, it made him pause and almost trip. The girl, who had been a babe at fifteen, was now all lovely curves and dark, swinging hair—an uncommon grace in every movement. And when she smiled, sweet heaven, it made his heart hurt and sail back to the year he was sixteen. The year she wouldn’t even speak to him. Too good for me, he had supposed, their childhood friendship plainly dissolved.

Forcing himself to leave the cover of the trees, he approached his father, keeping his eyes on the big rocks, not risking a fall on his face in front of Bryn. Eli shook Peter’s hand firmly, noticed the look of assessment, then admiration in the man’s eyes, then his glance down to his daughter.

Their fathers embraced and immediately began catching up. Eli had to face Bryn. Had to turn and look at her, greet her. Like an adult, just when he felt a keening teen shyness he hadn’t experienced in years.

Eli reached up for his grandfather’s airman’s cap and pulled it off his head and slipped it under one armpit. He forced himself to smile and look into her wide eyes—the color of a beaver’s tail in water. Hi, Bryn, he managed.

Eli, she said with another smile and a short nod. Your dad roped you into another trip to Summit too, huh?

Oh, I come every summer, he said, wondering at her words. Roped? This place was heaven on earth. The kind of place magazine crews scouted for catalog shoots. The clouds were now on full retreat, the sunshine warm enough to make her pull off her raincoat. He forced himself to glance out at the honey glaze on the water, the deep forest green of the mountains, the snow on the lavender peaks, rather than stare at her. What’s it been, four, five years? he asked, crossing his arms.

Five years, she said, confirming what he already knew. Dad can’t stay away for more than a couple years between visits. Every five years is right on track for me. I mean, it’s pretty... rustic. She looked with some disdain at the lake. His beloved Summit.

Ah, I get it, Scott interrupted, joining them and giving Bryn the hug that Eli thought about giving her, but decided not to. I get it. Just another Californian who’d rather be at the beach? he chided. You’re a sight, Bryn. Pretty as a state fair queen. You must be proud, Peter.

Couldn’t be prouder. She’s top of her class too.

Dad..., Bryn tried, obviously embarrassed.

Straight A’s, at the University of California.

"Dad..."

So focused on her studies she won’t even look at the guys, he said, punching Eli on the shoulder.

Dad!

What? Peter asked innocently.

Bryn sighed and passed Eli, shaking her head. Dad still thinks I’m a deaf teenager, she said under her breath to him, so that he gets to say anything that passes through his head. Sorry.

No problem, he said, watching her go by, catching the scent of vanilla and green apples. Her shampoo? A lotion? She sat down on a chair on their porch and unlaced her boot. Apparently she had a pebble to dislodge.

My boy has his pilot’s license, Scott said to Peter, clearly not wanting to be one-upped. Has his sights set on his own operation out of Talkeetna.

Great, Peter said in wistful admiration, as if he wished he were the one starting a company in Alaska. He clapped Eli on the shoulder. That your de Havilland?

Eli looked past him to the old, restored Beaver on shore, knowing full well that it was the only plane in sight. She’s mine.

A beaut! Peter said. I would’ve had you fly us in had I known you were looking for work. Your operation will be all floatplanes?

Floatplane, in the singular form, Eli said, following his father and Peter up the path to the cabin. Maybe someday I’ll have one outfitted with skis, take the tourists to land on the glaciers, up around Denali, that sort of thing.

Talkeetna’s hopping. Must be twice as many people in town this summer as compared to ten years ago, Peter said, as if hoping he was wrong.

Yeah, Scott said. Come. Have a seat, he said, gesturing to the other chairs beside Bryn. I’ve got some coffee on. Through the open doorway, he said, The cruise lines bring busloads of tourists into town now. You should see them, walking through, completely oblivious to the locals trying to keep on with everyday life. It’s as if they think they own the place. And the trash they leave behind!

You know what they say, Eli interjected. All eyes turned to him. An environmentalist is someone who already has their own cabin.

Peter laughed. True. He looked back out to the lake. I never want Summit to be discovered, changed. This is our place. Ours. He almost whispered the last word, and Bryn studied her father as if confused. She clearly was not as enamored with the pristine Alaskan valley as any of the three men were. But the way she leaned back against the Adirondack chair, her hair falling out of its knot, so relaxed...She looked as if she belonged there. At Summit Lake. In Alaska. Whether she knew it or not.

Where’s Meryl? Peter asked as Scott came out, a tray of coffee mugs in hand.

She’s taking this summer off. Said us boys needed some man time.

Man time, huh? Bryn asked, taking a mug. Should I leave?

We can make an exception, Scott said with a wink. He offered coffee to Eli and Peter before setting the tray on the porch floor. Truth be told, I kind of like my reunions with Meryl after a little time apart. There was a twinkle in his eyes. You find the same, Pete?

Did Peter pause, almost wince a moment? Sometimes, he said noncommittally, taking a sip.

So how long you stayin’? Scott asked, directing the question to Peter.

A month, if I can keep her here that long, Peter said, nodding at his daughter.

She paused for a telling couple of seconds. I think I can last. She paused, obviously thinking. You know, Dad, a porch like this would help a lot. Bryn looked around at the overhang that extended from the roof. Allow us to be outside more. Keep us from getting cabin fever.

Peter nodded, looking around at it too, walking over to touch a post as if already doing measurements in his head. Been a while since we’ve made any improvements to the old place.

I could haul in some supplies, Eli offered. Headin’ out tomorrow.

We could harvest the poles and crossbeams ourselves, Peter said, throwing Bryn a cocked brow of challenge. I think the boards for the roof would have to be flown in, he allowed, gratefully accepting a warmer on his coffee from Scott. Not as young as I once was.

Not ready to hew your own lumber? Scott teased. Gettin’ soft there, city boy.

"Yeah, yeah. I’m not soft, just smarter. I’d rather spend my month building and fishing and hiking and canoeing, rather than harvesting wood. We’ll maintain the integrity of the cabin with a few native elements, he said, looking at Bryn again to see if she was in on the idea, and buy us some relaxation time by getting Eli to fly in the rest."

You can do that? Bryn asked of Eli. He forced his eyes to hers. Fly in a load of lumber?

Sure. I’ll strap it to the Beaver’s belly, compensate for the weight, and bring it right to your door.

Cool, she said. Do you have room for a passenger?

Eli raised his eyebrows in surprise. She wanted to go with him? Maybe she wasn’t as coldhearted as she’d been at fifteen... Depends on how much lumber you all need for your project. Weight calculations and all.

If it works, can I go with him? Bryn asked suddenly, casting the question toward Eli as much as to her father. To call Mom? Pick up some supplies I forgot?

We just got here—

Please, Dad. I’ll just be gone a day. And I love flying on floatplanes.

Peter cast anxious, narrowing eyes from Bryn to Eli to Scott and crossed his arms, considering. You a good pilot? he asked Eli.

My instructor said I was, he said.

"You know as well as I