An Accidental Woman by Barbara Delinsky Page A

out to Buck’s truck and, not trusting that the food wouldn’t freeze in the steadily dropping temperature if he put it in the bed of the truck, stowed it in the cab. It took several tries before the engine came to life, but then he was on his way.
    Heading out of town on the road that circled the lake, Griffin followed John’s directions, going past quaintly named roads leading to coves that lined the shore. The bad news was that the closest access to Little Bear Island was at the far end of the lake from town, around myriad turns in the road, heading away from the lake and then back, making what would have been a five-minute drive had he been able to go directly more like a thirty-minute one. The good news was that Buck’s truck held the road well—and that Griffin would have his own place for as long as he stayed, not to mention those brownie points he would score with Charlie once the guy had a chance to think about it.
    Little Bear Road was perfectly marked with the same kind of well-kept sign that marked the rest of the roads in town. Drive all the way down, John had instructed, then right out onto the lake.
    Onto the lake? Griffin had asked skeptically. Can I do that?
    Sure, John replied. We had some melt yesterday, but it’s frozen back up today. There’s trucks out to bobhouses all the time. No one’s fallen in yet this year.
    Needing to convince himself that he was up for the challenge, Griffin set his qualms aside, particularly when he saw that Little Bear Road was plowed. He turned in, putting on his headlights when the road plunged him into the darkness of a thick forest of trees that blocked out what was left of the day.
    No sweat, he told himself with a glance at his watch. He still had more more than an hour to get out there and get settled. Piece a cake.
    When the road ahead brightened and the lake came into view, he smiled. Seconds later, his smile faded when the plowed portion of the road abruptly ended and the truck got stuck. Praying that it was a momentary aberration, he shifted, backed up, shifted again, and went forward with greater force. He moved ahead just a bit before stopping again. This time, when he tried to back up, he couldn’t do that either. No matter how he shifted, how he steered, what brilliant little tactic he thought he’d used, he couldn’t budge the thing. All four tires of the truck were in snow nearly to their upper rims, which Griffin discovered when he climbed out of the cab and sank in well above the top of the hiking boots of which he was so proud. He looked ahead at another ten feet of unplowed snow, then at the lake. Its surface sat two feet lower than the land and was covered with just as much snow.
    Not wanting to waste time, with the shadows on the lake growing longer as he watched, Griffin studied Little Bear Island. A quarter mile out, John had said. It didn’t look far. He figured he could cover the distance easily enough on foot. He didn’t have gloves—they were back in Princeton—but he’d had cold hands before. Cold hands wouldn’t kill him.
    So he pulled on his time-worn, good-luck Yankees cap and climbed out of the truck. Putting his overnight bag on one shoulder and his laptop bag and briefcase on the other, he took a shopping bag in each arm and set off.
    The good news was that the ice held him easily. It didn’t moan or crack or move, but showed every sign of being as thick as John had said it was. The bad news was that not only were his ears freezing, but his jeans didn’t keep out the snow any better than his hiking boots did.
    Mindful of the lowering sun, he slogged on. He knew there was ice under the snow, because he slipped on it from time to time. Fortunately, he was athletic enough to keep his balance.
    If the temperature was falling, he didn’t feel it. Lifting his feet high to cross through the snow, he built up a sweat in no time. This countered the wetness where the snow