His great-grandfather had built the lodge as a family getaway back when the Kowalskis were rolling in dough, and it had started its life as a massive New Englander with a deep farmer’s porch. It was painted the traditional white, and the shutters, originally black, had been painted a deep green by his mother in an effort to make it look less austere. He could see one of those shutters was missing and several were slightly askew. They all needed painting.
At some point his great-grandfather had added an equally massive addition in an L off the back corner, with the downstairs becoming a large kitchen with a formal dining room, and the upstairs being the servants’ quarters.
His son, Grandpa Kowalski, hadn’t fared well with the stock market, though, being a lot more of a risk taker than he was a savvy businessman and, when the old family money was gone, along with the big house in the city, he’d reinvented the vacation home as an exclusive gentleman’s hunting club, and the Northern Star Lodge was born. The servants’ quarters became the family quarters. With the next generation, the hunters eventually gave way to snowmobilers and now Josh ran the place, but the five kids owned it together.
The boards creaked under Mitch’s feet as he climbed the steps to the heavy oak front door, which squeaked a little on its hinges. The place was going to hell in a handbasket.
The great room was lit up, and his youngest brother, Josh, was sprawled on one of the sturdy brown-leather sofas, one leg encased by a glaringly white cast from foot to knee. There was a set of crutches on the floor, lying across the front of the couch. Josh had a beer in one hand and an unopened can sat on the end table next to Mitch’s favorite chair.
He sank into it and popped the top. “How’d you know I was coming?”
“Mike Crenshaw saw you walking into the diner on his way home from the VFW. He told his wife, who called Jeanine Sharp, who called Rosie at bingo. She called me.”
Rosie Davis was the part-time housekeeper-slash-surrogate mother at the lodge and had been since Sarah Kowalski died of an aneurism when Mitch was twelve.
“You come to babysit me?”
By the look of his baby brother, he could use a nanny. And a shower. Their father had stamped his build on all of his children—all of them, even Liz, pushing six feet and lean—but there were differences. Josh had a rounder face with their mother’s nose, and Ryan and Sean a more square jaw and their grandfather’s nose. Josh and Mitch had their father’s dark hair, while the others were more of a dark-blondish like their mother. Mitch’s face was strong, with the Kowalski nose, and he was the best-looking of the bunch, naturally. They all had their father’s eyes, too. A brilliant blue that made people, especially women, take a second look.
Not many people would take a second look at Josh right then, though, unless they were trying to figure out if they’d seen his picture hanging in the local post office. His hair was a train wreck and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Worn-out sweatpants with one leg cut off at the knee to accommodate the cast and a T-shirt bearing the stains of what looked like spaghetti sauce didn’t help.
“Do I look like a babysitter?” Mitch took a long draw of beer, considering the best way to handle his brother. Head-on didn’t tend to work well with Kowalskis. “Heard a rumor there was a hot new waitress in town. Thought I’d check her out.”
“Yeah, right. Rosie call you?”
“’Course she did. Your cast probably wasn’t even dry yet and she was on the phone. When’s the last time you took a shower?”
Josh snorted. “No showers for me. I get to take baths, like a woman, with this damn thing propped up on the side of the tub.”
“Got some fruity-smelling bubbles?”
“Screw you. How long you staying this time? Three days? A whole week?”
Tired. His brother looked tired more than anything else, and Mitch felt a pang of worry. His little brother just flat out looked like hell. “Rosie said you were limbing that big oak out front and fell.”
“Didn’t fall. The ladder slipped.” He shrugged and sipped his beer.
“Probably because you had the ladder footed against your toolbox in the back of your pickup.”
“No doubt. Didn’t have a tall enough ladder.”
“Why didn’t you call in a tree service?”
“Gee, Mr. Fancy Engineering Degree, why didn’t I think of that?”
Rather than rise to the bait of his brother’s tone, Mitch drank his beer and waited for Josh to realize he was being an ass. Mitch wasn’t the one who’d been stupid enough to foot a ladder in the back of a truck or too stubborn to ask for help, so he wasn’t going to sit and take crap where crap wasn’t deserved.
“Fine. I should have called a tree service. I didn’t. Now my leg’s fucked up. Happy?”
“Don’t be an asshole.” Mitch drained the last of the beer and tossed it into the wastebasket somebody—probably Rosie—had put next to the couch for his brother’s substantial collection of empties. “How many of those are from today?”