The Lighthouse Road. Peter Geye

      When he woke at noon the pillow still held the imprint of her head, still clung to the scent of her hair. The air in the fish house could have been bottled, it was so heavy. Still lying on his bunk, Odd rolled a cigarette and set it between his lips. He paused before lighting it, knowing the smoke would erase the lingering scent of her, wanting it to linger longer. So instead he reached over and brought the boat carving back. He sighted the boat's bottom with his good eye, tried to convince himself that the keel and skeg could be fashioned the way he thought. It was there to be seen, even with only one eye.

      The first notion of a boat had come to him the summer before, as he'd whittled a piece of driftwood into a gently curved keel. He did it without the least intention, but when he was finished he held it before him, sighting it with his good eye as if he'd just aligned every crooked thought he'd ever had. A couple weeks later, while he was cutting and splitting firewood, he left a five-foot length of birch on the sawhorse while he ate lunch. When he came back he saw the birch log as the next version of the keel scale and spent a week at it with his crosscut saw and adze, then his gouges and chisels, and finally a sanding block. It was then he knew with all the certainty he possessed that he would be his own keelmaker.

      He rose now, finally lit his cigarette, and went to the window. He knew it was time to get to work.

      The cupboard was empty but for a can of coffee and two jars of soused herring, the heel of the loaf of brown bread. There was an apple on the windowsill. He thought of making coffee but remembered he'd filled the teakettle with whiskey the night before. This goddamned life of mine, he thought, taking the apple from the windowsill and wiping it on his drawers.

      He ate the apple as he walked to the shore, a towel over his shoulder, a bar of soap in his hand. The apple was tart and hard and grown in a place unsuited for apples. But he ate it anyway, his face puckering with each bite. When he got to the shore he threw the apple core into the lake.

      The water in the cove had warmed some with the week of hot weather, but the night before the rollicking seas had brought in more of the cold water, and when he stepped into the lake beneath the boat slide the chill felt electric. Outside the cove he could see the big waters had slowed, had almost synchronized with the dying wind. The rollers came weakly and slow now, like a herring's last few gill flaps in the bottom of his skiff.

      He washed quickly and toweled off and went back into the fish house to shave, which he did with his straight blade after honing it on the strap he had tacked into the counter. There was a small mirror hanging beside the window and he watched himself as he shaved. The lines in his brow led to it like streams to a shaded pond. Only twenty-three years old and already he had a face like a map. He could have passed for a man twice his age, even with his youthful grin and fine full hair.

      Before taking his hidden trail to town, he checked on the whiskey. It sat as the night before among the rocks in the cove. He'd stashed it there in the past and was fine leaving it until nightfall. If not for that census taker, he could load it onto the bed of the pickup right now. Lord knows Mayfair didn't give a damn about a few barrels of whiskey; he imbibed himself. But the rumors of feds masquerading as civil servants were rampant in the Minnesota wilds, and this fellow up from St. Paul was as fishy as a jar of roe.

      How long, Hosea asked one night over cards, did it take to count two thousand folks? Much as he questioned Grimm, Odd had to admit the old man had a point. There weren't more than two thousand people in all the great county, and the census taker had been in Gunflint since March.

      I need something to keep the skeeters off my neck," Odd said, standing at the counter in Grimm's Apothecary.

      "It grows by the bushel on every lake shore, you can't pick some?"

      "I'm no goddamned flower picker."

      Grimm turned and pulled one of the glass canisters from the shelves that lined the wall behind his counter. There were a hundred such canisters, full of everything from catnip to balls of spiderwebs to lemon drops and horehounds.

      "You went rowing last night?"

      "A little breeze is all she had."

      Hosea put a small bouquet of catnip into a paper sack and handed it to Odd. "Christ, Odd, you'd wrastle a black bear, wouldn't you?" Hosea winked.

      "To hell with you."

      "But you landed the juice?"

      "I'll bring it around come dark. Couple of barrels here, couple more over to the Traveler's, the rest up to the Timber. I'll roll yours down to the cellar."

      Grimm's awful smile came across his whiskered face. "Drop mine first, I'll join you up to the Timber."

      "Sure."

      Rebekah appeared from the hidden staircase behind the shelves of canisters. Despite the fact that Odd had been raised in this place, a person appearing from the narrow staircase always shocked him, especially when, as with Rebekah now, her skirts sprang fully like an umbrella as she made the last step into the apothecary.

      She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek and said, "Hello, little brother."

      Odd blushed, he couldn't help it.

      She looked into the wax-paper sack. "What are the flowers for?"

      "I'm going up to the farm today. Skeeters are hell with all this hot."

      Hosea counted twenty five-dollar bills onto the counter. "For your trouble," he said. "I'll see you at nightfall."

      "Hosea's making deliveries with me tonight," Odd explained.

      "Boys on the town."

      "Something like that," Odd said.

      "Can I come?" she asked, a wink for Odd.

      Hosea stood up straight. "The Timber's no place for a woman of your standing," he said.

      "A woman of my standing. Yes, well. I know all about the Shivering Timber," Rebekah said sharply. "A woman of my standing," she added, this time under her breath.

      The way up to Rune Evensen's farm was a palimpsest of old logging roads and game trails, the abandoned rail bed, the ice road they were talking about turning into a certified highway, one that went all the way up to Canada. Middle summer now, the forest's undergrowth was tall and unruly and giving Odd hell. The grabby brush even annoyed the horse he'd rented from the livery keeper. A big beautiful Percheron sired by one of the old Burnt Wood Camp haulers.

      Odd urged her along, tugging on the bridle reins and saying sweet things. The horse was already in harness and excited about the afternoon ahead, even hot as it was. The skeeters and blackflies were awful, as Odd knew they'd be, and when

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