Susan Wiggs - Lakeside Cottage

If he’d known what was going on, he probably would have stayed asleep for decades like Rip Van Winkle, hoping the world would have forgotten him when he woke up.

No such luck. Jordan Donovan Harris: The Nation Sits Vigil awakened to Jordan Donovan Harris: The Nation’s New Hero. It was insane, a feeding frenzy. The press always referred to him by all three names, the way they did mass murderers—John Wayne Gacy, Coral Eugene Watts, John Wilkes Booth—or JD’s own personal assassin, Terence Lee Muldoon.

No one had seen the attack coming. No one could have, which was why Muldoon had almost succeeded. A member of both the Blue Light Commando and Black Ops, he’d been decorated for bravery in battle during the first strike of Operation Iraqi Freedom. He had the perfect record of a career soldier. “He was a quiet, unassuming man who kept to himself …” Wasn’t that what was always said about loonies and mass murderers? No one ever said, “He was crazier than a shithouse rat, and you couldn’t trust him any farther than you could throw him.”

No. Like most crazies, he was always described as “a hard worker” and “model citizen.” The scariest part was, when Muldoon had hatched his plan, there had been no one to stop him. Except JD, who had literally blundered into the situation.

It was all behind him now, he thought, finishing up at the car wash. He didn’t exactly have his life back since he’d had to go underground, but at least he had some privacy. Some breathing room. Don’t blow it, he cautioned himself, thinking of Kate Livingston and her kid. They couldn’t know it, but today’s encounter was the longest conversation he’d had with anyone since moving into the Schroeders’ cabin.

For those few minutes, at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, he’d felt easy and natural, almost like himself again. Just a guy staying at the lake, taking some time off work, chatting with a woman who had red hair, sexy legs and a friendly kid. A woman who made him miss the things he’d never had.

Sam’s wife, Penny, a hopeless romantic, was constantly urging him to find someone who made him feel special, to settle down and start a family. Since Christmas, he’d learned that he didn’t want to feel special. He wanted to feel like himself.

At the time of the incident at Walter Reed, he’d had a woman in his life. Tina, a congressional aide, said she adored him. That was all well and good until he stumbled into fame. Then she went on national television and said she adored him. She repeated it in magazine interviews and on talk radio, and that wasn’t all. She didn’t hesitate to reveal some of the most private aspects of their relationship, including the first time he’d told her he loved her, the first gift he’d given her, his fondness for Chesapeake blue crab and his preference in sexual positions. Somehow, she had parlayed her professed adoration into a stupid self-help book called How to Date a Real Man.

He still remembered the feeling of lying helpless, propped in his hospital bed, hearing his girlfriend, dewy-eyed with sincerity, describe the intimate details of their life. The sense of betrayal was a dull reverberation that shuddered through him, awakening memories of other occasions, other betrayals.

Why was he surprised? he wondered. This was what people did. They took what they wanted from him and then they left.

After the shooting, even Janet had crawled out of the woodwork and had begun calling herself his mother again. She had wept at his hospital bedside. News photographs showed her, Madonna-like, praying for his recovery.

The irony was, he no longer needed this woman to love him and pray for him. He had needed that when he was a kid in school, desperate for affection and approval. He’d needed that when he was a teenager, crying out for reassurance and control. She hadn’t been there for him then, and when he turned eighteen he had mortgaged his future to get his mother into rehab. Everything he’d saved for college and—yes, he did dream big—medical school, he’d spent on the rehab clinic. The miracle was, his investment paid off. After ninety days at Serenity House in Silver Spring, Maryland, Janet Harris had emerged clean and sober, sincerely grateful to the son who had saved her from the overdose that would have made him an orphan.

She was a changed person. JD had seen that immediately and Janet was the first to admit it. “I need to make a fresh start,” she’d said. “I can’t be around anything—anyone—who was a part of my life when I was an addict.”

It took JD a little time to figure out that she meant him as well as all the dealers and pimps she’d run with while JD was growing up.

Her desertion that summer had been a gift, or so he told himself. Her sobriety had cost him his meager savings, but it had given him insight into what his future held. He was on his own, and that was fine with him.

Then, fame had happened to him, and suddenly Janet was back in his life, the ideal mother of an American hero. She should have known better. She should have understood that the reporters surrounding her were not her friends. They’d turned on her, of course, and the revelations they brought to light turned her back into the person she’d been all through JD’s childhood—an addict. Fortunately for Janet, he now had every resource at his disposal, and just before disappearing, he’d arranged for her to go to the best rehab facility in southern California. He hoped like hell they’d do their job—and that Janet would do hers, and get better. Years of sobriety shattered by a handful of press reports. God, he hated the media.

Growing up, JD always thought he wanted to be a family physician, caring for people from cradle to grave.

But he’d been wrong. His true calling was to be an EMT, like the men and women who had brought his mother back from that final overdose. JD had never learned their names, had never seen them again. And that seemed somehow appropriate. To JD, it was the ideal job—saving people and then setting them free. That was the best of both worlds. As an emergency-aid worker, he could savor the rush of satisfaction of keeping them from dying, yet he wouldn’t have to think about where they’d be the next day or the next month or even the next decade. An EMT spent an average of 13.5 minutes in the life of a victim, and in that blink of time, he made all the difference.

Works for me, JD had said to the army recruiter. After his mother had cleaned herself up, cleaned out the rest of JD’s savings and then ditched him for a better life in California, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Army. They promised him a great job, a steady income, a life of travel and adventure and money for his education.

Sometimes JD wished he had read the fine print better. Still, he’d gone through the toughest training the army offered and, after eighteen months of unbelievable hell, he was certified as a Special Forces Medic, the most qualified and elite trauma specialist in the military.

In Port Angeles, far from the rest of the world, he turned down First Street and found a parking spot. He went to the marine-supply store for a long list of supplies—tar and seam filler, varnish, epoxy, marine plywood, fiberglass glue. When Sam had offered the lakeside cabin for the summer, he had urged JD to use the cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand built by his late father. He’d gone on and on about the hours he and his dad had spent in the boat when Sam was a boy. He probably pictured it as something perfect from his boyhood. Well, it wasn’t perfect. Not even close. JD had found the boathouse draped in spiderwebs, the boat stored hull up and half-rotted. Some sort of rodent—maybe chipmunks or raccoons—had made a nest under it. Though he didn’t know the first thing about boat-building, JD had immediately decided to make the boat his project. He would restore the wherry so that when Sam brought his family to the lake at summer’s end, the boat would be ready for him.