Free My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) by Cynthia Lee Cartier

lake freezes, and a path is marked along the ice crossing with old Christmas trees. You can walk, ski, or drive a snowmobile to the mainland. It’s about three miles. This is cross-country ski heaven. Do you ski?”
    “Downhill, but I’ve never tried cross-country. I’d love to learn. Do you work in the winter?”
    “No. Most of the businesses close down in the winter. There’s not much employment in the off-season. I paint.”
    “Really, what do you paint?”
    “Landscapes mostly.”
    “What medium?”
    “Oils. Do you paint?” she sat up with hopefulness that the answer would be yes.
    “Just a little, watercolor, I’d love to see your work.”
    Her eyes lit up. “Would you, honestly?”
    “Definitely.”
    “I’ll be right back.” She hopped down from the stool and, taking them two at time, sprinted up the wooden steps behind the counter. After a minute or two, she ran back down the stairs carrying what looked like a large fabric purse, which was actually a portfolio she had sewn from a piece of vintage broadcloth.
    At the counter she unzipped the top, pulled out three canvases, and laid them in front of me. She set one up on its edge and said, “This is looking down from the top of Grayson’s Meadow. Have you been there?”
    “No.”
    “You should go up there. It’s beautiful. Just about every flower that grows on the island has found a home in Grayson’s Meadow.”
    “I’ll make sure I see it.”
    She held up the next. “This one is a little cottage that sits at the bottom of Gabriel Creek.” Laying that one down and lifting up the third, she said, “And this one is looking right out that window…” She pointed across the room. “…in the middle of January.”
    “They’re wonderful.”
    “Honestly?”
    “Really, I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You’re very talented.”
    Her smile pushed out her rosy cheeks and they got redder.
    “I’m Cammy.”
    “I’m Sara.”
    I felt my stomach knot up. Why did that sweet ball of energy have to have that name? Why couldn’t it have been Tallulah, Gertrude, or Helga? Anything but that name.
    I pushed her name aside, and we talked and laughed until she closed the shop at nine. I felt as if I’d known her all my life. She was older than I thought, thirty-five, and worked like a slave running the bakery for a German couple who lived in Duluth. She sold paintings when she could, and she didn’t spell her name with an H.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I Rounded the Corner
    The night I met Sara Strauss, I realized that I had never had a soul sister. I now know that when you meet one, you know almost instantly. I’ve had friends, good friends, but to me Sara is an extension of my spirit. It goes beyond us both loving art, baking, and St. Gabriel Island, or us having both been raised by tough German mothers and somber fathers. It’s a connection that leads to a complete and total trust that gives you the freedom to let it all hang out.
    In addition, Sara makes me laugh more than anyone I know, and I could listen to her talk for hours. She’ll share story after story that are filled with comedy and misadventures and she has one of the most unique takes on life that I’ve ever been witness to. An added bonus is that she can talk with spot-on foreign accents—it’s just downright entertaining.
    Have you ever noticed how some people just zap your energy? After spending time with Sara Strauss, I always feel energized. And when I went back to the inn that night, I was energized, and I was carrying one of Sara’s paintings, the one of Grayson’s Meadow, and I had made a friend for life.
    On my pillow was a note from Loretta. She and Dawn had coerced Marni into going to a bar that was supposed to have great live music. Sandi was fast asleep. I set Sara’s painting on the dresser and got ready for bed.
    With the window wide open, I lay in bed that night and inhaled the Lake Brigade air that was carrying the scent of cherry blossoms from the trees that