Chapter 11

Susan was in a very good mood when she got home late that afternoon. Perhaps it was because of the fact that she knew she was now a college student and had for the most part put Spearfish Lake High School and whatever Gingrich thought he was pulling behind her. But, whatever it was, it seemed like a new freedom.

Although the sun was getting down a little too far, she hung up the clothes she had been wearing and headed out onto the deck again, just to enjoy what she could of it. The season where she could lay out on the deck in the nude was fast coming to an end, and she wanted to soak up what she could of what was left, since gray skies and flying snow was all too soon in the future. Although the family used the hot tub outside in all but the bitterest cold weather, it just wasn't the same thing.

She hadn't been out on the deck long when her parents got home, a little early, if anything, and in much better moods than they had been the day before. Her mother was so impressed by Susan's example that she stripped off her clothes and joined her on a lounge chair while her father leafed through the mail. "So, how was your day?" her mother asked as she settled in.

"Alles ist in Ordnung," Susan told her. "I think all of the hoops have been jumped through, so I'm a college student now."

"Well, at least we get a year before we go back to being empty nesters," her mother sighed. "I had a year of it when you were in Germany, and it got a little lonely around here. Although I'm sorry that this next year isn't going to be quite the way we intended it, I suppose it's going to work out for the best."

Her father came out onto the deck, still dressed. "Nothing but junk again, as usual," he snorted. "I can't remember the last time I got an honest-to-God letter. I mean, not an ad, not a bill, but personal communication."

"That's what e-mail is for, Dad," Susan laughed. "How many letters did I send you from Germany?"

"Not enough," he shook his head. "You were pretty good about sending e-mails, but I'm old fashioned enough that I still appreciate a real letter. But Susan, I need to talk to you about something else. I've got something I need you to do for us tomorrow morning. Well, not for us, for the paper."

"Sure, Dad," she smiled. "What is it?"

"Long story," he told her. "I had a call from Randy Clark a little while ago. They're building a big house on an island in Chandler Lake. You know where that is?"

"Sure, out in Amboy Township near the county line."

"That's the place," he replied. "Because it's on an island, they can't get a crane out there and they have some pieces to lift up high, so this morning they used a hot air balloon to lift some of them. It strikes me that it ought to make a hell of a photo."

"That's different," Susan shook her head. "I wonder who thought that up."

"Randy said that it was the people he's building the house for, and it's their hot air balloon. They're going to try to get the rest of the stuff up tomorrow morning, and that's one picture I don't think we want to miss. Unfortunately I have a meeting tomorrow morning I can't miss, either, so I'm wondering if you'd like to go out and get the photo."

"Sure, Dad. It sounds interesting."

"It may not sound quite as interesting when you hear the rest of the story," Mike shook his head. "Because it's a hot air balloon, they have to do everything when it's a dead calm, which is why they didn't get everything up today – the wind came up before they got finished. You'll have to meet Randy at four in the morning at Clark Construction. He'll lead you out there and you can get a ride out to the island. It may be a while before you get back. It'll have to wait until someone has to head back to the mainland."

"Oh," Susan replied, now somewhat less enthusiastic. Four in the morning was awful early, especially since she still didn't have her body clock all the way back to Spearfish Lake time yet. On the other hand, it did sound interesting, and maybe she could consider a nap when she got back, or something. Besides, she owed her parents a lot, especially for their support the last few days. "You just want a photo, or a story, too?"

"I really want to have the photo," Mike said. "From what Randy said it was pretty spectacular. He had a camera there, but said he got so wrapped up in watching that he forgot to get any. On top of that, I suspect a story would be nice too. From what Randy said this is going to be a really interesting and different house, so I suppose it could be made into a nice feature. Like I said, I'd be pretty tempted to do it myself, but if I did, I'd be running the risk of being stuck out there on the island for hours when I should be doing something else."

"Alles ist in Ordnung, I can do it," Susan told him. "You'd just better set an alarm."

"Don't you have one?" her mother asked. "I thought I saw one in your room."

"I mean, someone is going to have to wake me up after I shut off the one I have."

Being in at least a few respects a typical teenager, Susan thought that three in the morning was a much better time to be going to bed than it was to be getting up.

After the alarm went off, she managed to drag herself to her feet and get dressed. Despite liking to dress nice, today she put on jeans, a T-shirt and a light jacket instead of something office-nice; this was going to be a construction site, after all. She was awake enough to remember to grab the Nikon that she'd taken to Germany, and drove the long way over to Clark Construction, stopping along the way to pick up a large foam cup of coffee from the Qwikee Stop, the only business in town that was open all night. She really wasn't much of a coffee drinker, so it was about half cappuccino, so sweet that she couldn't taste the coffee very much. That made it tolerable, and she was sipping at it in the Clark Construction parking lot when Randy Clark showed up in his pickup.

She didn't know Mr. Clark very well, but she'd had his wife, Megan's older sister, as a teacher in a couple classes back in Spearfish Lake High School days – she was already thinking of them in past tense. She knew he owned Clark Construction, the largest construction company in the area. She knew the company had been started by his grandfather; her father had told her that he also owned a piece of Clark Plywood, the largest employer in town. He was very community oriented, an Emergency Medical Technician for the Ambulance Department strictly as a community service hobby, and she recalled hearing that he was also a martial arts master. He was in his thirties, maybe, shorter than she was, with a natty beard. "Good morning, Susan," he said cheerfully. "How did you like Germany?"

"I wish I was still there," Susan sighed. "If I was, I'd normally be up by now."

"It is a little early, isn't it?" Mr. Clark laughed. "I'd usually be pounding the pillow at this hour myself, but we have to take advantage of the early morning calm, and with some weather moving in this could be our last chance for a few days. I don't have anything to do here but to meet you, so why don't we get out there so we don't keep anyone waiting?"

She had to follow Mr. Clark's pickup for several miles out to Chandler Lake. Susan knew in general how to find the place but not necessarily the exact spot, so she just trailed along behind in the Cavalier, sipping occasionally at her cappuccino in hopes of staying awake, and trying to keep an eye out for deer crossing the road. The last few miles were down gravel roads, and the last mile or so down a very narrow and rough track that was almost a two-rut.

There were already several cars and trucks parked at the landing, with some men standing around sipping at coffee, yawning and seeming to talk mostly about various aspects of the house. Mr. Clark greeted them and talked with some of them a little, then came back over to talk to Susan. "Did your father tell you very much about this house we're building?" he asked, pointing out into the darkness over the lake.

"Not really, except that it was pretty unique," she replied.

"It is, without a doubt, the wildest thing that Clark Construction has ever done," Mr. Clark grinned. "The couple who owns it, the Newtons, are windmill freaks, so this is in essence a modern replica of an English windmill, which is sort of like the Dutch windmills you see on Heineken bottles."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope," Randy grinned. "Fifty-foot-long blades on the windmill, although they call them sails, and we're learning to call them that, too. We got two of the sails up yesterday, the other two and some odds and ends go up today."

"I saw windmills in Holland when we took a trip there," Susan said, "but I never got to go through one. How is an English windmill different from a Dutch windmill?"

"Not very, at least as far as I can tell," he replied jovially. "According to the Newtons, the English windmills tend to be a little more technologically advanced than the Dutch ones. In other words, we're talking 1850s technology instead of 1750s. There are some other subtle differences, but I had to go through some books, and the Newtons still had to point out the differences. I suspect people will call it a Dutch windmill no matter what."

"Why on earth would they build something like that?"

"The simple answer is because they want to, and they can afford it," Mr. Clark shrugged. "Beyond that, they're trying to update the 1850s technology with modern technology without using computers and still maintain the advantages of the old design. Or, at least that's what they tell me – I'm no expert on that, either. This thing is going to generate all the electrical power they'll need for the house and then some. I actually think they overdid it a little; if their figures are right they could run a whole neighborhood with it. I wouldn't want you to bother them with questions just now, since the hot air balloon is theirs. They'll be busy with it and worried about the lifts, but if you get the chance talk to them afterward, they are really pretty cool people."

"I sure will," Susan shook her head. "This is going to make quite a story!" She was actually a little surprised that her father had sent her to cover it – it really wasn't a junior reporter-type story, but she supposed he had his reasons. It wasn't as if she hadn't done stories for the Record-Herald before – she'd done them even before the series of articles and photos she'd sent from Regensburg – but this was going to be something really different. She couldn't help but wonder if her father had intended to get more than just a story out of it.

It was still dark when Susan rode out to the island on a float that looked like it had been roughly knocked together out of oil drums and lumber. Mr. Clark explained that it was more substantial than it looked; they'd hauled machinery weighing close to ten tons out to the island on it. The float was propelled by an outboard motor on a rowboat lashed alongside, but as she rode along on the raft with Mr. Clark and some of the workers she first began to get a hint of the shape of the windmill house. It sure wasn't something she would have expected to see anywhere near Spearfish Lake!