Before heading to the cabin, we stop at the local indie grocery store for snacks and breakfast. After days of Jenna’s over-the-top healthy eating, Lorelei has a long list of requirements.

While Rune browses the wine selection, I push the cart as she insists on loading up with pre-cut watermelon, cereal, English muffins, onion dip to go with the chips we already have in the car, a gourmet pizza, and gummy bears.

When I give Rune a questioning look as he adds three bottles of red wine to the small quickly filling cart, he laughs.

“It won’t go to waste; someone will take the rest home,” he tells me, “I’m just glad she’s eating.”

“Are we inviting guests over for a party?” I ask, indicating at the wine.

“It’s locally produced, I want to try it,” he tells me, “And Gunnar might show up with Jenna. We’ll need it.”

I can’t argue with that. I could use a glass myself right now. I’d love to have something help remove the anxious edge that’s creeping in now that the adrenaline has died down. I keep thinking that photographer's might be hiding around each new aisle, which is ridiculous.

The trip to the cabin takes us off the Olympic Highway to the road that runs along the North side of the lake. Trying to see the street signs through the heavy rain isn’t easy. We make a few false turns before finding the right almost hidden turn, which leads to a long private gravel drive that takes us down towards the water.

“Oh!” Lorelei exclaims from the backseat as we pull up to the back of the cabin, “Oh, Rune, it’s perfect!” She’s so excited she’s tapping the back of Rune’s seat rhythmically like a set of drums.

It is very cool, a cross between a rustic wood cabin and a traditional shingled craftsman, all dark wood with bright teal blue trim along the edge of the roof and the windows.

Lorelei has unhooked Butterscotch, and they’re out the door in the rain, running up the steps to the back porch and gesturing frantically to us to hurry up. Rune and I grab the groceries and rush after her.

Inside is equally charming. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling are all wood. It has an open floor plan downstairs, dominated by a river rock fireplace on one wall, and huge windows on another. The walls are hung with bright bold prints of indigenous-inspired art of the region.

Lorelei and Butterscotch make a beeline for the window lined front of the cabin. She opens the French doors and steps onto the deck under the awning. I follow her and take in the expansive deck filled with wrought iron furniture missing its cushions. Beyond that is the dark choppy lake framed by the tree filled hills behind it. It's a spectacular view.

“Can we light a fire?” She pivots around, pointing to the cord of wood standing at the ready on the fireplace hearth.

“Sure, but help us unload the car first,” Rune tells her. His phone beeps as we’re lugging in our duffels. When he checks it, he motions to us that he’ll be a moment before disappearing into one of the two downstairs bedrooms.

“Drat!” Lorelei scowls, “he could be on the phone forever if it’s his lawyers."

“We’ll make our own fun,” I tell her, “And he can catch up.” This cheers her. As soon as we put the groceries away, we start to explore.

“I’m sleeping up here,” Lorelei announces when we climb up the stairs and peer into a small bedroom with a lake view, complete with its own tiny deck, “can Butterscotch join me?”

“Sure,” I tell her, maybe the transfer of ownership should happen tomorrow. It might be an excellent way to smooth things over with Jenna. I’ll talk to Rune about it when Lorelei goes to bed. There’s another small bedroom across the way with a shared bath and a nice deep bathtub.

I’ll probably sleep up here, I think.

I doubt it, Theo quips in my head, which I ignore.

Back downstairs again, I start the fire while Lorelei looks through the cabinet under the wall-mounted wide-screen TV. She discovers a stash of classic games, including Monopoly and even Chutes and Ladders.

“What the heck is this?” She asks, pulling out a dark square wood board with a bunch of plastic bags holding marbles sitting on top of it.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Chinese checkers,” I tell her, examining the board full of little round divots in the shape of a six-pointed star.

“How do you play?” she asks enthusiastically.

We’re halfway through our first game, with Lorelei soundly beating me when Rune finally appears.

“Is it happy hour yet?” he asks, looking frazzled. He heads toward the kitchen, picking up one of the two bottles of red wine he’d bought and opening it.

“Definitely,” I tell him, getting up to stretch, “how about a watermelon break?” I ask them both.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Okay. But you’re just delaying the inevitable,” Lorelie tells me, “You know I’m going to win again.”

“She’s merciless,” Rune says when I join him in the kitchen and remove the watermelon from the fridge.

“So I’m learning," I say, tracking down a cutting board and knife, “how was your phone call?”

“Not fun, but important,” he says quietly, finding glasses in the cupboard and pouring one for each of us, “I have another call in an hour, but it should be shorter.”

The rest of the rain-soaked early evening is filled with a mixture of games and then movie watching. Lorelei wins all the games, but not as easily when Rune gets off a call long enough to play.

Rune’s “as you wish” comment inspired me to track down The Princess Bride. Shockingly, Lorelei has only seen the classic film once with her Granty when she was little and doesn’t remember it much. Lorelei, Butterscotch, and I happily snuggle on the comfortable denim-covered couch to watch. I'm struck by how much Rune resembles Carey Elwes, but even more Scott Treadman. I wonder if Franklin ever tried to get the British actor's attention.

Once Rune’s off his phone calls, he can’t seem to settle. He keeps jumping up and prowling around, often standing and staring out at the lake and the rain as if he can will it to stop if he just glares at it long enough. We ignore him. The movie is too engaging.

Usually, Lorelei goes to bed at nine o’clock, but about three quarters of the way through, I realize she hasn’t commented in a while. She’s passed out with Butterscotch on her lap like a furry mini quilt.

“Time for bed, Pup,” Rune tells her after I get up and let him know she’s asleep. He rubs her shoulder gently. She grimaces and mumbles something as he helps her up, guiding her upstairs with Butterscotch on their heels. Good. When he returns downstairs, I’ve shut off the TV and cleaned up our dishes.

“I wish I could go for a run,” he says, sounding exasperated, coming into the kitchen, pouring another glass of wine, and topping up mine.

“What do you do in Victoria when it’s too cold or wet to go outside, grumpy Howl?” I ask as I sit on the couch again.

“The apartment complex has a gym,” he pouts, "That's a missing here."

I know he’s had a rough day, but this is a bit much, “Then we’ll have to be inventive, so you don’t ooze green slime all over this beautiful cabin,” I tell him sternly, getting my laptop case out of my duffle bag by the front door and bringing it back into the living room.

“Why am I sure this involves dancing of some sort?” He asks as if it’s a dirty word.

“It certainly will for me,” I say, sitting in front of my computer and pulling up my favorite shamanic music session. “You can do jumping jacks, or sit-ups, or whatever cardio thing you need to do to move out of this angsty funk you’re in right now,” I tell him, and hit play, adjusting the sound so we can hear it, but it won’t wake up Lorelei.

“I don’t dance, Seashell,” he grumbles at me, but he’s leaning forward, arms resting on knees as if he’s a wary but curious animal with its ears pricked forward, “this sounds like witchy forest voodoo music.”

“You used to dance as a kid, and somehow you managed to play Gregg Allman going on a date to a disco with Cher,” I say, standing back up and moving far enough away so that I can start to sway and move my arms to warm up freely. This is the same music I used to dance my way into making Uncle Theo’s bedroom my own. Hopefully, it can do some good here too.

“That was different; it was all choreographed,” he’s almost pouting again as he says this, but I notice he’s watching me intently. If he were a cat, he’d be flicking his tail in indecision, but intrigued.

“So’s this. It’s an easy routine I made up,” I say as new percussion elements and atmospheric whistles join the rhythmic beat of the music. “Come on, I dare you. It’s easier than those Backstreet Boys routines I made you learn with me.”

Rune gives me a grimace and prowls off to the kitchen. I know I’m probably getting myself in trouble here, that the wine I’ve been sipping slowly has gone to my head a bit and made me bold, but I don’t care. We both need to move.

“Okay,” he’s back, setting two glasses of water on the coffee table alongside our wines. “What exactly does this dare entail? I don’t want to get hexed with one of your evil glances tonight.”

“You have to dance,” I say, as I keep moving, but not breaking eye contact, “until you at least glow, if not break a sweat. You’ll feel better.”

“I’d better feel better,” he growls.

He stands behind me a few feet away and shadows my movement as if we’re in a dance class that I’m teaching. I can hear him swear as he has a few awkward moments now and then, but I’m simplifying the movements so they're easy to follow. When I glance around at him after several minutes, he’s following along well.

Once I’ve repeated the whole routine about ten times, I turn around again to see him doing the steps easily with his eyes closed. He's starting to get into it. Good.

“I suppose you picked the sexiest witch music on purpose,” he says, opening one eye at me, “to distract me.”

“Yep,” I turn back around before he can see the heat rising in my cheeks, “It was one of my first assignments from Vivienne. You had to find the music that best helps you dance back into your body.”

“We certainly can’t disappoint Vivienne,” he snorts, “she’s more terrifying than you are.”

The music changes slightly, the beat speeding up and taking on a bit more Middle Eastern flavor. I pull off my hoodie and toss it onto the couch, noticing that Rune's sweatshirt is already there.

As with almost any time I’m dancing, eventually I forget about who else is in the room and let the music take over. The crazy tension begins slipping away as my muscles limber up. I start to feel easy and loose and agile. I stop strictly doing the routine and add whatever feels right.

“No fair!” Rune exclaims behind me, “You’re not following the choreography.”

“It’s time for freestyle,” I laugh, facing him now, taking another sip of my wine, “show me your Gregg Allman moves.”

We’re both starting to glow, but he hasn’t called me on it yet.

“Keep those Doja Cat hips a safe distance from me, or I might go Magic Mike on you,” he warns. An erotic thrill ripples up my spine. I wonder if he could really do that. Channing Tatum is one hot dancer.

“I haven’t even started doing any Doja Cat hips,” I tell him, laughing more, and give him a sample. Rune stops and shakes his head.

“Uncle,” he puts his hands up in surrender, “I’m definitely glowing,” he fans his shirt away from his body giving me a glimpse of his lovely torso, and twisting around me towards the couch. He flops back on it, picks up his water glass for a long drink, and then the same from his wine glass.

“Better?” I ask, turning off the music, my heart beating so hard it’s rocking my body.

“I do,” he admits, his energy relaxed and happy now. He picks up the wine bottle again, and starts to pour more into my glass.

“I’m good,” I say, moving quickly to put my hand over it. I’m slightly buzzed right now and need to keep it from increasing into very buzzed.

“Oh?” He puts the bottle down, his eyes wide with eager curiosity, “What happens if you drink more? Do you get sick or bold?”