On Mystic Lake Part 20

Annie smiled weakly. "See you, pumpkin." When Izzy was gone, she leaned toward the bedside table and picked up the phone. After asking for the number from directory a.s.sistance, she called Dr. Burton's office.

The receptionist answered on the first ring. "Mystic Family Clinic. This is Madge, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Madge. This is Annie Colwater. I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr. Burton."

"Is it an emergency, sweetie?"

Only if green snot const.i.tuted an emergency. "No." "No."

"Well, the doctor's out of town right now, on vacation at Orcas Island. He was afraid you might call. He wanted me to refer you to Dr. Hawkins in Port Angeles." Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. "He's a psychiatrist psychiatrist."

Even in her weakened state, Annie smiled. "Oh, that's not necessary."

"Oh, good. Now, you're still booked for June first. Is that appointment okay?"

Annie had forgotten all about it. The depression she'd felt in March had faded into a dull, sepia-toned memory. She probably didn't need the appointment, but it would rea.s.sure Doc Burton. He'd be proud of how well she'd recovered. "Yeah, that appointment's fine. Thanks, Madge."

"Okay. Ten-thirty in the morning. Don't forget."

Before she even hung up the phone, Annie had closed her eyes.

Annie dreamed she was in a cool, dark place. She could hear the cascading fall of water and the buzzing drone of a dragonfly. There was someone waiting for her in the forest's darkness. She could hear the even cant of his breathing in the shadows. She wanted to reach for him, but she was afraid. Where she was felt familiar, safe, and he was waiting for her in a strange world where she didn't know the rules. She was afraid that if she followed, she'd lose her way.

"Annie?"

She woke up suddenly and found Nick sitting on the end of her bed. Trying to smile, she struggled to sit up half way. "Hi."

"Izzy tells me you're sick." He leaned toward her, touched her forehead. "You're warm."

"I am?"

He slid closer to her and produced a thermometer. "Open up."

Like an obedient child, she opened her mouth. The slick, cool thermometer slid under her tongue and settled in place. She closed her lips, but she couldn't take her eyes away from Nick.

"I've brought you some orange juice and a couple of scrambled eggs. Oh, and Tylenol and a pitcher of ice water."

Annie watched in surprise as he went into the bathroom. Then he came back to her, carefully folding a wet cloth in thirds as he walked. He sat back on the chair beside the bed and placed the cool rag on her forehead. Then he handed her two Tylenols. "Here."

She stared down at the two little pills in his hand.

He frowned. "Annie? You're crying."

She blinked hard. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. "Am I? Don't worry about me. It's probably allergies. Or menopause. I've been feeling hormonal all week. And I think I'm gearing up for a howler of a-" She bit back the word "Am I? Don't worry about me. It's probably allergies. Or menopause. I've been feeling hormonal all week. And I think I'm gearing up for a howler of a-" She bit back the word period period. This wasn't her husband she was talking to, and her periods weren't exactly an acceptable topic for conversation. The realization isolated her. With that one tiny word she couldn't say, she understood how adrift she was, how unconnected. It was something she'd always taken for granted in her marriage, the way you could say anything at any time, reveal any secret thing about yourself. There was no one now with whom she could be so free.

"What is it, Annie?"

The gentleness in his voice only made her cry harder, and though it was humiliating to sit here crying for no reason, she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"Annie?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "You'll think I'm an idiot."

He laughed, a quiet, tender sound. "You're worried about what the town drunk thinks?"

She sniffed hard. "Don't talk about yourself that way."

"Is that how the rich people in California do it-am I just supposed to pretend you're not crying? Now, tell me what's the matter."

Annie closed her eyes. It seemed to take forever to find her voice. "No one has ever given me an aspirin before- I mean, without me asking for it." G.o.d, it sounded as pathetic as she'd thought it would. She felt ashamed and horribly exposed. She tried to tack an explanation on, so it sounded better. "I've been a wife and mother for so long. I've always been the one who took care of people when they were sick."

"But no one took care of you." He said it as a simple statement, and though she wanted to reject it as being silly, she couldn't.

It was all there, in that simple, simple sentence, everything that had been wrong with her marriage. She'd done everything to make Blake's life safe and perfect; she'd loved him and cared for him and protected him. All those years she'd made excuses for his selfishness: he was tired, or busy, or distracted by business. They were just layers of pretty wrapping paper on a dark and ugly truth.

No one took care of you.

Suddenly she was crying for all of it, every missed moment, every dream she'd ever had. The marriage she'd had wasn't good enough. She'd never really, truly been loved . . . not the way she deserved to be loved.

With a deep, ragged sigh, she wiped her eyes and smiled up at Nick. "I'm sorry for being such a baby."

She glanced at the things he'd placed on her nightstand. Orange juice, water, cold tablets, Tylenol, a plate of scrambled eggs, and a piece of cinnamon toast. And it made her want to cry all over again. She didn't know what to say to him, this man who'd accidentally opened a door on her old life and shown her the truth.

"You should drink something."

She wiped her runny nose and gave him a crooked grin. "Well, you should know."

He looked stunned for a second, then he burst out laughing.

The cold hung on for two days, and when it was over, Annie was left feeling tired and weak. Her stomach stayed queasy afterward, but she refused to pay any attention to it.

On Friday, she and Nick and Izzy drove to Kalaloch and spent the day beachcombing. Izzy squealed with delight every time she found a sand dollar or a crab. They raced down the beach together, all three of them, turning over rocks and sticks in their search for hidden treasures, and when the sun was high in the sky, they had a picnic lunch in a secret cave. Afterward, they waded and splashed in the icy cold water until their cheeks and hands and feet turned a stinging red. Finally, when the sun began its slow descent, they returned to the car and headed home.

Annie sat in the pa.s.senger seat of her Mustang, with a plastic bucket of sh.e.l.ls and rocks in her lap.

"Daddy, can we stop and get ice cream, Daddy?"

Nick answered easily, laughing. "Sure, Izzy-bear."

Annie glanced at him, mesmerized. In the past few weeks, he'd become a new man entirely. He smiled all the time, and laughed easily, and spent hours playing with his little girl. Sometimes, like now, when the sunlight hit his profile and cast him in golden light, he was so handsome, he took Annie's breath away.

But there was more to Nick; his vulnerability and his strength moved her, and the tenderness of his care had almost undone her. She'd never known anyone who loved as deeply, as completely as Nick. That was why life had been able to pummel him so brutally. Nothing was easier to shatter than the fragile shield of an idealist.

She was still watching him hours later, after she'd put away the last dinner dish and picked up the last of Izzy's crayons. He was standing down at the lake again, his body a shadow within shadows, but Annie was well aware of the subtle differences of light and dark, the pale outline of his hair, the broad shelf of his shoulders, the moonlight that glimmered every now and then off the metal rivets on his jeans.

She threw the damp dishrag on the kitchen counter and headed outside. She wanted to be with him, and though the realization frightened her, it also set her heart racing with antic.i.p.ation. When she was with Nick, she was a different woman. Some of his glitter fell onto her and made her feel beautiful and sparkly and more alive.

There were stars everywhere. Frogs and crickets sang in a staccato chorus that died at her approach. The gra.s.s was cold and wet on her bare feet.

Nick stood motionless, his shoulders rounded, his head dropped forward.

"Hi, Nick," she said softly.

He spun around, and she saw the pain in his eyes.

"Hi, Annie." His voice was low, and as rough as old bricks. A cool night breeze caressed her face and slid between the b.u.t.tons of her cotton shirt, like a man's cold fingers, inching tenderly along her flesh. She had come to know him so well in the past weeks that his longings were obvious to her. "You want a drink."

He laughed, but it was a sharp, bitter sound, not his laugh at all. He reached out and held her hand, squeezing hard.

She knew from experience that he needed the sound of her voice now. It didn't matter what she said, anything would do; he simply needed an anchor to hold him steady. "Remember the senior party, when Kath disappeared for a half hour or so?" she said quietly. "We were at Lake Crescent. You and I sat by the lake, right in front of the lodge, and talked and talked. You said you wanted to be a cop."

"You said you wanted to be a writer."

She was surprised that he remembered, and though she didn't want to, she found herself remembering the girl who'd wanted to be a writer. The old dream was heavy now. "That was before I'd learned . . ." Her voice faded into the breeze and fell silent.

He turned, gazed down at her. "Learned what?"

She shrugged, unable suddenly to meet his gaze. "I don't know. How life slips away from you while you're standing in a grocery line, waiting to pay for a quart of milk . . . how time pa.s.ses and takes everything in its path-youth, hopes, dreams. Dreams-it takes those most of all."

She felt his gaze on her again, and she was afraid to meet it, afraid of what she'd see in his eyes.

"Sometimes I don't even recognize you," he said, gently tilting her chin up. "You say things like that and I don't know the woman who is speaking at all."

She released a laugh that fluttered like a moth into the darkness. "You're not alone."

"What happened to you, Annie?"

The question was startling in its intimacy. The night fell silent, awaiting her answer, so quiet that she could hear her own rapid intake of breath. She pushed the poisonous words out in a rush. "My husband is in love with another woman. He wants a divorce."

"Annie-"

"I'm fine, really." She tried to think of something to say that would make them both laugh, but when she looked in his eyes, she saw a terrible, harrowing compa.s.sion, and it was her undoing. The strength she'd been gathering and h.o.a.rding for the past weeks fell away from her. A single tear streaked down her cheek. "How does it happen? I loved Blake with all my heart and soul and it wasn't enough. . . ."

He sighed, and the sadness of the sound bound them together. She watched as he tried to find the words to answer her, saw his frustration when he came up empty.

"The worst thing is you don't see it coming," she said. "You don't even suspect that Monday will be the last time you'll ever come up behind him and kiss the back of his neck . . . or the last time you'll sit watching television and rub the soft skin just below his ankle. And you think you'd remember something like the last time you made love, but you can't. It's gone."

She gazed up at him, surprised at how easily the words had come to her. In the weeks since Blake's confession, she'd trapped the pain inside her heart and kept it there, fanning the hot coal with dreams and nightmares and memories. But now, all at once, the fire of it was gone. In its place was a dull, thudding ache.

She still had the hurt; probably that would never completely heal. Like a broken bone that was badly reset, the wound would always be a place of weakness within her. When the cold weather hit, or she remembered a special time, she would recall the love she had had for Blake, and she would ache. But the raging fire of it had burned down to a cold, gray ember.

Nick didn't know when it happened exactly, or who moved first. All he knew was that he needed Annie. He reached for her. His hand slipped underneath her flannel collar and curled around the back of her neck, anchoring her in place. Slowly, watching her, he bent down and kissed her. It was gentle at first, a soft mingling of lips and breath. But then she moved toward him, settled into his embrace. He felt her hands, so small and pliant, moving across his back in a soothing, circular motion.

He deepened the kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting, caressing. He kissed her until he was light-headed with longing, and then slowly he drew back.

She stared up at him. He saw sadness in her eyes, but something else, perhaps the same quiet wonder he had felt. "I'm sorry," he said softly, even though it wasn't true. "I had no right-"

"Don't be," she whispered. "Please . . . don't be sorry. I wanted you to kiss me. I . . . I've wanted it for a long time, I think."

She opened the door to intimacy, and he couldn't walk away. He didn't care if he was being stupid or careless or asking for trouble. He only knew that he wanted her, heart, body, and soul. He curled a hand around her neck and urged her closer, so close he could feel her rapid breathing against his mouth. "I want you, Annie Bourne. It feels like I've wanted you all my life."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and in that glittering bead of moisture, he saw reflections of all the distance that separated them. She still looked amazingly like the sixteen-year-old girl he'd first fallen in love with, but like him, the life she'd led and the choices she'd made lay collected in the tiny network of lines around her beautiful face.

"I know" was all she said in answer, but in the two simple, sadly softened words, he heard the truth: that sometimes, the wanting wasn't enough.

He reached down and took hold of her hand, lifting it. In the glittering silver moonlight, the diamond ring seemed to be made of cold fire. He stared at the ring a long time, saying nothing. Then he turned from her. "Good night, Annie," he said softly, walking away from her before he made a fool of himself.

Back in his room, Nick peeled off his clothes and crawled into his unmade bed. He was surprised to realize that he was shaking. And for once, it wasn't an absence of alcohol that was playing h.e.l.l with his body. It was a woman.

Don't think about her . . . think about AA and their advice. No new relationships when you're getting sober. . . . advice. No new relationships when you're getting sober. . . .

Thinking about the Twelve Steps didn't help. He closed his eyes and pictured Annie. She was probably to town by now. He wondered what song was playing on the Mustang's radio, what she was thinking.

It had taken every bit of strength and honor he possessed to walk away after that kiss. He'd wanted to pull her into his arms and ravish her on the spot. Lose himself and his past in the sweet darkness of her body. But it wasn't right, and he didn't dare . . . for so many reasons. And so here he lay, alone.

It occurred to Annie that if she were smart, she would leave right then. But all she could think about was Nick, and the way he'd kissed her. The way he'd touched and held her had swept her away. And when it was over, when he'd said, I want you, Annie Bourne, I want you, Annie Bourne, she'd known that she was lost. she'd known that she was lost.

She glanced up at his bedroom. A shadow pa.s.sed in front of the gla.s.s, then disappeared. He thought she'd gone home-and she knew that she should.

Instead, she glanced down at the wedding ring on her left hand. The diamond glittered with color in the lamp's glow. The ring she'd worn for years. Blake had placed it on her hand beneath a shower of romantic words on their tenth anniversary.

Gently, she pulled the ring from her finger. "Good-bye, Blake." It hurt to say the words, even to think them, but there was a surprising freedom in it, too. She felt unfettered, on her own for perhaps the first time in her life. There was no one to guide her choices or determine her path. No one but her.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried back into the house and up the stairs. Outside Nick's door, she paused. In the time it took to draw a breath, she lost her nerve. All the reasons for being here scurried away, cowards leaving a sinking ship. Suddenly she didn't feel s.e.xy; she felt vulnerable and alone. A middle-aged woman begging for s.e.x from an old friend . . .

She was just about to turn away when she heard the music. Beyond the door, a radio was playing, a scratchy old rendition of Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."

It soothed her ragged nerves, that song, and even more the fact that he was listening to it. Nick wasn't some inexperienced teenager; he was a man, her age, and as ravaged by life and love as she was. He would understand why she was here. He would ask nothing of her except the simple, uncomplicated act of sharing.

She rapped sharply on the door.

There was a pause. The music snapped off. "Come on in, Izzy."

Annie cleared her throat. "It's me . . . Annie."

Another pause, a scuffling sound. "Come in."

She pushed on the door; it opened with a slow, creaking noise.

Nick was in bed.

She swallowed hard and moved toward him. Anxiety was a rattling jangle inside her; she felt as gawky and awkward as a teenager. She thought about the weight she'd gained in the past weeks, and wondered if he'd find her attractive. Blake had always made such cutting remarks when Annie gained a pound. . . .

He looked at her and the intensity of his gaze caused a heat to flutter through her. She shivered.

"Are you sure?" He asked it simply, the only question that mattered.

And she was. Utterly, absolutely, positively sure. She felt herself moving toward him, reaching out. Later, she would never be able to remember who had touched first, or how they had come to be naked together on that ma.s.sive, four-poster bed . . . but she would never forget the soft, singsongy way he whispered her name while he kissed her . . . or the way his arms wrapped around her body, holding her so close that sometimes she couldn't breathe . . . or the shattering intensity of their lovemaking. All she could remember was that at the jagged peak of her pleasure, it was his his name she cried out. Not Blake's. name she cried out. Not Blake's.