On Mystic Lake Part 3

She'd go back to the girl she'd seen in those rare black-and-white photos . . . back to where she was someone besides Blake's wife and Natalie's mother.

Part Two

In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.-ALBERT CAMUS

Chapter 4.

After hours of flying and driving, Annie was finally steering her rental car across the long floating bridge that connected the Olympic Peninsula to the rest of Washington State. On one side of the bridge, the waves were in a white-tipped frenzy; on the other side, the water was as calm and silvery as a newly minted coin. She rolled down the window and flicked off the air conditioner. Sweet, misty air swept into the car, swirling tiny tendrils of hair across her face.

Mile by mile, the landscape rolled into the vivid greens and blues of her childhood world. She turned off the modern freeway and onto the two-lane road that led away from the sh.o.r.e. Under a purplish layer of fog, the peninsula lay hidden, a pork chop of land ringed by towering, snow-capped mountains on one side and wild, windswept beaches on the other. It was a primitive place, untouched by the hustle and bustle of modern life. Old-growth forests were draped in skeins of silvery moss, and craggy coastlines were sheltered from the raging surf by a towering curtain of rock. At the heart of the peninsula was the Olympic National Park, almost a million acres of no-man'sland, ruled by Mother Nature and the myths of the Native Americans who had lived here long before the white pioneers.

As she neared her hometown, the forests became dense and dark, covered still in the early spring by a shimmering, opalescent mist that concealed the serrated tips of the trees. It was the time of year when the forests were still hibernating, and night fell before the last school bell had rung. No sane person ventured off the main road until early summer; legends were told and retold of children who did and were never seen again, of Sasquatches who roamed the thickets of this wood at night, s.n.a.t.c.hing up unsuspecting tourists. For here, in the deepest reaches of the rain forest, the weather could change faster than a teenage girl's mind; it could turn from sunshine to snow in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but a blood red rainbow that wept into ebony at the edges.

It was an ancient land, a place where giant red cedar trees grew three hundred feet into the sky and fell into utter silence, to die and reseed among their own, where time was marked by tides and tree rings and salmon runs.

When Annie finally reached the town of Mystic, she slowed her speed, soaking in the familiar sights. It was a small logging community, carved by early, idealistic pioneers from the great Quinault rain forest. Main Street ran for only six blocks. She didn't have to reach its end to know that at Elm Street the rutted asphalt gave way to a puddled, pockmarked gravel road.

Downtown wore the shabby, forgotten look of a white-haired old man left out in the rain. A single, tired stoplight guided nonexistent traffic past the huddled group of brick-and wood-fronted stores. Fifteen years ago, Mystic had been a booming town supported by fishing and logging, but the intervening years had obviously been hard ones that had driven merchants to more lucrative communities and left in their wake several vacant storefronts.

Rusted pickup trucks were parked at an angle behind thirty-year-old meters; only a few people in faded overalls and heavy winter overcoats could be seen on the sidewalks.

The stores that were left had down-home names: The I of the Needle fabric shop, the Holey Moses Doughnut counter, the Kiddie Corner consignment clothing store, Dwayne's Lanes bowling alley, Eve's Leaves Dress Emporium, Vittorio's Italian Ristorante. Each window displayed a placard that read THIS ESTABLISHMENT SUPPORTED BY LOGGING-a resentful reminder to distant politicians, living in pillared homes in faraway cities, that logging was the lifeblood of this region.

It was an exhausted little logging town, but to Annie, whose eyes had grown accustomed to steel and concrete and gla.s.s, it was gorgeous. The sky now was gray, but she could remember how it looked without the cover of clouds. Here, in Mystic, the sky started deep in the palm of G.o.d's hand and unfurled as far as the eye could see. It was a grand land of sublime landscapes, with air that smelled of pine needles and mist and rain.

So unlike Southern California.

The thought came unwanted, a stinging little reminder that she was a thirty-nine-year-old woman, perched on the edge of an unwanted divorce. That she was coming home because she had nowhere else to go.

She tried not to think about Blake or Natalie or that big, empty house perched precariously above the beach. Instead, she remembered the things she didn't mind leaving behind-the heat that always gave her a headache, the cancer she could feel lurking in the invisible rays of the sun, the smog that stung her eyes and burned her throat. The "bad air" days when you were advised to stay indoors, the mud slides and fires that took out whole neighborhoods in a single afternoon.

Annie had roots in this county that went deep and spread far. Her grandfather had come here almost seventy years ago, a block-jawed German with an appet.i.te for freedom and a willingness to use a saw. He had carved a good living from the land and raised his only son, Hank, to do the same. Annie was the first Bourne in two generations to leave this soil, and the first to get a college education.

She followed Elm Street out of town. On both sides of the road, the land had been cut into bite-size pieces. Modular homes huddled on squares of gra.s.s, behind yards cluttered with broken-down cars and washing machines that had seen better days. Everywhere she looked, Annie saw the evidence of logging: trucks, chainsaws, and signs about the spotted owl.

The road began its slow, winding crawl up the hillside, thrusting deeper and deeper into the forests. One by one, the houses receded, giving way to trees. Miles and miles of scrawny, new-growth trees huddled behind signs that read: CLEARCUT 1992. REPLANTED 1993 REPLANTED 1993. There was a new sign every quarter mile or so; only the dates were different. There was a new sign every quarter mile or so; only the dates were different.

Finally, she reached the turnoff to the gravel road that meandered through fifteen acres of old-growth timber.

As a child, this woodland had been her playground. She had spent countless hours climbing through the dewy salal bushes and over crumbling nurse logs, in search of treasures: a white mushroom that grew only by the light of a red moon, a newborn fawn awaiting its mother's return, a gelatinous cache of frog's eggs hidden in the bogs.

At last, she came to the two-story clapboard farmhouse in which she'd grown up. It looked exactly as she remembered: a gabled, fifty-year-old structure painted a pale pearl gray with white trim. A whitewashed porch ringed the whole house, and baskets of winter-spindly geraniums hung from every post. Smoke spiraled up from the brick chimney and merged into the low-slung layer of gray fog overhead.

Behind it, a battalion of ancient trees protected a secret, fern-lined pond. Moss furred the tree trunks and hung in lacy shawls from one branch to another. The lawn melted down toward the silvery ribbon of a salmon stream. She knew that if she walked across the gra.s.s, it would squish between her toes, and this time of year, the stream would sound like an old man snoring in his sleep.

She maneuvered the rented Mustang to the parking area behind the woodshed and shut off the engine. Grabbing her purse, she walked up to the front door.

Only a moment after she rang the bell, her father opened the door.

The great Hank Bourne-all six feet three inches and 220 pounds of him-stood there for a second, staring at his daughter with disbelieving eyes. Then a smile started, buried deep in his silvery-white mustache and beard.

"Annie," he whispered in that scratchy, barrel-chested voice of his.

His arms opened for a hug, and she launched herself forward, burying her face in the velvety folds of his neck. He smelled of woodsmoke and Irish Spring soap and of the b.u.t.terscotch hard candies he always kept in the breast pocket of his work shirt. Of her childhood.

Annie let herself be carried away by the comfort of her father's embrace. At last, she drew back, unable to look at him, knowing he'd see the tears in her eyes. "Hi, Dad."

"Annie," he said again, only this time she heard the question he didn't ask.

She forced herself to meet his probing gaze. He looked good for his sixty-seven years. His eyes were still as bright and curious as a young man's, even tucked as they were in folds of ruddy pink skin. The tragedies he'd endured appeared only occasionally and quickly retreated-a shadow that crossed his wrinkled face when a stoplight turned red on a rainy day, or when the heartless sound of an ambulance's siren cut through the fog.

He tucked a scarred hand-cut long ago by the unforgiving blades at the lumber mill-into the bib of his faded denim overalls. "You alone, Annie?"

She flinched. The question contained layers and layers. There were so many ways to answer.

He looked at her so intensely she felt uncomfortable, as if he were seeing into her soul, into that big house on the Pacific Ocean where her husband had said, I don't love I don't love you, Annie. you, Annie.

"Natalie left for London," she said weakly.

"I know. I've been waiting for you to call with the address. I thought I'd send her something."

"She's staying with a family called Roberson. It's raining every day, cats and dogs from what I und-"

"What's going on, Annie Virginia?"

She swallowed the rest of her sentence on a gulp of breath. There was nowhere now to go except forward. "He . . . he left me, Dad."

He looked hopelessly confused. "What?"

She wanted to laugh and pretend it was nothing, that she was plenty strong enough to deal with this, but she felt like a kid again, tongue-tied and lost.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

She shrugged. "It's an old story. He's forty . . . and she's twenty-eight."

Hank's lean, wrinkled face fell. "Oh, honey . . ." She saw him search for words, and saw the sadness fill his eyes when he came up empty. He moved toward her, pressed a dry-skinned palm against her face. For a heartbeat, the past came forward, slid into the present; she knew they were both remembering another day, long ago, when Hank had told his seven-year-old daughter that there'd been an accident . . . that Mommy had gone to heaven. . . .

She's gone, honey. She won't be coming back.

In the silence that followed, Hank hugged his daughter. She laid her cheek against the comforting flannel of his plaid work shirt. She wanted to ask him for some words of advice, some comforting thought to take to her lonely bedroom and curl up into, but they'd never had that kind of relationship. Hank had never been comfortable handing out fatherly wisdom. "He'll be back," he said quietly. "Men can be pretty d.a.m.n stupid. But Blake will realize what he's done, and he'll be back, begging for a second chance."

"I want to believe that, Dad."

Hank smiled, apparently bolstered by the effect of his words. "Trust me, Annie. That man loves you. I knew it the first time I saw him. You were too young to get married, I knew, but you were a sensible girl, and I said to myself, now there's there's a boy who's going to take care of my daughter. He'll be back. Now, how about if we settle you into your old bedroom and then bring out the old chessboard?" a boy who's going to take care of my daughter. He'll be back. Now, how about if we settle you into your old bedroom and then bring out the old chessboard?"

"That'd be perfect."

Hank reached out and grabbed her hand. Together they walked through the spa.r.s.ely decorated living room and up the rickety stairs that led to the second floor.

At Annie's old bedroom, Hank turned the k.n.o.b and pushed the door open. The room was a wash of yellow-gold wallpaper lit by the last lavender rays of the fading sun; it was a young girl's floral print, chosen by a loving mother a lifetime ago, and never changed. Neither Annie nor Hank had ever considered peeling the paper off, not even when Annie had outgrown it. A spindly white iron double bed dominated the room, its surface piled high with yellow and white quilts. Beside a narrow double-hung window sat a twig rocker, the one her father had made for her on her thirteenth birthday. You're a woman You're a woman now, now, he'd said, he'd said, you'll be wanting a woman's chair. you'll be wanting a woman's chair.

She had spent much of her youth in that chair, gazing out at the endless night, clipping photographs of celebrities from a Teen Beat Teen Beat magazine, writing gushy fan letters to Bobby Sherman and David Ca.s.sidy, dreaming of the man she would someday wed. magazine, writing gushy fan letters to Bobby Sherman and David Ca.s.sidy, dreaming of the man she would someday wed.

He'll be back. She wrapped Hank's words around her, letting them become a shield against the other, darker thoughts. She wanted desperately to believe her dad was right. She wrapped Hank's words around her, letting them become a shield against the other, darker thoughts. She wanted desperately to believe her dad was right.

Because if he was wrong, if Blake didn't come back, Annie had no idea who she was or where she belonged.

Chapter 5.

The night had pa.s.sed in fitful waves. On several occasions, Annie woke with a start, the remnant of a sob floating in the darkness around her, the sheets coiled about her legs, damp and sour smelling. She'd spent the past four days wandering around this old farmhouse like a lost spirit, feeling restless and bruised. She rarely ventured far from the phone.

I made a mistake, Annie. I'm sorry; I love you. If you come home to me I'll never see Suzannah again. come home to me I'll never see Suzannah again. She waited for the call all day, and then, at night, she collapsed into a troubled sleep and dreamed about it again. She waited for the call all day, and then, at night, she collapsed into a troubled sleep and dreamed about it again.

She knew she should do something, but she had no idea what. All her life she'd taken care of people, she'd used her life to create a perfect setting for Blake's and Natalie's lives, and now, alone, she was lost.

Go back to sleep. That was it. She'd burrow under the down comforter again and sleep. . . . That was it. She'd burrow under the down comforter again and sleep. . . .

There was a knock at her door. "I'll be out in a while," she mumbled, reaching for her pillow.

The door swung open. Hank stood in the opening. He was wearing a red and blue plaid flannel shirt and a pair of bleached, stained denim overalls-the makeshift uniform he'd worn to the lumber mill for almost forty years. He was holding a tray full of food. Disapproval etched his face, narrowed his eyes. He carefully set down the tray and crossed the room. "You look like h.e.l.l."

Stupidly, she burst into tears. She knew it was true. She was thin and ugly and dirty-and no one, including Blake, would ever want her again. The thought made her sick to her stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth and raced to the bathroom. It was humiliating to know that her father could hear her retching, but she couldn't help it. Afterward, she brushed her teeth and moved shakily back into her room.

The worry in Hank's eyes cut like a knife.

"That's it," he said, clapping his hands together. "You're going in to see the doctor. Get your clothes."

The thought of going out, of leaving leaving, filled her with horror. "I can't. People will . . ." She didn't even know what she was afraid of. She only knew that in this room, here in her little girl's bed, she felt safe.

"I can still throw you over my shoulder, kiddo. Either get dressed or go into town in those pajamas. It's up to you. But you're going to town."

She wanted to argue, but she knew her father was right, and frankly, it felt good to be taken care of. "Okay, okay." She made her way slowly into the bathroom and re-dressed in the same rumpled clothes she'd worn on her trip up here. Putting her hair up was way too much for her; instead, she finger-combed it and covered her bloodshot, baggy eyes with sungla.s.ses. "Let's go."

Annie stared out the half-open window of her dad's Ford pickup. Behind her head, the empty gun rack clattered against the gla.s.s.

He maneuvered the vehicle expertly between the pot-holes in the road and pulled up in front of a squat, brick building. A handpainted sign read MYSTIC MEDICAL CLINIC. DR. GERALD BURTON, FAMILY PRACt.i.tIONER.

Annie smiled. She hadn't thought about old Doc Burton in years. He had delivered Annie into the world and seen her through almost two decades of colds and ear infections and childhood accidents. He was as much a part of her youth as braces, proms, and skinny-dips in Lake Crescent.

Hank clicked off the engine. The old Ford sputtered, coughed, and fell silent. "It seems odd to be bringing you back here. I'm suddenly afraid I missed a booster shot and they won't let you start school."

Annie smiled. "Maybe Doc Burton will give me a grape sucker if I'm good."

Hank turned to her. "You were always good, Annalise. Don't you forget it."

His words brought it swelling back inside her, sent her falling back into that big house by the sea where her husband had told her he loved another woman. Before the sadness could get a good hold, she squared her shoulders and opened her door. "I'll meet you at . . ." She glanced around, wondering what was still around.

"The riverpark. You used to love it down there."

"The riverpark," she said, recalling all the evenings she had spent down at the bank, crawling through the mud, looking for fish eggs and dragonflies. With a nod, she climbed down out of the truck, hitched her bag over her shoulder, and strode up the concrete steps to the clinic's front door.

Inside, a blue-haired old lady looked up at her. Her name tag read, HI! I'M MADGE. "h.e.l.lo. May I help you?"

Annie suddenly felt conspicuous in her rumpled clothes, with her hair hanging limp and lifeless around her face. Thank G.o.d the sungla.s.ses hid her eyes. "I'm Annie Colwater. I'd like to see Doctor Burton. I think my father made an appointment."

"He sure did, darlin'. Have a seat. Doc'll see you in a jiff."

After she filled out the insurance forms, Annie took a seat in the waiting room, flipping idly through the newest issue of People People magazine. She hadn't waited more than fifteen minutes when Dr. Burton rounded the corner and strolled into the waiting room. The ten years she'd been gone showed in the folds of red skin along his neck and in the amount of hair he'd lost, but he was still old Doc Burton, the only man in all of Mystic who religiously wore a tie to work. magazine. She hadn't waited more than fifteen minutes when Dr. Burton rounded the corner and strolled into the waiting room. The ten years she'd been gone showed in the folds of red skin along his neck and in the amount of hair he'd lost, but he was still old Doc Burton, the only man in all of Mystic who religiously wore a tie to work.

"Well, Annie Bourne, as I live and breathe."

She grinned up at the old man. "It's been a long time."

"So it has. Come, come." He slipped an arm around her shoulder and led her into the nearest examining room. She hopped up onto the paper-covered table and crossed her feet at the ankles.

He sat in a flecked, yellow plastic chair opposite her, eyeing her. c.o.ke-bottle-thick gla.s.ses magnified his eyes to the size of dinner plates. She wondered how many years ago he'd started to lose his vision. "You don't look so hot."

She managed a smile. Apparently his vision wasn't all that lost. "That's why I'm here. Hank said I look like h.e.l.l-he figured it must be a disease."

He let out a horsey laugh and opened a manila folder, poising a pen on the blank page. "Sounds like Hank. Last time I saw him he had a migraine-and he was sure it was a brain tumor. So, what's going on with you?"

She found it hard to begin. "I haven't been sleeping well . . . headaches . . . sick to my stomach . . . that sort of thing."

"Any chance you could be pregnant?"

She should have been prepared for the question. If she'd been ready, it wouldn't have hurt so much. But it had been years since any doctor had asked the sensitive question. Her own doctors knew the answer too well. "No chance."

"Any hot flashes, irregular periods?"

She shrugged. "My periods have always been irregular. In the last year, I've skipped a couple of months completely. Frankly, it's not something I worry about- missing a period. And yes, my own gynecologist has warned me that menopause could be just around the corner."