On Mystic Lake Part 6

"It's good to hear you laugh."

"It beats crying."

"Seriously, Annie. You need to find something to do. Something that gets you out of your bed-or into someone else's. Try shopping. Go buy some new clothes. Something that changes your look."

Annie rubbed her shorn hair. "Oh, I've changed my looks all right. I look like Rush Limbaugh on Phen-fen."

They talked for another half hour, and when she hung up, Annie felt, if not stronger, then at least better. She roused herself from her bed and took a long, hot shower.

Dressing in a white cashmere boat-necked sweater and winter-white wool slacks, she went downstairs and cooked Hank a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, orange juice, pancakes, and turkey bacon. It wasn't long before the aroma drew her dad downstairs.

He walked into the kitchen, tightening the gray cotton belt around his ankle-length robe. He scratched his scruffy white beard and stared at her. "You're up. Are you out of bed for long, or just roving until the headache starts again?"

The perceptiveness of the question reminded Annie that her father had known tragedy and had more than a waltzing acquaintance with depression himself. She pulled some china plates from the old oak breakfront in the corner and quickly set two places at the breakfast table. "I'm moving on with my life, Dad. Starting now. Starting here. Sit down."

He pulled out a chair. It made a grating sound on the worn yellow linoleum. "I'm not sure feeding a man is a big leap forward."

She gave him a crooked grin and took a seat across from him. "Actually, I thought I'd go shopping."

He plucked up a mouthful of egg in his blunt-edged fingers. "In Mystic? Unless you're looking for the ideal steel-head lure, I don't know how much luck you'll have."

Annie stared down at her eggs. She wanted to eat-she really did-but the sight of the food made her faintly nauseous. She hoped her dad didn't notice. "I thought I'd start by getting a few books. This seems like a good time to catch up on my reading. h.e.l.l, I could get through Moby-d.i.c.k Moby-d.i.c.k in my spare time. And the clothes I brought won't work up here." in my spare time. And the clothes I brought won't work up here."

"Yeah, white's not a very practical color up here in mud-land. " He poured a blot of ketchup alongside his eggs and peppered everything. Reaching for his fork, he glanced across the table at Annie. She could tell that he was doing his best not to grin. "Good for you, Annie Virginia." Then, softer, "Good for you."

Mystic dozed beneath a bright spring sun. The town was full of activity today, with farmers and housewives and fishermen scurrying up and down the concrete sidewalks, in a hurry to get their errands done while the clouds were slim and spread out beneath a pale blue sky. Everyone knew that those same clouds could suddenly bunch together like school-yard bullies, releasing a torrent of rain so vicious that even a full-grown eagle couldn't take flight.

Annie strolled down Main Street, peeking into the various stores, a couple of times pushing through a half-open door. Invariably a bell tinkled overhead and a voice called out, Hiya, miss. Fine day, isn't it? At the Bagels and Beans coffee shop, she ordered a double tall mocha latte, and she sipped it as she moved down the street.

She pa.s.sed stores that sold trinkets for tourists, hardware, fabric, and fishing tackle. But there wasn't a single bookstore. At the H & P Drugstore, she picked up the latest Pat Conroy bestseller but couldn't find anything else that interested her. There wasn't much of a selection. It was too bad, because she needed a manual for the rest of her life.

At last, she found herself standing in front of Eve's Leaves Dress Emporium. A mannequin smiled down at her from the display window, wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and matching hat. Her awkwardly bent elbow held a sign that read: Spring is in the air. Spring is in the air. Multicolored silk flowers sprouted from watering cans at her booted feet, and a rake was slanted against one wall. Multicolored silk flowers sprouted from watering cans at her booted feet, and a rake was slanted against one wall.

Annie pushed through the gla.s.s door. A tiny bell tinkled at her entrance.

Somewhere, a woman squealed. "It can't can't be!" be!"

Annie looked around for the owner of the voice. Molly Block, her old high school English teacher, came barreling through the maze of rounders, her fleshy arms waving.

"Annie?" she said, grinning. "Annie Bourne, is that you?"

"It's me, Mrs. Block. How are you?"

Molly planted her hands on her wide hips. "Mrs. Block. Don't make me feel so old, Annie. Why, I was practically a child child when I taught your cla.s.s." She grinned again, and shoved the wire-rimmed gla.s.ses higher on her nose. "It's grand to see you again. Why, it's been years." when I taught your cla.s.s." She grinned again, and shoved the wire-rimmed gla.s.ses higher on her nose. "It's grand to see you again. Why, it's been years."

"It's good to see you, too, Molly."

"Whatever brings you up to our neck of the woods? I thought you married a hotshot lawyer and were living the good life in smoggy California."

Annie sighed. "Things change, I guess."

Molly c.o.c.ked her head to the left and eyed Annie. "You look good; I'd kill to be able to wear that haircut, but I'd look like a helium balloon. That white cashmere won't last long in this country, though. One good rainstorm and you'll think you left the house wearin' a dead rabbit."

Annie laughed. "That's the truth."

Molly patted her shoulder. "Follow me."

An hour later, Annie stood in front of a full-length mirror. She was wearing a nineteen-dollar pair of jeans (who knew they still made jeans at that price?), cotton socks and tennis shoes, and a baggy UW sweatshirt in a utilitarian shade of gray.

The clothes made her feel like a new woman. She didn't look like the thirty-nine-year-old soon-to-be-ex-wife of a hotshot California lawyer; she looked like an ordinary small-town woman, maybe someone who had horses to feed and porches to paint. A woman with a life. For the first time, she almost liked the haircut.

"They suit you," Molly said, crossing her beefy arms and nodding. "You look like a teenager."

"In that case, I'll take everything."

While Molly was ringing up the purchases, she rambled on and on about life in Mystic, who was sleeping with whom, who'd gone bankrupt over the spotted owl fiasco, who was running for city council.

Annie glanced out the window. She listened vaguely to the small-town gossip, but she couldn't really concentrate. Lurlene's words kept coming back to her, circling, circling. Kathy died eight months ago. Kathy died eight months ago. She turned back to Molly. "I heard . . . about Kathy Johnson . . . Delacroix." She turned back to Molly. "I heard . . . about Kathy Johnson . . . Delacroix."

Molly paused, her pudgy fingers plucking at a price tag. "It was a true shame, that. You all used to be awfully close in high school." She smiled sadly. "I remember the time you and Nick and Kathy put on that skit for the talent show-you all sang some silly song from South Pacific. South Pacific. Nicky wore that outrageous coconut bra, and halfway through the song you all were laughing so hard you couldn't finish." Nicky wore that outrageous coconut bra, and halfway through the song you all were laughing so hard you couldn't finish."

"I remember," she said softly, wondering how it was she'd forgotten it until this very second. "How's Nick doing since . . . you know?" She couldn't bring herself to actually say the words.

Molly made a tsking sound and snipped the price tag from the jeans with a pair of scissors. "I don't know. He makes his rounds and does his job, I guess-you know he's a cop, right? Don't see him smile much anymore, and his daughter is in pretty bad shape, from what I hear. They could use a visit from an old friend, I'll bet."

After Annie paid for her new clothes, she thanked Molly for the help and carried her purchases out to the car. Then she sat in the driver's seat for a while, thinking, remembering.

She shouldn't go to him, not now, not spur-of-the-moment, she knew that. A thing like this needed to be thought out. You didn't just go barging into a strange man's life, and that's what he was: a stranger. She hadn't seen Nick in years.

Besides, she was broken and battered herself. What good could she be to a man who'd lost his wife?

But she was going to go to him. She had probably known from the second Lurlene mentioned his name that it was inevitable. It didn't matter that it didn't make sense; it didn't matter that he probably wouldn't remember her. What mattered was that he'd once been her best friend, and that his wife had once been her best friend. And that she had nowhere else to go.

It was approaching nightfall by the time Annie gathered the nerve to go see Nick. A winding brown ribbon of road led to the Beauregard house. Towering old-growth trees bracketed the road, their trunks obscured by runaway salal bushes. Every now and then, through the black fringe of forest, she could see a glittering silver reflection of the lake. The last few rays of gray sunlight fell like mist through the heavy, moss-draped branches.

It wasn't raining, but tiny droplets of dew began to form on the windshield. In this, the land of ten thousand water-falls, the air was always heavy with moisture, and the lakes were the aquamarine hue of glacial ice. Some, like Mystic Lake, were so deep that in places the bottom had never been found, and so remote that sometimes, if you were lucky, you could find a pair of trumpeter swans stopping by on their migratory patterns. Here, tucked into the wild, soggy corner of this secret land, they knew they would be safe.

The road twisted and turned and finally ended in a big circular dirt driveway. Annie parked next to a police squad car, turned off the engine, and stared at the beautiful old house, built back at the turn of century, when woods were solid and details were hand-carved by master craftsmen who took pride in their work. In the distance, she could hear the roar of the mighty Quinault River, and she knew that this time of year it would be straining and gnawing at its bank, rushing swollen and headlong toward the faraway sh.o.r.es of the Pacific Ocean.

A pale yellow fog obscured half of the house, drifting on invisible currents of air from the lake. It crept eerily up the whitewashed porch steps and wound around the carved posts.

Annie remembered a night when this house had been spangled in starlight. It had been abandoned then; every broken window had held jagged bits of shadow and moonlight. She and Nick had ridden their bikes here, ditched them alongside the lake, and stared up at the big, broken house.

I'm gonna own this house someday, Nick had said, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets. Nick had said, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets.

He'd turned to her, his handsome face cut into sharp angles by the glittering moonlight. She hadn't even seen the kiss coming, hadn't prepared for it, but when his lips had touched hers, as soft and tentative as the brush of a b.u.t.terfly's wing, she'd started to cry.

He had drawn back, frowning. Annie? Annie?

She didn't know what was wrong, why she was crying. She'd felt foolish and desperately naive. It was her first kiss-and she'd ruined it.

After that, he'd turned away from her. For a long time, he'd stared at the lake, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. She'd gone up to him, but he'd pulled away, mumbled something about needing to get home. It was the first and last time he'd ever kissed her.

She brushed the memory aside and fixed her thoughts on the here and now.

Nick and Kathy had fixed up the old house-the windows were all in place, and sunshine-yellow paint coated everything. Hunter-green shutters bracketed each window, but still the whole place looked . . . untended.

Last year's geraniums and lobelia were still in the flower boxes, now a dead, crackly bunch of brown stalks. The gra.s.s was much too long and moss had begun to fur the brick walkway. A dirty cement birdbath lay on its side amid gargantuan rhododendrons.

And still it was one of the most beautiful places she'd ever seen. The new spring gra.s.s was as green as emeralds and as thick as chinchilla fur; it swept away from the building and rolled gently to the blue edge of the lake. Behind the house, swollen clouds hung suspended in a sky hammered to the color of polished steel.

Annie tucked her purse under her arm and slowly crossed the squishy wet lawn, climbing the white porch steps. At the oak door, she paused, then took a deep breath and knocked.

No answer.

She was just about to turn away when she heard the slow shuffling of feet. Suddenly the door swung open, and Nick was standing in front of her.

She would have recognized him anywhere. He was still tall, over six feet, but time had whittled the football star's muscles to a whipcord leanness. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and the dark, corrugated muscles of his stomach tapered down into a pair of bleached Levi's that were at least two sizes too big. He looked as tough and sinewy as old leather, with pale, lined skin stretched across hollowed-out cheeks. His hair was ragged and unkempt, and something-either time or grief-had sucked its color away, left it the silvery hue of a nickel when struck by the sun.

But it was his eyes-an eerie, swimming-pool blue- that caught and held her attention. His gaze flicked over her, a cop's look that missed no detail, not the brand-new tomboy haircut or the newly purchased small-town clothes. Certainly not the Buick-size diamond on her left hand. "Annie Bourne," he said softly, unsmiling. "Lurlene told me you were back in town."

An uncomfortable silence fell as she tried to figure out what to say. She shifted nervously from side to side. "I'm . . . sorry about Kathy."

He seemed to fade a little beneath the words. "Yeah," he answered. "So am I."

"I know how much you loved her."

He looked as if he were going to say something, and she waited, poised forward, but in the end he said nothing, just c.o.c.ked his head and swung the door open wider.

She followed him into the house. It was dark-there were no lights on, no fire in the fireplace-and there was a faint musty smell in the air.

Something clicked. Brilliant white light erupted from a shadeless lamp; it was so bright that for a moment she couldn't see anything at all. Then her eyes adjusted.

The living room looked like someone had dropped a bomb on it. There was a scotch or whiskey bottle lying beside the sofa, a drop of booze puddled at its mouth; open pizza boxes littered the floor; clothes lay in heaps and on chairbacks. A crumpled blue policeman's shirt hung across the television screen.

"I don't seem to spend much time at home anymore," he said into the awkward silence. Reaching down, he grabbed a faded flannel shirt from the floor and put it on.

She waited for him to say something else, and when he didn't, she glanced around. The sprawling living room was floored in beautiful oak planks and dominated by a large brick fireplace, blackened by age and smoke. It looked as if there hadn't been a fire in the hearth in a long, long time. The few bits and pieces of furniture-a faded brown leather sofa, a tree-trunk end table, a morris chair-were scattered haphazardly around the room, all wearing tissue-thin coats of dust. A stone archway led into a formal dining room, where Annie could see an oval maple table and four scattered chairs, their seats cushioned by red and white gingham pads. She supposed that the closed green door led to the kitchen. To the left, an oak staircase hugged the brightly wallpapered wall and led to a darkened second floor.

Annie felt Nick's gaze on her. Nervously, she picked an invisible lint ball from her sleeve and searched for something to say. "I hear you have a daughter."

Slowly, he nodded. "Izzy. Isabella. She's six."

Annie clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting. Her gaze landed on a photograph on the mantel. She picked her way through the rubble on the floor and touched the photo. "The gruesome threesome," she said, smiling. "I can't remember this one. . . ."

Lost in her own memories, Annie vaguely heard him pad out of the room. A moment later, he was back.

He came up behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. "Would you like a drink?"

She turned away from the fireplace and found him directly behind her, holding a bottle of wine and two gla.s.ses. For a second, it startled her, then she remembered that they were grown-ups now, and offering a gla.s.s of wine was the polite way to entertain a guest. "A drink would be great. Where's your daughter? Can I meet her?"

An unreadable look pa.s.sed through his eyes. "She's staying with Lurlene tonight. They're going to see some cartoon at the Rose theater with Buddy's granddaughters. Let's go sit by the lake." He grabbed a blanket from the sofa and led her out of the house. Together, not too close, they sat down on the blanket.

Annie sipped at the gla.s.s of wine Nick had poured for her. Twilight slipped quietly through the trees in blood-red streaks. A pale half moon rose slowly upward, spreading a blue-white veil across the navy-blue surface of the lake. Tiny, silvery peaks rippled against the sh.o.r.e, lapped against the pebbly ground. Memories sifted through the air, falling like rain to the ground around them. She remembered how easy it had once been with them, as they sat together at sporting events, watching Kathy cheerlead at the sidelines; how they'd all squeezed together in vinyl booths to eat greasy hamburgers and fries after the games. They'd known how to talk to each other then-about what, she couldn't recall-but once she'd believed she could tell him anything.

And now, all these years later, with the b.u.mpy road of their separate lives between them, she couldn't think of how to weave a fabric of conversation from a single thread.

She sighed, sipping her wine. She was drinking more than she should, and faster, but it eased her awkwardness. A few stars came out, pinp.r.i.c.ks of light peeking through the purple and red twilight sky.

She couldn't stand the silence anymore. "It's beautiful-"

"Nice stars-" They both spoke at the same time.

Annie laughed. "When in doubt, mention the weather or the view."

"We can do better than that," he said quietly. "Life's too d.a.m.ned short to spend it making small talk."

He turned to her, and she saw the network of lines that tugged at his blue eyes. He looked sad and tired and infinitely lonely. It was that, the loneliness, that made her feel like they were partners somehow, victims of a similar war. So, she put the small talk aside, forgot about plundering the shared mine of their teenage years, and plunged into intimacy. "How did Kathy die?"

He sucked down his gla.s.s of wine and poured another one. The glittering gold liquid crested at the rim of the gla.s.s and spilled over, splashing on his pant leg. "She killed herself."

Chapter 7.

Annie stared at Nick, too stunned to respond. "I . . ." She couldn't say the pat I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The words were too hollow, almost obscenely expected. She gulped a huge swallow of wine. The words were too hollow, almost obscenely expected. She gulped a huge swallow of wine.

Nick didn't seem to notice that she hadn't spoken-or maybe he was grateful for it. He stared out at the lake, sighing heavily. "Remember how moody she used to be? She was teetering on the edge of despair even then-her whole life-and none of us knew it. At least, I I didn't know it . . . until it started to get bad. The older she got, the worse it became. Manic-depressive. That's the technical term. She started having episodes right after her twentieth birthday, just six months after her folks were killed in a car accident. Some days she was sweet as pie, then something would happen . . . she'd cry and lock herself in a closet. She wouldn't take her medication most of the time, said it made her feel like she was breathing through Jell-O." His voice cracked, and he took a huge, gulping swallow of wine. "One day, when I came home from work early, I found her standing in the bathroom, crying, knocking her head against the wall. She just turned to me, her face all smeared with tears and blood, and said, 'Hi, honey. You want me to make you lunch?' didn't know it . . . until it started to get bad. The older she got, the worse it became. Manic-depressive. That's the technical term. She started having episodes right after her twentieth birthday, just six months after her folks were killed in a car accident. Some days she was sweet as pie, then something would happen . . . she'd cry and lock herself in a closet. She wouldn't take her medication most of the time, said it made her feel like she was breathing through Jell-O." His voice cracked, and he took a huge, gulping swallow of wine. "One day, when I came home from work early, I found her standing in the bathroom, crying, knocking her head against the wall. She just turned to me, her face all smeared with tears and blood, and said, 'Hi, honey. You want me to make you lunch?'

"I bought this place to make her happy, hoping maybe it would help her remember what life used to be like. I thought . . . if I could just give her a home, a safe place where we could raise our kids, everything would be okay. Christ, I just wanted to help her . . ."

His voice cracked again, and he took another drink of wine. "For a while, it worked. We poured our hearts and souls and savings into this old mausoleum. Then Kathy got pregnant. For a while after Izzy was born, things were good. Kathy took her medication and tried . . . she tried so hard, but she couldn't handle a baby. She started to hate this place-the heating that barely worked, the plumbing that pinged. About a year ago, she gave up the medications again . . . and then everything went to h.e.l.l."

He finished his second gla.s.s of wine and poured another. Shaking his head, he said softly, "And still, I didn't see it coming."

She didn't want to hear any more. "Nick, you don't-"

"One night I came home from work with a quart of b.u.t.ter brickle ice cream and a rented video and found her. She'd shot herself in the head . . . with my gun."

Annie's fingers spasmed around the stem of her gla.s.s. "You don't have to talk about her."

"I want want to. No one else has asked." He closed his eyes, leaning back on his elbows. "Kathy was like the fairy tale-when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, you wanted to be in Nebraska." to. No one else has asked." He closed his eyes, leaning back on his elbows. "Kathy was like the fairy tale-when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, you wanted to be in Nebraska."

Annie leaned back beside him, gazing up at the stars. The wine was making her dizzy, but she was glad; it blurred the hard edges of his words.