by Lisa Jackson
“Nice meeting you, too,” Wynona sang out as Nadine hurried past them. In the brief seconds Hayden had restrained her, Nadine had felt his fingers tighten possessively against the soft flesh of her upper arm, reminding her that they were supposed to meet.
Or was she just fantasizing? He was with Wynona, for God’s sake, and though he didn’t appear to be having the time of his life, that was easily enough explained. Considering his feelings for his father, he was probably looking for a way to escape this charade of a celebration.
She rammed her fists into the pockets of her shorts and decided there was only one way to find out how Hayden felt. Tonight. She’d meet him at the lake tonight as they’d planned. If he stood her up, then she’d understand that he was just using her for idle sport.
But if he showed up… Oh, Lord, what would she do then?
CHAPTER FOUR
“DON’T YOU EVER think of the children? Of me?” Donna Powell’s voice carried up the stairs and Nadine squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she couldn’t hear the snatches of conversation that filtered into her room. Though her door was closed and she was lying on her bed on the opposite side of her small room, the argument seemed to pulse around her, rising like heat to the rafters and ricocheting off the sloped, papered ceilings. She’d waited for two hours, hoping her parents would climb up the stairs and go to bed so that she could safely sneak out, but their argument had started a few minutes ago and had quickly escalated into a horrible fight.
“What about all the promises?” Donna went on. “All the dreams you’ve put into the kids’ heads?”
Nadine barely dared breathe and put her hands over her ears, praying that they would stop, that this war that had been going on for the past few years would just end. But she knew it wouldn’t, and her stomach knotted at the thought that someday soon her mother would file for divorce.
“Please, God, no,” she whispered, fighting back tears. The room seemed stuffy and close and she had to get away. Away from the accusations. Away from the anger. Away from a house where love had died a long time ago.
To Hayden.
If he would still have her. If he wasn’t tied to Wynona Galveston.
Still lying on the bed, she reached for her denim cutoffs, slung carelessly over the bedpost, and she heard her mother’s sobs, broken only by well-worn phrases.
“How could you…everything we ever worked for… the kids…did you ever think once about them?”
Her father’s reply was muffled and sounded apologetic. Nadine couldn’t just lie on her sagging mattress, staring up at yellowed wallpaper, wondering if this would be the time her parents would wander up the stairs and tell their children that they were splitting up.
Besides, Hayden was waiting for her. He had to be.
She slipped out of bed, slid into the cutoffs and found a beat-up pair of Nikes her brother Ben had worn three years ago. Yanking a T-shirt over her head, she silently prayed her mother wouldn’t come up and check on her.
As she had when she was still a student at Gold Creek Elementary, she opened the bedroom window and hopped onto the wide sill. The heavy branch of the maple tree was less than a foot away. Nimbly Nadine swung onto the smooth limb, crawled to the trunk and shimmied to the ground.
Though it was late, summer heat was still rising from the earth. The moon was full, but partially obscured by clouds, and far in the distance the lights of Monroe Sawmill winked through the trees. She cast a look over her shoulder at the two-storied frame house her family rented. The only light glowed from the kitchen, and through the gauzy curtains, Nadine saw her mother, shoulders slumped, hips propped against the counter. Her father sat at the table, nursing a beer and scowling as he peeled the label from the bottle. For the first time in her life Nadine thought George Powell looked old.
He’d been cranky ever since they’d returned from the company picnic, and Nadine couldn’t help speculating if Hayden’s father was to blame. Garreth had cornered George Powell just before the festivities ended, and instead of seeming buoyed by his employer’s attention, George had been tight-mouthed and silent all the way home.
Biting her lip, Nadine turned and started walking through the sultry night, away from the anger, the hatred, the lying and heartache of that little house where once there had been so much love.
Dear God, what had gone wrong? She could still remember her mother and father in their younger years, while she and her two brothers were in elementary school. There had been hope and laughter and songs in their house on Larch Street in Gold Creek. Every Friday night, her mother had laughingly told her children she was “taking the day off.” Her father had come home from working the day shift at the mill and the family had eaten sandwiches at the big, round kitchen table. As Mom had cleaned up, Dad had dragged out the cards and taught the kids how to play go fish, rummy, pinochle and even poker. Later in the evening, after the cards had been shoved back into the drawer, Mom had played the piano. The whole family had sat in the living room singing familiar old songs, everything from ragtime and big band music to soft rock. Even their father had joined in, his rich baritone contrasting to Mom’s sweet soprano.
So when had it changed? Nadine kept walking. Fast. Her brow puckered and she bit hard on her lower lip. She began to sweat. A few cars passed, but, by instinct, she ducked into the shadows, waiting until the taillights, as two glowing red specks, disappeared in the distance.
Life had been good when the Powell family had lived in town, in their own house—a small ranch with three tiny bedrooms and a family room. It had been small, but cozy. Then, a few years ago, her father had decided that his family should sell their house in town and move to the rented place less than two miles from the lake.
Nadine’s feet crunched on the gravel strewn between the asphalt road and the ditch. The night was humid and thick, but she kept walking. Soon she’d be at the lake. It would be cooler near the water. And Hayden. He’d be there. He had to be. She crossed her fingers.
The first indication that something wasn’t right in her parents’ marriage had happened soon after they’d moved.
Nadine remembered the day vividly. It had been one of those hot, lazy summer Sundays when the whole family had planned to be together. In the past those days had been wonderful. The entire family picnicked in the backyard and feasted on Mom’s fried chicken, potato salad, berry pie and watermelon.
But that particular Sunday things had started out wrong. Ben and Kevin had been fighting, wrestling in their room across the hallway, and Ben, in an attempt to restrain his older brother, had thrown a punch that landed through plasterboard separating the boys’ room from the staircase.
Dad had been furious and threatened the boys with his belt. Her mother, horrified, had blanched at the size of the hole in the wall and had fought a losing battle with tears. Nadine had stood and stared at the wall, while her father had rounded up the boys, forcing them downstairs. “We may as well go get that firewood today anyway,” he’d said to his wife, as he’d herded Ben and Kevin to the pickup.
Mom hadn’t said a word, just watched from the back porch as the old truck had rolled backward down the lane. Then, without glancing in her daughter’s direction, had said, “You’d better get ready for church, Nadine.”
Nadine, staring longingly after the plume of dust in the drive, had been about to protest, but her mother’s eyes had narrowed quickly. “Now, don’t give me any back talk. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got a headache coming on and we’re late as it is, so hurry on upstairs!”
Nadine hadn’t argued. She’d thrown on her one good dress and had pulled her wild red-brown curls into a ponytail. Her mother had hardly said a word as she’d driven into town. Her thoughts had obviously been miles away, but as she’d parked the old Buick wagon in the church lot, she’d turned her head suddenly and stared at Nadine so intently that Nadine had wiped her cheek, sure there wa
s a smudge on her face.
Donna’s eyes had been moist and red. She’d forced a trembling smile and touched Nadine’s hair. “Take my advice,” she’d said, fighting tears, “be careful who you marry. Don’t believe in fairy tales.”
Nadine had wanted to ask why, but had known from her mother’s expression that the question was better left unspoken. Later, after listening to the Reverend Osgood’s blistering sermon on the wages of sin, and catching a few curious looks from Mrs. Nelson, Donna had driven home without bothering to switch on the radio. She’d been so lost in thought, Nadine had been certain that she hadn’t even seen the road in front of them.
At home, after changing into faded slacks, Donna had baked a strawberry pie and started frying chicken, but she’d cooked as if with a vengeance, ordering Nadine to fetch her the oil, and the flour and whatever else she’d needed. Worst of all, she hadn’t sung. Not one solitary note. As long as Nadine could remember, Mom had sung while she worked in the kitchen. Just as she’d sung in the church choir, she’d sung while she’d hung up the clothes on the back porch, she’d sung with the radio when she drove to her part-time job at the town library and she’d hummed while flipping through magazines and dreaming. Music had always been a part of their lives. But that horrible Sunday, while prodding the sizzling pieces of chicken, Donna’s lips had been tightly compressed and deep lines had furrowed her usually smooth brow.
Later, when her father and brothers had returned, Mom’s grim expression hadn’t changed. The chicken had simmered in the frying pan on the stove, the pies had cooled on the kitchen counter and Donna, frowning, had swept the back porch as if she’d thought her life depended upon it, only looking up when she’d heard the familiar crunch of gravel under the battered old pickup’s tires.
The lines around her mouth had become firm and set, but she hadn’t stopped sweeping. Nadine, whose job it had been to take the potato peels to the compost pile, had stopped dead in her tracks.
George Powell had seemed to have forgotten his sons’ bad behavior. He had whistled as he’d parked the old pickup near the carport. His thick red hair had been wet with sweat, his face flushed. Kevin and Ben had torn out of the cab of the truck and found the hose. After taking long drinks, they’d taken delight in spraying each other and even casting a shot or two in Nadine’s direction.
“Smells good,” George had told his wife as he’d mounted the stairs and brushed her cheek with his lips. “Lord, am I hungry.” He’d tried to wrap his grimy arms around his wife, but she’d sidestepped his embrace.
“Supper’ll be ready in an hour.”
Rebuffed, Nadine’s father had rubbed a sore spot in his back and rotated his neck until it creaked. He’d caught sight of his daughter and winked. “You’re the lucky one, gal! You won’t have to work with your back, ever!”
“Don’t talk nonsense to the children—”
With a wide grin, he’d grabbed hold of his daughter and scooped her into his strong arms. “You, missy, might just be the first woman president.”
“I said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense to the children.’”
“Your ma’s no fun,” George had whispered into Nadine’s ear before setting her on her feet. “We’ve all got us a little investment plan.”
“With Garreth Monroe,” his wife had pointed out, scowling as she’d swept the floor so hard, Nadine had wondered if the broom handle might snap.
“And Thomas Fitzpatrick,” her father had defended, wiping the sweat from his ruddy face.
“With the money we had from that house of ours.” Her lips had turned white. “Rich people don’t make a habit of sharing their wealth.”
“Well, you might be surprised.” George had ignored his wife’s disapproval and managed to wrestle the hose from his sons. “You’ll see,” he’d told them all with a conspiratorial smile as he’d twisted off the faucet and sauntered into the carport where he kept a case of beer in a rattling old refrigerator. “When you kids are famous lawyers and surgeons, we’ll just see. Why, I might even buy your mother a new house or take her on a cruise.”
The lines around Donna Powell’s mouth had deepened. “That’ll be the day,” she’d mumbled under her breath, and Nadine had wondered why her mother was so cruel, why she didn’t believe in Daddy’s dreams. “I’ve never yet seen a Monroe or a Fitzpatrick doing a favor for anyone.”
“Garreth Monroe’s my boss. He wouldn’t sell me short.” George had wrenched the cap off his beer, set his boot on the fender of the family’s old Buick and taken a long swallow. “Yes sir,” he’d said, squinting at the small backyard. “We’ll move out of here…maybe get one of those fancy houses on the lake. How’d ya like that, honey?”
Donna had stopped sweeping for a moment. She’d leaned on the handle of her broom and the lines around her eyes had softened a little. A smile had teased her lips, and Nadine had been taken with how beautiful her mother was when she wasn’t worried.
“You’d have fancy dresses and jewelry and you wouldn’t have to run around in this rattletrap of a station wagon.” He’d kicked on the bumper to add emphasis to his words. “No way. We’d buy ourselves a fancy sports car. A BMW or a Mercedes.”
“A Cadillac,” she’d said. “One with leather seats, air-conditioning and a sunroof.”
“You got it!” George had said.
As if she’d been caught being frivolous, Donna had scowled suddenly and shoved the broom over her head and into the corner of the porch roof, jabbing at a mud-dauber’s nest. The wasp had buzzed frantically around its attacker’s head, but Donna hadn’t given up, she’d just kept poking the worn straw of the broom into the rafters until the dried mud nest had fallen to the floor. Grimacing, Donna had swept the remains, baby wasps, larvae and all under the porch rail and into the rhododendron bushes.
“You’ll be the richest woman in three counties,” George had predicted as he’d finished his beer.
“That’ll be the day,” Nadine’s mother had muttered, and her voice had rung with such bitter disappointment, Nadine’s stomach had tightened into a hot little knot.
“Come on, Kev. Ben, we’ve got work to do. You two unload the truck and I’ll split the wood. Nadine, you can bundle up the kindling.”
As Nadine had walked to the back of the woodshed where her father’s ax was planted on a scarred stump, she’d glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who had tucked the broom into a corner of the porch and walked stiffly through the screen door.
If only Mom believed she’d thought then as she’d thought oftentimes since. If only she trusted Dad!
Five years had gone by since that day. Five years of watching as the happiness the small family had once shared had begun to disintegrate, argument by argument. But the fighting wasn’t the worst part. It was the long, protracted silences Nadine found the most painful, when, for days, her mother wouldn’t speak to anyone in the house.
“Don’t worry about it,” her father had advised his children. “She’s just in one of her moods.” Or he’d blame his wife’s sour disposition on “her time of the month.” But Nadine knew that the problems ran much deeper. She was no longer a child, not quite so naive and realized that the root of her mother’s discontent had more to do with her husband than her menstrual cycle.
Her father’s dreams had begun to fade as, year after year, they still lived in the rented house outside of town. Now, not only did her father still work in the mill, but her oldest brother, Kevin, did, as well. Kevin had dropped out of college and returned to Gold Creek—a fatal mistake in Nadine’s opinion. A mistake she’d never make.
She walked so quickly, her legs began to ache. Her skin was damp with perspiration. The forest around the road grew thick, and the only sounds in the night were the thump of her shoes on the pavement and the noise of her own breathing. She thought of Hayden and rubbed her sweaty palms on the front of her cutoffs. Was she on a fool�
�s mission? What if he wasn’t waiting for her?
The smell of water carried on the wind, and Nadine hurried unerringly to the sandy shore of Whitefire Lake. She grimaced as she considered the old Indian legend that every now and then was whispered in the streets of Gold Creek and wondered if she should stay here until morning, sip from the lake and hope the God of the Sun would bless her. Her lips twisted when she thought about the reverend and what he would say about her blasphemous thoughts.
Following the shore to a dock, she recognized Ben’s boat. Ben had traded a summer’s worth of work as a handyman and yard boy for the boat and he paid a moorage to the owner of the dock, the father of a friend of his. Nadine had no qualms about using the craft. She climbed into the boat and rowed, watching as moonlight ribboned the water and fish rose to the calm surface.
There was no cooling breeze off the lake. The waters were still and calm; the only noises were the lap of her oars as they dipped into the water, and the nervous beat of her heart. Somewhere, in the far distant hills, thunder rumbled ominously.
She rowed toward the middle of the lake, and once she’d put a hundred yards between herself and the shore, she started the engine. The old motor coughed and died before roaring to life. With the partially blocked moon as her guide, and help from a powerful flashlight Ben kept in the boat, she steered the craft toward the north shore.
Three times she passed the entrance to the cove before she found the break in the shoreline that led to the lagoon. Her hands were oily on the helm. Turning inland, she steered through the narrow straight and, as the lake widened again, cut the boat’s engine. Slinging the mooring rope over her shoulder, she hopped over the side and anchored Ben’s craft. If her brother guessed what she was doing, he’d kill her, she thought uneasily, but closed her mind to her family and her problems at home. For now, she had to worry about Hayden. If he didn’t show up, she’d try to take Ben’s advice and forget him; if he did appear, her life would become even more complicated.