The Lake and the Lost Girl

by Jacquelyn Vincenta

  Lydia was startled by the woman’s suddenly critical tone. Mentally, she took a step back and told herself to calm down. She had, after all, just barged into this woman’s place unexpectedly.

  “Please forgive me. I’m Lydia Carroll.”

  “Okay. I’m Theresa, the owner. And you have come here why?” A second later she shook her head. “Never mind. Don’t answer, please. Listen…” She opened her mouth to say something, but instead raised her hand and pointed across the shop toward the room she had emerged from. “Come in the consultation room for a few minutes. Would you, please?”

  “Maybe this is a bad time, Theresa. I can come back another day.”

  “Oh, please don’t be coy now. The interruption has been made.” Theresa gave an irritated laugh. “Come along.”

  In the consultation room stood a round wooden table, four leather chairs, and a clear-glass oil lamp with a low, blue flame. A deck of tarot cards was stacked near the lamp with several individual cards laid on the table in a pattern. Theresa pulled the curtains closed and gestured for Lydia to take the chair opposite the one she sat in. She raised a light cloth and lowered it gently to cover the tarot configuration. Her manner softened slightly.

  “You’ll have to forgive my discomfort, but your visit is distinctly unwelcome, to be honest. Especially today when we have been cleaning.”

  Lydia stared at her.

  “I did not ever want that scrapbook back in my sight, not in our shop, not in this county. And yet someone has come and brought it with her.” Her smile was tight. “And you probably want me to answer questions about my grandmother and Mary Walker, am I right?”

  “Why, yes.” Lydia was cautious. “My husband and I have been searching for clues about her life and disappearance for years.”

  “I figured as much.” Theresa leaned back and crossed her legs. “I’ve heard about Professor Carroll’s obsession and felt certain the scrapbook would end up secure in his hands and that he’d never let it go. I hoped, anyway. Likely there are interesting tidbits in it, but I wouldn’t have any idea. As soon as I opened it to see what it was, I closed it, and for good reason.” She shook her head slightly as her concentration appeared to deepen. “There are things… There are things, relics and scraps, that I needed to get rid of. You know how it is. The spring-cleaning we must do at times in our lives. There are objects with too much weight that I just need to let go of.”

  “Yes, I know that feeling. If this scrapbook was that disturbing, I think I would have just burned it,” Lydia said sympathetically.

  “But I don’t really need your ideas about it, do I?” Theresa gave a brief, barren laugh. “Just please accept that I would appreciate it if you would take it away from here. Don’t bring it back.”

  “Of course.” Embarrassed, Lydia began to collect herself to leave. “I had no way of knowing.”

  “I’m sorry to be so strident.” Theresa’s gaze followed Lydia’s hands as she closed up her briefcase. “But I’ve had a sorry amount of stress over this scrapbook and some other items of my grandmother’s. She would understand completely why everything has to go.”

  Lydia looked warily into the woman’s agitated face. “So you had a chance to get to know her? Your grandmother?”

  “Oh yes. She lived quite a long time.” Theresa ran both of her hands up through her hair. “Yes, I knew her. But only as my grandmother. I did not know her as a healer. I would have liked to talk to her about such things.”

  “I can imagine. But she clearly made an impression on you.” Lydia smiled and gestured to the shop beyond the curtains. “Here you are in your own similar business.”

  Theresa’s mouth turned down. “You could say she made an impression. Or you could say she dug my grave.”

  Lydia was stunned.

  Theresa leaned forward and said, “There are realms you don’t think about. Don’t know about. Don’t want to know about.” Her intensity grew mesmerizing. “Something happened. We don’t know what, but something happened in Grandmother’s life and practice that led to…irreversible events.” She lowered her voice to the point where it was almost a growl. “Things were set in motion that I might not have chosen for myself. They were chosen for me. And I’m certain it started with her. I have suffered for it. We all have.”

  There was the sound of a door slamming at the back of the shop, then the footsteps and voice of a man.

  “I dropped it off,” he said loudly. “The deed is done.”

  Theresa froze.

  “Theresa?” the man called.

  “I’m here.” She stood up and went quickly into the main room. “We have a customer. Come on out, dear,” she said to Lydia with a practiced smile. “I can help you with your nerves and your sleep issue right over here. We think of this as our little pharmacy.”

  When Lydia approached her, Theresa said, “This is my husband, Bill.” She turned to the man. “Bill, this is a visitor who did not realize we are closed on Saturdays in the off-season. She only had a few minutes, but I think we’ve been able to help her out.”

  A tall, coarse-looking man with black hair stood with his hands on his hips and merely nodded his head once when Lydia said hello.

  “You are probably interested in some calming oils for your evening away from home,” Theresa said musically, reaching for a tablet of paper and a pen. “Are you staying the night in a hotel?”

  Lydia followed the woman’s lead.

  “That roadside motel up the highway a few miles,” she said. “I’ve stayed there with my son and husband several times, so it has pleasant memories.”

  “Yes.” Theresa jotted some notes, held a hand to her mouth, then walked to her medicine counter where brown bottles of all sizes stood waiting for customized mixtures.

  “I think lavender, bergamot, jasmine. Especially good for these bone-chilling early spring weeks.” She poured small amounts from each of three larger bottles into a beaker, shook it gently, and poured the mixture into a small brown bottle, twisting a black cap on tightly. In careful script she wrote instructions on a label, peeled it from the backing, and smoothed it onto the bottle.

  With a grunt, Bill left the room, and Lydia heard what sounded like water running and splashing around in a sink in the back, just out of view. Theresa stood up very straight and pressed the bottle into Lydia’s hand.

  “You’ll enjoy this, and I am certain it will aid your sleep,” she said as she came around the counter, put her hand on Lydia’s elbow, and walked her toward the front door. “As for your other concerns, I wish you the best.” Bill reentered the room, wiping his hands on a towel and watching the two women. Theresa added, “Just a few drops in your tea!”

  “Thank you,” Lydia said when they stood at the door, then she whispered, “But…the cost?”

  Theresa closed her eyes, gave a shake of her head, and said, “Good night! Put everything out of your mind and rest deeply now.” She opened the shop door. “This must be your Jeep?”

  “Yes.” Lydia’s gaze ran over the parking lot, where there were no other cars and nothing but wet asphalt. “May I possibly return to speak with you tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid Sundays are not good. Drive carefully. The rain is heavy now.”

  Lydia prepared to respond, but as soon as she stepped outside, the door was closing behind her. She heard the knob lock, and then the dead bolt, then the inside lights went out. Lydia hurried through the cold rain into her Jeep, pulled the bottle from her pocket, and squinted at it. The herbalist’s handwriting was tiny, but legible.

  Lavender, bergamot, jasmine. For deep sleep. March 1999. Theresa V. Z. Evans.

  Evans? Could this granddaughter of old Ethel Van Zant have married a relation of Bernard Evans? Evans was a common name, so there was no reason to assume a connection. And yet…

  Lydia started the Jeep, backed up, and gave a last look at the dark house as she
straightened her wheels to go north on the road. Something was not right at Northern Herb Sense. And it was pretty clear she wasn’t welcome back.

  So, that was that. The black road gleamed and hissed under her tires. What a futile, unnerving encounter. There must have been some other way she could have handled it so she would have gained something more valuable than another cloud of questions. How could it possibly help to know that Ethel Van Zant’s granddaughter lived with torment that she believed had been set in motion decades ago by her grandmother?

  Lydia imagined Frank gleefully laughing at her failed interview. His strategy of seeking information from written words alone, without involving unpredictable human beings, had obvious advantages.

  4

  White Hill, Michigan—May 1933

  Let it be so…

  Better—while life is quick

  And every pain immense and joy supreme,

  And all I have and am

  Flames upward to the dream…

  ~ Lola Ridge (1873–1941), “Dedication”

  Bernard Evans watched the Carson College actresses from the front row, hungrily waiting for moments when a patch of skin might slide free of the silks and cottons. Romeo and Juliet, an all-female cast—his friends had howled with laughter when he said he was going, and then they’d come along.

  He gave a low whistle when Mercutio swaggered onto the stage, dashing and agile in black velvet boots, her gold hair curling almost down to her waist. She reminded Bernard of…of what? Angels, probably. Paintings he’d seen of angels. Even her voice was seductive, and although the words sounded like incantations, he caught hints about their meanings from her gestures and expressions.

  “That one,” he said to his friend Conrad beside him, drawing the attention of audience members around them. “Who is she?”

  Conrad shrugged, but Richard bent around Conrad to answer, jabbing his thumb toward the stage. “Mary Walker. She’s one of those”—he pointed to his head to indicate Mary’s intellectual bent—“and poorer than dirt, but too good for you or me. So they say, ‘Don’t bother.’”

  Bernard looked back at the girl onstage, whose beautiful body and bright face painted a womanly image that matched his ideal and became even more appealing with Richard’s words. If she were needy, then perhaps she would prove a quick victory.

  “‘I dream’d a dream tonight,’” a tall woman with a long, dark braid recited.

  “‘And so did I,’” the blond answered.

  “‘Well, what was yours?’”

  “‘That dreamers often lie.’”

  Bernard smiled at the actress’s provocative tone and physical confidence.

  Mary Walker’s body filled with energy as she leaned out toward the audience with lines that went on and on, dizzyingly senseless to Bernard, and then she seemed to focus on Bernard’s face. His heart raced and he began to sweat. She ran her tongue along her upper lip, and one slender finger brushed a lock of hair from her face.

  When Mary left the stage, Bernard rose from his seat and slid sideways past the knees of his friends, for he could barely breathe and needed fresh air. He couldn’t stand it, just sitting there. He would have to find her. He needed to keep looking at her. He wanted to touch and smell her, and to feel her attention on him. Ignoring the silence that he was noticeably interrupting, he pushed out the side door near the stage into the cool May air.

  Christ have mercy. As Bernard stared up into the night, his breath came hard and fast. What had come over him? Within a few brief minutes, nothing, nothing mattered but that woman. He paced the walk, inhaling deeply, and his eyes groped the darkness for something he could take backstage to her as a gift. He had to make an impression on her mind. Then he could work his way into her body.

  His family’s general store was three blocks away, but the Methodist church was just a dash across the green. He ran to the arched front doors and found them unlocked. Beyond twenty rows of pews, where the altar lay in stained-glass moonlight, Bernard could make out a tall cross, the urns on either side of it filled with lilacs for services the next day. He swept the entire perfumed contents of both urns into the crook of his left arm and fled the building.

  At the back end of the theater building, he found a door propped open with a stick, and he pulled it slowly, peering in. The scent of musty curtains and costumes filled his nostrils, and Shakespearean lines met his ears as Bernard Evans walked slowly inside through the shadows toward the stage light. Actresses in the wings looked at him questioningly, and he heard someone say “Sir?” but he ignored them, searching around for Mary.

  When he found her, she was eyeing him from a bench where she sat retying her boots. Oblivious to everything else, he stooped down before her and pressed the blooming boughs into her arms with a motion that ensured that the back of his hand brushed her breast. He smiled at both the sensation and her challenging stare.

  “I want you to bear my children,” Bernard said in an intimate tone that he had developed over years, but as the blond laughed and raised her eyebrows, she seemed more amused than charmed.

  “How dramatic! I doubt that I will ever have anyone’s child, sir,” she said, pushing the flowers back toward him. “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am.” Bernard’s certainty was based on his family’s prominence in the town, as well as the ease with which his looks typically lured women of all ages to accept his invitations, no matter how compromising they might be. Of course she knew; she was playing games with him.

  “You clearly think I ought to.”

  “Ask any of your friends.” He offered the lilacs again, and she set them on her lap.

  “Mary!” The call came from a woman moving toward them from the curtain. Mary stood quickly, setting the flowers on the bench, but Bernard grabbed one of her wrists and pressed his lips softly to the delicate, pale skin on the inside of it. She paused, as if she were taking in the sensation, then yanked her hand away.

  “Mary,” he whispered with a gentler smile as he stood up. “I’ll bring my car around after the show. It’s a Cadillac. Yellow. I will wait.”

  “You will, won’t you?” she said, her gaze darting around his face. “Whether I want you to or not.”

  “Mary!” a voice hissed.

  She flashed her eyes toward Bernard one last time, said nothing more, and floated back onto the stage.

  5

  White Hill and Misquers, Michigan—March 1999

  Under the discolored eaves,

  Out of trunks with hingeless covers

  Lifting tales of saints and lovers,

  Travelers, goblins, thieves…

  ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950), “The Poet and His Book”

  Around seven o’clock that evening, there was a knock at the front door of the Carroll house—three crisp, dramatic raps. Seconds later, the door opened and thirty-year-old Drew popped her dyed-blond head into the foyer and stepped inside without waiting for a response. Watching TV in the living room, Nicholas turned to look at her standing in the hallway.

  “Dad’s in the study,” he murmured. “Expecting you.”

  “Thank ye, love!” she chirped in her fake English accent, then disappeared across the rugs as if there were an emergency.

  For as long as he could remember, Nicholas had shared his father’s search for the poetry Mary Stone Walker might have left behind. His memory was full of images of his father’s intense blue gaze focused on the legs, backs, and drawers of furniture as his hands worked along seams, carefully searching with a magnifying glass, pulling wood from wood, cloth from wood, detaching hinges, mirrors, knobs, and even inlays that looked tampered with, hoping to find the smallest scrap of paper or hidden compartment.

  Nicholas listened to his father’s speculations, poetry recitations, and stories. He handed him tools, held things in place, and hurried to the kitchen for more wine to fu
el the search. Mary Stone Walker verses and his father’s daydreams about the poet were etched into his memory along with the scents of alcohol, must, and aged wood.

  The study door was open, so Nicholas could hear every sound from the room. He turned off the TV to listen closely for a sign that his father had forgotten about him and it was okay to leave the house. Kevin had called, bugging Nicholas to go to the dance at school, and there was something inside him so urgent to be released from his parents’ world that even that dreaded event sounded like a decent escape plan.

  “Josh Bailey and Amanda Vanderveen. I hope you don’t mind,” Drew was saying. “They were both so curious about the essay we were reviewing in class—that one from the fifties about some of the first of Mary’s hidden poems that were found. But like I was saying, Conor Thiele told me there’s a new critique—”

  “Wine?”

  “Of course! That one looks good. Gorgeous label. Anyway, a new critique of Margaret Lynne’s notations on Mary’s Sea Shadows. This guy from Stanford—don’t remember his name—complains that Lynne’s notes about the poem are based on the fabrication that Mary lived past 1939 when in fact we have no good reason to think so.”

  “Oh! I see. We don’t.” Frank chuckled.

  “Right. He says that to critique her work as if it is part of a larger whole we know nothing about is fantasy. Bad scholarship. That’s what he says.”

  “If that’s what Lynne was doing, he would have a point.” Frank’s voice was loose and lively.

  Stealthily, Nicholas took small steps toward the staircase, hoping to run up, change his clothes for the dance, and then slip out the back door.

  “Exactly. Well, I mention it because the timing would be so fantastic to write about a new discovery! There’s that Chicago symposium in November, the Female Poetic Voice. Margaret Lynne’s always there. I’d like to be there, too, with something noteworthy to add.”