The Lake and the Lost Girl

by Jacquelyn Vincenta

  10

  White Hill, Michigan—February 1935

  And now the motion

  of a hand,

  a tiny quickening

  of the heart,

  and it will fall

  and nothing more

  can keep the sea and land apart.

  ~ Elizabeth Bishop (1911–1979), “The Wave”

  The scream of the enormous saw was deafening. Mary could see Bernard’s mouth moving but heard only the rip of steel blade into wood. Shivering in the late-winter air, she paused to watch her husband talk with the stranger, pointing and running his hand along the base of the tree being cut as he explained something. The Chicago visitor was dressed in a black overcoat and a high-quality black hat, and as if he felt her gaze, his eyes rose to hers, and the ghost of a smile came to his lips. Bernard noticed and looked toward Mary, and his smile was broad—that magnetic expression of masculine energy that was the physical feature most responsible for her marriage to Bernard Evans.

  “Please bring some coffee to my office, Mary.” Bernard had turned off the saw and ambled toward her, speaking loudly, casually, in an unsophisticated display of power that made her feel embarrassed for him.

  “Steven Shugar,” the stranger said, holding his hand out to Mary, and she clasped it briefly. It was smooth and warm. “Shugar and Behm Furniture. Your husband is showing me around this operation of his.”

  “Yes, he told me you were coming. I’m Mary.” Mary could feel the man’s admiration, and it warmed her. It had been months since she’d met anyone from beyond White Hill, and even longer since she’d encountered such a handsome man. She guessed he was about thirty-five, healthy and intelligent looking, and not wearing a wedding ring.

  “The coffee, Mary?”

  She turned back to Bernard, whose appearance in contrast was so suggestive of a lumberjack in a folktale that she laughed. The smile remained on his face, but its sincerity waned.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Evans.”

  Bernard had requested that Mary visit the Evans Mill this morning to give him added credibility in his negotiations with Shugar and Behm. They were a huge and growing fine-furniture enterprise, and Bernard had spent the last several evenings examining maps to plot the additional cutting required to fulfill the Chicago partners’ projected needs. Bernard Evans was the oldest son and the mill manager. During this visit, Steven Shugar would see that he was also a married man now, and his wife was a prize, both beautiful and articulate. She would enhance his image, a fact that Mary knew had figured into his interest in her from the beginning, because Bernard was practical and intended to be rich—facts that had likewise increased her interest in him.

  “I understand you attended college, Mrs. Evans?” Steven asked as they sipped coffee around Bernard’s desk.

  “For literature and poetry writing,” Mary answered.

  “She got a good basic education,” Bernard said proudly. “All that Carson College had to give.”

  “Of course there are many centers of higher learning where you could continue to interact with other scholars with similar interests,” Steven said seriously, addressing Mary. “Through continued study, through readings. The social life.”

  Mary smiled, and Bernard gave an unenthusiastic nod.

  “There are highly revered schools in Chicago,” Steven Shugar continued, and Mary felt her heart open gratefully to his attention to that most essential part of her. “Often I am fortunate enough to enjoy their guest speakers and performers—some of the best in the country.”

  “My, how wonderful,” she said.

  He took a sip of coffee, his gaze steady on Mary’s face, which was lit with joy at the thought of such opportunities.

  “But those places are far away,” Bernard said with a censoring glance at his wife.

  “Yes, that’s true.” Steven gave a light shrug. “But your business is doing well. You never know where the profits may take you. You and your wife must have many dreams.”

  Mary parted her lips to agree that she, at least, did have many dreams, and to ask Steven Shugar if he personally knew women pursuing higher degrees, but Bernard leaned forward and spoke again.

  “Mary wants to have a family,” he said in a confidential tone that suggested Steven Shugar was among the first to be told. “In fact”—Bernard turned to her and gave that beautiful smile, squeezing her knee too tightly with one powerful hand—“my guess is that if you visit this time next year, there will be three in the Bernard Evans family.”

  “Ah! Well, congratulations on that.” Steven Shugar lifted his coffee cup in a toast, his gaze on Mary. “To the three of you. Perhaps before that time you two can visit Chicago for a little cultural enrichment. The city grows more interesting by the week. I know you would enjoy it.”

  Sensing the possibility of a tighter connection to Steven Shugar, Bernard grew more interested.

  “That’s a fine idea,” he said, then looked at Mary. “We could take the shoreline train and stay somewhere nice.”

  She gazed at him for several seconds without answering, staring at his strong features with sudden objectivity and imagining them mingled with hers in the form of a child.

  “I’ve missed Chicago,” she said, turning away from her husband. “So often I have wanted to return.”

  “When were you there?” There was alarm in Bernard’s voice.

  “Many times. During college. The girls and I.” She smiled at Steven Shugar.

  “Then you must return,” Steven said. “As soon as the spring warmth arrives!”

  Bernard laughed. “That’s dangerous, Mary, traveling with just ladies. Your recklessness worries me. Even if I like it sometimes.” He winked at Steven Shugar.

  Mary flushed and glared at Bernard, and Steven’s half smile at Bernard was a little grim.

  “Lumbermen,” he said, shaking his head.

  “We’re a forthright lot,” Bernard said. “It comes with being hardworking, Dad says. The Evans Mill turns out the best wood at the very best rates. Guaranteed to meet all specifications and on time. I’ll be right back with the special price list we have come up with for your company.”

  Alone, Steven and Mary avoided looking directly at each other, and then he spoke in a low and intimate tone.

  “I see how it is. I am more than happy to show you around Chicago, Mrs. Evans.”

  “That’s kind.”

  “With or without your husband.”

  When she looked up, his eyes seemed to be seeking her soul, and Mary smiled into her lap as Bernard reentered the room. She heard their voices, but her mind had flown to distant, imagined cityscapes. When at last she lifted her eyes to the office window, Mary saw that the snow had begun to fall again. But winter could not continue forever. That just would not happen. No one could stop spring from coming.

  11

  White Hill, Michigan—April 1999

  Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbors knock and borrow,

  And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—

  And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

  There’s this little street and this little house.

  ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950), “Ashes of Life”

  As she walked across the community college green, Lydia wondered if Frank would be happy to see her. She had stopped visiting him on campus a few years before, and similarly he had stopped attending any of her career-related events. Both would probably say they were giving each other space. But at some point, this partitioning of their lives had started to feel like disinterest. The quest for Mary Walker was the one remaining shared intellectual activity they had, and that was also slipping away.

  But tonight Lydia would formally present to Frank, in detail, her ideas about starting their own publishing venture. She hoped that if he would let her explain her vision of how
to assemble his Walker writings—accompanied by photographs like the ones she had just taken at Mary’s house, along with some historical photos from her life—that he could see this as not only a viable business project, but also a desirable step forward in his career. The book would be beautiful. She could envision him becoming enlivened by her ideas, immediately able to see how this would translate into increased opportunities to do public readings and interviews, which he loved. But on the other hand, it also wasn’t hard to imagine him shutting down in defensive anger. She entered the central cluster of Gothic limestone buildings on Carson’s campus with trepidation.

  In the main hall of the English-Philosophy Building, a bell six generations old rang hoarsely. Shuffling and murmuring ensued inside the classrooms. Lydia waited outside as the door burst open and students flowed out. She could see that two remained speaking to Frank by his lectern, and in an instant, the years fell away and she recalled his handsome presence at the front of a women’s poetry class at the University of Michigan. He’d never been extremely thin, but he was trimmer back then and always striking, with charisma that made it as easy for him to inspire a class to learn as it was to seduce young women. She could testify to his skill in both areas, and she watched his hands now on the book he held, flipping through in search of something to answer a student’s question. They were still graceful, suggestive of intelligence and refinement, but strong.

  “Ah! My beauty! Is it really you?” Frank met Lydia’s eyes with curiosity when the students had cleared out. “I cannot recall the last time you met me right here in my humble theater.”

  “I know you prefer to keep teaching and family separate.”

  “Yes, true,” he said, gathering files back into his briefcase. He put his hand on his abdomen and bent forward a few inches. “I seem to be coming down with something. I feel horrible.”

  Lydia fixed her purse more securely on her shoulder so she could carry Frank’s bag for him, but he waved her hands away.

  “I was hoping we could go for coffee,” she said, “but maybe my timing’s not the best.”

  Frank gave her a questioning glance.

  “You know, talk in the student union,” she said. “Like the old days.”

  “Very old.” His eyes searched her face. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about conversation,” she said with a smile. “Something we used to be fabulous at.”

  “I don’t know. Sleep was more what I had in mind right now.”

  They left the room, and as they walked down the hall, Lydia felt him give her a long look. “You seem pretty nervous to me,” he said as they approached the metal elevator doors where his image floated dark and large, while Lydia’s appeared even more elfin and ethereal than it was in three dimensions.

  “I’m not nervous, Frank.” She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Are you going to try to make me nervous? You sure aren’t easy to talk to lately. I mean, here’s another example.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s my fault,” he said.

  Lydia’s hopes fell, and she instantly felt weary. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “All right, all right. Next time give me some warning.”

  The Aurora Student Union was attached to the English-Philosophy Building by a glass tunnel much newer than the historic buildings at either end. Tree tips knocked softly against the glass above Lydia and Frank as they entered the nearly empty café.

  “I’ll get some tea for you,” she said and walked to the counter while Frank sat down and waited in one of the booths. The familiarity of the place, the scene of countless conversations throughout Lydia’s adult life, revived her confidence. She returned to the table carrying two steaming tan cups.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to us, but for two supposed communication experts, we aren’t doing very well lately,” she said.

  “Maybe what’s happening is not to us, Lydia,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s you.”

  “No,” she said after a moment, attempting a jovial, matter-of-fact attitude. “I don’t think so. I want to talk about both my life and your life. I want to talk about my career, your career, and our shared finances. I am going to lead this conversation. Okay?”

  “I’m here. I’m listening,” he said, setting down his tea and linking his hands together on the table. “Shall I ask these individuals to leave so there’s no chance of interruption?”

  “Funny.” Lydia grabbed her purse, drawing out a pen and notepad, then flipped to a page full of numbers and circled one of them. She was going to dive right into the heart of the matter in spite of his maddening childishness.

  “To the point: this is what we have in savings,” she said, glancing up, then back down, pen tip digging into the paper. “This will last through several months of ordinary living expenses—as long as a year, actually, if we’re careful. In addition, I’m due to receive two royalty checks this year, and I think the total will be approximately this amount here. So.”

  She flipped through a couple more pages of itemized numbers and calculations. “I think that very soon we will have a decision to make, Frank.”

  “Oh?” His expression was blank.

  She took a deep breath. Her mind cleared as her thoughts shifted from tension to problem solving, and she sat up straighter. “We have talked for years about starting our own press. And as I’ve said, this seems like the most viable option for me in many ways. When I look at these numbers, coupled with my…” She spread her hands and searched for words that would make him understand. “My frustration, my need to push myself in a new direction, and my belief that you need to publish your work about Mary Walker, I conclude that this is what we have to do.”

  “What, our own press?” Frank furrowed his brow, inhaled deeply, and leaned over the pad of paper. “And you think this is enough money? Enough to do what?”

  “Okay. I’ve made quite a few calls. I’m basing my conclusion on estimates for printing, advertising, travel for promotion…that kind of thing. For a book of my work and one of yours. I have a pretty good idea about what’s required.” To Lydia’s ears, her tone was knowledgeable and encouraging.

  “Hang on, one book of mine?” He frowned. “What the hell book are you referring to?”

  “Well, of course you have plans for a detailed, extensive exploration of Mary Stone Walker, her work, her life, her unknown work and life. Three volumes. I know.” She was extremely careful with her wording. “At this point, as a prelude to that extended project, I’m thinking of the condensed version we have talked about from time to time. A popular introduction, if you will.”

  “I see. The condensed version you have talked about.”

  “Okay. But you know the concept. I can do the editing, prep work, business end of things because I won’t be spending the time I usually do on writing. I can focus on both of our new manuscripts—”

  “Hold it, hold it,” Frank said, pressing his hand down onto her fingers and pen. “What do you mean about doing these things instead of writing? You have a contract.”

  Lydia’s mouth started to turn toward a smile, but stopped as she took in Frank’s worried expression. “I thought I’d cut my romance production down to one book a year. For a year or two. Maybe three or four years, depending on how this goes. We know how to live frugally. We’ve done it in the past.”

  A panic that Lydia had not expected filled Frank’s features.

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “Of course. I’m completely serious.”

  “We have savings enough for ‘several months,’ and you’re forgoing a contract for…for a mere dream?”

  “Why is it a mere dream? We’re established in our fields. We have successes to lean on. Frank, look, it’s a way to get our work out there, our real work. Wouldn’t you like to publish at least part of your analysis in order to stir up interest in the literary world? Not wait until the entire Walker
tome is finished and someone else says, ‘This is good enough’? We would have jumped at this idea fifteen years ago. We could never have imagined saving enough for this. And yet here we are.”

  “But it’s not enough, Lydia.” Frank laughed hollowly. “I wouldn’t say that enough money for a few months without full income is enough for anything except a vacation. We’re not kids, you know. There’s a great deal to consider. This timing is…” He fumbled for words to explain his resistance. “I mean, Nicholas will need college money in two or three years.”

  Lydia leaned back against her chair and tried to breathe slowly without looking away from Frank’s face.

  “Okay, Frank. It’s like this. I have come up against the realization that I may not be able to write these popular stories forever. I’ve changed, or I’m changing… People change. Basically, I want a new job, you could say. One that requires different things of me. This plan is a way to start that. A realistic way to start that.”

  Frank stared out the window and said nothing.

  “And what about you? I believe that there was a time when you wanted to complete your PhD. To become a full professor and achieve tenure. Am I wrong?”

  He turned toward her, then regarded his tea. “You are correct. That was something that mattered a great deal to me.”

  “Doesn’t it still?” This was an obstacle Lydia had not considered—that he might no longer care about the development of his career in the real world.

  “Other things are on a par with it. Other concerns.” He interlocked his fingers in front of his chin. “But let’s be honest here. You aren’t talking about what I want. You’re saying you want me to bring in more income.”

  “Well, I do want you to. Is that wrong? I’m concerned about my own ability to maintain our current cash flow, especially if I have to write other things.”

  “You don’t have to write other things; you’re saying you would like to.”

  “I’m saying that I am thirty-seven and uncertain that I can keep doing this until I die, or even until I’m forty. And I’m saying that you and I have dreamed since grad school about starting our own press, and now that we can actually do just that with our savings, I think we should give it a shot. Starting with the publication of your book, which I happen to believe will be profitable and add to our funds.”