The Lake and the Lost Girl

by Jacquelyn Vincenta

  “Never mind now, Nicholas,” Lydia muttered, embarrassed. Was this Jack’s wife or girlfriend? She had assumed that he had neither, but what had given her that idea? Jack took a steaming cup from the woman, and the two of them gazed idly at Nicholas, who was striding toward Jack with the note.

  “Nick, never mind now,” Lydia said again as Jack took the envelope and held it up, eyebrows raised to ask what she wanted him to do with it. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, pretending that it really didn’t matter. But the fact was, Jack was almost a total stranger in many ways, and she suddenly felt as though she was assuming more familiarity than she should. “Is this your wife, Jack?”

  The small, thirtysomething woman laughed. “Nooo. I like to say I’m the wind manager.”

  Jack glanced at Lydia, then held his coffee cup in a gesture toward the woman. “This is Dolly Atkins. She sews the sails. Among other things.”

  “Yes, I can work miracles with a needle and thread.”

  “Sails?” Lydia said. “How…vast! Isn’t that difficult?”

  Dolly lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Stitch by stitch. That’s how you do it.”

  The woman was so completely at ease, and her role there was so obviously essential, that Lydia felt reluctant to discuss anything personal with Jack. But he opened the envelope, apparently taking Lydia’s lack of retraction as a go-ahead.

  Lydia beamed her gaze fiercely down at busy Nicholas, but when she glanced at Jack, she saw that his expression had shifted, and she thought he looked uncomfortable. She averted her gaze to Dolly, who was searching for something in a set of drawers under the worktable. When Lydia looked back at Jack, he had folded the note closed, then in half, and again into a small square that he was sliding into his shirt pocket.

  “Well, Lydia,” he said, turning his side to her as he poured more coffee for himself. “Um…let’s…” He glanced around the loft. “Come on back to Dolly’s room for a minute. My office is covered with financial records. Taxes.”

  “Ooh, that’s just a couple of days away.”

  “Wednesday. We won’t be long, Dolly.”

  “I’m headed out. After I find that sharpener,” she replied, her voice punctuated by clinks and shuffling as she ran her hands around in the drawers.

  “Right. Take it easy.” Jack led the way after briefly meeting Lydia’s eyes. They entered a separate, simply finished room full of canvas in various stages of transformation. An industrial sewing machine hunched in the middle of a long table in front of two chairs on casters. Jack sat down in one of them, lifted his ankle onto his knee, and leaned back, hands linked together behind his head. He gestured for Lydia to sit in the other.

  “Thanks for taking time out, Jack.” She pressed her palms on her thighs.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, straightening the stapler, tape dispenser, and other items on his desk, as he waited for her to begin the conversation.

  “Mostly I am wondering how Nick’s doing.” As soon as the words were out, Lydia felt exposed. It was happening all the time now—any subject connected to her family felt dangerous and upsetting. It suddenly seemed out of the question to ask Jack about his interactions with Frank.

  Jack looked surprised. “I’d say he seems just fine, but I’m just starting to get to know him.”

  “No, I mean how he is doing at the job. Here.”

  “Oh!” Jack was visibly relieved and shook his head. “Of course, yes. He’s exceptionally good at this. And he learns very quickly.”

  “That’s wonderful news. I’m so glad,” Lydia said. “Nicholas hasn’t had a lot of wins in the last year or so, I guess you could say.” She paused, considering all she unexpectedly wanted to share with Jack. With someone anyway. He watched her face, raising an eyebrow.

  “You look like there’s more,” he said.

  Lydia allowed her gaze to remain hooked to his a couple of seconds too long and felt embarrassed. “He’s…sensitive” was all she managed to say. “But so many of us are, or were, at that age. You might have been, I think. You were quiet.”

  “Maybe around you,” Jack said with a small smile. “No, you’re right. I was always quiet in public. But I found my outlets. Nick will, too. Maybe he will even come to love boats. Like I did. Or something else fun that expands his horizons.”

  Lydia took the opportunity to put aside the intimate subject of her son.

  “So how did it begin, your love affair with boats?” she asked. There was so much more personality and emotion visible in Jack Kenilworth’s face than there had been when he was seventeen. But then again, she’d never studied him the way she was now.

  “Let’s see.” He ran his hand on his jaw, tiny reflections of the track lights shining in his eyes as he aimed his vision above her face. “It seems like it had to happen, no way around it. We all loved the lake, but Dad was nuts for wooden boats. You run a fiberglass boat aground and it’s garbage, he said, but you can drag a half-sunk wooden boat up from the lake and salvage it. Takes some doing. And a hell of a lot of cash. And time. But it’s worth it. Granddad always said they have souls.”

  Jack nodded, his expression lifted by the boats—or perhaps the people—in his mind. “I guess it’s that simple. My granddad had a great fishing sloop, and my dad and I worked on it a lot. I built my first boat, just a kayak, when I was fourteen, in my granddad’s shop. Which was right where my house is now. Part of the shed where Granddad worked on his fishing nets and kept his tools is my kitchen. One wall and a window.”

  “Oh really? He lived and worked right here?”

  “Yes indeed,” Jack said. “With my grandmother. And they had one child.”

  “Your father.”

  “Naturally.” Jack smiled.

  “Your granddad was the one who taught you how to build boats?”

  “Yeah, he was a pro. And quite a character.” He laughed a little. “I got as much bullshit as boat talk from him.”

  “So he had a fishing sloop? What did he use that for?”

  Jack gave her quizzical look. “He…fished. Mostly. You know…what fishermen do.”

  “Yes, of course. But did he use it for other things as well?” She realized it was incredible that with all the research she and Frank had done, she didn’t know a thing about the fishing industry in White Hill during Mary’s era. Did fishermen take people out on summer days to catch their own trophy fish like they did these days?

  “Seems like with a boat he could give tours or travel…” She let her voice trail off.

  “Usually not. That’s a different sort of life you’re thinking of. Not a working man’s life.” Jack gazed at her. “Why?”

  Lydia shrugged. “I just…don’t know much, I guess. And, um, that leads me to the other reason I wanted to talk to you today. I’ve gotten a start on researching Mary Stone Walker through interviews of people still alive who might have known her or known something about her. You know, firsthand, not merely through her writing.”

  Jack listened but said nothing when she paused, so she fumbled for more words.

  “In all these years, Frank and I have never done that. Sought out real people. And it’s kind of stupid.” She watched his face for signs that he might want to share what he had tried to share with Frank, but Jack’s expression was closed.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “So I am wondering if you might have some tips for me. Ideas about people who might have known her, or known people who knew her. That sort of thing. People I could talk to.”

  “I’ll give that some thought.” Jack sat up straight and swung around to look at the clock over the sewing machine. “Tell you what, Lydia.” He inhaled slowly and thrummed his fingers on the table. “Nicholas has probably run out of stuff to do out there. Let’s…let’s, uh, take this subject up another time. Okay?”

  “Sure. Of course. Maybe sometime you could elaborate on what y
ou told me today about your grandfather. His fishing business. Boats. If you don’t mind.” She lifted her purse. “I’d like to really understand that aspect of White Hill life.”

  “Well, the past is dead, as they say, but I suppose for novelists it really isn’t, is it? Anyway, you’re always welcome here.” He stood up, and Lydia followed him out the door.

  “Hey, Nicholas. Knock off for the day,” Jack said, and he went to his worktable where a stack of papers seemed to capture his attention completely.

  “Okay. I don’t have much left to do on this,” Nicholas said. When Jack didn’t answer, he shrugged and put his supplies away, picking up his backpack. “See ya,” he said as he opened the door.

  “Good night, kid,” Jack said over his shoulder. “You all be careful on the drive and don’t get stuck. Mud’s getting soft.”

  “Thanks for your time, Jack,” Lydia said, confused by his abrupt dismissal. It was well after five o’clock. But maybe he worked crazy hours.

  “Hey, good to see you.” He gave her a half smile, then continued to sort through the papers.

  When they reached the Jeep, Nicholas smiled at Lydia. “What’d you think? It’s neat in there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it really is.” Lydia started the ignition, turned around, and drove down the drive.

  “Pretty cool guy, don’t you think?” he asked.

  Lydia was surprised to notice that Jack’s presence in her mind was no longer threatening in the way that it had been since she’d begun to wonder if Frank was hiding the truth about meetings with him. In fact, it felt now as if Jack Kenilworth might possess—and share—something that would be extremely helpful to her.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling toward her son. “How great to feel that way about your boss. Is he…kind of moody?”

  “Well, I don’t know. He thinks about boats all the time, I guess,” Nicholas said, watching her. “Nothing wrong with that, though. Right?”

  Lydia nodded, trying to remember exactly what she had said right before Jack cut the conversation short, but her thoughts grew more scattered the closer they got to their house.

  “Whoa, what’s that?” Nicholas asked as Lydia pulled into their driveway.

  She turned her attention toward the barn where Nicholas was pointing. The doors were open, and inside Frank was running his hand along the top of the oak dining room table from 1880, next to which ten chairs were clustered awaiting his inspection.

  15

  White Hill, Michigan—April 1999

  I would give, to recall the sweetness and the frost of the lost blue

  plums,

  Anything, anything.

  ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950), “The Plum Gatherer”

  Barely able to breathe, Lydia rushed to the house without speaking to Frank, while Nicholas went to the barn. She was too angry and shocked to do anything but pace back and forth with a disbelieving glance out the kitchen window every time she passed it. He couldn’t do this. He could not do this to her. Her heart whapped against her ribs. What would she do? How could she endure this? If she went out there now, her fury would be an incoherent spectacle, and she would not subject Nicholas to that. She had to preserve something of the peace that her son needed. She had to hang on to her self-control.

  She took the stairs two at a time and rushed into her office. Fumbling wildly through a desk drawer, she pulled out the most recent statement for their savings account, which their checking account would draw from when presented with the $26,990 check to the Portman Auction House. The pages shook in her hands.

  “How could he do this?” she whispered, her face rigid with anger. She sat down, grabbed a pen and a sheet of blank paper, and began to write in fierce, dark figures.

  Frank—$52,098. That is the balance in our savings account as of yesterday. As of tomorrow, it will be $26,990 less. These are funds we have been saving for fourteen years. These are mostly funds I earned. You will not take this amount from me, from your son, from our future for your fucking dining room set.

  “God!” she screamed, and she hammered her desk with her fist again and again, finally laying her forehead on her arms to weep. He had bought these antiques knowingly, with no intention of retrieving the check he’d used to pay for them. What else might he do?

  Lydia sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She had to pull herself together. Her husband was acting irrationally, and she had to protect the family resources, her child, and herself, even if she could not protect Frank. She stared out the window at a distant streetlight, considering how to shame Frank into acting responsibly to correct this situation somehow.

  After half an hour of trying to breathe calmly in spite of her explosive thoughts, Lydia went downstairs, pushed the kitchen door open, and was alarmed to find Drew Johnson arranging cheese, cold cuts, and crackers on a plate.

  “Hi, Lydia!” Drew said with a half-embarrassed smile. “I hope you don’t mind. Frank asked me to find something to eat in here. ‘Anything,’ he said.” She laughed, still looking at Lydia, a package of ham in her hands.

  Lydia wrapped her sweater closed tightly as a shaky feeling started in her core. “Order a pizza or something.”

  “Oh, no, that’s too much trouble. This will do.” She went about filling the plate. “Do you have any apples? I love apples with cheese, and we both know Frank does.”

  Against the darkness of Lydia’s thoughts, the sight of Drew with her hair curled and pinned back, eyes and cheeks painted with bright makeup, was jarring. She opened the refrigerator, found two apples, and set them on the counter.

  “Okay, now, where are your knives? And a cutting board?”

  Lydia stiffened as she pulled out a knife and groped in a low cupboard for the cutting board.

  “So Frank has you fetching his snacks now?” she said, staring at Drew, but the younger woman didn’t look up.

  “I don’t mind. He’s all absorbed. You know. Besides, he said you’re mad at him and he didn’t want to risk the distraction of an argument.” She threw an unseeing glance sideways toward Lydia, along with a short laugh. “I know how that goes, I told him. No offense to you, of course.”

  Lydia considered an honest response to this comment but instead said, “Really? Mad at him? Why would I be mad at him?”

  Drew seemed satisfied with the platter of food and lifted it, shaking her head. “Something about the furniture. You don’t approve, he said. But really, Lydia, I think this is a significant find. It’s so easy to imagine Mary Walker sitting with colleagues in literary discussions at this table, because it really was in the town where she was staying at the house of one of her benefactors that first summer after college! In fact, it’s impossible to think she wouldn’t have been getting attention from the arts crowd when she had published quite a bit already, and it’s around this table that conversations with patrons and fans were most likely to happen! Frank thinks it’s obvious, and so do I.”

  “Oh, so do I,” Lydia lied. “Why else would I have gone with him to Portman to bid on it? Honestly. What a silly he is.”

  “You were with him? That must have been exciting.” Drew stood ready and waiting to return to the barn with her feast. “We hardly know where to begin. Well, I better get back to it. ’Night, Lydia.”

  “’Night, Drew,” Lydia said, but her grimace was wasted on Drew’s back as the young woman passed through the door and into the yard, the storm door rattling as it slammed. The meat and cheese wrappers were scattered around on the counter. “I’ll get these for you!”

  Lydia watched Drew hurry toward the barn, disgusted with the young woman’s adoration of Frank and cheered slightly by her own charade. Yes, maybe this should be her tactic. Devoted, unrelenting joy at Frank’s acquisition. She would stay by his side and pretend to be sad when it ended as all the other searches had. Then she could be ready with contact information for the Huntington wom
an, who should have had the damn furniture to begin with, and they could retrieve their savings.

  Retrieving the man she’d fallen in love with so many years ago was another matter entirely.

  Lydia stared out the window at the barn where the light occasionally flickered as someone crossed in front of the lamp. Not so long ago, she would have been at Frank’s side in that barn, searching relics that might have had some possible connection to Mary Walker. In her journals, the poet mentioned hiding things time and time again, so together Lydia and Frank had traced connections between the dates and locations, and then they’d done their best to reconstruct the settings so that they could make educated guesses about which items might have been in those settings.

  But these days Frank bought items based on nothing more than rumors and whims, and Lydia wasn’t sure what sort of checking he actually did. The last really strong clue they followed had been at least four years ago. For all she knew, the Huntington story could be Frank’s fabrication based on some half-lost tale, albeit one he may have come to believe.

  Lydia sighed. She remembered the first time that Drew had supplanted her as Frank’s partner in this exploration. Drew was a new English instructor at the college, and Frank was obviously intoxicated by her fascination with him and his quest. One night, Lydia and Frank were listing the places Mary Walker had hidden the nine documents others had found over the decades, describing the objects and methods she had used, and trying to develop a theory of her psychological changes. Over the weeks, Frank had mentioned Drew a handful of times—his new colleague at Carson—and suddenly she was standing there in the dining room, young, cute, and full of a kind of energetic captivation that made Lydia feel completely outdated.

  Now, however, it was perfectly, painfully clear that Lydia’s true rival was not a living woman, but the imagined goddess of an unfinished life. Frank had idealized this martyr, as he saw her, a poet driven from White Hill by an insensitive husband who not only did not want her poetry, but who also, Frank was certain, mocked her tender desires to have children. The fact that she had never given birth was actually an asset in Frank’s calculations, Lydia knew, but he would never admit that. As an unloved, unappreciated, but beautiful and tragically childless artist, Mary Walker was Frank’s perfect damsel in distress.