Lakeside Cottage

by Susan Wiggs

  Easy now, she told herself. Take it easy. Must be the heat. She felt a raging thirst and wished she hadn’t emptied that water bottle.

  Ah, well. She was nearly home now. Maybe she’d take Aaron for a swim in the lake. That always made her feel better, plunging in and sinking down, disappearing for a while. She never wore a bathing suit, not the way she looked, fat as a pig and with those weird dark patches on her skin here and there. When they’d first appeared at the base of her neck, she had thought it was dirt and tried to scrub it off. To her horror, she realized the dark patches were a part of her. It was totally creepy. Some sort of punishment for being a liar and a fraud?

  Or just bad luck. It was the only kind she ever had.

  She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and focused on the lake. Yes, she should go swimming. And for Chrissake, rinse her mouth out. Her breath had a weird, fruity taste. She wanted to drink up all the water in the lake to ease the burning inside. And if she still couldn’t shake the dizziness, maybe she’d just close her eyes, lie back in the water and let it take over, spinning endlessly. Maybe she would float forever, out through the channel at the end of the lake, down the river and out to sea.

  The driveway came into view. Home at last, she thought with an ironic smile. It was quiet around here today. Maybe Kate and Aaron had taken the dog for a walk, because normally Bandit came yapping up the driveway to greet her. If someone had told her she would make friends with a dog, she would have thought they were nuts, but she actually liked Bandit. He was proof that not all dogs were dangerous just because one bit her.

  Maybe they had gone to see Sergeant Harris, because these days, Kate and Harris were quite an item together, even though they tried to be discreet about it. Except nobody but Callie knew he was a sergeant. That he was the sergeant as in Sergeant Jordan Donovan Harris, whose heroic act had been all over the news since Christmas.

  Callie had to hand it to the guy. He had truly gone underground, erasing who he was and becoming a different person entirely. Maybe she should ask him for pointers.

  The moment she’d figured out his secret, she’d been royally ticked off. She’d felt duped, somehow, and it was totally off base but she couldn’t help herself. She understood, though, that hiding something, even for the best of reasons like JD did, was always going to get you in trouble. After he’d explained all about his rotten mother and all the weird stuff that happened because of his fame, she had forgiven him. And then a sizzle of possibility had shot through her. Just knowing him made her special. One phone call and she could have the crew of Extra here, interviewing them all. There was probably a way to make money off selling his secret, a lot of money. She could trade him for a secure future for herself.

  The only trouble was, she’d given her word that she wouldn’t say anything. And she liked him too much to do that to him.

  She caught a faint whiff of smoke from the barbecue, and her stomach cramped in anticipation. Lately she ate like a pig; she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Too bad. Today was her stupid birthday. Just for today, she wasn’t going to worry about anything.

  She let herself in the back door. It wasn’t locked, which meant they hadn’t gone far.

  “Hello,” she called out. The house was empty and quiet, but in a friendly, waiting way. A box fan in the window blew a gentle breath of fresh air through the downstairs.

  “Anybody home?” she called, dropping off her backpack and Walkman in her room.

  No answer. She went to the sink to get a drink and splash water on her face. In those old Georgette Heyer books she’d found in one of the crammed bookcases in the family room, women were always bathing their wrists when they were upset. Bathing their wrists, as though that was supposed to help anything.

  Callie let cool tap water run over her wrists but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  She headed for the door, intending to sit on the porch facing the lake and wait for everyone to come home. Happy birthday to me, she thought.

  She opened the door to the porch, and the world exploded.

  “Happy birthday!” shouted a chorus of voices. “Surprise!”

  Callie stood in the doorway, frozen with shock. For a moment, she couldn’t make sense of anything, not the smiling faces or the crepe-paper streamers, not even the picnic table with the giant three-tiered cake or the stack of brightly wrapped gifts on the lawn.

  “Today Is Your Birthday” blasted from the stereo.

  “Callie,” Aaron yelled, jumping up and down. “Were you surprised, Callie? Were you?”

  She forced herself to close her mouth and nod in mute assent. It was just like on TV, with all the good wishes, the music playing, people clapping.

  Except there was one big difference. On TV, the birthday girl looked lovely, flushed with pleasure and gratitude. Callie was not able to act like that, not at all. She tried, she nearly succeeded in forcing herself to smile and say thank you, but all she could manage to do was burst into tears.

  Right there in front of everyone, she broke down and sobbed. It was totally humiliating, but she couldn’t help herself. She cried with happiness that someone had finally cared enough to give her a birthday party, and with sadness that it had taken all the years of her life. She cried for joy that she’d found friends so true they felt like family, and cried with misery that it would all end with the summer.

  “Hey, now,” said Luke, somehow looking both awkward and gallant as he patted her on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “You’re supposed to be glad,” Aaron said, sounding so put out that she had to smile. “This is a party, in case you hadn’t noticed, genius.”

  “I noticed.” Callie gratefully took a paper napkin from Kate and wiped her face. “And I’m glad.” She looked at the small group gathered on the lawn—Kate and Aaron and JD, Mrs. Newman, Yolanda and her boyfriend, Richie. And of course, Luke, by her side.

  There were silly games and way too much food. Aaron taught everyone the official Livingston method of making s’mores, otherwise known as s’mores for dummies. You had to roast the marshmallow until it flamed, slip the black char off it, then roll the sticky marshmallow in miniature M&Ms and squish the whole mess between graham crackers. Luke made and ate four of them at least, and Callie envied his ability to eat anything he wanted and not get fat. She refused to worry about her weight tonight, though, and ate her own share. The s’mores and cake made her incredibly thirsty, but even sucking down a liter bottle of water didn’t seem to help.

  The dizziness swept up and over her again, but she closed her eyes and went with it, riding it like a surfer catching a wave.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, knowing they couldn’t hear but well aware that they would never realize that they had made this the happiest day of her life.

  Nineteen

  “I think it was a smashing success,” Mable Claire said hours later as they all sat on the beach watching the moon rise over the lake. “We surprised the heck out of her and everyone had a great time.”

  “It was perfect,” Kate said. Around the campfire, the others were playing charades, though she and Mable Claire were sitting this round out. “I’ve never given anyone a surprise party before.”

  “Me neither,” Mable Claire said. “I guess when you’re Callie, everything good that comes your way is a surprise.”

  Kate leaned back against the huge log that had lain there for generations. Phil had carved his initials in it and the date: 7–4–84 to commemorate a long-ago night of fireworks. She looped her hands around one drawn-up knee. It was Richie’s turn, and he was desperately trying to get them to say the name of some sort of horned animal.

  “Bull,” Aaron shouted.

  “Caribou, moose, water buffalo!”

  “Yak,” JD suggested, causing Richie to sink to his knees in gratitude, nodding approval.

  “Yakety Yak! (Don’t Talk Back)” was the solution, and it came from Callie, of course, who knew every song ever written.

  “My turn,
” Mable Claire said, joining the group as Callie selected a clue from the hat.

  Tiny orange sparks danced in the air. The firelight gilded the group in its kindly glow, and the sight of everyone, relaxed and playing together, caused Kate to feel a tug of nostalgia. The image took her back to other times, summers from long ago, nights filled with fun and laughter.

  Aaron was wandering away from the game, unable to stay focused on it. Before Kate could call him back, JD snatched the kid up, swinging him around until Aaron shrieked with laughter and rejoined the group. Kate felt herself grinning like an idiot as she watched the festivities. She had anticipated this being the loneliest summer of her life. Who knew she would find happiness here?

  A few minutes later, JD eased himself down beside her. “You look pleased with yourself.”

  “The party turned out great.”

  “Yep.” He reached across her for the sack of marshmallows and speared two of them on a sharpened stick.

  She felt a thrill at his easy familiarity. Frankly, she acknowledged, everything about him was thrilling. She loved feeling like a couple with him. “You know, I came here this year with very low expectations. I thought Aaron and I would be miserable without the rest of the family.”

  He meticulously toasted the marshmallows, concentrating on browning them evenly and slowly. “And now?”

  “And now that doesn’t matter. We’re having a wonderful summer.” She gestured at the charades game, which was getting rowdier by the minute. “This feels like family to me. Nobody’s related to anybody, but it all just works.”

  Still watching the marshmallows, he turned the stick slowly in his hands.

  “Callie seems so happy,” Kate said, watching her grabbing onto Luke’s arm as he teased her about something. “I hope that boy is good to her.”

  “He’s awfully young,” JD said.

  A subtle note in his voice caught her attention. “He’s Mable Claire’s grandson and according to her, he can do no wrong. Do you think he’s bad news?”

  “I think he’s awfully young, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “So is she,” Kate pointed out.

  He held the perfectly toasted marshmallows in front of her. “For you, madame,” he said, formal as a French waiter.

  “How do you do that? Get them all brown without setting them on fire?”

  “I’m a professional. Trust me.” He hovered the warm marshmallow in front of her, and she took it from him. It was meltingly sweet as it slid into her mouth, and she made him eat the other one.

  “This is making me have wicked thoughts about you,” she said, watching him.

  “Those are the best kind.” He glanced at the others to make sure they weren’t watching, and then leaned forward to place a brief but scorching kiss on her mouth.

  She nearly melted like a marshmallow, but forced herself to shift away from him on the blanket. “Whoa,” she said. “There are youngsters present.” She stuck two more marshmallows on the stick.

  “Which is why I haven’t jumped your bones right here and now,” he said. “Quit worrying, Kate. Everyone knows. I don’t think it does Aaron any harm to see that somebody’s crazy about his mother.”

  Her breath caught, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. That was as close as he had ever come to declaring his feelings for her. She could hardly believe her ears.

  “Define crazy,” she said. “Do you mean crazy like you’re lusting after me or—” She stopped, not wanting to say the rest or let him see how much she needed to hear it.

  “Nope,” he said. “I mean, I do lust for you constantly, that’s a given. What I meant was the other kind of crazy.”

  Kate felt the stick slip from her fingers. The marshmallows turned blue with flame and then blistered black, disappearing into the coals. Deep inside Kate, a voice whispered, Don’t throw this away. Don’t… “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I heard right. Did you just say—”

  “Kate.” Mable Claire’s sharp summons cut through the night, severing the tension of the moment. “Kate and JD both, we need you. Something’s the matter with Callie. She fainted.”

  Even before Kate could assimilate the words, JD had shot up and rushed to Callie’s side. She lay limply on the beach, with the others gathered around, all laughter gone now.

  JD broke into action, checking her over, yelling her name and shaking her. “Someone go to my truck and get the aid bag,” he ordered with an authority she had never heard before. “It’s in the toolbox.” Richie sped off to get it.

  “Thank God somebody knows what he’s doing,” said Mable Claire.

  JD took over. He moved in, the soul of competence, and went to work, using gear of surprising substance from the bag Richie brought from the truck. He kept calling her name, jiggling her, checking her vital signs. Yolanda took charge of Aaron, reassuring him and keeping him quiet. For once, this was not difficult. He seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.

  As JD checked Callie’s breathing and pulse, Kate went for her handbag and keys.

  By the time she returned, JD had scooped Callie up in his arms. She lay limp and unresponsive.

  Kate gave Aaron a quick hug. “We have to get Callie to a doctor. You stay with Mrs. Newman and Luke, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “I’m scared,” he said.

  “I know. She’s going to be all right. I have to go now, buddy.” She squeezed him one more time and then ran to the Jeep. Richie and JD were getting Callie into the backseat. Luke stood by, looking as pale and scared as Aaron had been.

  Kate expected him to insist on riding along, but he didn’t. “She’s going to be all right,” she said, just as she’d told Aaron.

  He nodded and stepped back, his hands stuck into his pockets.

  She and JD worked as a team. She drove while he stayed in the back with Callie. He grabbed a flashlight, stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff from his aid bag and kept talking to her, trying to get her attention.

  As Kate drove off into the night, Callie came around, offering weak protests but giving vague answers to the usual questions about what year it was or the name of the president. She didn’t want to go to the hospital. That was clear enough. JD brooked no argument, which was equally clear.

  The second they got into cell phone range, he made the call. Kate understood maybe half of the technical jargon he dictated into the phone, giving the information with precision and clear competence. “Caucasian female, eighteen years of age…Syncopal episode…BP’s 102 over 66,” he stated. “Pulse 160, respiration 22 and shallow. Patient’s shaky, skin’s damp, she’s obviously dizzy. She’s muscularly toned….” There was something incredibly comforting about his manner. He seemed so professional and confident. He also seemed like a different person, someone she didn’t know.

  “ETA’s ten more minutes,” he said.

  Kate didn’t hear the rest. Her hands shook but she forced herself to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel. She bit her lip to keep from interrupting his report to the dispatcher.

  Kate wanted to believe Callie was safe in his care. Yet a seemingly healthy girl didn’t simply collapse.

  PART FOUR

  “We cannot change anything until we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.”

  —Carl Gustav Jung, Psychological Reflections

  Twenty

  “I’m not staying here.” Trapped like a thief in the stark glare of fluorescent lights, Callie felt a cold fist of panic knocking in her chest. “You can’t make me stay,” she said to the doctor or nurse or whoever the woman in blue scrubs was. Despite her insistence on escaping from the narrow, scary room and eluding the strangers poking and prodding her, Callie didn’t really know what her rights were. Would she be classified as a runaway? Turned over to authorities? Sent up to juvy? There were no good options for her, none, except to run…again.

  “We’re going to take good care of you,” the woman said.

  “You can’t make me stay. I�
��m eighteen years old.”

  “No, you’re not.” The woman spoke quietly but distinctly.

  Callie felt icy dread prickling over her scalp. At first she couldn’t speak. She felt trapped. She wanted to scream that she was, too, eighteen. Old enough to vote. Old enough to pluck the clear plastic clips off her fingertips, pull out the IV and walk away from the noise and light of this strange, intimidating place.

  But somehow, the woman in the scrubs had figured out her secret.

  “What do you mean?” Callie said. “I know how old I am.”

  “So do I.”

  She narrowed her eyes in resentment. “How do you know?”

  “I’m a doctor. It’s my job to know. My name is Dr. Randall, ER doc and total wizard when it comes to accessing patient records.”

  Callie shuddered. She needed to get out of here, now. Yet truthfully, she was terrified to pull out the IV. It was ironic, given everything she’d survived in the past, but she couldn’t bring herself to rip out the white tapes, the tube and the needle buried deep in her arm. She’d endured pain others inflicted on her, but had a deep and probably healthy reluctance to hurt herself. She’d seen IVs torn out in movies with a brave, dramatic flourish. Now, confronted with actually doing it, she balked. What if it hurt? What if the hole in her arm spewed blood? And even if she did manage to free herself from the IV, then what? She couldn’t just walk away; she was wearing a blue paper smock. She had no idea what they’d done with her clothes. Oh, man. They took her clothes. How humiliating was that?

  Luke, she thought. Luke would rescue her. Yet she realized she didn’t want him to. If he saw her now, he’d run screaming to the next town, probably.

  She tried a different tack with Dr. Randall. “I don’t have any money. I won’t be able to pay my hospital bill.”

  “That’s been taken care of.”

  “By Mr. Harris?” She didn’t even have to think about it.

  “I don’t know. That’s not my department.”