“You’ve known him for twenty-three years.”
“You act like I did this on purpose. Like I really don’t want to remember.”
“Sorry. I’m just worried, is all.” For the first time, another emotion crossed Eli’s face. Sorrow? Regret? “It just feels strange to explain your life to you.”
She bit back a response, hearing the fatigue in his voice. He had been at the hospital for nearly two days.
They pulled into a small town, the speed limit cutting down to thirty, and drove past a pair of gigantic Adirondack chairs, the entrance to a resort. Then a tall A-frame restaurant and a scattering of small lakeside houses all pumping out gray smoke. A strip mall advertised a restaurant, a bakery, a gift shop. Beside it, snow covered the playground equipment of a day care center connected to a one-story metal church.
Eli turned in to the gas station beside it.
“I’ll get your Diet Coke, Mom,” Kirby said as Eli got out to gas up the truck.
Mom. Mom? Oh, when would she get used to that?
And how had she ended up so far from civilization? What about her art?
Eli got back into the car, staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
“Do I still paint?”
Her voice shook a little, and she hated the fact that so much hinged on his answer. That she might have lost even that from herself.
“Not since college.”
Noelle closed her eyes.
Kirby climbed into the truck. Handed her the soda. She took it, but her hand trembled.
They drove home, silence wedged between her and Eli, Kirby trying to dislodge it with the play-by-play of his last game. She wanted to weep for the boy who needed her to remember him, to cheer for him.
They drove through Deep Haven—she vaguely remembered the town, a shadow from her childhood—and continued on up the highway.
“How far out of town do we live?”
“About twenty minutes,” Eli said.
She stared out the window as they curved along the ribbon of highway. The lake had a rhythm to it, the waves piling the ice upon the shore. Trees hugged the shoreline, glistening with frosting. Houses, their driveways bordered by mounds of fresh, white snow, created a storybook feel.
Maybe this place had wooed her with a mystical, still-hidden charm.
Maybe she could find the charm again.
They turned up a dirt road, followed it into the woods, the trees closing in as they turned again, this time onto a rutted driveway.
At the end sat a small Cape Cod with cedar siding, a bright-red door. Two sad dormer windows watched her. A garage sat twenty feet from the main house. Snow buried a car parked next to the garage.
A black dog trotted out to meet them, barking.
“That’s Riggins,” Kirby said. “She’ll be really happy to have you home.”
“Has she been out in the cold all this time?” Noelle opened the door, held on to the handle as she slid down and steadied herself on the snow. The dog came up to her and sniffed. Noelle patted her head. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?”
“She has a heated doghouse and plenty of food,” Eli said. “Wait there; I’m coming around to help you.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need help.” She closed the door, however, and nearly slipped. So maybe she’d take it easy. The last thing she needed was another crack on the head.
Although, if it could snap her memory back . . .
But wait . . . did she really want it back? She glanced at Eli, who picked up a shovel near the garage and started plowing a path to the door, fresh snow flying. She had a Hansel and Gretel moment, staring at the house.
“I don’t want you to fall.” Kirby came around the car, stuck out his arm to her. What a gentleman. She couldn’t help but wind hers through his. If she’d been his age, she would have had a crush on him.
She felt closer to her son’s age than her husband’s.
Weird.
Yes, indeed, she needed her memory back. She appreciated his help as they walked up the snowy path to the doorway. Then she took a deep breath.
Her life. This was her life.
She entered the house, stamping her feet. The entryway, a small room off the kitchen, overflowed with snow boots and winter jackets and hats stuffed in a bin and mittens scattered on a bench, a collection of helmets in a big basket by the door.
Didn’t anyone clean? She looked at the grime on the floor, shoved into the corners. Men. Men lived here.
She hung up her coat, then entered the kitchen. At least this was clean. Small but functional, with a breadbox, a mixer, a view of the backyard. A round, red rug lay in the middle of the floor before the sink.
Red. She’d always been a pink person, so perhaps red wasn’t too far off.
A long table with a blue checkered tablecloth hosted a bowl of brown bananas. So that was the smell in the air.
She wandered down the hallway, seeing three doors.
Kirby pushed past her. “This is my room.” He opened the door to a basketball shrine. Minnesota Timberwolves, Golden Gophers, and Bulldogs paraphernalia decorated the walls; a basketball hoop hung over his bed. The place smelled like a boys’ locker room. She tried not to grimace.
“You helped me decorate it.”
Wow. So she’d lost her decorating style over the years, too. She found a smile, nodded.
“Whose rooms are these?” She turned toward one but Kirby shook his head. “Kyle’s. The other is empty.”
“A guest room?”
Kirby’s smile faded a moment, and he glanced behind her. “Yeah. That’s right.”
“Do you need anything? Maybe want to lay down?” Eli asked. He still wore the coveralls, although he’d taken off that disgusting cap. His hair lay matted, curled and greasy.
Her head did hurt, the migraine a dull ache simmering in the back of her head. “Yes, please.”
He nodded. “Our room is upstairs.”
Our . . . “Uh. I don’t . . . think . . .”
Eli glanced at Kirby, back to her. “Don’t worry. I actually . . . I don’t sleep there.”
“Where do you sleep?”
He sighed. “Down here. In the den.” Something in his voice bespoke shame.
But, well, good. She could only jump back into her life so far. Besides, whatever had happened between them to make him move to the den, she had no idea how to fix it.
Or if she wanted to.
He led her upstairs to one of the dormer rooms. Quaint, with a sloped ceiling. She didn’t look at the king-size bed or the pictures on the dresser. A large window on the side wall overlooked their acreage. She stared out across the smooth plain of white and caught a view of the lake through the bordering trees.
Behind her, she heard Eli opening drawers, closing them.
Noelle turned. “What are you doing?”
He held clothes in his arms. “Getting some things for a shower. I need to clean up.”
She glanced toward the bathroom. “You’re not going to—”
He followed her glance, and an emotion flickered across his face. Pain? Frustration? “No. I’ll use the bathroom downstairs.” He backed out of the room. “I need to run some errands. Will you be okay? Kirby will be here, so you can call him if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She tried a smile, but the moment he left, she closed the door.
Locked it.
So this was her life. Her home. Truthfully, driving home in that truck, she’d expected a cabin in the woods, no running water, portable electricity. This room, however, seemed feminine, and yes, she approved of the green walls, the pink pillows, the light-blue bedspread. She studied the pictures of the two boys as babies in their frames on the dresser. They were cute; she could admit that.
In a larger frame, a woman who looked like her wore a fluffy wedding dress, holding hands with a much-younger version of the curmudgeon downstairs. He reminded her very much of his son Kyle in this picture. And look—he could smile.
Next to
the bed sat a bookcase. And there, in a frame on top, was a picture she recognized.
She had always guessed herself to be about two years old in this shot, sitting on the lap of her very young father, he in a white T-shirt, boasting a crew cut and smiling down at her. Her mother sat on the arm of his chair, leaning on his shoulder, smiling at the camera.
Noelle had toted this picture, in exactly this frame, to college.
She picked it up. Laid her hand upon it.
Oh.
Oh. Her breath began to leak out in soft bursts. She hugged the picture to her chest, then went over and sat on the bench in the picture window.
This life did belong to her.
She was the woman in the wedding photo.
Those sweet adult boys—they were hers.
And that man—that wretched man—was her husband.
She closed her eyes, the truth shaking through her.
This was her life.
But she didn’t want it to be.
Emma had given up trying to find the lyrics.
Her chord sheet lay on the floor in front of her, abandoned as she leaned back against the ancient green sofa she’d inherited from the attic jam space and lost herself in her music. She played the leads of an E major scale, then the minor chords, up and down the frets.
Then she jumped into the key of A, played a minor pentatonic extended scale, and worked out a new lick, bending the B string down around the tenth fret, then popping over to the E string and bending it all the way up to high G. She held it for a moment, then ran the notes down the scale, adding a vibrato to the low E.
Yeah, she liked that lick.
She did it again, then strummed the A blues chords to a swing beat, just for fun.
Hard not to find a smile with the beat of a jump blues guitar.
But even behind the music, the hollowness of a song without lyrics resonated through her. Kelsey would have picked up her beat, added some piano, and come up with lyrics that scrubbed their latest drama out of their hearts.
The sound lingered, then faded into the street noise. Traffic splashed through the slimy snow and mud, and across the street, someone was having a house party, the music raucous. Two years ago, Emma had found the cheapest apartment she could within walking distance of the University of Minnesota campus.
She heard movement from Carrie’s bedroom. Her roommate emerged in a slinky black dress, combat boots, a jean jacket, a patterned scarf, and long silver earrings. “You sure you don’t want to come out with me tonight? I hate that you’re sitting here lonely on a Saturday night.”
This time on a Saturday night, she should be getting ready for a gig. According to Ritchie, she’d been blackballed in the tiny blues community, and yes, the bar owner was sticking her with part of the repair bill. Thanks for that, Kyle.
Emma got up, carried her cold mash of ramen noodles to the sink. Washed them down the drain. “No. I need a night off, probably.”
“What, to brood over your lost love?”
Emma shot her a frown. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not blind to the hottie who walked you to the door the other night. And by the way, everyone’s talking about how he came in and started a ruckus when he saw one of your fans flirting with you.”
“That’s not how it went down.”
Carrie picked up her purse and set it on the counter, riffling through it. “Whatever. He’s cute. And I’m not sure why you sent him packing.”
Emma washed the bowl, set it in the rack to dry. “I sort of worshiped him in high school, and yeah, we had a nice night. But he lives in Deep Haven, which if you know anything about Minnesota is about five hours north of here.”
“And your hometown. So do you have feelings for him?”
Did she? She used to. There was a time when she would track the sightings of him through her day. And she could hardly forget how it felt—finally—to be kissing him, the smell of him, the way, for a few hours, he’d made her feel found.
“I guess so.”
“Then what’s holding you back? He’s got the goods, sweetie. Tall, blond—”
“And the brother of my best friend who died.” Emma wrung out the washcloth, laid it across the double sink to dry. “And I might have already mentioned that he wants to live in Deep Haven?”
“A federal crime.” Carrie pulled out a couple old ticket stubs and dropped them into the trash. “This might be news to you, but last time I checked, you can play music in Deep Haven. At least I think they changed the zoning laws up there. Didn’t you say they had a blues festival and a great music scene? I’m dipping way back into my brain cell–damaged memory here, but didn’t you tell me once that’s where you heard the music best? Where you felt as if it came alive inside you? I’m not dreaming up the fact that you haven’t composed one new song since you moved here—”
“I’ve composed plenty of songs—”
“Excuse me. You haven’t finished a song. You need something called lyrics too.”
Emma glanced at the scattered papers on the rag rug in the living room. “I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Carrie gave a slow nod. “Find the lyrics, and I’ll bet you can figure out a way to go home again.” She snapped her purse closed. “Last chance to change out of your yoga pants, maybe have a little fun.”
“Nope. Don’t get into any barroom brawls.”
“Oh no, honey. You’re the bruiser here.” Carrie winked at her. “Don’t wait up.”
Emma sat down again with her music. Find the lyrics. Yes, if she could do that, then she could go into the studio, record a demo.
Put some feet to her dreams.
She picked up her guitar, played a few scales.
On the table, her cell phone rang. Putting the guitar aside, she picked it up. She didn’t recognize the caller. “Hello?”
“Hey, Emma, it’s Nicole.”
Oh, Nicole. Emma had finally read her e-mail and was still trying to figure out how to say no.
“Did you get my e-mail?”
Lying would be so easy sometimes. But it wouldn’t help her here. “I did. But . . . I don’t think it’ll work, Nicole.”
“Please, please help me out, Emma. Our entire ensemble has backed out—they don’t want to drive all the way to Deep Haven with the storm we just had. I need someone who can handle everything—the wedding, the reception. Please, please? For me?”
Wedding and reception. That could mean enough money to cover the bar fight bill and even another month’s rent. By then, maybe she’d find the right words.
“When is it?”
“Next weekend. At Caribou Ridges Resort.”
Technically not in Deep Haven.
“Fine. Okay. Do you have anything special you want me to play?”
“Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’?”
“Yeah, of course. Although I’m thinking that might need more than just my guitar.”
Maybe Ritchie could fill in—he gigged now and again as a keyboardist. And she could ask Tim to help on drums. He probably knew the truth about the fight.
“Oh, Emma, you’re the best. Thanks so much! I’ll see if I can track down a drummer and a keyboardist—I saw Kyle Hueston back in town. He used to play in a band with Jason. Maybe—”
Shoot. What was with this guy? A dry spell for her entire life, and suddenly it was raining Kyle Hueston everywhere she looked.
“I’ll find my own drummer—”
“Don’t worry; I’ll ask him myself. I saw him yesterday at the donut shop—or I guess it’s the cupcake shop now. He was sitting in the booth with the other deputies. He looked downright hot in his uniform.”
“Thanks for that, Nicole. But really—”
“I don’t mind asking. Thanks again, Emma. You rock.”
Nicole hung up and Emma dropped her head back on the sofa. Perfect.
When hadn’t Kyle Hueston looked hot? She’d never missed a home basketball game when Kyle played. Would wait for h
im to pass her in the hallway on the way to Mr. Dorrin’s social studies class.
Kyle could still make her forget where she was . . . and where she was going.
But he planned on planting himself in Deep Haven. She had no plans to plant herself anywhere near it.
Emma got up, put her guitar away, then grabbed a jacket and opened the door to the tiny balcony off their apartment. The city lights sparkled, red and white, constellations against the galaxy of the city. She could see her breath and drew in the crisp air. Sitting on a metal chair, she propped her feet on the railing and leaned back, searching for stars.
In Deep Haven, the stars seemed so close she could breathe them in, feel them sparkle inside her. She could trace the Milky Way and sometimes even spot the undulating ribbons of pink, lavender, and turquoise from an aurora borealis.
Not here in the city, however. The bright cityscape ate away at the darkness, the stars dim and hidden. Perhaps it was simply too early to see them, the night still so young, but nothing of hope twinkled in the sky.
Find the lyrics, and I’ll bet you can figure out a way to go home again.
If only it were that easy.
Eli wanted to track down Derek Nelson and wring his neck. Two days and Lee’s drive still hadn’t been plowed? He saw the track marks where Derek had parked his father’s Subaru down by the road, the footprints from where he hiked to the house and back.
But no tire tracks leading out from the driveway. Which meant Lee had been snowed in since the storm hit.
Yes, he’d kill Derek when the kid returned home from wherever he’d run off to. Probably shooting hoops down at the community center.
Kirby liked to hang out there too—might be there now if he wasn’t worried about his mother.
Eli hauled the snowblower from the back of his pickup, yanked the zip cord to start it. The motor churned to life, and he started down the middle, throwing snow toward the banks. Icy particles landed on his face, flaked into his eyes.
Okay, someone had tried to shovel. As Eli drew near the garage, he spotted a feeble swath near the edges. Someone had cleared about a three-foot chunk. Working by hand, it would take one person a week to shovel this drive. Why Lee didn’t hire one of the snowplow services from town baffled him.
The Shadow of Your Smile Page 8