Lake News

by Barbara Delinsky

  When she didn’t say anything, he started to blabber. “There’ll be things here from all grade levels, seven through twelve, some typed, some handwritten. Sometimes I pick three that are totally different in style, form, and content—like a poem, an essay, and a letter to the editor. Other times I pick three on one theme. So you can do what you want, whatever hits you as being the most interesting.”

  She looked game.

  He grinned. “You’re a teacher. Go to it.”

  Without further ado, he took the ad information, sat himself down at the sales desk, and began to build an ad. But his mind wasn’t on it. He kept thinking about Lily showing up at his office asking about ammo, kept thinking that if he helped her out, he could be shooting himself in the foot if the point was to save things for his book. But he felt guilty for what his brother, Donny, had done, and guilty for what his own profession, in the guise of Terry Sullivan, had done; and there were those soft eyes of hers that felt good touching his.

  So he said, “There’s another way.”

  She looked up, brows arched.

  “To fight Terry without going to court,” John explained. “You could turn his own methods right back on him. Fight fire with fire.”

  “How?”

  “Discredit him. Go public with allegations about him that may have no weight taken one by one, but that taken as a set paint an ugly picture.”

  “I don’t know what those allegations are.”

  “I do.”

  “And you’d share them?”

  Here it was. “I might.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  He thought about that for a minute. He didn’t see why it couldn’t work for them both. “Your side of the story.”

  He was immediately sorry he’d said it. There was the subtlest shift of her shoulders, the faintest widening of her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t.”

  “I won’t without your say-so.”

  She looked down at the papers. Three were slightly separated from the others. She pushed them all the way out now, and stood. “There are your three.” She put on her sunglasses.

  He rose. “Nothing without your say-so.” He knew she was thinking that he might be another Terry Sullivan. Her distrust was obvious. He had come on too fast. But it was done.

  Carefully she wrapped the scarf around her neck. She started for the door, pausing to look at the loon wall a final time. He could see her taking a deep breath, even calming a little. But she didn’t turn back.

  “Lily?”

  “I’d rather prove malice,” she said and left.

  CHAPTER 13

  Poppy’s Tuesday was quiet, thanks in part to the weather. When days were cold, wet, or snowy, many of her clients stayed at home. Dense fog at the end of September, keeping temperatures in the forties at night and the fifties by day, had much the same effect.

  The quiet also had to do with a slowdown in media calls, which didn’t surprise Poppy one bit. Blaming the scandal on Lily had been a ridiculous move. Everyone in town knew that, with an indignant handful calling to say it to Poppy. Lily Blake unbalanced? It was the final straw, a major blow to what little credibility the case had, an offense to the sensibilities of people who knew the Blakes. Poppy guessed that the press knew it, too, and, noble to the end, was backing off from the story to spare themselves further embarrassment.

  Oh, there was still the occasional halfhearted media call requesting reaction to the story’s lastest twist. But no such requests came from major outlets, and by late afternoon the only calls that possibly could be related came from Lake Henry’s librarian, Leila Higgins, and its postmaster, Nathaniel Roy. Both had seen a tan Ford wagon with Massachusetts plates parked outside the Lake News office and wanted to know whose it was.

  Poppy knew, though she had no idea why her sister was there. So she called Kip and said, “You had a visitor.”

  Kip sounded cross. “How’d you know?”

  “I got calls about the car from Leila and Nat. They didn’t know whose it was. Why was she there?”

  “She wanted to say hi,” he muttered.

  “To you? Try again.”

  “She was helping me work.”

  Okay. It was Tuesday. He was hunkering down. She could almost buy that on his end, but on Lily’s? “Why?”

  “She was bored.”

  “And she figured that was the liveliest place to be?”

  “Ask her, Poppy.”

  “I will,” Poppy said. She ended the call wondering what was stuck in his craw, and tried to call Lily, but the cell phone was off. She tried several more times, but by then it was evening, the fog had lifted to allow a near-peak sunset to be seen over the lake, and her friends arrived.

  Sigrid Dunn was an artisan who specialized in large-loom weaving and home-baked bread; she brought a loaf of warm, fresh olive bread and a bottle of Merlot. Marianne Hersey owned a small bookstore in the next town and an insulated casserole carrier; she brought hot coq au vin and a bottle of Chablis. Heather Malone was a full-time mom who devoted herself to raising two young children and vegetables; she arrived with a huge salad dotted with kernels of local sweet corn and a nutty pinot grigio. Cassie Byrnes—lawyer, mother, and wife—brought cookies from an Italian bakery in Concord, purchased after an appearance in federal court that afternoon. Poppy provided jugs of apple cider and a pot of coffee, along with all the paraphernalia needed to eat the rest.

  They met every Tuesday and called themselves the Lake Henry Hospitality Committee, and they were, indeed, hospitable. When new families moved to town or old ones suffered traumas, they were fast on the scene, seeing what could be done to help. But Lake Henry being small, those kinds of events didn’t happen often enough to fill up weekly meetings. So, typically, the Hospitality Committee relaxed and enjoyed itself, five friends sharing news, thoughts, and laughs. On occasion they could be downright boisterous, thanks to the wine.

  They reached that point quickly on this night. Poppy, for one, needed the outlet after a week of worrying about Lily, and while she couldn’t tell her friends that Lily was back, she took comfort hearing them take Lily’s side. That led to a discussion of townsfolk who didn’t, and why, which led to a discussion of the more repressed of Lake Henryites, which led to a discussion of the most prim characters in the town’s history, which led to hearty laughter.

  Poppy was feeling light-headed when the phone rang. Marianne went into the other room to reach the bank of buttons, but she was quickly back. “It’s for the chief. When I said Willie Jake wasn’t available, he asked for you. Griffin Hughes?”

  Poppy swallowed a laugh the wrong way. She coughed, hit her chest a time or two, held up a hand, and took a deep breath. Then she wheeled herself out to the phone.

  “Griffin Hughes,” she said without preamble, “did you really think the chief would be here at this hour?”

  “It’s only seven-thirty,” he answered in that smooth, low, Adam’s apple voice. She remembered it clearly enough—and was pleased enough to hear it again—to want to lash out.

  “This is Lake Henry,” she thundered. “We don’t work twelve-hour days like you folks do.”

  “We don’t do it either,” he responded genially. “At least, I don’t. I thought I might catch him after dinner. I pictured this number connecting to his house, or his house being connected to the station. Isn’t that how it works in small towns?”

  “Not in Lake Henry,” Poppy said, wishing he didn’t sound so sincere.

  “What are you doing there so late?”

  “I live here.”

  “At the police station?”

  She laughed with surprising ease. “No. At my own house. I’m Lake Henry’s answering service.”

  “No kidding?” He sounded charmed. “Like Lily Tomlin?”

  Poppy rubbed the heel of her hand against the arm of her chair. “Not… exactly. But you’ll have to go through me to get to most of the rest of the town, and I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still not talking.” She didn’t ca
re how sincere he sounded. “Especially after the latest,” she said, and let the wine carry her on. “What is happening down there? Calling my sister unbalanced? Blaming her for the trouble? That’s not only stupid, it’s immoral. And it’s wrong!”

  “I agree. Immoral and wrong. That’s the point of my piece. But I can’t just say that it’s wrong, I have to show that it is. I need to know how it’s affected Lily’s life. I’ve been trying her number in Boston. She’s not answering.”

  “Her number’s unlisted.”

  “Every newspaper has it.”

  “Ah-hah,” Poppy cried, as unrelated laughter erupted in the kitchen. “You are working with them.”

  “Not working with them. Using them. Excuse me, am I calling at a bad time? Is there a party going on?”

  “I have a few friends over for dinner. We do that kind of thing up here. You know, isolation and all. Boredom and all. Backwoods socializing and all.”

  “Lay it on thick, Poppy,” he said in a voice warm with humor, but deep, so deep and smooth. “Is Lily there with you, too?”

  “Would I tell you if she was?”

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “Would I tell you if I had?”

  “What will you tell me?”

  Poppy thought for a minute, then grinned. “I’ll tell you about James Everell Henry.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Was. He was a logging baron who lived in this neck of the woods at the turn of the century. He came in with his three sons and built a village out of nothing—railroad, lumberyard, sawmill—all to get those logs cut and moved to market. He bought up land right and left until he had acres and acres and acres, and he logged it without a thought to the effect that would have on the land.”

  “James Everell Henry.”

  “That’s right,” Poppy said. “So then the effect of what he was doing started being seen. His machinery was a menace, raking entire areas clean, then throwing off sparks and starting fires in hay fields that decimated the neighboring forests. Without those trees to hold the soil in place, spring rains caused mud slides and flooding, and between fire and flood, Henry’s empire grew shaky. Right about then, the locals wised up. They bought back as much of his land as they could to form conservation trusts, and they passed environmental ordinances to safeguard the rest. Henry was finally forced to sell out. He died quietly some years later, well after his fortune was gone.”

  There was silence, then an amused “Yes?”

  “Up to that point, this town was called Neweston. Soon after his death, its was renamed Lake Henry.”

  “You honored a guy who stripped your hillsides bare?”

  “He was an important fellow. You could say that he was the father of the local environmental movement.”

  “You could say,” Griffin agreed, but he sounded puzzled. “Is there a message here?”

  “There certainly is,” Poppy said. “From perversity comes positive stuff.”

  Silence, again, then, “And the deeper message in that?”

  “Feisty independence. New Hampshire is known for it. Lake Henryites live it out. Tell us to eat A, we’ll eat B. Tell us to wear C, we’ll wear D.”

  “Tell you to talk about one of your own, you clam up.”

  “Bingo.” She was pleased that he’d caught on. It stood to reason that a man with as cultured a baritone ought to be smart.

  “But the thing is,” that cultured baritone said, “I’m trying to help. If you all clam up, my case is weaker.”

  Poppy wasn’t being lulled, cultured baritone or not. “Do you have a nickname?”

  “A nickname?”

  “Griffin Hughes is very formal. Don’t they call you Griff or something?”

  “Griffin.”

  “How about Junior? Or Trip? Aren’t you third-generation Griffin Hughes?”

  “Yeah, but the middle name’s different three times, so I’m not even a Junior.”

  “What did they call you growing up?”

  “Red.”

  “Red?”

  “I have red hair.”

  “You’re kidding,” Poppy said. She had imagined sexy dark hair to go with that deep, sexy voice. Revision was in order. “Is it long?” she asked, then turned at a sound. Four faces were at the doorway, wearing curious looks.

  “My hair?” Griffin asked. “No. I mean, it’s longer—much longer—than a buzz cut, but you can see my ears.”

  She shooed her friends away. When they didn’t budge, she thought, What the hell. “Do they stick out?” she asked Griffin.

  “What is this about?” Cassie asked.

  “Nope,” Griffin said. “Guys named Griffin Hughes have neat little ears. But we hear everything. Who was that who just spoke?”

  “My friend Cassie.” Poppy stared at the group in defiance. “How tall are you?” she asked Griffin.

  “Who is he?” asked Heather.

  “Five ten. One seventy. Blue eyes.”

  “Dark blue, or light blue?”

  “Dark blue during sex, light blue other times.”

  Poppy felt a second’s dismay. “Was that necessary?”

  “You asked.”

  She scowled. “Not about sex.”

  The group at the door began to titter.

  “My turn,” said Griffin. “Height, weight, eyes?”

  “You didn’t tell me your age.”

  “Thirty.”

  “That makes me older than you.”

  “By how much?”

  Primly, she said, “A lady doesn’t talk about her age.”

  “Or her weight. So how about height and eyes?”

  “That’s private information.”

  “Wait a minute. I told you.”

  “That was your choice. I choose differently. Tell you what. I’ll tell Willie Jake that you called. I’ll even give him your number, see if he wants to call you back.”

  “Think he will?” Griffin asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’ll keep my number to myself.”

  “A-ha!” she cried. “It’s okay for you to pester us, but not the other way around?”

  “Poppy,” Griffin said in a very mature voice, “you said he wouldn’t call back. So I’ll just try again another time. Go back to your friends.”

  Disconnecting the call, she felt a twinge of disappointment, but her friends quickly filled the void.

  “Who was that?” Cassie asked.

  Poppy snorted and wheeled back their way. “Some writer.”

  “What sticks out?” Heather asked, moving aside to let her pass.

  “His ears don’t.”

  Sigrid followed inches behind her chair. “How did you come to talk about ears?”

  “He was trying to trick me,” Poppy said, turning to them. “They do that, y’know, give you little tidbits, little pieces of bait, hoping you’ll bite. Good Lord, if there’s one thing we should have learned from what’s happened to Lily, it’s not to breathe a word to these guys.”

  “So how old is he?” Marianne asked. When Poppy shot her a despairing look, she said, “If you’re not interested, I am.”

  “He says he’s thirty.”

  Marianne was approaching forty. Her face fell. “He sounded older.”

  Poppy set her jaw and nodded. “Uh-huh. He also said he was five ten, weighed one seventy, and had red hair and blue eyes. What kind of person reels off that kind of information to a stranger? I sure wouldn’t.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Poppy was listening to it, thinking that there were other reasons she wouldn’t reel off that kind of information, when in a sad voice Marianne said, “Too bad. He had a great voice.”

  Poppy sighed. “That he did,” she said and let it go.

  Lily sat cross-legged on her dock in the dark. She had the scarf on again, plus a wool cap, a down parka, hiking boots, and mittens—all for warmth now, not disguise. Okay. So it was overkill. But she didn’t like shivering. With the fog’s dissipation, the air had dried, but it was cold
. Her breath made little white wisps in the light of the moon.

  But she wouldn’t have been inside for the world. It was a glorious Lake Henry night. The surface of the lake was mirror-smooth, reflecting the moon, reflecting the North Star, reflecting even the yellow of an autumn birch on the edge of Elbow Island. With the loon silent, the tiniest sough of water against shore could be heard. It lent a hypnotic something to the serenity of the moment.

  A movement westward on the water drew her eye, and at first she thought it was the bird. She held her breath and listened, but the sound she heard wasn’t loon. It was paddle and canoe, more distinct with each rhythmic stroke.

  She hugged her knees and held still, watching the canoe cut through the water. It was a dark sliver in a wedge of moonlight, growing larger as it approached. When it was thirty feet from the dock, the paddle ceased its movement and held steady, a keel now, directing the boat. It glided alongside the dock with barely a bump.

  “That’s ESP for you,” John said, grabbing the dock’s edge. “Hop in.”

  ESP? Not quite. Lily had been thinking about the lake, not about John. But thinking about the lake had been calming, so she felt safe and in control.

  She unfolded her legs and slid to the edge of the dock. Lowering her feet to the floorboard of the canoe, she shifted her weight as she had done dozens of times growing up. She was barely seated in front of John when he pushed away from the dock, backpaddled, and turned the canoe.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he headed back the way he’d come.

  “To see my loons.”

  She felt a touch of excitement. “The ones in the pictures?”

  “Yup. They’ll be leaving soon. My visits are numbered.” His voice turned teasing. “Think you’re warm enough?”

  She glanced back. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, with a fleece vest—unzipped. His head and hands were bare. She wondered how they would feel in another twenty minutes.

  “I’m not sharing my mittens,” she announced. Facing forward, she felt the night air on her skin as the canoe sliced through the water, heading out from the shore. She was pleased to be dressed warmly. This way, the air was bracing rather than cold. She let it fill her lungs, one large breath after another.