John wanted to tell Gus that Lily was already back. He wanted to share the news as a gesture of goodwill, a show of trust.
Only, the trust wasn’t there. Three years of regular visits, and John still didn’t know what made his father tick. He didn’t know how a man could send away a son and not care what happened to him, but that was just what Gus had done. He hadn’t called or written once—not on a birthday, not on Christmas. Dorothy, who did write and visit Donny, had called Gus an emotional dwarf, and John had gone along. Deep inside, he had dreamed that his father thought about him a lot.
He didn’t know how a man could be as angry and unfeeling as Gus seemed to be. He figured there had to be something softer inside—figured that if they saw each other enough it would come out, figured that if John could prove his worth, Gus would confess.
So when word came that Gus was failing, John had returned to Lake Henry. He envisioned a reconciliation, a meeting of minds, a détente. He imagined their talking about Donny, and about Dorothy, and about where Gus had built his longest, most beautiful walls and what stories John had written that made him the most proud. He had imagined finding a father. What he found was a man as hard and unyielding as those long, beautiful stone walls that he built.
John had no idea whether Gus liked him even the littlest bit. Without liking, there wasn’t apt to be respect, and without respect, if John shared the secret of Lily’s return, Gus might well turn right around and tell it to the first person he saw. That would be Dulcey, who would tell her mother, who would tell her sister, who would tell her husband, who would tell the woman who kept his meager carpentry books, along with those of half the other small businessmen in town—and that woman was the biggest gossip around.
John couldn’t do that to Lily.
The postmaster was another matter. Nathaniel Roy liked and respected John. He made that clear soon after John’s return to Lake Henry, and their daily chats at the post office had grown in depth and openness. John often sensed that Nat placed greater value on what he had to say precisely because of the years he had spent away from Lake Henry. Given that John played down his past with the rest of the town, he could be more himself when he was with Nat. The man was seventy-five if he was a day, but they were good friends.
Needing a friendly face now to fill the emptiness he felt leaving Gus, John headed back into town for his mail.
The post office was a pretty, single-story brick building. To step inside was to be enveloped in the smell of advertisement circulars and, more faintly, if remarkably, the cherry pipe tobacco that Nat had sworn off years before.
Nat looked up from reading a magazine and immediately lit up—quite a feat for a man whose full smile was as spare as his face. He was long and narrow, a Yankee from his thinning gray hair to his wire spectacles to his baggy cardigan, tweed pants, and worn deck shoes. He continually chewed on his unlit pipe, and rarely minced words when he spoke.
“You don’t have much,” he said around the pipe stem as he handed John a small, elastic-bound pack. “A few bills, a few ads, new L. L. Bean catalogue. There’s a postcard from your mother. She and the hubby are in Florida. Sounds like they’re buying a place.”
John had known they were looking. He pulled out the card and read the back. It described a cottage in Naples four blocks from the beach. “Sounds good.”
“She’s excited. Nice lady. Even when things were rough, she was always polite, always smiling. Sorry to say this, but we never could understand what she saw in Gus.”
“He was taller then,” John said. “Very good looking.”
Nat took the pipe from his mouth. “Looks fade. Then what’s left? She came from away. That didn’t bode well.”
“Maida Blake came from away,” John pointed out. “She and George were married for more than thirty years. Do you think they were happy?”
“Actually,” Nat said after a moment’s pondering, “I do. Of course, George was never good looking the way Gus was, so it wasn’t like she lost something when he got older and wider. I have to hand it to her, though. She stepped right in and took over when George died. Didn’t miss a beat.” Clamping the pipe in the corner of his mouth, he leaned sideways, produced someone’s new People magazine from a stack there, opened to an exact page, and pushed it toward John.
John skimmed the article. It was about the Cardinal and Lily, written prior to the apology to the Cardinal.
“She’s famous,” Nat said. “Can’t imagine Maida liking that much. She never did approve of Lily going off to New York. Far as she was concerned, that was the worst den of iniquity on this earth. Not that I could fault the girl for wanting to leave. She got a lousy shake in that business with your brother.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice, as though there were others around, which there weren’t. “Think she’ll be coming back here?”
John was tempted to tell him but refrained, and it wasn’t a matter of trust. John had tested Nat a time or two. He could be closemouthed when asked. But something else pulled John from the other side. “She may.” He saw an opening. “Does she ever write to Maida?”
“No. But then, Maida never writes to her. She isn’t the kind who does that. Never did. When she first moved here, there was no mail a-tall back and forth to the old hometown.”
“Where was that?”
“Linsworth, Maine. It’s a little logging town northeast of here. Celia used to send and get, but not as much as you’d expect, and after a while that ended, too. They cut their ties.” He frowned. “So maybe there was unpleasantness left behind. Maybe they just wanted to start over fresh.”
“Was there no family back there?’
“If there was, they didn’t write. I was new to the job back then, and people were asking who they were—Maida and Celia—so I kept an eye out. But there was no mail coming from anyone by the name of St. Marie.” His voice sharpened. “Not that I told that to the fellow who was nosing around here yesterday. Two-bit reporter from Worcester trying to look like one of us, trying to sound like one of us, trying to make like he’s on Lily’s side, but he wasn’t. I could see the slyness in him, asking question after question. I kept wondering why he came to me. Because I handle the mail? Like I’d tell him what I see. That’d be wrong. A violation of the trust the gov’ment puts in me. Almost a federal offense, like tampering with the mail.”
John grinned crookedly.
Nat took the pipe from his mouth and pointed its stem at John. “You’re different. You care. It’s one thing for us to know who we are and where we come from. It’s something else entirely for them to know it. We like each other, and even if we don’t, we recognize that we’re all in this together. People from the outside don’t understand that. They don’t know squat about community.”
Had John not missed the paper’s noon deadline, he would have been on the road to Elkland when Richard Jacobi called. With two hours to kill, though, he had returned to the office and was rereading files, making notes for himself, thinking about possibles and probables, when the phone rang.
Richard was interested. Several questions later and he was very interested. Several more questions and he was so interested that he offered John a large amount of money to settle the deal there and then. No need for an agent, he said. The issue is speed and surprise, he said. I can get your book out in six months, I can publish it well, you know the reputation of this house, he said.
What John knew was that the house was a David among Goliaths. It was small but hungry. When it aimed at the best-seller lists, it often hit its mark, and it was due for another big one. The advance being offered John was large enough to suggest that his book might be it.
He hung up the phone ten minutes later feeling breathless. Richard wanted an outline and introductory chapters as soon as possible. That meant organizing his thoughts fast.
CHAPTER 15
At the same time that John was pondering his options for literary intrigue, Lily left the cottage and drove around the quiet end of the lake. She bypassed the narrow
road that led to Poppy’s, taking the wider one that led up the hill toward Maida’s, but she soon turned off onto another. Rose lived at its end with her husband, Art Winslow, and their three daughters.
The house was barely a dozen years old, built as a wedding gift from the senior Winslows to complement the gift of the land given by the senior Blakes. That Rose had chosen its design was obvious to anyone who knew Rose as Maida’s clone, which meant anyone who knew Rose at all. This house was a smaller version of the one on the hill—the same fieldstone, the same porch, the same eaves. The implications of that notwithstanding, Lily thought it a beautiful house. It was particularly so now, with gaslights framing the drive and lighting the porch.
Lily had timed her visit so that she would arrive after the children were in bed. She didn’t know whether Rose knew she was back, whether Hannah had told, or Maida had told. She didn’t know whether there would be a scene, in any case. Never a diplomat, Rose had always been the mouthpiece for Maida’s most negative thoughts.
This wasn’t a visit Lily wanted to make, but there was danger in Rose finding out from someone else that she was in Lake Henry. Coming in person seemed the decent thing for Lily to do, bearding the lion in her den, so to speak.
She knocked softly on the front sidelight. The footsteps she heard a minute later were heavy ones. She wasn’t surprised when the heavy oak door was drawn open by her brother-in-law.
Art Winslow claimed to have fallen in love with Rose Blake on the very first day of first grade. He had been a sweet boy then, grown into a sweet man now. That he was far gentler than Rose might have been a problem if he had been anything but a Winslow, but his family owned the mill, which gave him a vehicle for authority. That meant he could take a backseat to Rose at home, which was the only reason Lily could figure why the marriage worked. Art was the quintessential gentle giant.
Lily might not have been surprised to see him, but he was clearly surprised to see her, which answered one of her questions. Hannah hadn’t told.
She smiled, raised a hand, and waved.
“We were wondering if you’d be back,” he said, his voice friendly. “Come on in. Rosie?” he yelled over his shoulder, then explained to Lily, “She’s with the girls.”
“I thought they’d be asleep. Mm-maybe I should leave and come back another time.”
“No, no. She’ll want to see you. So will the girls.”
Art Winslow was kind. He was good with Rose, good with the girls, good with the mill. But no one had ever accused him of being swift. The possibility that Lily might not want everyone to know she was back didn’t enter his mind.
So, by way of a hint, she said, “I’m lying low. I hate to ask the girls to keep a secret.”
“They love keeping secrets,” Art insisted, and Lily knew that Hannah, for one, did.
The foyer light suddenly came on. Rose stood at the far side with her hand on the switch. In the instant when she spotted Lily and held perfectly still, Lily was stopped as short. Same dark hair, same pale skin, same slim hips and ample breasts—looking at Rose was like looking at herself in the mirror. Granted Rose’s hair was longer, cut bluntly, and tucked behind an ear, and her hips were covered with tailored slacks, standard evening wear for Lake Henry’s young well-to-do. Still, the resemblance was marked.
“Well, hello,” Rose said, coming to stand beside her husband. “The prodigal daughter returns. The whole town’s been speculating. When did you get back?”
Lily considered lying. Then she thought of Hannah, even of Maida, and said, “Saturday.”
“Saturday, and you’re only now coming here? This is Wednesday. Who else knows you’re back?”
“I’m in hiding.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Yes.”
“Poppy?”
“Yes.”
Rose let out a breath and said a hurt “Thanks a lot.”
“I’ve seen them each once,” Lily reasoned. “I didn’t want to put the girls in the position of lying if someone asked. I thought they’d be asleep now.”
“You thought wrong,” Rose murmured smartly and turned. Sure enough, three faces were at the door. “Come say hi to your Aunt Lily.”
The girls straightened and ran forward—six-year-old Ruth first, with seven-year-old Emma on her heels. They were adorable little girls, with dark curly hair and sweet little flowered nightgowns that went all the way to their tiny toes. Hannah, in the same kind of oversized T-shirt she had worn at Maida’s, looked chubby and plain beside them. She hung back, even when they were done with their hugs, and came forward only when Lily held out a deliberate arm. “It’s good to see you, Hannah. I like your T-shirt.” She studied the cat on the front. “You don’t have one, do you?”
Hannah shook her head.
“God forbid,” Rose put in. “I have enough trouble keeping her groomed. Forget a cat.”
“A cat grooms itself,” Hannah said.
“Cats shed. Do you want cat hair all over you?”
Hannah said nothing. Lily was sorry she had mentioned it.
Art said to the little ones, “Show Aunt Lily your teeth.”
They opened their mouths wide to show gaps, Ruthie’s in front, Emma’s on the side.
“Impressive,” Lily said. She squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Boring for you. You’ve been through this.”
Rose sighed. “Her teeth came in crooked. She’ll be getting braces soon.”
“I had braces,” Lily told Hannah, who raised her brows in interest.
“I didn’t,” Rose said. “Neither did Art. Speaking of teeth—” She looked at the younger two and pointed at the stairs. “Go brush. Daddy’ll watch. I need to talk with Aunt Lily.”
“What about Hannah?” cried Ruth.
“Hannah has big teeth to brush,” cried Emma.
“Hannah doesn’t need watching,” Rose said. “She’s ten. I can’t be yelling at her for everything. Her teeth are her responsibility. If she wants to have brown teeth, that’s her choice.”
“I always brush,” Hannah said, but she might as well have saved her breath, because Rose was looking at Art, conveying silent orders that had to do with the two little ones.
In the next instant Art was corralling them around and up the stairs. Hannah stayed beside Lily.
“Did you finish your homework?” Rose asked and, when she nodded, said, “Go on up then and read. I have to talk to your aunt.”
Lily hugged her. “Go on up,” she said softly. “I’ll see you another time.” She watched the girl plod up the stairs, sensing an ache there, wondering if anyone else saw or cared.
Rose leaned against the wall right there in the foyer. “I should have realized you were back. Mom’s been in a foul mood. She’s been in a foul mood since this whole thing began. Newspaper headlines, pictures, phone calls—it’s been awful for us, Lily. She was terrified when you left here and went to New York. She knew no good would come of it, but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine it would be this bad. She refuses to go into town now.”
“Refuses?”
“Well, she thinks twice about it. She’s convinced that everyone’s talking and watching, and that makes her nervous, and when she’s nervous, she takes it out on me.”
Lily found that hard to believe. Rose had always been Maida’s pride and joy.
“Who else can she yell at?” Rose went on. “She can’t yell at Poppy, so she yells at me. I’m the one who’s here all the time. I’m the one taking care of her.”
“She’s self-sufficient.”
Rose sputtered out a laugh. “Not as much as she thinks. I’m always bringing meals up to the house or picking things up for her in town. Fine, she runs the business, but she wasn’t raised to be doing that.”
“It keeps her busy.”
“She’s not getting any younger. She should be relaxing. She should be traveling.” The phone rang. “She should be enjoying her grandchildren.”
“Wasn’t Hannah over the other night?”
Rose shot her a look. “Hannah is not a child one enjoys. She’ll be the death of me yet.”
“How so?”
“Ornery.” The phone rang again. “Headstrong. Fat.”
“She isn’t fat.”
“She’s on her way.”
“She’ll be growing taller soon. She’ll slim out then. She has a beautiful face.”
The phone rang again.
“Get that, Art?” Rose yelled, then returned to Lily. “Why are you back?”
Lily knew that the edge she heard might be left over from the yell, but it sure sounded like indignation. Indignant right back, she said, “I have a home here.”
“How long are you staying?”
“As long as I need to.”
“What if the press follows you here? Mom will flip out.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Rose.”
“If she flips out, I’ll be the one to suffer.” She looked around when her husband trotted down the stairs.
“That was Maida,” he told her. “Two of the Quebecois were doing night work in the meadow when the backhoe bucked and overturned. She called an ambulance. I’d better go up.”
“Seriously hurt?” Rose asked.
He was already taking his jacket from the closet. “One maybe. But she’s frightened.”
“I want to go, too,” Rose said quietly, and for the first time Lily saw caring.
“I’ll stay with the girls,” she offered.
“They’re in bed,” Art said, handing Rose her sweater. “They won’t even know we’re gone.”
“We’ll be fine,” Lily said and softly shut the door after them. Feeling awkward, too much a stranger to want to wander around her sister’s house, she crossed the foyer to the staircase and sat on the bottom step. With her chin propped in her hands, she listened, but there was no sound from either upstairs or outside. There wouldn’t be a siren, of course, no need to clear already empty roads. She imagined that the ambulance crew was only now being alerted by beepers and climbing aboard.
At the sound of a distant giggle, she considered going upstairs to check. But it was a happy sound. No knowledge of accidents there. Her presence, rather than Rose and Art’s, might upset them. Better to leave well enough alone.
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