by Nicole Baart
When her hands were empty, Liz stood for a minute at the edge of the brick walkway and tried to enjoy the lake spread out before her. It was a gem, a shimmering jewel cut into the earth, and it sparkled so bright she had to put up an arm to shield her eyes. There were boats on the water cutting white arrowheads in their wake, sometimes pulling a skier or wakeboarder but just as often not. Back in the day, Liz had skied herself, and well. She knew she made a pretty silhouette on the water, legs long and tanned in a slalom ski as she jumped the wake and leaned so low her fingertips trailed the water. It was like touching glass; the water was so smooth, so hard beneath her.
“Hello? Mrs. Sanford?”
Liz whipped around as if she had been caught doing something indecent. What time was it? It couldn’t be six, not yet, but there was a man walking toward her from the side of the house. Liz smoothed the skirt of her dress and flashed him a smile that she knew could dazzle, even at a distance. Even though it was forced.
“You’re early!” she said, but she had no idea who he was. Tall, dark, handsome. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. The kind of man who would have made her pulse flutter if she were a few years younger. Okay, several. “A quality I admire.”
They were close enough now for Liz to see that his grin was crooked and utterly disarming. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Liz’s smile flickered. “You’re not here for the party?”
“A party sounds incredible. Here?” He looked around and gave a low whistle. “You’ve got a great place.”
“Thank you.” Liz’s hand went to the nape of her neck, where she wound a stray hair around her index finger. It was a nervous habit and something she hadn’t done in a very long time. Jack Sr. used to take her hand in his own when he caught her doing it. He said that anxious tics were unbecoming. Which was true. But why was she on edge?
“I’m sorry,” the man said, obviously sensing her discomfort. “The lady who answered the door said you’d be back here. Clearly you’re expecting guests—just not me.”
“Everyone is invited,” Liz said. “You’re welcome to stay.”
“Thank you, but I don’t have much time. I’m actually looking for a friend of mine.”
“I’m not sure how I can be of any assistance.”
“It’s a long shot,” the man said, shrugging. “And a bit of a crazy story. You see, my fiancée is missing.”
Missing? What was that supposed to mean? She ran away? Was abducted? Got lost? Liz didn’t know what to say so she settled for “I’m so sorry.”
He stared at the ground for a moment, and when he looked up his eyes were filled with something that Liz couldn’t define. She didn’t know whether to hug him or take a step back from him. Either way, she was surprised when he said: “She’s a friend of your daughter Nora.”
“Nora doesn’t live here anymore,” Liz said carefully. “She hasn’t for years. How did you know where to find me? And what exactly do you think I can do for you?”
He shrugged, sheepish. “You’re listed in the Key Lake phone book. This is Nora’s hometown, her last name is Sanford, there are only two Sanfords: Jack Sr. and Jack Jr.” He ticked off each fact on his fingers, and though it made sense, it unsettled Liz that he had gone to such trouble. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just”—he held out his hands, palms up—“desperate.”
“I suggest you get a hold of Nora.” Liz took an almost imperceptibly small step back. “I don’t keep track of her friends for her.”
“Of course not.” He shook his head as if chastising himself and then pressed his palms together and gave her a half-bow of sorts. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sanford. I hope you have a lovely evening.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and began to walk away, and Liz realized for the first time that he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It was easily ninety degrees. She crossed her arms over her chest, disquieted, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. He never told her his name. That was part of it, though it was no use chasing after him now; he was almost gone.
But at the corner of the house he turned back. Called over the distance between them: “If you see Tiffany Barnes around, would you tell her that I’m looking for her?”
In spite of the heat, Liz’s blood turned to ice in her veins.
Not just because Nora and Tiffany hadn’t seen each other in years or because a strange man had just stood on her property and made her feel weak-kneed and queasy. What shook her to the core was that she had bumped into Tiffany only hours ago. For the first time in almost seven years. Coincidence? And when she had seen the girl her daughter had once considered her best friend, there was really only one word that could summarize the look in her eyes: hunted.
Friday
7:03 p.m.
Liz
You have to come tonight.
Quinn
You’re kidding, right? I can’t leave Lucy.
Liz
This is about Lucy. Leave her with Walker.
Quinn
I don’t think that’s such a good idea.
Liz
Half an hour. That’s all I’m asking.
Bennet will be here.
QUINN
LUCY WAS NOT IMPRESSED by Quinn’s announcement that she was going out.
“Why?” she asked, her voice so tiny it was barely a whisper.
Good question. Quinn slipped a pair of delicate gold hoops through her earlobes and touched her neck to make sure she was wearing the right necklace. She was stalling, trying to come up with an answer that would explain why she was shirking the duty Nora had so thoughtlessly—so belatedly—thrust upon her. But I’m punishing my husband and I just have to get out of here weren’t exactly kid-appropriate answers. Neither was We have to discuss what to do with you.
And Quinn absolutely couldn’t speak the truth that was making her heart beat high and just a little too fast in her chest: I’m dying to see him.
She pushed the thought out of her mind with a savage thrust and said: “My mom needs me.”
It was an explanation that seemed to resonate with Lucy. She nodded in resignation, as if she knew what it was like to be beholden to her mother. Why? Quinn wanted to ask. What happened to you? But prying had proven to be an exercise in futility before. Little Miss Lucy-Lou was a riddle with layers that had to be slowly, carefully peeled back.
“I won’t be gone long,” Quinn assured her. “And Walker will be here with you.”
That didn’t seem to offer Lucy much comfort. She was wedged into a corner of the couch, and at the mention of Walker’s name she drew herself into a tight little ball: knees tucked snug beneath her chin and arms wrapped around her legs. Lucy was wearing the pajamas that Walker had bought her and she balled the excess fabric in her fists.
“Hey.” Quinn sank to the floor in front of the couch. Her dress was a soft, silky material and it pooled around her thighs as she knelt. Tentatively, Quinn reached out a hand and placed it over Lucy’s bare foot. Besides brushing Lucy’s hair, it was the only time that Quinn had touched her, and she was grateful that the child didn’t jerk away. They were making progress at a snail’s pace, but at least they were moving in the right direction. Were they bonding? Or starting to? A part of Quinn wanted to stick around and find out, but she was committed now. Her mother had texted no less than four times and Walker was in the shower, prepping himself for a night on the couch and a House of Cards Netflix binge.
But they both knew he had no intention of watching TV. Walker would spend the evening listening, watching, waiting. After Lucy’s unnerving phone call, Walker had abandoned his sculpture for the day. Instead of working, Quinn watched as he fished a tire iron out of the trunk of his car and unearthed an old metal baseball bat from the shed.
“What are you doing?” Quinn whispered when she saw him carrying the tire iron in one hand and the bat in the other.
Walker didn’t l
ook at her as he passed. “She’s afraid. I’m going to keep her safe.”
From what? Her father?
“This is ridiculous,” Quinn said, following him.
Walker wheeled on her. “You saw her. She’s scared to death, Quinn. I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s something terribly wrong—and if your sister won’t tell us what it is, the least we can do is make sure Lucy’s okay.”
“Nora—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Walker stormed past. “Stop covering for your sister. Lucy is the one who needs our protection.”
They had hardly spoken the rest of the day. What was there to say? Walker wasn’t a violent person. As far as Quinn knew, he had never even been in a fistfight. If something actually happened—if someone came for Lucy—what would he do? But the whole situation still seemed ludicrous to Quinn. Impossible. This couldn’t be their lives. All the same, she agreed to go to her mother’s in the hope that Liz would be ready to join the cause. Whatever it was.
Quinn sighed and tried to give Lucy a reassuring smile. She squeezed her foot. “I’m going to tuck you in,” she said, “and when you wake up in the morning it will be as if I was never gone at all.”
“It’s not my bedtime.”
“It’s eight thirty,” Quinn said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “When I was your age I had to be in bed by seven thirty.” It was true, or at least close enough. Quinn still wasn’t exactly sure how old Lucy was. She had asked, but the number changed. Six? Seven? Was it common for children not to know their age? Quinn just wasn’t sure.
“I’m not tired.” But Lucy’s eyes were heavy, her arms loosening their grip on her skinny legs. She was clearly exhausted.
“I’ll carry you to bed … ?” It was an offer that Quinn wasn’t sure the girl would accept, but after a moment of consideration, Lucy held out her arms.
She didn’t weigh much. Or maybe she just held herself carefully. Either way, in one quick movement Lucy was pressed against Quinn. Her legs went around Quinn’s waist and her arms circled her neck. Quinn stood still for a heartbeat, two, as she held the girl close and breathed in the scent of her hair, her sun-warmed skin. It was impossible not to love a child, and Lucy’s innocence was an arrow that pierced Quinn. I think I love you, she thought, and I don’t even know you. The thought surprised her. And scared her.
Quinn carried Lucy to the bedroom and tucked her in, tugging the sheets up to her chin and offering her the stuffed fox that Walker had bought. Lucy took it and pulled it close, then rolled onto her side so that her back was to Quinn and the bedroom door. She cut such a sad silhouette that Quinn faltered, ready to break her promise to her mother and forget the whole evening out. But then she had an inspiration.
“Wait a sec,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Grabbing a pen and the handset of the telephone off the wall, she hurried back to Lucy. “Give me your hand, honey.”
Lucy rolled over, a skeptical look on her face. But she held out her hand anyway.
Writing carefully, Quinn traced her cell phone number onto the smooth skin of Lucy’s palm. “This is the number to my cell,” she said. Passing Lucy the handset she added, “And here’s the phone. If you need me for any reason at all, you call that number and I’ll be here so fast your head will spin.”
Lucy stared at the numbers, her face blank and unreadable. But then she curled her fingers over her palm as if protecting a precious secret. With her other hand she took the phone and hid it beneath her pillow. She settled back, wrapping herself tight in the covers.
Quinn watched the curve of her back for a moment, the rise and fall of her steady breath. “Do you want me to lock the door?” she asked, wondering what Lucy would say.
She nodded.
“Okay.” Quinn touched her shoulder and wished she dared to brush a kiss across the shallow divot of her temple. “Good night, Lucy.”
Quinn locked the door from the inside and pulled it shut behind her, hoping that the phone and the closed door made Lucy feel safe.
“Did you just lock that door?” Walker asked. He was standing in pajama pants, drying his unkempt hair with a towel. His narrow chest was bare and though it made Quinn’s stomach knot, she was thankful that Lucy hadn’t seen him half-dressed and lean, masculine and intimidating. Walker had the body of a runner, lithe and spare, but he was all man. I’m afraid of him, Lucy had said. And though Quinn had no idea who he was or what he looked like, she could ballpark a few generalities.
“Yes, I locked the door,” she said. “Lucy felt safer that way. There’s an ice pick in the utensil drawer if you need it. Just stick it in the hole in the center of the knob and it’ll pop open.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before. Is there anything you’d like to confess?”
“Just that I liked to borrow my sister’s clothes when I was a teenager. She locked her door; I broke in.”
“I like this side of you, Mrs. Cruz.” Walker arched an eyebrow, but it was a feeble attempt at flirtation.
Quinn looked away quickly, afraid that he could see the truth written across her face. That when they fought sometimes she wondered: Do we belong? Of course, she knew the answer to that question. Yes. Yes, forever. But sometimes … “Call me if you need anything,” she said, and was surprised by how her voice fell limp and weak between them.
Walker didn’t seem to notice. “I think I can hold down the fort for a couple of hours.”
“Just promise me you’ll let me know if she needs me.”
He slung the towel across his shoulders and put his hands on his hips. “Be careful,” he said.
“Yeah. You too.”
• • •
When Quinn pulled up to her mother’s house, the cul-de-sac was full of cars. The vehicles stretched around the circle and down both sides of the street, but no one had dared to park in Liz Sanford’s stamped concrete driveway. Well, Quinn had no problem doing so. She pulled in and turned off the car, then sat behind the steering wheel for a minute, watching the sun set in her rearview mirror.
How many times had she lingered on this driveway, wishing she didn’t have to go in? The tension between Nora and her parents was often thick and suffocating and JJ’s superiority was unbearable. Quinn had longed for happiness, for peace. For banter around the supper table and maybe the odd family movie night with popcorn and laughter. But the Sanfords had always spun just a little off-center, the wobble imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t on the inside. Weren’t they lovely in Christmas cards? Attractive and smiling? Weren’t they sociable and accomplished and model students and citizens of Key Lake? Well, for the most part.
Sighing, Quinn finally stepped out of the car and made her way to the back of the house. Her dress swished against her hips, her hair loose and wavy across her shoulders. She had spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready, making sure that she would leave Walker wanting when she walked out the door. Now she realized that her mother’s backyard was filled with strangers, people she didn’t know or acquaintances she had all but forgotten about in her five-year exile. Quinn felt their eyes on her, their attention direct because they were tipsy. Each gaze was a brushstroke against her skin, an almost tangible thing. All at once she felt conspicuous, exposed.
“Quinn!” Liz broke away from a group of people near the small fountain that flanked a rose garden and swayed toward her daughter, arms spread wide. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, gathering her daughter into a loose hug. Then, a whisper: “You’re late.”
“I’m here,” Quinn said. “Can we—”
“Hi, Quinn.” Amelia appeared at Quinn’s elbow and put a stiff arm around her sister-in-law. Her belly was so huge they couldn’t properly hug, and she gave up, resorting to rubbing her tummy absentmindedly.
“You look beautiful,” Quinn told her, and though she meant it, there was a thread of jealousy woven through her words. The truth was, Amelia looked like she belonged on the cover of Parenting magazine. She was diminutive, dark, and shapel
y, her lips full and her thick, shoulder-length hair held back with tortoiseshell clips. There was something indefinably wholesome about her, as if pregnancy had conferred a sort of purity on her that canceled out what Quinn knew of her sister-in-law’s partying days. Despite being five feet two and barely a hundred pounds—pre-pregnancy, of course—Amelia used to be able to shotgun a beer in three seconds flat. Now her tummy was almost exactly the size of a mini-keg, but instead of Bud Light it contained Quinn’s soon-to-be niece or nephew. Well, Quinn’s other niece or nephew. She swallowed. “How are you feeling?”
“Big, fat, tired …”
JJ came up behind Amelia and offered her a small plate filled with hors d’oeuvres. “Hungry,” he added. “Often, hangry. Hi, sis.”
Quinn didn’t move to hug him, but she forced a smile. JJ was dapper and charming as always, resembling a model in a Polo Ralph Lauren ad in a slim-fitting jean shirt and plaid shorts. He even had the quintessential cleft chin and dazzlingly white smile—never mind the prep school attitude. Quinn often longed to remind him that he had been born in the provincial backwater town of Key Lake, Minnesota, not upstate New York. She suspected that he’d be genuinely surprised at this news. “It’s good to see you guys,” she said, grasping at normalcy. “We haven’t gotten together much this summer.”
It was true. JJ and Amelia had their own social circle, their own carefully constructed lives. JJ had taken over his father’s real estate business and Amelia worked as his secretary. Nepotism be damned. It was his company and he could do what he wanted with it. Besides, they made a pretty couple, and no one ever seemed to question things that were lovely.