The Lake House

by Marci Nault

  Fog was lifting between the trees. She imagined hanging a hammock near the split-rail fence. She could see herself sipping iced tea and reading a book on hot summer days.

  “There are three bedrooms upstairs,” Aaron said from the doorway, “but take your time.”

  Heather walked through the kitchen to the living room and saw Aaron looking out the window. The man was a bundle of nerves. If he was this desperate to sell, she might be able to negotiate the price. Closed double doors met her at the top of the stairs. Two bedrooms were on either side of the hallway. One looked as if it had been used as a study, with bookshelves and a desk that looked out over the side yard to the neighbor’s house. Through the window she could see a bedroom with bunk beds. As she left the room she saw faded pencil marks on the doorframe indicated the growth of a little girl named Maryland. White wainscoting met floral wallpaper in the second bedroom. Not her style, but it had the charm of a Vermont inn.

  In the hallway she opened the double doors to the master suite. Angles and nooks, created by the gabled roof, made the room feel expansive and cozy at the same time. The room was furnished with a queen-size cherry canopy bed, a standing oval mirror, and an antique fainting couch. Heather ran her fingers over the footboard; the carved wood felt romantic. If the bed came with the house, she’d hang sheer curtains from the canopy, and on lazy summer mornings, she’d lie in bed, the breeze shifting the material while she listened to the birds.

  Through a massive window with a built-in seat, she could see the beach across the street and the slushy ice on the lake. Two wooden poles had been sunk into the sand and waited for summer when the volleyball net could be hung. A picnic table sat under the large oak tree. Heather wondered if everyone congregated in the evenings for a drink in the front yard.

  She unzipped her leather boots, sank her feet into the lush carpet, and curled against the window. This was a real bedroom, a place of sanctuary where she could rest after a long trip.

  She thought about her childhood home, the eight-hundred-square-foot apartment where she and her mother had moved following her grandmother’s death, when they could no longer afford the lake house. The bedroom furniture from the lake house had been too big for Heather’s tiny room in the apartment, so her mother had constructed a bed for her out of plywood and dowels; the mattress was a three-inch foam piece covered in vinyl.

  In the winter, she stuffed the edges of her thin comforter around her body like a sleeping bag because the electric heat was too expensive to keep the room above sixty degrees. Whenever the wind blew through the plastic-covered, single-paned glass, Heather’s fingers and toes froze.

  Every week her mother placed a lottery ticket under the dollar-sign magnet on the refrigerator. At night, Heather would lie in bed and picture the money they might win.

  They would leave the neighborhood where people fought in the middle of the night. They’d buy another lake house and she’d sleep in a canopy bed covered with pink lace ruffles. When she jumped on the mattress, fluffy blankets would poof around her. Books would fill tall shelves that lined the walls.

  Heather looked out the window. The neighborhood reminded her of her daydreams, a community in which neighbors cared for one another. Heather’s lifestyle didn’t allow her time to form friendships, and except for her one close girlfriend, Gina, the people in Heather’s life were more acquaintances.

  She ran her finger over her diamond ring. She knew it was time to remove it, but it felt too final. Once the ring was gone, she knew it was over and she would actually be alone. On the night Charlie asked her to marry him, they sat in a white horse-drawn carriage, huddled under a fleece blanket, a bag of hot chestnuts between them. The horse’s hooves had clip-clopped against the cobblestone of Boston as they made their way through the narrow roads. When they came to the steps of Faneuil Hall, Charlie had stepped down from the carriage, knelt on one knee, and proposed. Now it was over and time to move on.

  In five days she was leaving for Europe and would be away a month. It would be tough to buy the house. There would be contracts to sign, a formal mortgage application process, a home inspection. She was better off finding an apartment in the city, but a faint whisper came from her heart: This is home.

  Tom Woodward pushed the keyboard under his desktop and stood to stretch. Through the glass doors of his office, he could see his staff of architects focused on their computers. The clock read noon. He’d been up since four, and the morning had slipped away. He sat at his drafting table, the plan for the Watsons’ five-thousand-square-foot home in front of him. “Just a few more tweaks.”

  His brain felt empty, as if all his thoughts had been sucked to the core of his mind, then exploded past his skull. He needed a nap, but he still had to head to Nagog this afternoon. Sarah had called yesterday, asking if he could come over and help her with some repairs. It would’ve been easier to call a handyman, but she was one of the women who’d raised him. Plus, he hadn’t seen his grandfather in weeks, and it was time to check in.

  “Thought you might need this,” his assistant, Cynthia, said as she walked into the office and placed a sandwich and coffee on his desk. Cynthia had psychic abilities. She anticipated his needs: food appeared on his desk before his stomach growled; coffee came just as his fingers went to rub his eyes; the files he needed were readily available. “I have to go up to my grandfather’s place this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

  “Thank you, but who would keep this place running?” She unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “The Chartreuses are stressing about the position of the house on the lot. They’d like you to meet them at the site tomorrow morning at ten. The address is in your PDA along with directions.”

  “Have I told you that this company couldn’t run without you?” Tom asked.

  “No, but at my next review I’m expecting deep gratitude.” Cynthia smiled.

  She walked to the door and leaned against the glass door. “Let me know if you need anything else. And eat something.”

  Tom looked at the drawings in front of him and realized his brain couldn’t go any further. He grabbed the food and his jacket and headed through the lobby he’d designed in inlaid mahogany, tamarind, and redwood.

  Tom took a few bites of his sandwich as the elevator opened. He pressed the button for the basement garage. As he walked to his vehicles, a few lights flickered. He’d call maintenance from his car and have them fix them.

  As the owner of the large office building in Providence, Rhode Island, he tried to leave things to the management company he’d hired, but it was impossible when he saw the little things that piled up each day. He lived in a loft space on the top floor and at times he didn’t leave the building for an entire week. These days, the only time he left was when he went to visit his grandfather in Littleton, Massachusetts, or to meet with clients.

  He opened the door to a white rusted truck with Woodward Architecture, Ltd. lettered on the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. Parked next to the vehicle was his new blue pickup with three thousand miles on the speedometer, and a sports car that carried him to meetings. But he only drove the white truck to visit Nagog. It had been a present from the community when he started his firm.

  The rusted truck rattled down the highway as he pushed the speedometer to seventy miles per hour. Tom bounced over the potholes, the suspension similar to an all-terrain vehicle. His mechanic had tried to convince him to junk the tired vehicle, which now had 270,000 miles on it and a twice-rebuilt engine, but he couldn’t do it. As the rain continued relentlessly, he prayed the weather wouldn’t turn icy as he drove north.

  An hour later, he pulled in front of his grandfather’s house in Nagog. Two cars were parked in the drive his grandfather shared with his neighbor Maryland. Tom now cared for the house, after Maryland had been placed in a nursing home. He realized what the cars might mean, and though he didn’t have time to investigate, he knew if he was right, there would be uproar in the community.<
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  Tom walked into his grandfather’s garage and removed his leather coat and button-down shirt. He pulled a sweatshirt from a laundry basket on the dryer and pulled it over his T-shirt, covering his head with the hood. He went back to his truck and grabbed his tool belt from behind the seat. The rain changed to hail and white pellets of ice bounced off the cars. Tom shielded his eyes as he looked into the upstairs window of Maryland’s home. Lights had been turned on.

  Every afternoon of his childhood, Tom had jumped from the yellow bus and run as fast as his legs could take him across Maryland’s yard. Without knocking, he’d bang through the kitchen door, his backpack landing on the table as he fell into the padded wooden chair, a cookie already at his lips.

  Maryland kept her brown hair pulled back with a barrette. She wore big glasses that fell down her nose when she kissed his head.

  “How was school?” she’d ask.

  “Cool. My friend Jeremy got a yellow dump truck that’s remote-controlled. He let me play with it at recess.”

  She’d tousle his hair. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Just stupid stuff.” He’d open his backpack, and she’d look at his worksheets.

  Maryland had been placed in a Florida nursing home by her son-in-law, Aaron. Tom had tried to stop it, but he wasn’t blood. Now there were strangers in her house.

  He walked into Maryland’s living room and saw Aaron pacing.

  Aaron looked up and walked toward him. “Tommy, I’m glad you’re here. There’s a shelf that seems to be buckling.”

  Tom crossed his arms. “Nice to see you too, Aaron. What are you doing here?”

  “Maryland wants to sell the house,” Aaron said.

  “Really?” Tom removed his wet sweatshirt and walked to the bookshelf. Aaron wasn’t worth Tom’s anger. He pulled hardbound books from the sagging wood and tried to see who was looking at the house.

  “How we doing?” Aaron asked as two women walked down the stairs. “I thought you might like to meet one of the neighbors. Heather, this is Tommy Woodward.”

  Tom watched Heather walk toward him. He’d expected an older woman, but Heather was young and pretty, with a large diamond on her left hand. What did she want with a house in this community?

  He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you and your husband looking to buy a summer place or hoping to live here year-round?”

  “My husband?” Heather shook her head and stared.

  Tom pointed to her ring.

  “Oh.” Her cheeks flushed as she tucked her hand behind her back. “Fiancé. I’m not married.”

  “Well, if you’d like to know anything about the house, I’ve done the upkeep for the last few years.”

  “Tommy’s our neighborhood handyman.” Aaron put his arm around Tom’s shoulder.

  He stepped away. “I have to be going. I need to fix Sarah and Carl’s step.”

  “Everyone helps each other around here,” Aaron said.

  Tom snorted. “It was nice to meet you, Heather. Good luck with your home search.”

  As he closed the door behind him, he heard Heather say, “I’d like to make an offer.” This is going to be interesting, he thought.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hail bounced against the pitched roof of the community center where Carl, Bill, Daniel, and Joseph sat around a table, piles of poker chips and cards spread in front of them. Joseph looked at his cards, two queens and a jack. It was a good hand, but the spread in front of him had a king and an ace. He looked at his pile of chips. It had dwindled to a quarter of the size of the other piles. He’d been distracted throughout the game.

  “Playing poker without cigars isn’t right,” Bill said as he raised by two dollars. It was a twenty-dollar buy-in and Joseph had about five dollars left. “I tell ya, this whole healthy-lifestyle-phase our wives are in has to be stopped. Now we can’t smoke in the community center or our own homes because it’s no longer healthy. I tell ya what’s unhealthy: stressing about what isn’t good for ya.”

  “Give me bacon and eggs alongside a good steak any day and just let my heart clog up when it’s ready to stop ticking. I’m going out happy,” Carl said.

  Daniel Littman looked at his cards and folded. He grabbed his inhaler and sucked in the medication. His breath rumbled in his chest. Joseph looked at the purple bruises beneath Daniel’s skin. Someone needed to convince him to see a doctor.

  Daniel hadn’t grown up in the neighborhood. A Holocaust victim, he’d immigrated to the United States with his wife after the war. Bill had given him a job as an accountant in his family’s factory. Daniel worked long hours and dedicated his life to the company.

  Bill never asked about the concentration camp, but he had seen the numbers tattooed on the inside of Daniel’s left arm. When Bill’s family’s house was passed down to him, he came to the community and told them his plan. He and Molly were already living in her parents’ home. He’d been at Dachau the day the troops went in to free the prisoners. He’d seen the famine, the living conditions, the torture they’d endured. He wanted Daniel and his family to have a place to call home.

  The community agreed that Bill could give his home to the Littmans, and Daniel became a part of the neighborhood.

  “Joseph, it’s your turn,” Carl said. “I don’t know where your head is today, but I like that you want to give me all your money.” He laughed.

  Joseph looked at his cards and his five chips and decided to go all in. As soon as he did, Bill flipped over a king and an ace and gathered up his winnings.

  “Well, I guess that’s it for me today,” Joseph said as he stood. He walked across the room and into the library area. Two couches and chairs were situated around a fireplace. He hit the button on the wall and blue flames ignited the gas. He looked at the built-in bookcases and scanned the titles for a good book. Nothing caught his interest.

  The community center had been built nine years ago over the patio that had held lavish parties. Now the space had a gym with Nautilus equipment, an office section with two computers—though none of his friends ever used them—and the library area. There was a small kitchen and a dining area for when parties were held. A pool table stood next to where the men played cards. Many days were spent in this room, the women playing dominoes or knitting, while the men played poker or pool. The room had warm woods, deep burgundy carpets, and soft lights for a cozy feel during the winter months.

  Joseph walked across the parquet dance floor and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He opened a curtain and stared at the lake. Snow covered the overgrown path that led through his yard and to the private beach.

  There were thousands of little memories that Joseph enjoyed replaying: his daughter tapping her first pair of patent leather shoes on the church steps, the first time he held his son, and the night he and Victoria had made love.

  Victoria’s rejection had broken his spirit. Though he’d never told her, Joseph had dreamt of becoming a photographer—with Victoria by his side, they would travel the world. While away at war, he’d lie on his bunk at night and plan. He’d known that Victoria couldn’t remain constrained by Nagog’s lifestyle. The war had caused him to see the brutality of life, but also allowed him to see the beauty of the buildings and landscape of Europe. He imagined Victoria’s eyes alight as they discovered new places.

  Never in letters did he share his plans with her. He wanted to surprise her when the war was over and life could be about happiness again. Before he could share his ideas, she rejected him and ran away. Stunned by her response to his proposal, he hadn’t immediately followed her. Only a half hour had passed when he went to find her, to show her what their life could be, but she was already gone. Over the months that followed, she didn’t return or contact him and without her spark, and in the wake of her rejection, his dreams had died.

  He’d fallen into a role: manager, then owner, of his father’s textile factory, husband to the daughter of his mother’s best friend, and keeper of the Nagog home. He forgot about profe
ssional photography and the world outside the community. Dreams were for teenagers. It wasn’t until he became a father that his life felt fulfilled.

  After his wife, Barbara, gave birth to their eldest son, Joseph began to see her as the earth goddess. Over the years, her once slim body softened as she brought another son and then their daughter into the world. Thin white stretch marks he had to squint to see lined her stomach. He enjoyed running his hand over their patterns. They were the lines of new life, the beauty marks his children had left behind. The children brightened their world with smiles and laughter. Joseph loved the way he and Barbara shared the joy of the family they created: pillow fights and stories at bedtime with the kids; private dances in the living room after the children were asleep.

  Barbara had been as steady as the earth’s rotation. Every day the sun came up, and every night it set, and in between there may have been clouds, but for the most part they had clear days. But then Victoria began to visit Nagog. She’d blast into the community in a flurry of glamour and excitement, usually without warning.

  The first time he’d taken his daughter to the amusement park, she insisted they go on a ride called the Birthday Cake. Her small hand, sticky with cotton candy, pulled him up the metal stairs. They entered the round room and stood against the sides. The room began to spin and he felt his head press back. Faster and faster they spun until the floor dropped from beneath his feet and he stuck to the wall, unable to move.

  Whenever Victoria came home to visit, Joseph felt as if he were in that cake. No matter how hard he tried to avoid her silver eyes, he felt pulled by the spirit they emanated. He didn’t need to see her smile grow until her cheeks popped; he felt it from across the room. It had been that way since he was six.