The Lake House

by Marci Nault

  “What do you mean, Joseph paid the price?” Victoria asked.

  “He and Barbara divorced because of you,” Sarah said, “but of course you were too selfish to notice what was happening around you.”

  Victoria stood and gathered her coat. ”I don’t need to listen to this nonsense.” Molly tried to stop her, but Victoria shook her head. At the door she turned. “Sarah, Agatha, I’m sorry you feel the way you do, but this is my home too. And my family.”

  “Not like you ever acted that way,” Agatha said as Victoria closed the door.

  The gray twilight had turned black. The wind stung her cheeks, like when she held an ice pack too long against her skin. The cold watered her eyes and her forehead ached as she walked home trying to understand what Sarah had said about Joseph’s divorce. There were things Victoria knew she’d done in her past to hurt her friends, but to be blamed for Joseph’s divorce was ridiculous.

  The warm air of her sunroom made her tight muscles feel like ice cubes dropped into a hot frying pan. She held her arms to her chest and shivered while her frozen body melted. The arthritic bones in her hands creaked and the joints popped with movement as she stretched the tight tendons. Upstairs, she changed into violet silk pajamas, slipped her feet into the furry slippers Molly had given her one birthday, and huddled under the covers.

  Victoria filled her lungs with air, letting her ribs expand and her collarbone rise. She counted to ten. The breath released, her shoulders dropped, and she squeezed her stomach to exhale. Hours of yoga, recommended by her psychiatrist, had taught her this special way of breathing. After fifteen minutes of inhaling and exhaling she felt warm, but the sword through her gut continued to bleed memories.

  Two years after her father’s death, Victoria returned to Nagog for a social visit—her first in twelve years besides her parents’ funerals—and the community hadn’t opened their arms to welcome her back.

  It was 1954, but in Nagog, it might as well have been the 1940s. Orbed lanterns filled with moonlight crisscrossed over the patio. Crisp white linen covered the tables. Champagne glasses sparkled in flickering candlelight as men in brown business suits slapped each other on the back and lifted their drinks in revelry. It was déjà vu—from the waiters’ black-and-white uniforms to the antique rose-patterned china—the traditional Labor Day party that had been held for thirty years.

  Oppressive humidity caused the women to dab their foreheads with embroidered handkerchiefs, but their shirtwaist dresses never wrinkled. It wouldn’t have been appropriate, and somehow the clothing knew it.

  Victoria’s three-carat diamond ring sparkled in the party lights. The dance floor was Victoria’s stage. Her bright green silk halter dress made her feel as sexy as Marilyn Monroe, when her new husband, Devon Massaro, spun her in wide steps, pushing the slower couples to the sidelines.

  All her childhood friends had given her quick hugs and perfunctory kisses on the cheek when she entered the party. Victoria could tell they were sick to their stomachs with envy. She’d dangled her diamond in the cluster of women. Sarah had turned her long, thin face away and pursed her lips like she’d sucked a lemon. Her friends’ coy glances at her husband let Victoria know they were mesmerized by Devon’s good looks. Every bored housewife in America secretly wanted to be a model and movie star, and though Victoria was only a supporting actress, she already had an Oscar award under her belt, and her face was often featured in the magazines her friends read.

  As she danced, she caught glimpses of Joseph. No words had passed between them. No “congratulations on your wedding” or “you look beautiful.” Something seemed to connect and also separate them. She could feel his presence, but no matter how hard she tried to cross the ten yards to reach him, he moved back the same distance she’d advanced.

  A child ran up from the beach and jumped into his arms. He cradled the girl on his protruding belly and petted her hair. What had happened to the strong muscles she’d admired through long summers of watching him play volleyball and football on the beach? When had he married? She’d seen him talk to two other children down on the beach. One looked to be around eight years old. He’d attended her parents’ funerals, but she didn’t remember him having a family then.

  The song ended. Devon kissed her ear and demanded, “It’s time we leave. I can’t listen to another word about plastics and textiles.”

  “Darling, please. It’s only ten. These people are my family, and I haven’t seen them for years.” She ran her fingers through his thick, brown hair and combed the strays into place.

  “Then stay. I’m going back to the house. We have an early flight tomorrow,” Devon said.

  He kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth, his teeth biting her lips. She felt herself quiver with the quick endorphin release. He leaned back and touched her face. Then he walked away, lit a cigarette, and headed down the dirt road.

  Around the patio, women whispered and nodded to one another, shocked by the audacious display of affection.

  “A woman of a certain social standing is expected to show grace and dignity at all times,” Victoria’s mother had lectured. “As a Rose, I expect nothing less of you than to become an educated woman with elegance and poise.”

  All Nagog women had been brought up with the same lecture, and Victoria was certain they felt she acted with impropriety. Still, Molly had told her that they watched her movies. Each woman who now obscured her moving lips with the side of her hand would later brag in other circles that Victoria Rose was her childhood friend.

  Victoria walked to the edge of the patio and looked out over the beach. Children screamed as they ran around the bonfire, their feet kicking up sand. Victoria felt the warmth of Molly’s curvy body against her back.

  “Devon is rather handsome,” Molly said as she hugged Victoria.

  Victoria held Molly’s soft hands. “What’s everyone saying?”

  “Oh, don’t bother yourself with their gossip. They’re hurt you didn’t invite them to your wedding, and they don’t understand what’s kept you away.” Molly rubbed Victoria’s fingers.

  Victoria had wanted extraordinary, and she’d accomplished it: In the last twelve years she’d traveled to Paris, Cuba, and Rome for different roles. She’d worked in the theater in London and New York.

  The band played their last song while the older people retired to bed. The waiters cleared the last of the tables as the band packed up. Her friends gathered around the tables and dealt cards.

  The weather changed as they played Five Hundred rummy. The wind shook the trees in an orchestra of creaks and snaps. Napkins blew from the tables as the lake’s waves lifted the rowboats tied to the dock and the wooden bodies tore at their ropes. And through the impending storm, her friends seemed focused on nothing but turning the conversation away from Victoria. Sarah laid a card on the table and picked a new one from the deck. “Did you hear that Maria is going to run for president of the PTA? Like the woman has a chance of winning. Last year she forgot to bring baked goods to the fair.”

  Oh no, how could she have forgotten the baked goods? Victoria thought.

  “I won an Oscar for best supporting actress,” Victoria tried to interject casually. “You should all come to California—”

  “We know. We read about it in a magazine,” Sarah snapped, as if Victoria was a three-year-old who’d interrupted the grownup talk. “Did you know we’ve decided to retire here? We’re going to leave Boston and move back. We plan to live out our golden years having parties and traveling together. Doesn’t it sound fantastic?” Sarah placed her cards on the table. Between two fingers she lifted a long brown cigarette.

  Victoria rubbed her arms, goose bumps rising in the chilly weather. “I can’t imagine living here full time. It’s too cold.” Her friends were quiet and she finally had the stage. “I love the warm nights in California, and it only rains a few weeks out of the year, but I don’t think Devon and I will retire in the United States. We love Europe too much. We’re planning to buy a home
on the French Riviera. You’re all invited to visit. We’ll have plenty of room. Have any of you traveled to Europe?”

  “Roger and I went to Paris for our honeymoon,” Evelyn said.

  “Ah, Paris,” Victoria said, before anyone could get another word in about PTA meetings. “The food, the art, the fashion, it’s just one of my favorite places. I’ve been there three times now. But Italy is my favorite destination. Even though the landscapes are similar to California’s, I find Italy more romantic. You should see it when the sunflower fields are in bloom. It’s a wave of yellow against the blue sky.”

  “You know, it’s getting a little too cold out here,” Sarah said. “I think I’ll turn in.”

  “I will as well,” Agatha said, and the two stood.

  “It was nice to see you, Victoria,” Sarah said without a smile as she walked away. “Safe travels.”

  Within a matter of minutes the other women had said quick good-byes and walked over to where the men were playing poker.

  Molly sat with Victoria as she gathered the cards and placed them in a box. “Why don’t you and Devon come to our house for breakfast in the morning?” Molly said.

  “Our flight is at six a.m. We need to leave by four,” Victoria said as she watched the rest of the community walk toward their homes.

  “Well, then, I’ll bring you muffins and coffee for your trip. I need one last hug before you leave again.” She stood and embraced Victoria. “Who knows how long it will be again before I get to have my arms around you?”

  “I promise it won’t be so long this time,” Victoria said. But as she looked to the empty patio she wondered if her presence was all that welcome.

  Victoria watched Bill and Molly walk home, then she headed down to the beach and the dying bonfire. Red lines of heat danced through the blackening coals. Warmth, she needed warmth. Victoria moved closer to the fire ring and bent down to get closer to the heat. The coals looked innocent, quiet and gentle, but if she were to touch the charcoal, her hands would blister black and red.

  She stood and trudged along the water against the wind, the sand pooling in her shoes. The path that led to the private beach was before her, and she didn’t know why, but she took the dirt path covered in pine needles.

  Joseph sat on the log in the place she’d left him twelve years before. Frozen, she waited. His back was slumped in a C curve and his belly hung on his lap as his hands raked his blond hair.

  A cloud moved away from the moon and silver light brightened the beach. In unison they looked to the stars. He turned. Stood. Stared. Their eyes met. She took a step forward. He moved a step back. He put his hand up to stop her from coming forward.

  “Joseph,” she said, and then stopped, uncertain of what to say.

  “I should be getting back to my house.” He began to walk toward the path and then he turned. “It’s good to see you so happy, Victoria.”

  “You too,” she said, and watched him walk away.

  Victoria took another yoga breath and removed the comforter, stood, and went downstairs. Her slippers’ rubber soles brushed against the stone tile in the kitchen, breaking the silence of the house. She poured water into a blue teapot and placed it on the cast-iron stove. Exotic teas from around the world lined the second shelf of the pantry. Victoria dropped a chamomile bag into a mug with Number 1 Grandma hand-painted on the side.

  Molly had stocked the refrigerator with salad, lasagna, and casseroles. Victoria pulled out the lasagna and picked at the crusted cheese. As a young woman, Victoria had been focused on showing her friends that she’d made the right decision when she left for Hollywood. Looking back, she realized she hadn’t bothered to pay any attention to their lives. Never did she ask Evelyn about her wedding. She didn’t even know how her friend had met Roger. Now it was too late to hear those stories.

  In 1954 she’d come home to brag, and it took her this long to realize she’d acted like a snob. Over the years, she’d used Nagog as a vacation home or as a safe haven in times of pain. This time, Victoria had returned to face her demons, but the truth was, she also missed her friends. Her friends’ anger had grown and festered over the years. Would her presence only create more pain? But a fallen angel must do her penance, and choices can’t be undone because one desires them to be.

  Victoria covered the lasagna and placed it in the refrigerator. She’d have to start preparing her own meals before Molly’s cooking widened her waistline. She poured hot water over the chamomile tea bag and watched the yellow color seep into the mug.

  She walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to her father’s study. She breathed in the smell of pipe tobacco and grabbed her ratty copy of Emma from the low shelf next to the window. The book’s corners were dented with teeth marks where her childhood beagle had chewed. She curled into the chair at her father’s desk. The green lamp illuminated the wood’s swirling grain. She opened the book, but the words blurred in front of her, their logical path senseless to her.

  She stood and looked in the mirror that hung above the fireplace. An old, lonely woman stared back, a face sculpted by loss. A young woman believes in happily ever after. The problem with age is that you learn the truth—no matter how hard you fight to make your life perfect, the pain always finds a way in.

  CHAPTER 7

  Heather wanted to reach out and touch the gilded frame of Renoir’s life-size Dance in the Country painting. In middle school, she’d spent three years singing in the choir as she stared at a poster of this painting and dreamt of someday coming to Paris. Now she stood in Musée d’Orsay, three feet away from the original.

  As the Solo Female Traveler, Heather had visited most of the world’s greatest art museums: the Louvre, the Uffizi, London’s National Art Gallery, Tokyo’s National Museum of Western Art, the Vatican. Most of the art she’d seen had consisted of religious pieces or stern portraits of royalty created to display power. But the Impressionists’ work was different: colorful and bright, they brought the softness of everyday life to the canvas. Instead of demanding that she see the hard lines of reality, they blurred landscapes into something serene and almost touchable, as if the world was in a constant state of peace.

  Heather caught a glimpse of Monet’s Water Lilies out of the corner of her eye, and turned from the Renoir she’d been contemplating. Monet had always been her favorite artist, and she wanted to stand before his work and allow the pastel colors to swim in her spirit. As she approached Monet’s masterpiece, people rushed around her. They stood before the painting, looked around for security guards, and then snapped a quick photo of the piece before moving on to the next. Heather shook her head as she watched the tourists. They were always rushing, and not just with art. She remembered sitting at the Grand Canyon and watching people walk up to the edge, take dozens of photos, and then say, “Let’s get some ice cream.” The amount of time they spent actually looking at the Grand Canyon averaged about twenty minutes.

  Heather weaved her way through the halls of the old train station turned museum, taking in the works of Degas, Monet, van Gogh, and Manet. Three times she walked the hall filled with Vincent van Gogh’s swirls of color, stopping at Starry Night with each pass.

  A man’s voice came over the intercom and said in French and then English that the museum was closing. She walked through the central hallway, taking a last look at the statues before exiting the building.

  Outside, the afternoon rain had stopped and the sun was streaming through the clouds reflecting golden light on the brick Renaissance buildings. Sometimes Paris overwhelmed Heather: the ornate buildings with sculptured facades that looked like frosting on a wedding cake; the confident Parisian women who wore clothing as if it were art; the restaurants where people savored their food until late into the night. Everything about this city spoke to opulence and class. But, during the course of four visits, Heather had found her way into a softer side of Paris. She shopped in the Latin Quarter instead of the Champs-Élysées. She turned down tiny alleys and found small restaurants vis
ited by locals with owners who didn’t mind that she dined alone.

  Heather walked along the streets toward the Pont du Neuf, her favorite bridge from which to watch the sunset. Groups of friends began to congregate on the bridge with picnics of wine, bread, and cheese. Heather could hear laughter and conversation all around her.

  The sky turned a dark blue and the lights of the palaces along the river reflected like candlelight. With each visit to Paris she’d stood here at night, wishing to share it with someone. It was the most romantic spot—the place she longed to have a lover wrap her in his arms and kiss her like the man kissed the woman in the Renoir painting. It wasn’t a place of passion; it was a place where you felt how much you loved and were loved.

  She looked down at the three half-eaten desserts that she’d bought at a corner patisserie on her way to the bridge—more than enough to share with friends. It was that time of night that Heather dreaded when she traveled; she needed to find a restaurant. Her readers wanted her dining suggestions, and though she loved French food—cheese platters covered in fig sauce, butternut squash sautéed with sticks of butter, lemon-roasted chicken—the knowledge that she’d be dining alone dampened her spirits. All around her, people would be with friends, lovers, and family—and she’d have her notebook.

  She walked along the Seine until she reached the Louvre. Through the palace courtyard, past I. M. Pei’s pyramids of glass, cello music floated across the air, and she stopped to listen. The deep notes brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t want to go to a restaurant, but she also couldn’t bear to return to another barren hotel room. She’d been traveling a month: London, Scotland, Ireland, and now France. Each night she went back to her hotel and didn’t have anyone to call to let them know that she was okay.

  There’d been brief conversations with other guests at a hotel during breakfast, or another tourist as she rode the train, but other than that she’d been alone. She sent her articles to her editor and conversed through e-mail. Her lawyer sent her papers to sign for the house sale in Nagog and the bank sent her mortgage documents. This was the extent of her social interactions.