The Lake House

by Marci Nault

  She placed coins in the musician’s velvet-lined case and walked into the central courtyard of the Louvre. She thought about the house on Nagog Lake with its window seats and lilac bushes. Her mind wandered to the man she’d met there, Tommy Woodward, standing in the living room wearing jeans, a tool belt, and a black shirt that accentuated a strong chest. His eyes were the color of Maui’s ocean, and the dampness in the air had curled the tips of his wavy hair. His rugged cheekbones made him look like James Dean. Heather had found herself daydreaming about him more than she cared to admit. What would it be like to stand with him on the Pont du Neuf while they watched the sunset over Paris?

  She reminded herself not to get too carried away; there was a good possibility that he had a girlfriend. There hadn’t been a wedding ring, but she’d glimpsed a room with bunk beds in the Woodward house. Maybe he had nephews that visited. At least she hoped that was the explanation.

  Tomorrow was the home inspection on the Nagog house. Heather prayed that no serious problems would be found. Everything was set for her to buy the house by the end of next week. At the last minute, the agent had once again suggested a home inspection, and Heather had finally agreed. She didn’t know how to explain that no matter what, she needed this house. She didn’t have anywhere else to go when she returned to Boston, but more than that, she needed to be part of a community, not just a tourist in life.

  Tommy pulled his truck in front of his grandfather’s home. Dark gray clouds covered the moon and stars and the wind moved between the Nagog houses, rattling windows.

  He saw movement between Maryland’s yard and the Dragones’. He walked around the back of Grandpa’s garage and saw Bill, Carl, and Daniel making their way across the yard between Carl’s garage and Maryland’s sun porch. Blue lights from their headlamps illuminated Maryland’s once elaborate rose garden. Daniel squeaked open the screen door on the back porch at 8 Nagog Drive, and the three men entered.

  What were they up to? He snuck closer to the sun porch and listened.

  Carl looked at the other men. “Synchronize your watches to eight fifteen. We’ll plan to meet back here in twenty minutes. Keep low and quiet. Remember the signal. I’ll hoot like an owl if anyone comes round.”

  Bill leaned a shovel against the railing and pulled a crowbar from his black bag. “Remember, his hoot sounds like a crow squawking. I’m going to give the porch a remodel, so watch your step when you come back.”

  Carl turned to go into the kitchen. “Make enough damage to make the home inspector tell the girl not to buy it, but not enough to ruin Maryland’s house.”

  Tommy covered his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle his laughter. Earlier that morning, Aaron had called Tommy asking him to check on the house before the home inspection the following day. He was worried that the men had done something to sabotage the place. Tommy had called Grandpa to say he was coming for a visit and had told him the reason. Grandpa must have leaked the information that the inspection was tomorrow.

  Tom watched as Bill knelt down on his good knee and with his large body slammed the crowbar underneath the step plank and lifted out the nails. Tom knew he should stop the men, but he’d let them have their fun. They couldn’t do too much damage, and he’d fix it after they left.

  Tom’s mother had died when he was five. A few months later, his father had left him at Grandpa’s house for the summer while he worked in Switzerland. Tom spent his days with the other grandkids. They played cops and robbers, climbed trees, and practiced diving off the dock’s springboard.

  At night, Tom watched marshmallows turn brown and bubble over the bonfire while Bill told them stories about lake monsters. Dark shadows crossed Bill’s mammoth face as he spoke, the firelight accentuating the deep creases between his bushy eyebrows. At fifty years old, Bill still acted like a big kid. “The monsters form in the mud and grow to the size of trees,” he said, stretching out his large arms and lumbering around the ring of boys. “They have leech mouths covering their bodies, all starving for children’s blood. They rise from the lake at night and climb through bedroom windows. Before you can scream, their mouths latch onto your skin and they suck out every last drop of blood.” Bill screamed and grabbed Tom, whose marshmallow fell into the fire and exploded into flames.

  The other children jumped and ran for their parents. Bill laughed, noogied Tom’s head, and then tickled his lanky body. “You’re not scared of a little tale. Are ya?”

  Tom shook his head no, but that night he’d climbed into Grandpa’s bed.

  In September, when the other children returned to their homes, Grandpa enrolled Tom in Littleton Elementary. At Thanksgiving, frost covered the grass like powdered sugar, and his father still hadn’t returned. When the tree buds burst green, Tom realized his father wasn’t going to return. Tom demanded that Grandpa take him to the airport. He sat on the porch, his suitcase packed, determined to go to Europe and find his father. While he was waiting, Bill walked toward him, a saw in his hand. “I need a strong man to build tables. You up for the assignment?”

  Tom wanted to stand his ground about going to the airport, but the saw’s sharp teeth looked cool. “Yes, sir.”

  Bill swung him onto his shoulders and they twirled in circles, making airplane noises all the way to the Jacobses’ garage.

  For hours, sawdust flew while they cut and sanded wood. Butterscotch candies melted and stuck to Tom’s teeth. Molly fed him homemade whoopie pies served with whole milk from the McAffee farm. Under the garage lights, Tom brushed stain onto the wood. Hours past his bedtime, he presented the table to Molly.

  “It’s a masterpiece,” she said.

  “You keep that saw. I think I see carpentry in your future,” Bill said.

  Tom ran home, the prized tool in his hands. The suitcase had already been unpacked. Grandpa had drawn a bath, and Tom sat in the bubbles recapping his day.

  The silly table remained in Molly and Bill’s sunroom. A rock propped up the leg that Tom had cut too short. To this day, the smell of sawdust always brought with it the memory of butterscotch and chocolate.

  Bill began to unscrew Maryland’s screen door until it hung from the top hinge at a strange angle. Tom began to worry about how much damage the other two men might be doing.

  He walked around to the front deck, careful not to turn on the automatic floodlights on Grandpa’s or Maryland’s house that shined on the driveway. Many nights of his youth he’d snuck in late, so he knew the exact path to take. He stood on the deck. The curtains had been left open just enough that Tommy could peek in the window without the men being able to see him. A reddish hue filled the room, and Tommy realized they’d lit flares, probably to create phony smoke damage.

  Daniel, carrying a black duffel, walked into the living room and went upstairs. After his wife passed from cancer, Maryland had become Daniel’s companion. Her husband had died of a heart attack just a few years before. The friendship hadn’t been romantic. Neither believed marriage ended with a spouse’s death. Their children had wed, and that made them family.

  Whenever Tommy came to visit, the two were together. Maryland cooked Daniel dinner. In the summer, they ate on the deck and talked while they waited for the orange sun to dip behind the trees. On Friday nights, she joined him for Shabbat. When his eyes were tired, she’d read the newspaper aloud at her kitchen table while he enjoyed her cookies and coffee.

  Then Maryland had a stroke. When Tommy took her flowers at the rehab center, Daniel would be there attending her physical therapy sessions. When she cried as she tried to walk, he cheered her on, “You aren’t a quitter. You can do this.”

  When she came home, she could get around her house and even climb the stairs to her bedroom, but she couldn’t walk distances. On spring and summer nights, he pushed her wheelchair around the loop. She’d lost vision in her left eye, so he described the colorful blooms bursting from the ground.

  The day Aaron took Maryland to Florida, the community had tried to stand in the way. Daniel yell
ed at Aaron as Maryland sobbed in Sarah’s arms. As Aaron packed the car with suitcases, Daniel tried to grab them and said, “She’ll move in with me,” but in the end, Maryland agreed to go, in order to be closer to her daughter. Everyone knew it wasn’t what she wanted. No wonder Daniel didn’t want someone new moving into this home.

  Carl’s light illuminated the dust-covered pictures on Maryland’s shelves in the living room. He ran his fingers over a beige, wooden frame.

  He picked up the picture and Tommy saw him speaking. He pressed his ear to the window to hear, “Hey James, you would’ve enjoyed this little prank. Of course, if you were alive, this wouldn’t be happening, but that’s life. I hope you’re looking down from Heaven and watching over your sister. I’m sure she’s pretty lonely in Florida.” He placed the frame back. “Sorry about the damage to your house. We’ll fix it once we run the girl off.”

  He pulled a white stuffed owl from his duffel bag, its wings stretched in flight. Tommy had heard the story of the owl many times. Young Bill, Joseph, Carl, and James had found the dead owl in the old McAffee barn on the hill. They tried to hide it in the tree house while they gutted and stuffed it, but the girls tattled. Each night they transferred the decaying bird to a different house. Neighbors noticed the stench, but before anyone could find the source, the boys changed its location. The odor became the summer’s mystery.

  The owl had been their mascot, its hoot their secret call. Carl’s childhood lisp didn’t allow him to hoot the way the others did. It always came out, “Thooth, Thooth, Thooth.” When the other boys laughed, the caw of the crow became his signature, but not before they named the owl after his pathetic hoot. At his bachelor party, his friends had presented Thooth as their gift to him.

  Using a broomstick, Carl pushed and twisted the bird into the fireplace. Tommy once again stifled a laugh. He almost didn’t want to fix the damage, just to see the look on the home inspector’s face.

  Carl looked at his watch and blew out the flares. Bill came into the room and Daniel came downstairs and began to cough in the smoke-filled room. Carl took his arm and led him toward the front door. Tommy jumped over the railing and hid at the side of the house as the men stepped outside.

  Daniel took a puff from his inhaler and handed Bill a margarine container.

  “Are you sure about the termites? What if they spread?” Bill asked as he put the container down and began taping a piece of paper to the front door.

  “There’s only twenty,” Daniel said.

  “Is everything done?” Carl asked.

  Bill shook his head. “We need to dig up the oil tank and soak the porch. Then we’ll add the final touch.”

  Tom knew exactly what the final touch would be, and he didn’t think termites were the best idea either. He also didn’t want to have to fill in a hole in the ground. He ran around the house and came up on the other side causing the floodlights to illuminate the driveway. The men froze and looked at one another.

  “What’s up, men?” he called to them.

  Carl whispered, “Tommy, we’re just following our wives’ advice and getting some exercise.”

  “Dressed in black?” Tommy crossed his arms and tried to give them the stern look he’d been given as a child.

  “We thought we’d get some fresh air,” Carl added.

  “And do a little yard work,” Bill said. “Tomorrow’s the home inspection, and Maryland’s house looks bad.”

  “Were my excuses this lame as a kid? No wonder you busted me. I think you boys are getting a little slow in your old age,” Tom said.

  “Don’t be disrespectful,” Bill said.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a young woman moving into the neighborhood?” Tom asked. He walked onto the deck.

  Daniel took a step toward Tom. “Now you hear me, Tommy Woodward. Just because you wouldn’t mind having a young woman in her skivvies walking around—”

  “Nah, he’s gay,” Carl said.

  “Very funny,” Tom said.

  “It’s okay. It’s in vogue these days. Sarah doesn’t condone it, but it’s all over the television,” Carl teased.

  “Will you shut up for three seconds?” Daniel said.

  The light went on in Victoria’s yard, and the men stiffened.

  “Is Molly visiting with Victoria? I wonder how she would feel about this? I think you might be in big fucking trouble,” Tom teased.

  “Don’t swear,” Bill scolded.

  “I learned that word at your knee. If you don’t like it, blame yourself.”

  “Tommy, step aside. We’re doing what’s best for our community,” Daniel said.

  “I think I will go. Molly always brings baked goods when she visits.” He stepped off the deck and moved toward the road.

  “Get him!” Carl yelled.

  Bill and Daniel grabbed Tom’s arms. It took all of Tom’s willpower not to laugh. He raised his hands as far as he could without creating pressure on their hold.

  “Okay, you’ve broken me. I won’t talk if you promise me a poker game next week.”

  The men looked to one another, nodded, and released his arms.

  Carl patted his arm. “It’s always good to see you, Tommy.”

  The three men walked toward Carl’s garage, the duffel bags clanking against the shovels. “For Pete’s sake, do you want to wake up the community?” Daniel boomed.

  Tom shook his head and laughed.

  He walked into Grandpa’s small kitchen to the sour smell of garbage and the blaring sound of the television in the living room. He turned on the fluorescent overhead light. Dish piles covered the counters and filled the sink. The refrigerator door hung open. He checked the burners on the stove. Thankfully, they were off. What had the housekeeper been doing this week?

  A pile of mail had been left on the green stove. Under the AARP magazine he found a three-week-old issue of The Providence Journal. Someone in the community must have found the article, which meant everyone had seen it.

  Tommy Woodward, owner of Woodward Architecture, Ltd., is considered one of the sexiest bachelors in Rhode Island. In a designer suit or a tool belt, this man can carry you over the threshold or build a cabana in your backyard.

  Tom had known the bachelor auction for the Make-A-Wish Foundation would feel degrading. He thought the pictures, taken at the construction site and in his office, were for the auction catalog. Then the images hit the paper.

  “Pretty Boy, Tommy. Will you marry me?” the guys on his construction crew catcalled.

  At the office meeting, his female architects held up dollar bills. “I’ll give you ten for a hot night.”

  “I’ll pay twenty,” another said.

  When the men joined the fun, Tom felt his face flush. By the end of the meeting, his employees were willing to give him a hundred dollars if he’d dance like a stripper. As he opened the glass door, they began to sing, “I believe in miracles,” before the door swung shut they yelled out, “You sexy thing!”

  He threw the newspaper in the trash. Next time he’d write a check to the charity.

  Grandpa lay asleep in the recliner. Tom turned on the lamp next to the couch and shut off the television.

  “Tommy, what are you doing here on a Friday night?” Grandpa said with his eyes closed.

  “It’s Thursday, Grandpa.” He kissed his grandfather’s coarse white hair. “And I know you told the other men about the home inspection, so don’t act all innocent.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandpa said as he rubbed his eyes.

  Tom had gotten his build from Grandpa. Until fifteen years ago, Grandpa swam five miles a day and sported a Speedo to show off his muscular body. Now, at eighty-four, he walked a little bow-legged, he’d lost a few inches of height, and his face was thinner. But when he smiled, the devil could still be seen in his aqua eyes.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Were you the lookout, and when you realized that I came a little early, you decided to fall asleep as y
our alibi?”

  “What are you doing here on a Thursday night anyway? You shouldn’t be hanging out with an old man. You’re young and vibrant. You should be out having sex.”

  “Yes, Grandpa.” The opening conversation hadn’t changed in four years. “Did the housekeeper come this week?”

  “She quit,” he mumbled, “I grabbed her caboose . . . told her it was an accident, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “Grandpa!”

  His grandfather began to snore.

  “I’m not going to believe you’re asleep again. I’m going to do your dishes, but the next housekeeper I hire is going to be a fat man with a five-o’clock shadow.”

  Tom looked around the living room. The gold curtains from the seventies reeked of cigar smoke. The brown shag carpet had crumbs and dirt sprinkled across the matted fibers. Dust covered his late grandmother’s collection of knickknacks, Hummels and porcelain swans. The room had a moldy smell and the brown paneling peeled away from the wall. Unglued linoleum caught Tom’s foot as he walked to the kitchen.

  What was he going to do with this place?

  Tom filled the sink with soap and water. The kitchen needed a dishwasher. He’d drawn up plans to renovate years ago and invited Grandpa to stay with him in Providence during construction.

  “I don’t want the hassle,” Grandpa had said.

  “What hassle? You stay with me for a few weeks and my crew will do the work.”

  “I’m old. I don’t need fancy stuff.”

  The first time Tom asked, frustration with Grandpa’s stubbornness had kept him from seeing the fear in the old man’s eyes. Too many times Grandpa’s friends left their homes for a simple procedure, or to visit their children, and hadn’t returned. Maryland lived in a nursing home against her will. The remaining Nagog residents had to be terrified they would be next. When their adult children did visit, many times it was to try to take away a driver’s license. A few had dared to bring brochures for elderly housing.