The Lake House

by Marci Nault

  Once again his feet faltered from nerves. She took the lead until he could find his balance, but his legs buckled under him. He bent to one knee and took her hands in his.

  “I want to spend my life kissing, fighting, laughing, loving, and growing old with you. You okay with that?” he asked.

  “Since I was sixteen. What took you so long?” she said.

  He took another drink of Patrón. The stars twinkled and he closed his eyes. He pictured Annabelle’s smile. His lips moved in a repeated pattern as he whispered, “I miss you.”

  Tom unlocked the door to his loft and threw the keys on the coffee table. It was two in the morning, he’d let the effects of Patrón wear off before driving home. He rubbed his eyes and entered the black-and-silver kitchen.

  When Tom bought the abandoned warehouse on Providence harbor, the building had four floors filled with concrete, bricks, and dust. Round poles supported exposed steel beams. Dirt smudged the large windows and plywood covered the floors. Now the first level held seven retail shops; the second, an accounting firm; and the top levels, his office and home.

  From the refrigerator he took out some milk and walked to the windows that overlooked the bay. The boats’ lights reflected on the water. Teenagers walked along the harbor, playfully pushing and bumping into each other. He tilted back the container and chugged.

  Tom sat on the leather couch and turned on the television, letting blue light illuminate his dark cave. Actors’ voices chattered and he saw movement but couldn’t focus. Memories continued to play.

  He remembered the day six months after he proposed, when he’d awoken in the small one bedroom flat Annabelle had rented in London. He reached for her soft skin, but she wasn’t in bed. He untangled the sheets and pulled on his shorts. In the morning light he watched her stretch her leg in an arabesque as she worked at her ballet bar in the living room. “Come back to bed,” he said as he watched her leg quake with effort to hold the pose.

  “Just a few more minutes. I can’t get this right,” Annabelle said as she arched her back farther, the small muscles in her back rippling with the exertion.

  The woman didn’t know how to quit. It didn’t matter what she tried to accomplish—from a new song to a dance move, she couldn’t let it go until she achieved perfection.

  “Just a little longer,” Annabelle said.

  “I thought you didn’t like ballet,” Tom said as he grabbed a bagel from the paper bag on the counter.

  “I hate it. It’s too slow, but the only way to be a great stage dancer is to practice ballet.”

  “You know, there is something called overtraining. Try not to practice yourself to death,” he said.

  It was Annabelle’s motto in life—push through until you accomplished what you desired. The term “type-A personality” didn’t seem strong enough to describe Annabelle’s determination.

  Her leg came down and she pliéd, then rose back onto her toes for another arabesque with the other leg. Her leg warmer shifted around her ankle and he saw the Ace bandage.

  “It’s not about practice this morning. I’m stiff from rehearsals and I need to move.”

  He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, interrupting her movements. “It is about practice, and it’s because you want to be the best. Don’t think I don’t know how driven you are. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  She turned and kissed him. “It’s not always going to be like this. It’s just that right now there are so many opportunities, and if I can make my mark, then I have a chance at my dream.”

  “One of these days you should realize that you’re already living your dream.”

  “I want the leading role just once. To have that perfect performance in front of a huge crowd.”

  “And I will be in the front row cheering you on, but remember you have people who think you’re amazing just the way you are.” He spun her slight figure around the room until they fell onto the couch with her on his lap. He cradled her in his arms and pinned her to him so that she couldn’t get up.

  “When did you hurt yourself?” he asked as he lifted the leg warmer.

  She tried to squirm away, but he held her tight and looked into her eyes.

  “It ached a bit when I was running this morning. I’m just being careful,” she said.

  “You’ve already gone running? How long have you been awake?”

  “An hour or two.”

  He placed her on the couch and sat on the floor. He wrapped his hands around her ankle as if he could heal it with his touch. He unwrapped the bandage and saw the swollen tissue. “Annabelle, this is bad.”

  “It’s just a strain.” She smiled at him. “I’ve danced on worse.”

  “Promise me you will take at least a few days off.” He climbed onto the couch and pulled her body over his. He cupped her chin. “I love this body and I would like to keep it safe and healthy for an entire lifetime. You’re pushing too hard.” He tickled her and she jumped away in laughter and then curled closer.

  “I’ll be more careful.”

  When he brought Annabelle to see the warehouse in Providence, she’d danced around the dusty space. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you bought this for us. Can we build a loft for our bedroom? The ceilings are high enough. It will be like sleeping in a fort every night. Oh, and a dance studio. Will you build me a place to dance?”

  She ran to the dirty square windows, the sunlight illuminating her pale skin. “We need at least five bedrooms for all the kids we’ll have, but we should keep most of the space open for parties. And with your office right downstairs, I can pounce on you every time you decide to work late.”

  It took him a year to design and craft this place. The kitchen and living area took up a third of the space. Water cascaded down a ridged glass wall that separated the kitchen from the entertainment area, while giving the illusion of an open room. A wooden spiral staircase led to the bedroom he designed like a tree house. He used planks on the ceiling to create a warm log cabin feel. In the bathroom, he’d installed a tub under the large window so Annabelle could relax and stare at the harbor. It was their dream home.

  Tom put the milk carton back in the refrigerator. He walked past the three bedrooms he’d built for their future children—empty now as they’d always been. The dance studio down the hall had never been used. He opened the door to the guest suite. Still dressed, he fell onto the bed and pulled the blanket over his legs. The city lights illuminated the room through the wall of windows.

  Grandpa was right. He needed to move on. It had been five years since her death. His business, this place, all of it had been to provide the life he wanted to give Annabelle. After she passed, he continued to work nonstop in order to block out his loss. He’d achieved success in business, but it wasn’t much of a life.

  He thought about Heather and how her scent had affected him when they were moving boxes. He’d been a jerk that night and then again this afternoon. He hadn’t meant to pick a fight with her. The poor woman was getting the worst of his personality, and he needed to make amends. There was something about her that brought out the worst in him. Or was it that she awakened in him a need, a desire that he thought had died along with Annabelle?

  Memories couldn’t touch his skin or make him laugh spontaneously. Pictures of his beloved didn’t give him someone to share a meal or build a family with. At the end of a day, longing didn’t create conversations or fights. Pushing away every woman in the world wouldn’t bring Annabelle back, and holding on to the past didn’t give real answers to why she’d died.

  Heather was sassy, fiery, and sweet all at the same time. Her smile was cute and sexy. That afternoon on the deck he’d seen loneliness in her eyes and it had stirred something in him. He realized that thinking about her had forced him to begin to feel again.

  CHAPTER 13

  The smell of apple cinnamon buns and fresh-baked bread filled the kitchen. Molly beat six eggs in a ceramic bowl, her belly pressed against the coun
ter. In the cast-iron pan, bacon sizzled. Victoria sat at the round table sucking on a strawberry. The jacket of her jogging suit hung on the white chair. Her tank top showed off her muscular arms.

  “It’s such a good day,” Molly said. She loved this time of year. During their morning walk, two bluebirds had chased each other from tree to tree. The bulbs she’d planted in the fall had bloomed in purples, reds, and yellows across her yard. Roses graced her entrance, their fragrance filled her living room.

  Victoria twisted the green top off a strawberry. “Why don’t we bring Heather some muffins and brownies? Maybe convince her to go shopping?”

  “Hmmm.” Molly knew Bill worried about Heather’s impact on the community. And it was more than residual resentment from the party—there was a fear among her friends that their reign was ending.

  Molly knew her children worried about her and Bill living on their own. Last year, her eldest son had even taken them on a tour of a senior housing facility. How could she explain to her children that she and Bill were fine, when this past winter had been so brutal? It seemed every month there’d been a funeral of an old acquaintance or a distant cousin. But that was life at this age—she couldn’t afford to focus on mortality. Aside from a rare dizzy spell, she felt healthy.

  Molly looked out the window to Heather’s empty deck. The girl seemed lonely. There’d been no one to help her unpack her things or prepare her house. There’d been plenty of people at her party, but Molly hadn’t seen anyone visit since that night. Victoria had told Molly about their conversation on the beach. From what Molly could see, this child needed the family Nagog could provide.

  Molly placed the bacon on paper towels and poured the eggs into the pan. “We should buy her a housewarming gift. The consignment shop has a beautiful patio set.”

  “Who’re you buying furniture for? One of the kids?” Bill limped into the kitchen, leaning on his cane.

  Molly put her hands on his lower back and shoulder. “Hurting this morning? Sit. I’ll get your arthritis medication.”

  The chair creaked under his weight. She kissed his forehead. The dark mole looked bigger. She’d have to make an appointment with the dermatologist; God knew Bill wouldn’t bother unless she forced his hand. She opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator and sorted through the rows of orange bottles. She’d already placed his other medication next to his plate, but Bill didn’t always need the anti-inflammatory.

  “Here you go.” She handed him a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice along with the pill. “And the deck furniture is for Heather.” Her hand went up before he could comment. “I know how you feel and that’s not going to stop me.” The eggs popped and she returned to the stove.

  “I suppose this is your suggestion?” Bill said to Victoria as he shifted his weight and groaned. “And don’t you have a kitchen of your own? Oh, that’s right, you only know how to burn things.”

  “At least I know how to use a computer. You know, the box with the screen?” Victoria said.

  “Play nice or I’ll separate the two of you. And I won’t feed you breakfast,” Molly added to Victoria.

  Victoria stuck out her tongue; Bill retaliated with a shaking fist. Molly placed the eggs, cinnamon rolls, butter, and bacon on the table. She smiled as she looked at the two of them. They’d been like brother and sister as kids, Bill’s teasing had been Victoria’s constant frustration. It hurt Bill more than he’d let on that Victoria hadn’t been a part of their wedding, and his anger toward her for hurting Joseph only exacerbated that resentment. It took Joseph’s marrying Barbara—and Molly’s continued loyalty to Victoria—for Bill to come around and forgive her.

  “You know, that furniture is going to encourage her to throw more parties.” He picked up his paper and began to read the sports section.

  Molly sat. She buttered a thick piece of homemade bread until the oil melted through. “Friendship is the answer. If she cares about the community, she won’t disrupt it. And the party wasn’t that bad. I remember you tying on a few in your younger years.”

  The sunroom door creaked open. “I was on the beach and I smelled bacon,” Joseph said as he walked into the room. He stopped and stared at Victoria.

  Molly looked at her friend. Her back had straightened and her cheeks were flushed. Electric static filled the air. “Joseph, come on in and sit.” Molly stood and grabbed a plate. She placed it next to Victoria at the table.

  “Good morning, Joseph,” Victoria said and she picked up her coffee mug and sipped.

  “Morning, Victoria.” Joseph didn’t take his eyes from her as he sat, but then he turned to Bill. “So how ’bout those Sox last night.”

  “Ridiculous game,” Bill said. “Damn Sox had better get it together this season or it’s going to be over before it even starts.”

  Molly watched Joseph and Victoria. They looked like two middle-schoolers at the lunch table, afraid to talk but aware of the close proximity. Yes, she thought again, friendship could heal any rift.

  The sound of knocking woke Heather. The soft warm cave of her bed enticed her to ignore whoever was at her front door. Insomnia had been her companion for the last week. George had approved her summer lake series, but she was finding it hard to write in her home office. It seemed that ideas came to her only at night, when she tried to sleep.

  “I’m coming,” she yelled, realizing she didn’t have time to change out of the tank top and shorts she had slept in.

  Victoria and Molly stood on her deck, smiling and waving. Molly held up a basket and Victoria followed with a thermos. “Heather, we have baked goods and coffee,” Molly called. Heather shuffled to the door, squinting in the sunlight.

  “I brought scones, cinnamon buns, and muffins,” Molly chirped as she bustled into the room, set the basket on the coffee table and unfolded the white linen. “Oh, and I brought you brownies for later. A little sin from me to you.” Her soft figure fell into the rocking chair, sending it swinging.

  “This is Venezuelan dark roast, caffeinated this time, and I grabbed your paper.” Victoria’s hand shook, and the paper fell to the floor. “Sorry about that. Silly arthritis, but you don’t want to hear about our maladies.”

  Heather looked away from Victoria’s flushed skin. She gathered the loose newspaper sections from the floor. At the bottom of the pile she found a manila envelope without an address.

  “Let me get some cups and plates,” Heather said.

  “Take your time. We know we barged in,” Molly said.

  In the kitchen, she ripped open the manila envelope and pulled out a church’s bulletin with areas highlighted for Heather to read: Bible study hours; singles activities; and classes for conversion to Catholicism. Sarah, she thought. The woman wouldn’t speak to Heather, but she was willing to save her soul.

  Heather gathered plates, napkins, silverware, mugs, and milk, and returned to the living room. “I’m sorry, I don’t buy butter or cream,” Heather said as she put everything on the coffee table.

  “That’s all right, dear. Victoria would make us feel guilty for eating it.” Molly put her hand over her mouth and whispered, “She’s a health nut.”

  Victoria grabbed a muffin, broke off a piece, and popped it into her mouth as she sat in the overstuffed chair. “I eat butter now. I believe in whole foods. I’ve gotten away from processed products. Margarine is no better than eating plastic. I read—”

  “Told you,” Molly interrupted.

  Victoria rolled her eyes.

  “Is any of this considered healthy?” Heather asked as she sat on the couch.

  Victoria laughed. “Molly doesn’t know the meaning.”

  Molly huffed.

  “I’m not saying you’re fat. You’re a wonderful baker who doesn’t sacrifice taste for the waistline,” Victoria said.

  “Call me fat if you’d like, my husband loves my body. And no, dear, every bite is filled with love and at least five hundred calories. So eat up and enjoy, for tomorrow you can diet again. Victoria has managed to b
e my friend her entire life, and my cooking hasn’t affected her skinny rear,” Molly said.

  Heather bit into a blueberry muffin, the warm, soft sugar waking her taste buds and bringing back safe memories of her grandmother’s home: warm linens, brushed hair after a long bath, and delicious baked goods.

  “I’ve never tasted a muffin this good. Please, don’t tell me what you put in this,” Heather said.

  Molly’s face brightened. She handed Heather coffee. “Victoria and I were noticing you don’t have furniture for your deck.”

  “We’d like to take you shopping,” Victoria said.

  “I’d love to, but money’s tight after everything I spent on furnishing this house.”

  “Well, that’s fine, because it’s a housewarming gift,” Molly said.

  Heather was taken aback. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Of course you can,” Victoria said.

  “It’s too much. You barely know me,” Heather said with a slight flutter to her voice as she choked on emotions. These women had cleaned her home, helped her paint, and now they wanted to buy her furniture.

  “You’re part of the Nagog family now, and I hate to tell you, but it’s a life sentence.” Molly laughed. “Just ask Victoria.”

  Heather put the muffin down and ran a hand through her knotted hair, suddenly embarrassed by her unkempt appearance. “I still need to take a shower and—”

  “Go ahead. We’ll wait, and we won’t take no for an answer,” Victoria said.

  “And I would love a ride in your cute little car,” Molly said.

  Heather went upstairs and turned on the shower. The sounds of Molly and Victoria talking downstairs gave her a feeling of comfort. Being mothered for the first time since early childhood felt strange but good. Heather stripped down and stepped into the shower, then a scream ripped from her lips, she fumbled against the door, and stepped out soaking wet.

  “Heather, are you okay?” Victoria called from the stairwell.