Kristin Hannah

by On Mystic Lake (v5)

  Annie’s fingers trailed lightly across the top rail, and her wedding ring glittered in the orange glow of the outdoor bulb. The size of the diamond reminded Nick once again of how different her world was from his. As if he needed reminding.

  She was holding a small designer suitcase.

  “Izzy has brushed her teeth. She’s waiting for you to tuck her in.” Her voice was as soft and cool as a spring rain, and it soothed the ragged edges of his anxiety.

  She was standing close to him, her arms at her sides. Even with that Marine-issue haircut, she was beautiful. A tired gray UW sweatshirt bagged over a pair of oversized jeans, but it didn’t camouflage her body. Suddenly he could remember her naked, recall vividly how she’d lifted her arms and pulled off her shirt . . . the moonlight kissing her breasts. . . .

  “Nick?” She took a step toward him. “Are you all right?”

  He forced a weak laugh. “As well as a drunk who has stopped drinking can be, I suppose.”

  “You’re going to make it.” She started to reach for him, and he leaned slightly toward her, needing that touch more than air, but at the last minute, she drew back. “It’s not easy to start over. I know . . .”

  He saw the haunted look in her eyes and wondered what he’d done to her, the man who’d put that egg-size diamond on her left hand. He wanted to ask, but it felt wrong, presumptuous, to probe her wounds. “You saved my life, Annie. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  She smiled. “I always knew you’d be back for her, you know. It wasn’t much of a risk. I could see how much you loved Izzy.”

  “Such optimism.” He glanced out at the darkened lake. “I loved Kathy, too, and look what happened.” He sighed and leaned back against the porch rail, staring out at the yard. “You know what haunts me? I never really understood my wife. The sad thing is—I do now. I know what hopelessness feels like; before, I thought I did, but I was skimming the surface. She used to tell me that she couldn’t feel the sunlight anymore, not even when she was standing in it, not even when it was hot on her cheeks.” It surprised Nick that he could talk about his wife so easily. For the first time, he remembered her, not the illness or the crumbling of their marriage over the last few years, but Kathy, his Kathy, the bright-eyed, big-hearted girl he’d fallen in love with. “She didn’t want to live in the darkness anymore. . . .”

  When he turned back to Annie, she was crying. He felt awkward and selfish in the wake of her grief. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She gazed up at him. “You’re so lucky.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter how you felt about Kathy by the end, or since the end. You obviously loved her. No matter what she did, or why she did it, she must have known.” Her voice fell to a throaty whisper. “Most people are never loved like that in their whole lives.”

  He knew he was going to ask the question, though he shouldn’t. He stepped toward her, a heartbeat closer than was safe. “How about you? Have you known that kind of love?”

  She gave him a fleeting, sad little smile and looked away. “No. I have loved that way . . . but been loved . . . I don’t think so.”

  “You deserve better than that.”

  She nodded and nonchalantly wiped her eyes. “Don’t we all.”

  Silence fell between them, awkward and uncomfortable. “Annie—”

  She stopped and turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Maybe you’d like to come over tomorrow—spend the day with us.”

  “I’d like that,” she answered quickly, then she looked away.

  “Thank you.” His voice was soft, and came as close to a kiss as he dared.

  “You’re welcome, Nicky.” There was another moment of awkwardness as she stared up at him. “You should know that Izzy started talking while you were gone.”

  Nick frowned. “She didn’t talk to me.”

  Annie touched his arm in a brief, fleeting caress. “She will. Give her time.”

  He couldn’t meet Annie’s gaze. Instead, he stared out at the lake.

  She moved nervously from foot to foot, then said, “Well, I should be getting home. . . .”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  She nodded and hurried past him. With a quick wave, she climbed into her Mustang and drove away.

  Nick watched her taillights, two bright red dots in the darkness of the forest, until she turned the corner and was gone. Reluctantly, he went back into the house and climbed the stairs. Outside Izzy’s room, he paused, then knocked.

  Answer, baby . . . you can do it.

  But there was no response. Slowly, he turned the knob and opened the door.

  She was sitting up in bed, her right arm curled around Miss Jemmie. The black glove on her left hand was a tiny blotch against the white and lavender lace comforter.

  He went to the bed and sat down beside her.

  Silence spilled between them, and every heartbeat plucked at the fragile strands of Nick’s self-confidence. “I thought I’d read you a story.”

  She let go of Miss Jemmie and pulled a book out from under the covers, handing it to him.

  “Ah, Where the Wild Things Are. I wonder how Max has been doing lately. He probably turned into a warthog.”

  Izzy made a small, hiccuping sound, like a hacked-off laugh.

  Curling an arm around her tiny shoulders, he drew her close. With the book open on his lap, he began to read. He used his best storyteller voice, the one Izzy had always loved.

  And as he slipped into the familiar story, he felt for the first time as if he might have a chance.

  But it was not so easy. For the first week, Nick was shaky and short-tempered and afraid that if he made one wrong move, he’d end up back on a bar stool at Zoe’s. Every moment of every day was an agonizing test of his will.

  He rose early, needing a drink, and went outside to chop wood, where, still needing a drink, he stood for hours, chopping, sweating, wondering if today was the day he’d fail.

  Annie arrived every day with a smile on her face and an activity planned. By sheer force of will, she was turning the three of them into a patchwork family, and it was that connection that kept Nick going to his AA meetings every day. He’d be damned if he’d let Annie and Izzy down.

  Now, he was driving to the four o’clock meeting. He slowed the car to a crawl at Main Street, his hands curled tightly around the steering wheel. It had started to rain about five minutes ago, and the suddenness of the storm had forced the pedestrians inside, left the town rainy-day quiet. Only a few scattered cars filled the row of empty stalls.

  Except at Zoe’s. In front of the tavern, there was a steady line of cars. He knew from experience that every bar stool would be occupied. He stared at the tavern’s murky windows, hearing in his head the quiet clinking of the glasses and the sloshing of scotch over ice cubes.

  He licked his dry lips and swallowed thickly, trying not to imagine how sweet a shot of scotch would taste right now. He still couldn’t imagine the rest of his life without booze, but he could manage this one day.

  He eased his foot down on the accelerator and sped up. He felt every inch of road as he drove past Zoe’s, and by the time he reached the Lutheran church, the shaking had receded a bit and the sweat was a cold, drying trail on his skin.

  He pulled into the paved lot behind the church and parked beneath a Rainier Beer billboard. Taking a second to collect himself, he pocketed his keys and went inside.

  By now, the room was full of familiar faces, and it was oddly comforting to step through the open door.

  Joe grinned at him, waved him over to a seat.

  Nodding, Nick quickly got himself a can of Coke, then took the empty seat beside Joe.

  “Nicholas, are you okay? You look pale.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, thankful in a small way that AA had given him that—the ability for the first time in his life to be honest. This room, among these strangers-who-would-be-friends, was the one place where he could haul his vulnerab
ility and his failings out of the pocket of his soul and throw them under the glaring light of scrutiny. There was some comfort in that, he knew now. Honesty helped. Admitting that the addiction was stronger than he was helped even more.

  He was hanging on by a thread at home. Wherever he went, whatever he said, he felt Izzy’s eyes on him. She was waiting for the inevitable screw-up.

  She hadn’t spoken a word to him yet, and this time, the silences were worse than before, because she was talking to Annie—though he’d never heard it. Not once had he heard the sweetness of his little girl’s voice.

  Mealtimes were bad, too. Sometimes, when he reached for the fork, his hand was shaking so badly that he had to plead a headache and run for the dark isolation of his bedroom.

  He gave Joe a weak smile. “Trying is a hell of a lot harder than not trying, you know?”

  “It always is, Nicholas. You know I’m here for you. We all are.”

  Nick took the statement at face value and was thankful for it. “I know.”

  The meeting got under way. One by one, the people around him spoke up—those who wanted to share their burden—revealing their anniversaries and their failures and their hopes and dreams. As always, they came around, finally, to Nick.

  He thought about saying something. Hi, I’m Nick. I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in twenty-three days.

  But, in the end, like all the other times, he couldn’t quite manage it.

  Chapter 16

  Their days followed a familiar pattern. Monday through Friday, Annie showed up at Nick’s house bright and early. He made pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and then the three of them spent the day together. Rain or shine, they were outside, fishing along the crumbling rock banks of the river, riding bikes on the trails around the lake, or window-shopping on Main Street. Today they had hiked deep into Enchanted Valley, and now, several hours and even more miles later, each of them was exhausted. Poor Izzy had fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

  Annie leaned down and kissed Izzy’s forehead, murmuring a quiet good night.

  “ ’Night, Annie,” Izzy mumbled back, her eyes closed.

  Annie drew back. This was the time of the week she hated most. Friday night. She wouldn’t see Nick and Izzy again until Monday, and though she enjoyed the time she spent with Hank, she couldn’t wait to get back here Monday morning. She didn’t often let herself think about how much she liked Nick and Izzy, or how right it felt to be with them. Those thoughts led her down a dark and twisting road that frightened her, and so she pushed them away, buried them in the dark corner that had always housed her uncertainties. She had come to the sad realization that Blake wasn’t going to change his mind, that she wasn’t going to receive the apologetic phone call she’d fantasized about for weeks. Without even that slim fantasy to cling to, she was left feeling adrift. Sometimes, in the midst of a lovely spring day, she would stumble across her fear and the suddenness of it shocked and frightened her.

  Those were the times when she turned to Hank—but his comforting words he’ll be back, honey, don’t you worry, he’ll be back didn’t soothe Annie anymore. She couldn’t believe in them, and somehow the not believing hurt more than the believing ever had. Terri was the only one who understood, and a phone call to her best friend, often made late at night, was the only thing that helped.

  She started to turn away, when she noticed something through the window, a movement. She pushed the patterned lace curtains aside.

  Nick was standing down alongside the lake, his shadow a long streak across the rippling silver waves. As usual, he’d helped with the dinner dishes, read Izzy a story, and then bolted outside to stand alone.

  He was as lonely as she was. She saw it in his eyes all the time, a sadness that clung even when he smiled.

  He was trying so hard. Yesterday, he’d spent almost two hours playing Candy Land with Izzy, his long body crouched uncomfortably across the multicolored board. Every time Izzy smiled, Nick looked like he was going to cry.

  Annie had never been as proud of anyone as she was of him. He was trying to do everything right—no drinking, no swearing, no broken promises. Nothing but soft, sad smiles and time spent with the little girl who still studied him warily and didn’t speak to him.

  So often, during the day, she was reminded of Blake, and the kind of father he’d been. Never there, physically or emotionally, for his daughter, taking so much of his life for granted. It was partially Annie’s fault; she saw that now. She’d been part of what their marriage had become. She had blindly done everything he’d asked of her. Everything. She’d given up so much—everything of herself and her dreams; she’d given it up without a whimper of protest . . . and all because she loved him so much.

  Her life, her soul, had faded into his, one day, one decision at a time. Little things . . . nothing by themselves . . .

  A haircut she didn’t have because Blake liked her hair long, a dress she didn’t buy because he thought red was a tramp’s color.

  She’d done what they “agreed” she should do. She’d stayed home and become the perfect suburban wife and mother, and in her quest for quiet perfection, she’d let Blake become a bad husband and bad father. And all the while, she’d thought she was the perfect wife. Only now she saw how wrong she’d been: she’d made all those sacrifices not out of strength and love, but out of weakness. Because it was safer and easier to follow. She had become what she’d set out to be, and now she was ashamed of her choices. But still she had no true understanding of where she would go from here.

  Alone. That was all she knew. Wherever she went from here, it would be as a middle-aged woman alone.

  She wished she had Nick’s strength, his willingness to shove past his fear and try.

  She touched the glass softly, feeling the cool smoothness beneath her fingertips. “You’re going to make it, Nick.”

  And she believed it.

  She closed the bedroom door behind her and went downstairs. Plucking her purse from the sofa, she headed for the door. Outside, the cool night air breezed across her cheeks.

  She stared across the blackened lawn at Nick. It was at times like these, at the quiet end of the day, that memories of their lovemaking floated to the surface of her mind.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the feel of his hands on her naked skin . . . the softness of his lips . . .

  “Annie?”

  Her eyes popped open. He was in front of her, and when she looked at him, she was certain that it was all in her eyes: the naked, desperate need for companionship and caring. She was afraid that if she spoke to him, if she said anything, and heard the soft tenor of his voice in response, she would be lost. She was vulnerable now, longing to be held and touched by a man . . . even if it was the wrong man . . . even if she wasn’t truly the woman he wanted.

  She forced a quick, nervous smile. “Hi, Nick . . . ’bye, Nick. I’ve got to run.”

  Before he could answer, she ran to her car.

  But a mile later, all alone in her car, listening to Rod Stewart’s scratchy-voiced song about his heart and soul, and an attraction that was purely physical, she was still remembering. . . .

  Saturday morning, Izzy stood on the porch in her bright new overalls and rain boots, watching her daddy. He was kneeling in the yard, beside that tree they’d planted on the day of her mommy’s funeral. The skinny cherry tree that wouldn’t turn green, not even now when everything around it was blooming. It was dead, just like her mommy.

  Her daddy was all hunched over, like a character from one of her books, wearing dirty gloves that made his hands look like bear claws. He was yanking up weeds from around the baby tree, and he was humming a song, one Izzy hadn’t heard in a long time.

  All of a sudden, her daddy looked up and saw her. He gave her a big smile and pushed the silvery hair away from his face. The glove left a big streak of brown mud across his forehead. “Heya, Izzy-bear,” he said. “Wanna help me pull up weeds?”

  Slow
ly, she moved toward him, past the row of primroses Annie had planted last week. He was still smiling when she came up beside him.

  All she could think was that her daddy was back and she wanted a hug more than anything in the world, but she was afraid. What if he didn’t stay again? She almost said something to him, she even opened her mouth and tried.

  “What is it, Izzy?”

  The words wouldn’t fall out. They were jammed in her throat behind a big old lump. Come on, Izzy, she told herself, just say, “Hi, Daddy, I missed you.”

  But she couldn’t. Instead, she reached out her hand and pointed to the trowel that lay on the ground. He bent down and picked up the big fork, handing it to her slowly. “It’s okay, Sunshine,” he said softly. “I understand.”

  I love you, Daddy. Tears stung her eyes; she was sad and embarrassed that she couldn’t force herself to say the words. She squeezed her eyes shut before he could see the stupid, babyish tears. Then she took the trowel and moved in beside him.

  He started talking, about the weather and flowers and the beautiful day. He talked so long she forgot she was embarrassed and sad and that she was a stupid little girl who couldn’t talk to her daddy anymore.

  Sunday was the kind of day that tricked people into moving into this damp, soggy corner of the world. The kind of day when hapless tourists who stumbled into the rain forest tended to draw in deep breaths of awe and then find themselves driving their rental cars slowly past real estate offices. Almost involuntarily, they reached for pamphlets about cabins for sale, and called their faraway families with stories of the most gorgeous land they’d ever seen.

  When Nick flung back the living room curtains and looked outside, he was as awestruck as any foreigner. A bright yellow sun had just crested the trees; lemony streamers of light backlit the forest and gave it a translucent, otherworldly glow. Lake Mystic swallowed the surrounding images and held them against its blue mirrored surface. On the far bank, a single gray heron stood on one leg, proudly surveying his domain.

  It was a perfect day for a father-daughter outing. He hurried up the stairs and woke his sleeping child. He helped her brush her teeth and get dressed in warm woolen clothes. While she was sleepily making her bed, he went downstairs and packed a picnic lunch—smoked salmon bought fresh from the Quinault tribe at the local roadside stand, cream cheese and crackers for him, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and string cheese for Izzy. Annie had left a quart of homemade lemonade, and he poured it into a thermos, then crammed everything into a picnic basket.