Getting away from it all had been her mother’s idea. A good one, initially. She’d even arranged for Ivy to stay in the summer home of a friend who was spending the season in Europe instead. It was supposedly their “little cabin at the lake,” but it was five times larger than Ivy’s two-bedroom town house in the city, with a vaulted ceiling in the living room and enough glass to display panoramic views of forest and mountains to the east and the broad expanse of Lake Lackey from atop its high cliffs to the west.
“Have you seen this . . . cabin?”
Her mother laughed. “One man’s cabin is another man’s—”
“Castle?”
“I was going to say palace.”
“Close enough. And what’s with the lap pool? The lake isn’t long enough?”
“The cliffs, dear. The Rossinis are seriously fitness oriented and they love to swim, but with no beach there on the cliffs, they have to get in the car and drive to one to swim in the lake. As it is, they have to drive to the marina to use their boat, since there’s no place to put a private dock. Which reminds me . . . Grace said they store their boat in the winter, but if you’d like to use it, all you have to do is talk to anyone at the marina and they’ll put it, in the Rossinis’ . . . um . . .”
“Slip?”
“Yes, that’s it. There’s a sailboat, too, but I said I didn’t think you knew anything about sailing.”
“I don’t know anything about rowing a boat, much less sailing one. I think I’ll leave them both in storage. Besides, I have a book to write, and I’m going to finish at least the first draft before I leave here.” She pushed open the heavy sliding glass door and her eyelids slid slowly over brown-hazel eyes as a gentle breeze brushed across her cheeks, barely disturbing the wisps of golden brown hair that curled close to her face. The air was a pleasant mix of water and rich earth, lush vegetation and . . . whatever the cleaning crew used to prepare the house for her. Watching the late-afternoon sunlight sparkle and dance across the surface of the water and listening to the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the cliffs about forty yards away, she attempted to force open a can of relaxation—and failed. “Even if it kills me, I’ll finish it.”
“Try to get some rest, honey. You’ve been so tense lately that it’s no wonder your imagination’s stifled. Take the next couple of days off. Put ten drops of the California poppy extract I sent in water and drink it three times a day to help you relax. Drink as much as you can of the valerian root tea during the day—it takes a while to build up in your system, but the calming effects are fabulous. Then, before bed, make a nice cup of chamomile tea with just a few drops of the hops extract—be sure to keep that in the fridge, now, because heat and light will destroy it. Sip that in a nice warm bath with the lavender and almond bath oil. That should do it. But if it doesn’t, then take one of the 450mg passionflower capsules and that will. Get some good sleep. Soak up a little sun and you’ll be your old self in no time. Just wait and see.”
Sleep again. What wouldn’t she give for one whole night of dreamless sleep?
“I’ll try . . . And, Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for setting—” Ivy broke off at the sound of a knock on the front door.
“What is it?” Her mother went to DEFCON 1.
Ivy chuckled. “Nothing. Who needs to relax here, you or me? It’s just someone at the door.”
“Peek to see who it is . . . before you open the door.”
This time she laughed. “You mean through the long glass panels in the door? The ones whoever-it-is can see me coming all the way from the kitchen through? Press my nose up against one of those and peek . . . before I open the door? Way to make a great first impression on the neighborhood, Mom.”
“Don’t be flip, young lady. I’m serious.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, her tone indulgent as she frowned at the empty panels of etched glass in the oversized door. A child standing between the panels, maybe? A wood sprite from the forest beyond, perhaps? A severely emaciated serial killer standing sideways preparing to pounce, she guessed, peeking, looking, searching through the glass as far as she could in both directions. “Huh.”
“What? Who is it?”
“No one.” She turned the dead bolt and stepped out cautiously. “There isn’t anyone here. I thought I heard someone knock. I guess I was wrong.”
The long, chipped-rock drive that curved uphill through a sparse woods to the house was empty—well, except for her secondhand Volvo that stuck out like a prune in a bowl of raspberries in front of the elegant house.
Then she saw it . . . or not. Smoke . . . or fingers of fog . . . or a trick of evening light and shadow. The figure of a man, a tall boy . . .
No. Nothing. There was nothing there—despite the certainty in her mind of what she’d seen.
She used her middle finger to firmly push the crease between her brows away and shook her head as she stepped back into the house, once again feeling the . . . unquiet inside herself that had been plaguing her for months. “Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
“No, dear,” she said without hesitation. “What am I right about this time?”
“I need this. Getting away. Getting some rest. Taking time to clear my head. Thank you for setting this up for me. It was a great idea.”
“Let’s hope it works, huh?”
They talked for a few more minutes, and her mother ended the conversation with, “Don’t forget to check in once in a while. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Ivy smiled as she broke the connection and slid her cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans. Her mother always requested a check-in, but it was never necessary. She’d call again in a few hours when the sun had set to make sure all the doors and windows were locked and again in the morning to be certain her only daughter hadn’t been throttled during the night. She was a worrier.
Stepping barefoot out onto the warm gray flagstone patio, Ivy sighed and curled up on a chaise to peruse her temporary domain. Beautiful was an understatement. So was magnificent. A wordsmith by profession, and still she found some things simply defied language.
A half width of the large terrace ran the length of the house and surrounded the Rossinis’ lap pool and convenient hot tub, which was quartered off on the near end, situated next to a fire pit and a stand-alone bar that was empty at present—she’d checked. Beyond, all the way to the cliffs, was a neatly manicured but mundane lawn . . . made spectacular by large asymmetrical chunks and blocks of pale granite strewn across the grass like so many pieces to a giant’s puzzle. Some stood alone while others were a backdrop for blooming bushes and flowers. Here and there, trees seemed to have pushed straight up through the rock.
Wild and raw, then artfully domesticated . . . inevitably awe inspiring.
To think of the thousands of tons of granite extracted from the hillside in just such slabs and hunks to create the precipice just a few yards away was mind-boggling. At least 100 feet of the total 380 feet of the old quarry jutted jagged and coarse above the water on this end of the great lake created by the Mumford Dam—named after the quarry and the small mining town that were flooded out of existence when they stemmed the Lackey River for hydroelectric power and, more important, to prevent spring floods in the lowlands.
Ivy stood again, feeling fidgety. After a daylong drive, maybe stretching her muscles and exploring the terrain would help. First things first, she decided, wandering out across the cool, soft grass toward the cliffs.
As nice as the house was and as striking as the scenery could be, perhaps water wasn’t the best milieu in which to find the peace she was looking for—not that this beggar could afford to be choosy. In fact, she couldn’t afford much of anything now that she’d taken the leap and quit her day job to write full-time.
The wind picked up as she neared the high rim of the lake, grabbing at her hair and flapping the sleeves of her cotton shirt. It carried an early spring chill that hadn’t been evident back at the house. I
t was nice. Clean, fresh. And she had to admit there was something . . . consoling in the endless splashing and lapping of the water against the cliff’s face. A few more yards and she could see the mesh of grass, weeds, and loose gravel along the edge.
Her stomach turned and her eyes played wavy tricks with her eyesight—but only long enough to make her stop in her tracks. Still a good thirty feet from the edge, she knew she wasn’t as afraid of the height as she was of the strange sense of familiarity that washed over her, overwhelming . . . and frightening.
Goose bumps zipped across her shoulders and down her arms. Her fingers turned to fists. The blood draining from her face pooled in the veins of her neck and made her throat tight; air was hard to get. Worst of all was the confusion—a lot of strange vibes with no cause and no understanding of what was happening to her.
Her muscles were stiff, sluggish, as she forced them to turn her around toward the house, yet the moment she saw the man they went limp and spastic. She staggered and her scream echoed out over the lake and down the river valley.
The man looked horrified and pushed out his arms, fingertips up, to make her stop, but he didn’t move to come closer. He stood halfway between her and the house. Looking right and then left at the trees that made the house covert, she wondered which direction to run for safety—bare feet forgotten.
“Wait! Wait. I’m sorry.” He took a step back. He looked inclined to run as well. “I thought you heard me coming, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Then, like the proverbial light bulb flashing on, he announced, “I’m a neighbor!”—like that made all the difference in the world.
Actually, it did make a slight difference, but only in as much as her vision stopped careening around for an escape route and for the first time truly focused on him. An average-looking man . . . maybe slightly better than average when the artist in her took in the fine symmetrical bone structure of his face. Tall and built on the large side, he looked athletic—or at least fit. His dark hair was clipped short and he was clean shaven. But frankly, she was an eye girl who believed that everything she needed to know about a person could be detected by the life in their eyes. He was wearing aviator shades.
“You’re Ivy Bonner, right? I’m guessing everyone on this end of the lake has been asked to watch out for you, but I live closest so I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.” Despite the fact that a dozen feet separated them, he stretched out his hand in friendship. “I’m Craig Tennet?” He asked like maybe she’d heard of him—but she hadn’t. He took a step forward. “Next house . . . about a mile that way.” He used his friendly hand to point north. “I’ve known the Rossinis”—he shook his head—“all my life, I guess. Gracie’s my godmother,” he said, like that ought to do it. When it obviously didn’t, he grew frustrated and whipped off his sunglasses. “Look, I just came over to introduce myself and to tell you that I’ll be here most of the summer, and if you need anything, just give me a call.” He patted the back and front pockets of his khaki slacks and finally pulled a business card from the pocket of his white oxford shirt. “My numbers.”
Holding the card between two fingers, he stretched out his arm like a ten-foot pole and started inching forward, his eyes sharp and quick, concerned and wary. By the time she could tell they were a lovely moss green color, she’d decided to meet him halfway and plucked the card from his grasp. He gave her a small, tentative smile even as he started backing away again.
“So. Okay. If you have any questions, need to borrow some sugar, anything . . . I’m right next door. If you can’t get through on my cell, call the house. Someone will always answer.” She nodded and he sighed—mission accomplished. “Great. All right then, I’ll probably see you around. And sorry about before . . . startling you. Next time I’ll . . . wear a bell or something.”
That made her smile, but he missed it when he turned to leave.
“Mr. . . . ah . . .” She looked at the card.
He stopped and turned back to her. “Craig.”
His voice was soft and deep like the purr of a really big cat—she liked it.
“Did you knock a few minutes ago? At the front door?”
“I rang the doorbell. When no one answered . . . well, I saw your car so I assumed you were here somewhere and took a chance you’d be swimming or reading or something back here. I shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head—that no longer mattered. “But you didn’t knock?”
“I rang the bell.” He was defensive. “Twice, in case you didn’t hear it the first time. When you didn’t answer, I decided to take a chance—”
“I understand.” She gave the card a little wave. “And I appreciate your neighborly . . . um . . . ness. I’m so sorry I screamed at you.”
He relaxed and smiled. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you scared the hell out of me, too.”
She couldn’t stop the chuckle. “Sorry.”
“We’ll call it even. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
“Good.” He turned again to leave, then shouted back over his shoulder. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He waved without a backward glance. She watched him stride across the lawn and around the pool. Taking one last, long baffled look at her, he disappeared along the side of the house—and she abruptly, out of the blue, was fighting an urge to run after him, through the house, to stop him in the driveway.
She felt very alone all of a sudden. Not alone-alone like she usually was, but very alone . . . like desert-island alone, with no mother or brother or friends on the other end of her cell phone, no neighbors or police to come to her rescue. And it wasn’t the being alone that bothered her—often she needed to be alone just to think. It was the desert-island part that was getting to her, she realized. She glanced back at the cliff. There was something very unsettling about this place. She was beginning to wish she’d stayed home.
She woke up falling. Again. Panic replaced the oxygen in her blood, it made her heart race as she gasped for air. Skin clammy, muscles quaking, she thrashed in the sheets until she could sit up and hang her legs over the side of the bed. She was desperate to feel the floor under her feet. She wanted to cry but her gratitude, just to be awake, wouldn’t allow it.
So now she knew for sure. She couldn’t outrun the dream. It had followed her to Lake Lackey clearer and more detailed than ever before. Now she wasn’t simply walking on a sidewalk or down a street or along a garden path and then suddenly falling, falling, falling until she fought and clawed her way back to consciousness. Tonight she’d been walking along the cliffs . . . in the rain. The wind blew droplets of water against her face—it stung and made it hard to see where she was going. She stopped. Peering over the edge at the waves crashing and pounding against the craggy rock made her woozy. She turned away, intent on walking back to safety. Lightning struck, twice, in rapid progression along the slope of land still several yards away but directly in front of her. Jerking back in surprise, she felt her foot slip in the soggy grass-mud-gravel mix at the rim of the overhang, felt her arms flailing to keep her balance, the instant awareness that nothing could save her . . . and falling . . . falling . . . falling.
She buried her face in her hands until her breath came easy and her heart returned to her chest from her throat. She fell back on the bed and let her arms fall wide. Staring at a new ceiling, she went over the same old questions. Why was she having the same sort of dreams over and over? Did they mean something? If so, what? And how could she make them go away?
TWO
She discovered it by accident on her fourth day at the lake—having spent the three preceding days bored to death but safe in the sanctuary of the Rossinis’ summer home.
The dreams aside, there had been no more sudden, unaccountable attacks of fear or panic, no more puzzling noises or illusive light tricks. Eventually she came to the conclusion that she’d been overtired that first day and it was foolish, not to menti
on a giant waste of gorgeous scenery . . . and warm summer sunshine . . . and clean fresh air, to hide and cower from her own imagination.
She controlled her state of mind, not the other way around.
Directly after an early breakfast that morning, she strapped on her backpack and marched out to the cliffs—mostly just to prove she could.
Again the wind picked up once she left the shelter of the trees that protected the house from all but a pleasant pinescented breeze. And because she wasn’t careless or stupid, she stood well away from the edge but close enough to note the discrepancy between the rhythmic pattern of the waves and their erratic intensity, causing the surf to first swell and break against the great stone wall as if testing its strength before it rose up and came crashing back—angry and unmerciful. Exhilarating and intimidating at once.
Taking the path of least resistance, Ivy turned south, away from the crest of the old quarry. And then, for no reason she could identify, she changed her mind and went north along a clear-cut, well-traveled path. It wasn’t a steep hike but it did require more effort than a downhill jaunt. Still, with the wind in her face and the spirit of the lake speaking to hers, she topped the summit in no time.
And there, to her great delight, set back a hundred or so feet from the cliff, was a gazebo. An ornately carved octagon with a high-pitched roof and open sides—of the old Victorian Stick Style, the likes of which one didn’t see often enough in her opinion. Stunning. She imagined it had once been white but was now a seasoned silver-gray . . . and completely irresistible.
Secreted away in a hollow below the primary grounds of what she assumed was the Tennet family summer home, it looked sadly neglected. Lovely, but in dire need of a broom, maybe a paintbrush . . . and a hammer and some nails, she noted as the floorboards slid loose and worn below her feet.
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