by Lisa Unger
also by Lisa Unger
Darkness, My Old Friend
Fragile
Die for You
Black Out
Sliver of Truth
Beautiful Lies
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Unger
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Unger, Lisa, 1970–
Heartbroken : a novel / Lisa Unger. —1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Women—New York (State)—Adirondack Mountains Region—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3621.N486H43 2012
813’.6—dc23 2011050497
eISBN: 978-0-307-46522-1
Jacket design: Nupoor Gordon
Jacket photographs: (Island) Bill Hinton Photography/Getty Images; (Ocean) © Adeeb Atwan/Dreamstime.com
v3.1
For Jeffrey,
because, really, who else?
Night and day, you are the one.
Still and always.
Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One - The Journey There
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part Two - Heart Island
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Acknowledgments
About the Author
part one
the journey there
In our desperate desire to recapture something that might never have been, one by one we’ve all crashed upon the rocks at Heart Island. And in doing so, we’ve ruined the very thing we all loved so much, made it something ugly and barren where no love can live, where nothing grows.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF CAROLINE LOVE HEART
(1940–2000)
prologue
Birdie Burke stood on the edge of the rock and watched the first light of morning color the sky a dusty rose. As she perched on the cold, slippery stone shore, the lake water lapped at her toes. Other than the whisper of a light breeze through the trees, there was only the distant calling of a loon. She let her robe drop, and the cool air raised goose bumps on her flesh. No one could see her; the other islands were visible only from the north and south. Her husband had been asleep when she left him in the main house.
And even if anyone could see her, who wanted to look at the bathing-suited body of a seventy-five-year-old woman? Most people would avert their eyes in embarrassment, even though she was thin and fit. When fully clothed, she knew, she was very stylish. In fact, she still considered herself quite attractive. Even so, it seemed to Birdie that no one ever looked at her—not really.
Time had robbed her of the lushness of her body, her creamy skin, and the shine in her hair. And even though she didn’t feel any different than she had when she was twenty, she was unrecognizable as the girl she was then. This was true for everyone, she knew. No one her age recognized the person she saw in the mirror. Most of her friends and acquaintances were engaged in a full-scale battle against the onset of old age, rallying teams of personal trainers, plastic surgeons, beauticians, aestheticians to hold back the clock. How silly, Birdie always thought. If ever there’s a battle you can’t win, it’s that one. Not that she didn’t take care of herself. Not that she didn’t know about fighting losing battles.
The water was frigid as she inched in and then quickly submerged herself to her shoulders. Though she was well accustomed to the shock of the cold, her whole body seemed to seize in protest, her heart starting to race and her joints to ache. Then she began to move, placing one careful stroke after the next, her still-powerful legs pumping. Normally, she’d warm gradually, and the water would grow to feel bracing and crisp—refreshing.
But today was different. Maybe the water was just a few degrees too cold. Or maybe she was just old. She couldn’t seem to get her rhythm. She hadn’t gone far at all, and she was already thinking about turning back.
When she was younger, she’d effortlessly circle the perimeter once, maybe twice. She would enter, as she had today, to the west of the house at the only point that allowed for a safe plunge into the water. Then she’d swim out far enough to avoid being pushed back into the large, sharp rocks that surrounded most of the island. She used to relish the fresh water against her skin, the pleasure of her heart rate elevating, her lean, strong limbs pulling her past the dock, then around the east side, then another quarter turn back to where she began. The whole circle took her about half an hour when she was in good form.
She remembered the water being warmer. And the early morning was a stolen time, the time before the children woke and needed her. She used to wish it could last forever—the quiet, the freedom. Of course, now that it could last forever, now that she could pass an entire day without anyone needing a single thing of her, it wasn’t nearly as pleasant as she’d imagined it would be. Birdie wondered why that so often seemed to be the case—once you had what you wanted, it was a shadow of what you’d dreamed it to be.
She’d made it to the dock, about a quarter of the way around, before she realized, frustrated, that she would need to go back. She couldn’t manage the rest of the distance. Reluctantly, she turned around, swam to where she had left her robe in a soft pink pile, and stiffly climbed out. She was disappointed, even angry with herself, for not having what it took to complete the circle. She didn’t like being reminded of her age. She was unbeatable once upon a time.
But maybe it was just as well; there was a lot to do. Everyone was coming on Sunday. There was so much required of her when guests were about to arrive. Her husband, Joe, was very little help; he fussed over details like the wine and the music, what games they should play. Meanwhile, all the heavy lifting—the shopping, the cooking, and the cleaning—were up to her. By sundown on the day after tomorrow, her children and grandchildren would be sitting at the long dining table for dinner. The blessed quiet of her island would be shattered. And the work would begin.
You do this t
o yourself, Birdie, her husband admonished regularly. Why don’t you just try to relax and enjoy? Everyone would be just as happy with hamburgers on the grill, baked potatoes in tinfoil, and a green salad. Yes—everyone except Birdie.
She was so deep in thought that she didn’t see him until she’d fastened her robe, slipped on her shoes, and turned around to head back to the main house. For a moment the shock of a figure standing at the edge of the trees didn’t register.
Without her glasses on, she couldn’t make him out. Who in the world could that be? Not her husband. The figure was tall but narrow, not powerful like Joe. One of the neighbors? No, it wasn’t possible; she’d have heard the boat approach.
“Who’s there?” she called.
But he stood motionless, possessing an almost ethereal quality. Birdie couldn’t quite bring him into focus. Even though she felt a flutter of apprehension, she moved toward him. She was never one to move away from a threat. Always take it head-on; that was her philosophy.
“Identify yourself,” she said. She didn’t like the sound of her own voice. Do you really have to be so goddamn imperious? Her husband’s other favorite admonishment. You’re not the queen, for Christ’s sake.
“You are trespassing on private land.”
He didn’t answer. What was she seeing? Was there anything there at all? Was it just a trick of light?
She picked up her pace. As she drew nearer, he seemed to disappear into the trees. She hadn’t realized her vision was so poor. When she got to where he’d stood, there was no one there, no trace of anyone having been there. But someone had been there. She wasn’t crazy or senile. She had seen someone. Hadn’t she?
She walked over the rocky terrain that comprised the west side of the island and headed down toward the dock. Today, because there had been little rain for the past week, the rocks were fairly dry above the waterline, though somewhat treacherous. Birdie was sure-footed, having tramped over them at every stage in her life. Her feet belonged on those rocks, just as they had when she was a little girl, a teenager, a young woman. She moved quickly, her feet knowing which stone was loose and which was too pointy and which was a good, level place to step. When the rain fell and storms made the water choppy, this side of the island would become impassable—too slick, jagged, and treacherous by foot, waves knocking against the steep island face. There would be no way to traverse the perimeter except to get into the water and swim.
Rounding the bend, she saw the light gray dock against the steel blue of the water. A formation of Canada geese honked overhead, heading south already. The temperatures were growing colder without ever having seemed to warm.
Their old skiff bobbed in the water. Their cuddy boat, too, was fastened securely to the dock cleats, the cabin covered against the weather. But that was all—no other boat was docked there, as it would have to be if someone had come to call. There was no place else along the coastlines of the island where anyone could come ashore without badly damaging his boat.
Directly to the south was Cross Island. Only two years ago someone had built a house there. For most of Birdie’s life, it had been empty. As children, she, her brother, and her sister used to row a small boat across the narrow channel, and explore. Though their mother always called them back, when she caught them, anxious and angry.
“Don’t go there,” she’d say. “It’s not our island.”
They’d come back, sullen and complaining quietly to one another. No one dared argue with Mother when she had that look on her face. She was rarely angry, almost never raised her voice. But there was a look. And when you saw it, you hushed and did as you were told.
Looking at Cross Island now, Birdie could just see the house that had been built there, its brown-shingled roof peeking through the trees, its windows glinting pink in the morning light. She didn’t like it. It felt like an intrusion. Plus, the island itself held bad memories for her. Most often she ignored it, pretended it wasn’t there, as she did with many of the things that pained her.
She glanced back the way she had come, then to the north, where she could see the main house. From the dock, a narrow gravel path led up to the main structure, then wound around it to the guesthouse. Beyond that cabin, the path wound on to the bunkhouse. She saw no one. No shadow followed her, no interloper. Toward the mainland, thunderheads darkened the sky.
The surrounding islands were occupied by private homes. Though the nearby island hotels and inns had shuttles from the mainland, there was no water taxi service. If you wanted to get to the private residences, you had to have your own boat.
There had been a rash of thefts in the area. Many of the homes stood uninhabited for most of the year. Undesirables from the mainland had grown wise, and they had been taking boats out, breaking in, stealing valuables, vandalizing—even spending a few days partying. Birdie had been angry when she heard the news. It was typical. They were always waiting, angry and entitled, to take or destroy the things for which you’d worked so hard. There was always someone with less looking at you with envy and resentment, just waiting for your back to be turned so they could steal from you. Somehow they always seemed to get away with it.
About a week after she’d learned this, Birdie had gone into town and purchased a small handgun. She was often alone on the island. Joe didn’t cherish his time here the way she did, and he went back to their apartment in the city when he tired of the solitude—or was it her company that tired him? After all, it wasn’t his place. Heart Island hadn’t been in his family for three generations. He hadn’t spent every childhood summer here, as she had. She refused to be afraid in this place. And she pitied anyone who tried to take anything from her. She kept the revolver in its case, in a high kitchen cabinet. When she was alone at night, she moved it to her bedside table.
Birdie picked up her pace as she walked the rest of the perimeter of the three-acre island and ended at its highest point, Lookout Rock, as it had been named by the Heart children—Birdie, her sister, Caroline, and her brother, Gene. From this vantage point, she could see each of the structures, surrounded tightly by large rocks and trees.
The path was really the only way to get around the island now; it led from the bunkhouse to the guest cabin to the main house and then down to the dock, dimly lit by carefully spaced solar-powered ground lights. Once there had been only a single house, the one that was now the guest cabin. Then there was no path from the dock to the house, and everyone made his way up through the trees to the clearing. No one ever walked through the trees anymore, especially in the pitch-dark nights, preferring to keep to the path.
Up high and looking down, Birdie felt that maybe her eyes had been playing tricks on her, hard as it was to believe. But she didn’t see a boat anywhere, run up ashore or tied off on a rock. There was no other way to get here. So logic dictated that she hadn’t seen what she thought she had. Next time she’d bring her glasses or put in her contacts before the swim.
Her late sister, Caroline, would have claimed that Birdie had seen a ghost. Birdie’s sister and Birdie’s mother, Lana, had both believed that the island was home to otherworldly inhabitants. According to them, there was a man who walked the edge, and a woman who stood at Lookout Rock. And something else she couldn’t remember. It was sheer silliness. Birdie had never seen anything remotely like that. Caroline hinted that it was because Birdie, as a pragmatist, as a cynic, wasn’t worthy of a ghostly appearance. Even though Birdie couldn’t explain what she had just seen, she wouldn’t turn to the supernatural to do so. She was wondering about her vision, her sanity, maybe, but certainly not spirits.
Birdie walked the whole island and ended up back where she’d started. The stand of trees was just a blurry line of black. She stared a moment, willing a form to appear from something—a shadow, a swaying branch—so she could explain to herself what had happened. But no, there were just her old friends the pines, the birch trees, the sugar maples, and their eternal whispering.
Finally, she walked back up to the main cabin to start
her breakfast. Her mood, which had been fine, had turned dark. She felt rattled in a way she shouldn’t have, as though she’d gotten some terrible news or remembered something she had been trying to forget.
chapter one
The Blue Hen was bustling, and Emily had screwed up in at least three different ways since her shift began. She’d given one customer the wrong change. She’d given another the wrong order. And now, as some little kid ran out of the bathroom without looking, cutting her off as she moved down the narrow hallway from the kitchen to the dining area, she felt the tray of ice waters slipping from her hands. She’d stopped short to avoid a collision, but the glasses and the tray had not.
She watched the boy dart down the hallway, but everything else was in torturous slow motion. Four glass tumblers sailed through the air, water pluming, ice cubes suspended. The word “no” pulled and elongated in her mind. And then—the shattering crash. She backed away from the shimmering, slicing mess and stared at it. Oh, God. Oh, no. Why did some days start out bad and just get worse?
Angelo from the kitchen rushed out to help. He had a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other like some kind of diner rescue worker. Then Carol, the owner of the Blue Hen, came around the corner. “What happened?” she asked.
“I dropped it,” said Emily. Obviously. She wasn’t going to bother getting into it about the kid. And how the bathroom door shouldn’t open outward into the hallway. Or how people needed to heed the sign that read: Please open the door and exit slowly. Carol looked at the mess and put a plump, beautifully manicured hand to her forehead. Emily couldn’t help but look at her rings—a big diamond engagement ring and a ruby “family” ring, as Carol had called it. They glittered like stars.