The Winter Lodge

by Susan Wiggs

  “I don’t understand,” Laura said. “Who are they? And why did they give you the diamonds?”

  “I told you...” Mariska closed the box and pressed it to her chest.

  “Right, the agreement,” Laura said. “What I meant was, why? Who are these people?”

  Mariska slipped the box into a zippered belt around her waist. “I need to move these. I thought keeping them in here would be safe, but after yesterday’s power outage, I was getting nervous.”

  “Nervous about what?”

  “I kept feeling like someone was watching me.”

  “Who?”

  “Just...someone. I thought of a better hiding place. I need to tell someone, though, in case, well, you know.”

  “In case what?”

  “Something happens to me. It won’t, I swear. It’s just a precaution. Anyway, you’re the only one I can trust.”

  Laura was unnerved by the ominous tone. “If you trust me, then you’ll tell me the whole story.”

  They went into the bakery, where everything was gleaming, waiting to start another day. Laura eyed her friend. Mariska was more beautiful than ever, her constant travels having imbued her with a special sense of style, as if she had stepped from the pages of a Paris fashion spread. She wore a silk scarf and carried a soft leather bag with casual ease, and even at this hour, she seemed possessed of a peculiar restless energy. She adored traveling the world, and found life in sleepy Avalon, New York, almost unbearable. Although she adored her daughter—everybody adored Jenny—she couldn’t seem to settle down. And now this, thought Laura. Just when she thought Mariska couldn’t have any more secrets, there was this.

  As Laura busied herself with a honey-wheat mixture, Mariska finally began to talk. “Mr. and Mrs. Lightsey are the parents of Pamela Lightsey, the girl Philip Bellamy married,” she said.

  Now Laura remembered. The Lightseys were summer people, friends of the Bellamys.

  “They were desperate for Philip to marry Pamela, and they knew he wouldn’t do it so long as I was around,” Mariska continued. “I knew the moment I told Philip I was pregnant, it would be over for him and Pamela. The thing is, the Lightseys knew that, too. They said if I’d break up with Philip—and make him believe it—they’d make it worth my while. They’re in the diamond trade, so...” She patted the belt containing the diamonds.

  That night, at Mariska’s insistence, Laura and Mariska went out, stopping at Scooter’s, a popular hang-out on the river road. The two women sat at a bar-height table sipping drinks and catching the eye of several guys. Well, Mariska did, anyway. Next to her, Laura felt as plain as white bread.

  Some local guys parked themselves at the next table—Terry Davis, who worked up at Camp Kioga year round, Jimmy Romano, a teacher at the high school, and Matthew Alger, who worked for the city. When it came to flirting, Mariska was an expert, but Laura was content to simply sit back and watch. It was an art, the process of lighting up when a guy looked at you, holding his attention with your eyes and your body language. Although it required intense concentration, it had to appear completely natural and spontaneous.

  Before long, Mariska was whispering and giggling with Matthew, who looked as though he was about to eat her up. Laura excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Within a few minutes, Mariska joined her. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

  Laura could see that she was drunk. “I keep thinking about the things you told me today...what you did...”

  “It had to be done, okay? The bakery wasn’t doing so hot that summer, in case you forgot.”

  “I remember.”

  “It was a way to save it.”

  “Philip would have helped you,” Laura said. “If you’d told him about the baby and married him, the Bellamys would have stepped in.”

  Mariska stared at her. “And how would that make me look? Like an idiot who got pregnant and married a guy in order to use his money. You know me, Laura. I would never do that.”

  Ah, yes, her pride. “So it’s better to be a single mother and take a bribe than to marry the man you love?”

  “I was eighteen years old. I had no idea about love and marriage. Sometimes I think I still don’t. But I’ve always understood the value of money.”

  A flushing sound came from one of the stalls. Laura’s blood chilled. Good Lord, someone had heard their conversation. A dark-haired woman came out and washed her hands at a sink. One of the Romanos, Laura observed. Angela, maybe, she couldn’t keep them all straight.

  When she left, Laura looked wildly at Mariska. “Do you think she knows what we were talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I took care of everything today. The only one who saw was Jenny, and she’s too little to know what’s going on.”

  “Isn’t what you did illegal?”

  “Look, I had something the Lightseys wanted,” she said in exasperation. “And you didn’t see me buying new cars and clothes, stuff like that. I didn’t want to arouse anybody’s suspicion.” When she needed money, she explained, she would take one or two stones at a time to a diamond exchange on Forty-seventh Street in New York, or sometimes to the one in Toronto or even in Europe somewhere.

  “So why are you telling me this today? Why now?” Laura asked. She had always been somewhat in awe of Mariska—of her looks, her nerve, her self-confidence. Now she felt something else besides awe—shock and disapproval.

  “I might need to go away for a while,” Mariska said. “Longer than usual.”

  Food for Thought

  BY JENNY MAJESKY

  A Colorful Cordial

  My grandparents had very few treasures because they brought so little with them when they emigrated from Poland. The treasures they had were precious, and one that stands out in my memory is a set of crystal cordial glasses. My grandfather went to Brooklyn one year and bought a set imported from Poland. They had the color and cut of jewels—ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst—and they were only used on special occasions. A birth, a death, a holiday. Krupnik is a hot honey-and-spice cordial that brings warmth to any occasion.

  KRUPNIK

  1 cup honey

  ½ cup water

  1 crumbled bay leaf

  1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  1 teaspoon grated lemon peel

  a pinch of nutmeg

  10 whole cloves

  2 pinches of cinnamon

  3 cups 100-proof vodka

  In a pot, combine everything except vodka. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered, for about 10 minutes. Strain, discarding spices. Add vodka and heat gently but do not boil. Serve immediately, preferably in crystal cordial glasses.

  Chapter Thirty

  Giving people bad news came with the job, Rourke reminded himself as he trudged through hip-deep snow to the lodge at Camp Kioga. It had always been that way. In training, he had studied the optimum methods of delivering the news and providing support. On the job, he had been called on to arrive on strangers’ doorsteps, to tell unsuspecting people that the unthinkable had happened—an accident, a death, an arrest or some other incident that would forever change the lives involved. Those moments haunted him for years afterward.

  Due to the snowfall, the road to the camp wasn’t even accessible with a snowplow. He’d used a snowmobile with deep-snow tracks, and had then been forced to hike the final leg by snowshoe. One of his deputies had pointed out that he could contact Jenny by phone, but there was no way Rourke would do that. He needed to tell her this in person.

  It was dusk by the time he reached the lodge, and the snow was coming down harder than ever. He focused on the golden glimmers of light in the windows, the friendly puff of smoke coming from the chimney. He pictured Jenny inside, maybe sitting at her computer or fixing something to eat, listening to music, thinking or dreaming. An
d with that image came a piercing surge of tenderness, and the knowledge that had been with him for at least half his life. One summer long ago, he’d fallen in love with Jenny. He’d spent years trying to fall out of love with her. Now he was forced to acknowledge that he’d never succeeded. The notion brought him no joy. Somewhere in the world, there were people who were good at love, who found it bright and easy, something to give meaning to their lives. Rourke was not one of them.

  He stopped in front of the lodge and took off the snowshoes. The front stairs were layered with snow and a fringe of icicles hung from the eaves. As he passed beneath them, a big section fell, stabbing silently into the snow. He called Jenny’s name and then knocked at the door. Rufus sounded the alarm, baying and hurling himself at the door.

  Good dog, thought Rourke. He liked the mutt’s protective instincts.

  The door opened and Rufus lunged, then instantly dissolved into a puddle of affection when he recognized Rourke. Jenny stood back, wearing an expression Rourke found hard to read. She was anything but happy to see him, and she looked...was that guilt on her face? What did she have to feel guilty about? She was wearing jeans and a sweater, and her hair was in a ponytail. She stood with her arms folded protectively in front of her.

  “Rourke,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Clearly. “I need to talk to you. I, uh, wanted to say this in person.”

  She frowned and her gaze shifted, much like... He couldn’t shake the notion that she was acting like someone brought to the booking desk at the station.

  He stepped inside and shut the door. With Rufus prancing around him in welcome, he took off his boots and parka. It felt good to peel off a few layers. Snowshoeing was hot work. “Can we have a seat?” he asked her.

  “Um, sure.” She gestured at the sofa.

  Rourke decided to be quick about it. She seemed distracted and mystified, and holding out was just cruel. “A body was found in the ice caves above the falls,” he said without preamble.

  She looked utterly confused. “A body.”

  “Yes.”

  “A human body.”

  He nodded. Though he wanted to touch her, he kept his fists clenched. “Sonnet, Zach and Daisy were up there snowshoeing. There’s been no positive ID of...” He started to say “the remains” but let his voice trail off. “A recovery team will go up as soon as the weather clears. I think you need to know, to be prepared for the news.” All right, he thought. Get it over with. “The deceased is almost certainly your mother.”

  He watched the words sink in like a slow burn, the initial confusion deepening to comprehension and then pain. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move except to press her hands flat on her knees and study them intently.

  “I compared the, um, clothing to the description in the original missing persons report,” he explained. He had reread the archived report, though that hadn’t been necessary. He’d gone over it so many times over the years that he’d memorized it, and the moment he’d seen Daisy’s photos, he had known. “It’s pretty conclusive.” He paused, hating the fact that he was hurting her. “I’m sorry.”

  She sat very still for a few minutes, seeming to go away somewhere. She swallowed, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she took a deep, unsteady breath. “I used to keep a journal, when I was young,” she said in a faint voice. “I started every entry ‘Dear Mom.’ It was my way of making her real to me. Even when I hadn’t heard from her in ten, fifteen, twenty years, she was always real to me, the person I told everything to, always there, whenever I needed her.”

  “Jen, I don’t know what to say. Except that we’ll figure out what happened to her. I swear I won’t let it rest.”

  She was eerily calm, though he suspected there was a lot going on inside her. Then she cleared her throat, and her gaze shifted, and once again, he had the impression that she was acting guilty.

  “Um, about that,” she said. “My mother had a secret... I just found out.” She got up and went over to the table. Beside her laptop was a rusty tackle box, charred on the outside, something salvaged from the fire. She handed him a teacup that appeared to contain a handful of tiny stones. “I think these are diamonds,” she said. “In fact, after calling Laura, I’m sure. And I think whatever happened to my mother stems from this.”

  Rourke took one of the stones in the palm of his hand while she explained that they had been hidden inside fishing sinkers, the homemade sort.

  A chill slipped over him as he considered the possibilities. Mariska was in possession of a hidden fortune, and she had somehow put herself in danger. “We’ll have to verify what this is,” he said. But that chill told him Jenny was correct.

  She stood by the table, looking small and lost. “I was so angry at my mother,” she said at last. “I blamed her for leaving me and never coming back. I...don’t know what to feel now.” She folded her arms under her breasts as though to hold herself together.

  Here was the thing. Rourke knew for sure he was a son of a bitch, because what he was feeling was a sting of pure lust for this woman. It was nothing new, but here he was, in the wake of tragedy, wanting to take her to bed. He’d done it before, when they thought Joey had died. And here he was again, reporting another tragedy and still wanting her. Rourke was the Grim Reaper with a hard-on.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Jenny asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Food for Thought

  BY JENNY MAJESKY

  Come Spring

  In Poland, the Thursday before Lent is known as Tlusty czwartek (Fat Thursday). When the day arrives, we know springtime is just around the corner. It’s traditional to enjoy Mazurki, which are thin cakes. Each grandmother passes the recipe down to her daughter and so on, down through the generations. The family gathers and shares the Mazurki, and passionate arguments ensue as people choose their favorites. This one nearly always wins the competition.

  MAZUREK

  ½ cup pure, unsalted butter

  4 ounces baking chocolate, melted

  1 cup sugar

  3 eggs

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons milk

  2 cups flour

  icing made from 1 cup powdered sugar and 1-3 tablespoons of milk

  chopped walnuts or pecans for garnish

  Preheat oven to 350°F. Cream butter; add melted chocolate and sugar and mix well. Stir in eggs, one at a time. Stir in vanilla, salt and milk. Gradually add flour and mix well. Spread in greased 15 x 10 x 1-inch pan and bake for about 20 minutes. Drizzle with icing and sprinkle with chopped nuts. Cut into squares and serve.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  1998

  Rourke’s Saturday-night watch had just started when a call came in—personal. He picked up at the duty sergeant’s desk and stood looking out the window at the bleak, stormy weather. “Officer McKnight here.”

  “It’s me, bro,” said a welcome voice. “Home at last.”

  “Joey.” Rourke shut his eyes and thought, Thank God. Joey was finally back. After the mishap that had resulted in a mistaken report of his death, Joey had been sent to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. There, he’d undergone several procedures to save his eye, but nothing had worked. He’d been transferred to Walter Reed and finally honorably discharged.

  “Yep, that’s me,” he said. “Otherwise known as ‘Lucky.’”

  Rourke sensed the bitter irony behind his words. Joey had lost much that night. His brothers-in-arms, whom he’d loved with unabashed ferocity, as well as his right eye. Not unexpectedly, the incident had changed him irrevocably, and a new hard wariness became apparent in his sparse e-mail messages and phone calls.

  “Where are you?” Rourke asked.

  “I’m in Kingston, at
the station. Next train’s not for an hour. I need a lift to Avalon. Planning to surprise the little woman, you know? She’s big on surprises.”

  Rourke’s mouth went dry. What had happened between him and Jenny that night had been a huge mistake. Mutual grief had stripped away all their defenses, but that was no excuse. And the hell of it was, he’d do it all over again if he had the chance, even though guilt ate at him every time he thought about it.

  Until that night, he hadn’t known sex could be so powerful, a possession of sorts. And he hadn’t known how important that was, or how devastating when it was taken away. He had surrendered willingly, though. The second Joey had called the morning after and they realized their mistake, a sick guilt had frozen Rourke and Jenny, and they’d avoided each other ever since. Neither was sure whether or not Joey had figured out what had happened, but a terrible suspicion haunted them. They’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.

  “So whaddya say?” Joey prodded.

  “You been drinking, Joey?” he asked.

  “Hell, I’m a soldier. A veteran. A one-eyed veteran. Of course I’ve been drinking. How about you swing down this way and give me a lift?”

  A thirty-mile drive involved a little more than “swinging down.” Rourke glanced around the station. “I’m on duty. I’ll have to check with the sergeant—”

  “Aw, c’mon,” Joey said. “You’re out in a patrol car anyway. You can just cruise down this way.”

  “Hang on a minute and I’ll ask.”

  “Since when does the great Rourke McKnight ask for permission, anyway?” Joey’s tone turned belligerent. “Usually you just help yourself.” He paused, then added, “Know what? I don’t need a ride after all. Never mind.”