by Wendy Webb
“Alaska, move aside!” Nick yelled, pushing the dog and risking a broken arm in the process. But the dog didn’t bite, allowing Nick to get to Kate and lift her to her feet.
“Kate, honey, wherever you are in there, it’s Nick,” he said. Kate’s head was lolling to the side, her black eyes wild, a terrifying grin across her face.
Kate got to her feet, a low chuckle escaping her lips. “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry . . .”
The air around them began to swirl and thicken, as though they were standing in the center of a windstorm.
“Tell her to go to the light,” Jonathan whispered to Simon.
“Go to the light?” Simon hissed in a whisper. “Is that really a thing?”
Jonathan shrugged. “No idea. But what else are we going to do? Invoke somebody! Your relatives?”
Simon cleared his throat. “Great-Grandfather Harrison, if you’re here, help us send Celeste to the light. Take her away, Harrison. Help her cross over. I know you don’t want this, and she can’t stay here with us.”
“Mama’s going to sing you a lullaby . . .”
“I’ve summoned your great-grandmother, boy,” a voice whispered in Simon’s ear. “Call Addie. I’ve got someone of my own to call.”
“Addie!” Simon called out, louder than before. “Great-Grandmother Addie Stewart! We call upon you to help us rid this place of this dark spirit, to free your great-granddaughter Kate from her grasp.”
And the windstorm around them became more violent, blowing photos and furniture across the room, whirling and swirling with a feverish, frantic energy. Cries and howls emanated from nothingness, filling the room and their very bodies with the wails and regrets of the dead.
“All of us love Kate, Celeste,” Simon shouted above the din. “Every living thing in this room loves Kate to the very depths of our souls. That is stronger than you. We are stronger than you. Kate is stronger than you. The truth is stronger than you. Go to the light, Celeste. It’s over. It’s time for you to go home.”
Silence, finally, when Harrison stepped close to Celeste, carrying a baby in his arms.
“What are you doing here when it’s her feeding time?” he said, his voice gentle and soft, holding Clementine close to his chest. “Stop tormenting this poor girl and tend to your daughter. That’s what a loving mother should do.”
And with that, Kate fell to the ground in a heap. Alaska was on her in an instant, licking her face. Standing next to the dog’s great head, too faint for any of the men to see her, was Addie. She reached down and stroked Kate’s hair, her violet eyes shining.
“My darling girl,” she whispered into Kate’s ear. “She’s gone. She can’t hurt you. She never could. Never really wanted to. It was the madness, the grief.”
Kate murmured and reached for the great-grandmother she didn’t consciously know was there.
“I’m so proud of you,” Addie said. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. For us.”
And with that, Addie turned to her beloved Jess and took his hand.
“Look at her, darling,” she said to him. “Our great-granddaughter.”
“She’s beautiful, Addie.” Jess smiled at her. “Just like you. Just like Hadley. Now that this is done, what shall we do today, my love?”
“They’ll be fine now.” Addie straightened. “The whole world awaits.” They turned and walked hand in hand into forever.
Kate reached up to stroke her dog’s soft fur. And then she noticed the three men standing above them.
“What’s going on?” she asked, coughing.
Nick reached down, took Kate’s hand, and helped her to her feet. He pulled her into a hug and held her close. She could feel his whole body shaking. “Thank God,” he whispered, tears of relief escaping from his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On one particularly windy, chilly day, Kate and Simon, along with Nick and Jonathan, drove up the rocky shoreline to Great Bay, where Addie and Jess had spent their childhoods. Kate had spent the last few weeks doing research into their lives—birth and death records existed, but not much else. She knew both Addie’s and Jess’s fathers had been fishermen, as had their fathers before them. But no relatives existed. Neither Addie’s nor Jess’s parents had more than one child. Both families lost everything that horrible, foggy night on the shores of the lake in Wharton—or believed they had. Young Hadley remained, though out of their view and their knowledge. She had children and grandchildren—a family blossomed out of all that devastation. And nobody knew until now.
Great Bay was not the thriving fishing village that it was when Addie was born. Instead it had become a sleepy tourist town, filled with inns and restaurants dotting the craggy, windswept shoreline. Old houses were torn down, new ones took their places, and time went on, despite the great tragedies that had occurred here.
While Jonathan and Nick checked into the hotel, Kate and Simon visited a small fishing museum that they had heard was there. It contained relics of the fishing village that the town had once been—photographs, mementos, and ships’ logs, as well as items from the town itself. They wandered through the museum’s rooms, soaking in the history, searching for a familiar face among the old, weathered photographs of fishermen displaying their catches, town picnics, and celebrations—life in the once-thriving community.
The curator, a man of at least seventy years of age, his boyish face belied by his graying hair and gnarled hands, approached. “Looking for anything special?” he asked.
“We’ve just learned we had relatives that came from Great Bay,” Kate explained. “We were hoping to . . . I don’t know . . . get a sense of the town as it was a century ago. Maybe find out some more information about our family.”
“What was the family name?” the curator asked.
“There are two,” Simon said. “Cassatt and Stewart.”
The curator shot them a look. “Not the Cassatts and Stewarts involved in the trial . . . ?”
Kate nodded. “The same.”
“But . . .” The curator squinted at Simon and Kate, obviously knowing the Cassatts and Stewarts had no children other than Addie and Jess. Kate held up her hand as if to stop his next words from forming.
“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s complicated, but we are related, there’s no doubt. And we’re really hoping you’ve got some information that will help us find out more about our ancestors. We’re very interested in knowing them.”
The curator nodded his head in the direction of the museum’s back room. “In that case, I think I have something that you might like to see.” He led Kate and Simon to a display of old fishing gear and photos of men with boats full of fish.
“Marcus and Gene Cassatt,” he said, pointing to one of the photos. “They were known in these parts as the best fishermen to ever set their nets on this lake. Legend had it they never came up empty-handed, never had a bad day, never were in danger. Of course, that was before all of the . . . unpleasantness of the trial and such.”
Kate looked from the grainy photograph to Simon’s face and back again. “I can see the resemblance,” she said.
Then she had a thought. “What happened to him after the trial? He shot Jess Stewart in cold blood on the courthouse steps. Did he go to jail, too?”
The man nodded. “Would have if not for the stroke. Had it right after the shooting. He was in the hospital for a bit but finally died.”
The curator continued, pointing toward a glass case. “His wife, Marie, donated something as well. My father told me about her coming in here that day. She was an old woman then, her daughter and husband long dead.
“She handed my dad a book and said that at some future time and place, people would come here and be interested in what it had to say. Said she had seen it in a dream—I’ll never forget that.”
Kate shot Simon a look. A dream?
“It made an impression on me as a young lad, you might say,” the curator continued. “She wanted us to be the guardians of the bo
ok, until the time came. And then we were to hand it over to its rightful owners. I’ve worked here my whole life, and you’re the first people to ask about the Cassatts. So I guess the people she was talking about are you, and I guess that time is now.”
He shuffled over to the glass case, opened it, and reached inside. He handed Kate a slim volume with a leather cover. She read the title aloud: “Daughter of the Lake.”
“It’s quite a good story.” He smiled. “You’ll enjoy it. We took the liberty of copying it and adding it to the book of ancient lore we’re putting together about this area.”
On the way back, Kate stopped the car, and she and Simon walked down the rocky embankment toward the water, where they sat, staring out into the Great Lake. They had no way of knowing that, more than a century ago, Addie Cassatt had been born at that very spot. Just a few hundred yards away, Jess Stewart had seen baby Addie for the first time and plucked her from the watery embrace.
Back in those days, the lakeshore was a mystical, holy place, full of legend and lore. A place where water spirits could come to life, where ancient gods and goddesses swam freely among the salmon and trout, confounding unworthy fishermen and boaters and singing out in mysterious voices to children and mothers and murderers on foggy days, luring them to come, come to the water’s edge. The lakeshore was magical then, in those days, and so it remained. But people had grown too noisy, too preoccupied, too sophisticated to listen to its song.
Kate and Simon sat on the shore and watched as the waves crashed against the rocks, over and over again, covering them with spray. Instead of stinging their faces, as the tiny shards of water should have on that cold, blustery day, it felt to them, for all the world, like velvet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Wharton, 1910
Sally Reade couldn’t believe her good fortune as she walked through the fog to the Cassatt house. The lake, the weather, even God himself seemed to be conspiring to help her do what she had to do! Oh, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, she knew that outright. But it had to be done. Jess Stewart had made her the fool a second time. For the same woman, no less.
When they were younger, reliable, stable Jess had always been there, waiting for her to attend the next cocktail party. After graduation, he was clever enough to secure a wonderful job with a large firm. A solid foundation on which to start a life, her father had said. Sally agreed. It was all going so well. She was expecting his proposal any day. That was why it was such a shock when Jess returned from that visit to his hometown with the unthinkable news that he had become engaged. Engaged! Sally did not take the news well. Who would? She sank into a melancholia deeper than she had ever known.
Years passed before they saw each other again, as Sally had always known they would. She made it happen by traveling to Wharton for a party at the Harrison Connors’. So many old friends were there! Just like old times. And then, there was Jess. As handsome as ever. As charming as ever. Sally could tell that he still cared for her. Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t everyone see it? The way he laughed so easily. The way he touched her shoulder when he spoke. Sally felt it then, the whole world vibrating with energy and life. Did everyone else feel it, too? She led Jess up into the turret—the perfect place for a clandestine fling!—threw her arms around him, and kissed him. He did not object. Yes, he had been drinking, perhaps too much, anyone could see that. But it didn’t matter to Sally. Why should it?
That wife of his. What a country mouse she was. None of their old friends could quite believe he had married her. None of the women, anyway. The men seemed entranced, fools that they were. It was true, she was beautiful, but beauty only took one so far. No matter. Sally’s plan was progressing, wife or no wife. That was the important thing.
After that night, Sally arranged to be in Wharton to see Jess whenever she could. A quick trip on the train from the city, no trouble at all. She was confident in her power to lure this man away from his wife. Sally would have what was rightfully hers. Didn’t he love her? Hadn’t he always loved her? Wasn’t he hers?
A secret lunch here, a stolen kiss there. Men are so easily swayed, especially if they’ve been married for a few years. She took him to her bed a few times, after serving him one too many strong martinis. She knew this man, she knew what he liked, she knew his weaknesses. He could not resist her.
It was all going so well until the night he broke things off. Again! It was inconceivable to Sally. He was becoming a father, he told her. There was the welfare of a child to consider. He needed to straighten up, he needed to be the kind of person a son or daughter would be proud of. He needed to be the kind of person his wife deserved. He loved his wife and always had. As things were, he said, their affair had to end. Couldn’t she see that?
She saw. Clearly. Jess Stewart had made a fool of her once again. But this time, Sally was not the same fragile young girl he had left years before. She was stronger now. Fiercer. This time, his sin was unforgivable. He had denied her the thing she most desired. It was only right for her to deny him the thing he most desired. Turnabout was fair play.
It was a perfect plan, really. She knew Jess was in Chicago for business that week. His wife would be alone when the nastiness occurred—Sally didn’t like to think of the word murder, it sounded so evil, so wrong. This wasn’t wrong, Sally knew. It was difficult, but it was the right thing to do. So many things in life were like that.
She imagined him coming home and discovering the body. Oh, how he would suffer. How he would grieve. Just as Sally had suffered and grieved. After it was over, Sally and Jess would be on even ground, one facing another. He had hurt her; she had hurt him. Fair. Perhaps she would even be there to comfort him. Perhaps he might turn to her, then, realizing how wrong he had been.
Further evidence of her cleverness: She had told that chatterbox Helene Bonnet that she was going to Europe for several weeks. She often went abroad. If her whereabouts that night were questioned, she would have an alibi as well, if the police didn’t bother to check Helene’s story.
And the fog! If Sally needed any confirmation that she was doing the right thing, that the very universe wanted what she wanted, it was the fog, shrouding the city, concealing her movements as she stole to Front Street that night, knife in hand.
Sally’s thoughts were racing, here, there, and everywhere, as she crept around the side of his house. She hadn’t counted on Jess’s wife being outside, in the backyard near the lake, when she arrived. But no matter. The task could be performed just as easily there. Better, actually. No blood in the house. It was perfect!
She found his wife stumbling toward the lakeshore moaning and crying—clearly she was having the baby. This surprised Sally. She hadn’t counted on that, either. Again, however, it was a fortuitous turn of events. In the throes of childbirth, his wife wouldn’t be able to put up much of a struggle as Sally did what she had to do. She smiled at her good fortune and followed Addie down to the lakeshore. It all told Sally that she was doing the right thing. The trees and the grass and the fog were nodding in agreement. Sally could see it clearly, the way nature itself was cheering her on.
Then it was time. Could she go through with it? Could she end the life of another human being? You’ve come this far, don’t back out now. It’s almost over. You’re nearly there. Sally could smell the lake and the sweet scent of the fog. Lilac on the night air. She looked behind her to the flickering lights coming from the house, blazing through the whiteness. The scene didn’t seem real to Sally, there, on the lakeshore, dancing lights in the background, a knife in her hand.
She crept closer to Jess’s wife. Closer still. Then, directly in front of her eyes, red seeped across a field of white. She didn’t even realize she had done it. Sally stared as the red stain spread farther and farther onto the white nightgown. Jess’s wife didn’t even look at her. She fell into the shallow water. Sally stared at the bloody knife that she was holding and knew she had done what she came to do. There was no undoing it now. A few minutes later, Sally watched as
the baby slipped from its dying mother’s womb.
She ran to the side of the house and watched as another figure appeared out of the fog, which was lifting a bit. Impossibly, it was Celeste Connor, pushing a baby carriage. Sally watched as Celeste fished the baby out of the lake and put it in the carriage. Then another voice. Harrison. Sally heard it all, then—Celeste’s crazy ramblings, Harrison’s horror at what he thought she had done. A smile sliced across Sally’s face. He thinks his wife killed her. This is perfect. She watched as Harrison put the body of Jess’s wife in the rowboat.
Unbelievable. Then and there, in front of her eyes, Harrison had just absolved Sally of the crime she had committed. She had always liked that man. He put the guilt squarely on his wife’s shoulders. The blame lay elsewhere, not with Sally. She hadn’t expected such benevolence, not after what she had done. It was a good day.
Sally turned and headed back to her room, then. Her task was nearly finished. But there was still the matter of this knife. A tiny detail. She knew enough to know that she should get rid of it. She decided to take it to the shipyards and hide it in the trash. No one would notice it there among the fish entrails and battered boxes. Then she would return to her hotel and wait for the future to unfold.
She heard it as she walked past the city dock. Was it someone singing? It was a noise the likes of which Sally had never heard before. A song with no melody, no words. Was it human? Sally wasn’t sure. But she was so captivated by the sound that, against her better judgment, she followed it to the end of the dock, the knife still in her hand. And then it dawned on her. She didn’t need to find her way to the shipyards after all. She dropped the knife into the water and smiled as she watched it twirl downward, out of view. This night had gone so well.
The singing was louder now. Sally squinted out into the fog and thought she saw the outline of a creature in the water. An otter, perhaps? A beaver? What was it? Was this creature making the sound? Whatever it was, it locked eyes with Sally in that moment, and she was frozen there, at the end of the city dock, held captive by the intensity of the creature’s gaze. Like prey in the sights of a cobra.