Lineage (14 page)

“I … hi …” Lance fumbled, his tongue several steps behind his racing thoughts. Without looking, he tried to replace the book in the space he had pulled it from, but instead, lost his grip and watched as the book somersaulted to the floor, landing with a loud thud. “Jesus!” Lance exclaimed, and bent to pick the book up, dusting its cover off and checking to make sure the fall hadn’t bent any pages. When he looked back up at the woman’s face, he saw she wore a bemused look that he was sure she reserved for drunks and precocious children.

“I’m sorry, lost my grip,” Lance said lamely, and tried to put on his best smile. The woman nodded, but her smirk remained in place.

“No problem. Good thing you didn’t drop it on your foot, it’s a long book.” Lance barked laughter that was too loud in the empty bookstore.
Christ,
he thought.
Get a grip, you idiot.

“Were you looking for anything in particular?” she asked.

“No, not really.
You have a really nice store here.”

“Thanks. Well, if you need some help finding anything or dropping books, just let me know.” Lance felt an urge to let out the unfamiliar laughter again but staved it off. Instead, he smiled and nodded, feeling blood warm his face. He watched the woman walk up to the half-moon counter in the middle of the store and begin shuffling through a stack of papers. A runner of dark hair fell from behind one delicate ear, obscuring her face for a moment before her hand absently pushed it back into place. It was such a simple movement, but it was done with a grace and elegance that made him stare. Only when her green eyes shifted from the paperwork to Lance’s corner of the room did he tear his gaze away.

In an effort to appear somewhat normal, he pulled the book he had dropped from the shelf and began paging through it. There were black-and-white pictures every few pages that depicted different views of
Lake Superior
’s shoreline, along with some shots of enormous ore-hauling ships chugging through the dark waters. Feeling the need to purchase something to offset his strange behavior, Lance walked to the desk and set the book on the counter. The woman looked up as she rose from her chair behind the desk and smiled. This time there was no doubt or mockery in her expression, only warmth.

“Find everything okay?” she asked, as she scanned the book’s bar code and punched a key on the computer console to her right.

“Yeah, I figured I should buy it after throwing it on the floor.” The woman’s smile widened and spread to her eyes.

“On vacation?” she said as she drew out a small brown paper bag from beneath the counter.

“Uh, not really.
Just passing through.
This is a really nice town,” he said, mentally slapping his own forehead with the lameness of his speech.

“Thanks, it gets really busy this time of year. That’ll be twenty-two thirty-six.” Lance fished his wallet from the back of his jeans and handed her his credit card. As she ran the plastic in the machine behind the counter, she read his name out loud.

“Lance Metzger. That sounds really familiar.”

The indecision that arose with the opportunity was a mile-high wall that flew up in Lance’s mind. His tongue began to work in his mouth, and before he knew it, he was doing something he had vowed from the moment his first novel had hit the mainstream never to do.

“I’m an
author,
you might have a few of my books here.” Lance’s insides cringed and he mentally began to whip himself for finally becoming something he had always abhorred. He had never used his semi-fame to open doors or gain favor with anyone, especially a woman whom he found attractive. But at the moment the urge to find out more about the woman before him was too tempting, and he shut out the chiding voice in the back of his mind that was calling him every degrading name under the sun.

“Really, what do you write?”

“Horror, mostly.
I wrote one that bordered on thriller, but it wasn’t a great fit, and the critics agreed.” She laughed and he thought it was one of the most endearing sounds he had ever heard. It somehow felt right to him, as if he had been waiting to hear something like it for years and everything before had fallen short.

“You know, I don’t think I have any of your stuff, but your name does sound familiar. I’ll have to keep an eye out for you.” She smiled again and slid the book and his card across the counter. The abruptness of the
brushoff
was palpable and Lance felt himself shrink.
Don’t say anything else, just thank her and walk out of here,
he thought as he tucked his card away and picked up the bag from the countertop.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” he said, feeling like the biggest lump that had ever walked the earth.

“Yes, thanks very much. Oh, and my name is Mary. You gave me yours, it’s only right I do the same.”

Lance smiled.
“Nice to meet you, Mary.”

“You too.”

Without further risk of embarrassment, Lance turned and walked out the front door and into the heat of the day. As the bell dinged mutedly behind him in the store, he shook his head and hurried to the Land Rover. The similarities between Mary and the woman he had seen in his car were undeniable.

As he backed the SUV up and then drove down the street to the northern end of town, he realized that instead of resolving the questions that had been eating at him since seeing the house in his mind, only more had emerged like foreboding ships out of a foggy sea.

Lance checked and then rechecked the fire number on the driveway against the one written on the listing printout. They matched—he was here.

The gravel driveway led from the pavement at a ninety-degree angle. The drive crossed over a set of intersecting railroad tracks and then dropped down into a large turnaround. The circular drive sat on a rough upheaval of ground made decorative by the growth of three small pine trees. The
berm
hadn’t had a good going-over in years and looked shabby with weeds beginning to grow over the timid grass layering the bottommost area. The drive led away from the road and turned sharply into a thick copse of woods. Oak, birch, and pine all intermingled, making an impenetrable wall that dominated the right side of the highway.

Lance had lost sight of
Superior
several miles back as the road curved away from the water. Although the real-estate agent had told him over the phone the house was only five miles north of
Stony
Bay
, the turn had still snuck up on Lance as he rounded a hard left.

As he pulled into the drive, he took in the surroundings. The sun filtered in less and less through the crowded trees as he drove farther into the property, bathing the interior of the car in dingy light. Gray squirrels ran and jumped from branch to branch on all sides. The gravel crunched under his tires, and when he rounded yet another corner in the driveway, he finally got his first look at the house.

It loomed solemnly in the middle of a clearing, just as he had seen on the realty website. The grass in the yard looked longer than in the photo and there was an air of disuse about the grounds. The stone of the lower level had darkened with time, and moss of some sort grew in patches here and there in the cool shadows. The logs of the upper floor were beginning to lighten and needed to be stained. Two darkened windows stared him down from the upper floors as he approached, and he could see a few sticks lying like sunbathing snakes on the roof. Another circular turnaround was positioned before the front entry and a twin of the
berm
at the driveway’s mouth rose neatly in its center.
Lake Superior
stretched out beyond the house like a dreary drop cloth, its waves rolling over one another in a race to reach the rocky shore first. In its day, Lance thought, it would have been a sight to behold; perhaps a place of envy by neighbors who lived in much less striking abodes nearby.

A shining Chevy Tahoe and a Ford Ranger so rust-coated its original color was indiscernible were parked near the front door. As Lance approached and stopped the Land Rover a few paces behind the Ranger, he caught sight of a man sitting on a stone bench just outside the entryway. Lance could only make out white hair protruding in every direction from beneath a dark baseball hat that had been jammed on, it seemed, as an afterthought. The man also wore a black T-shirt and baggy gray painter’s pants. The bill of the hat obscured his features, but if he had to guess, Lance would have placed him near seventy-five, if not more.

When Lance cut his engine, the man seated on the bench looked up and stared from beneath the brim of his hat, his hands resting flat by his sides. He looked like someone on the edge of a deep pool contemplating a dunk into waters that he no longer trusted. Lance opened his door and shut it, making his way between the vehicles to the front porch. The man did not move as he approached, and it was only when Lance was a few feet away that the man betrayed the illusion of a statue.

“Afternoon,” the elderly man said, his dark eyes running uneasily up and down Lance.

“Hi, I’m Lance. I’m here to see the house,” he said as he stepped forward and extended his hand. The man hesitated only a moment before reaching out and shaking Lance’s outstretched palm. The man’s hand felt like iron wrapped in paper.

“John
Hanrahan
. I’m the caretaker here, although I haven’t been able to fulfill my duties as of late, and for that I apologize.”

“I think the place is beautiful, just needs someone to live here, I’m guessing.” John pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. A moment later the front door opened and a tall blond woman dressed in a white business suit and black high heels stepped out onto the concrete apron before the entry.

“Lance?” she said as she strode over to him, her hand held out before her.

“Yes, and you must be Carrie?”

“The one and only,” she said, beaming at him through what must have been an inch of makeup. “Well, what did you think of the drive? Very scenic up here, but just wait until fall. You said you live near
Minneapolis
, right?” Without giving pause to let Lance answer, she hurtled on through what must have been a customary greeting and sales pitch combined. “I lived there in college, couldn’t really get the hang of city life though. I grew up a few miles south of
Duluth
, so this has always been my home, so to speak. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Come inside and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Lance followed Carrie as she spun on one polished black heel and disappeared back into the house. As he mounted the steps, Lance looked over his shoulder at the old man, who still sat on the bench, not looking in his direction but staring at something across the yard, seemingly in deep thought. Lance was about to ask him if he was coming with them when Carrie’s high voice called out from inside.

“Coming, Lance?”

He turned away from the motionless figure on the bench and stepped into the coolness of the house.

The foyer that met him was wide with tall ceilings. Smooth oak planking made up the floor he stood on, and the walls were covered in surprisingly light, neutral colors. Beyond the foyer, the home opened up with vertical support beams made of stained logs that ran from the floor to the ceiling nearly fifteen feet overhead. A large bathroom was positioned to the right with bright track lighting already glowing within. Lance assumed Carrie had gone throughout the house before he arrived, throwing on lights and perhaps tidying up a bit to further entice her potential buyer.

“The last owners really wanted to modernize the old place. They
sheetrocked
over all of the stone walls, which to me wasn’t the best idea, but it turned out really well nonetheless. The house was built in the late forties just as
Stony
Bay
was being fully established. Actually, the bay out front is the town’s namesake and I’m guessing you’ll be able to see why.”

Lance followed the realtor farther into the house, glancing up every so often at the large chandeliers hanging from ornate chains. Suddenly he imagined he could see the blond man sitting in an overstuffed chair covered by a white sheet. Lance stopped and stared. The man blinked and Lance could see a tear running down the right side of his face. Absently, the man wiped it away and kept looking forward blankly, then dissolved to leave only an empty dust-covered chair behind.
He’s here,
Lance thought.
Why’s he here? What is he waiting for?
Lance’s mind was so consumed with the story dancing at the edges of his imagination that he barely heard Carrie speak to him.

“Lance, are you okay?” He nodded and licked his lips as he looked at the Realtor vacantly.

“Sorry, I’m fine. Long drive,” Lance replied, finally gathering his wits. The Realtor gave him a sidelong glance and turned to walk farther into the house.

Carrie led him into a wide kitchen set into the right side of the home. Lance admired the black marble the prior owners had chosen for countertops and the contrasting light wood of the cabinets beneath. A hanging pot rack hovered over a large cutting block in the middle of the room, and Lance even spied a fairly new-model dishwasher tucked beneath one end of the counter.

“As you can see, they spared no expense in the kitchen. If I remember right, the owner used to be a chef at a culinary school in
Boston
.” Lance nodded and was about to follow Carrie out of the kitchen when he imagined the blond man seated at the counter, staring forlornly out of the window. There was a scrap of paper and a dulled pencil lying on the marble top. His left hand kept rolling the pencil back and forth, over and over.