The Lake House (11 page)

“That’s why the price is so low,” Aaron said. “It’s too hard to take care of it from such a distance. And we’re willing to negotiate to make this deal happen. Are you ready to look at the kitchen?” He moved through the doorway next to the buffet and turned on the lights in the next room.

The man was driving Heather crazy. The house had a serenity about it, and he was ruining the mood with this high-speed tour.

“The cabinets are original, but the kitchen was updated with a side-by-side refrigerator, dishwasher, and new stove.” He moved
to the other end of the kitchen and opened a door. “Back here is a sunroom that looks out over the backyard. As you can see—”

“Do you mind if I look around on my own?” Heather interrupted.

Aaron looked to Janice, who shrugged her shoulders.

“Just let me turn on the lights upstairs.” Aaron walked away.

“I’ll let you look around in peace,” Janice said and followed Aaron into the living room.

Heather let out a sigh of relief. The kitchen smelled of nutmeg, as if thousands of meals had been cooked in the room. Heather opened the white cabinet and saw flour dust. She could almost taste the sweet cakes and cookies baked over the years in the double oven. The cabinets had what looked like a fresh coat of paint and black knobs. The ceiling was tan with white exposed beams, and the backsplash was a soft green. The island in the center had a heavy wooden counter and two stools. Another window seat had been built in the corner and matched the big wooden table. She stood at the sink and looked out the bay window to a large backyard.

Fog was lifting between the trees. She imagined hanging a hammock near the split-rail fence. She could see herself sipping iced tea and reading a book on hot summer days.

“There are three bedrooms upstairs,” Aaron said from the doorway, “but take your time.”

Heather walked through the kitchen to the living room and saw Aaron looking out the window. The man was a bundle of nerves. If he was this desperate to sell, she might be able to negotiate the price. Closed double doors met her at the top of the stairs. Two bedrooms were on either side of the hallway. One looked as if it had been used as a study, with bookshelves and a
desk that looked out over the side yard to the neighbor’s house. Through the window she could see a bedroom with bunk beds. As she left the room she saw faded pencil marks on the doorframe indicated the growth of a little girl named Maryland. White wainscoting met floral wallpaper in the second bedroom. Not her style, but it had the charm of a Vermont inn.

In the hallway she opened the double doors to the master suite. Angles and nooks, created by the gabled roof, made the room feel expansive and cozy at the same time. The room was furnished with a queen-size cherry canopy bed, a standing oval mirror, and an antique fainting couch. Heather ran her fingers over the footboard; the carved wood felt romantic. If the bed came with the house, she’d hang sheer curtains from the canopy, and on lazy summer mornings, she’d lie in bed, the breeze shifting the material while she listened to the birds.

Through a massive window with a built-in seat, she could see the beach across the street and the slushy ice on the lake. Two wooden poles had been sunk into the sand and waited for summer when the volleyball net could be hung. A picnic table sat under the large oak tree. Heather wondered if everyone congregated in the evenings for a drink in the front yard.

She unzipped her leather boots, sank her feet into the lush carpet, and curled against the window. This was a real bedroom, a place of sanctuary where she could rest after a long trip.

She thought about her childhood home, the eight-hundred-square-foot apartment where she and her mother had moved following her grandmother’s death, when they could no longer afford the lake house. The bedroom furniture from the lake house had been too big for Heather’s tiny room in the apartment, so her mother had constructed a bed for her out of plywood and
dowels; the mattress was a three-inch foam piece covered in vinyl.

In the winter, she stuffed the edges of her thin comforter around her body like a sleeping bag because the electric heat was too expensive to keep the room above sixty degrees. Whenever the wind blew through the plastic-covered, single-paned glass, Heather’s fingers and toes froze.

Every week her mother placed a lottery ticket under the dollar-sign magnet on the refrigerator. At night, Heather would lie in bed and picture the money they might win.

They would leave the neighborhood where people fought in the middle of the night. They’d buy another lake house and she’d sleep in a canopy bed covered with pink lace ruffles. When she jumped on the mattress, fluffy blankets would poof around her. Books would fill tall shelves that lined the walls.

Heather looked out the window. The neighborhood reminded her of her daydreams, a community in which neighbors cared for one another. Heather’s lifestyle didn’t allow her time to form friendships, and except for her one close girlfriend, Gina, the people in Heather’s life were more acquaintances.

She ran her finger over her diamond ring. She knew it was time to remove it, but it felt too final. Once the ring was gone, she knew it was over and she would actually be alone. On the night Charlie asked her to marry him, they sat in a white horse-drawn carriage, huddled under a fleece blanket, a bag of hot chestnuts between them. The horse’s hooves had clip-clopped against the cobblestone of Boston as they made their way through the narrow roads. When they came to the steps of Faneuil Hall, Charlie had stepped down from the carriage, knelt on one knee, and proposed. Now it was over and time to move on.

In five days she was leaving for Europe and would be away
a month. It would be tough to buy the house. There would be contracts to sign, a formal mortgage application process, a home inspection. She was better off finding an apartment in the city, but a faint whisper came from her heart:
This is home.

T
om Woodward pushed the keyboard under his desktop and stood to stretch. Through the glass doors of his office, he could see his staff of architects focused on their computers. The clock read noon. He’d been up since four, and the morning had slipped away. He sat at his drafting table, the plan for the Watsons’ five-thousand-square-foot home in front of him. “Just a few more tweaks.”

His brain felt empty, as if all his thoughts had been sucked to the core of his mind, then exploded past his skull. He needed a nap, but he still had to head to Nagog this afternoon. Sarah had called yesterday, asking if he could come over and help her with some repairs. It would’ve been easier to call a handyman, but she was one of the women who’d raised him. Plus, he hadn’t seen his grandfather in weeks, and it was time to check in.

“Thought you might need this,” his assistant, Cynthia, said as she walked into the office and placed a sandwich and coffee on his desk. Cynthia had psychic abilities. She anticipated his needs: food appeared on his desk before his stomach growled; coffee came just as his fingers went to rub his eyes; the files he needed were readily available. “I have to go up to my grandfather’s place this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“Thank you, but who would keep this place running?” She unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “The Chartreuses are stressing about the position of the house on the lot.
They’d like you to meet them at the site tomorrow morning at ten. The address is in your PDA along with directions.”

“Have I told you that this company couldn’t run without you?” Tom asked.

“No, but at my next review I’m expecting deep gratitude.” Cynthia smiled.

She walked to the door and leaned against the glass door. “Let me know if you need anything else. And eat something.”

Tom looked at the drawings in front of him and realized his brain couldn’t go any further. He grabbed the food and his jacket and headed through the lobby he’d designed in inlaid mahogany, tamarind, and redwood.

Tom took a few bites of his sandwich as the elevator opened. He pressed the button for the basement garage. As he walked to his vehicles, a few lights flickered. He’d call maintenance from his car and have them fix them.

As the owner of the large office building in Providence, Rhode Island, he tried to leave things to the management company he’d hired, but it was impossible when he saw the little things that piled up each day. He lived in a loft space on the top floor and at times he didn’t leave the building for an entire week. These days, the only time he left was when he went to visit his grandfather in Littleton, Massachusetts, or to meet with clients.

He opened the door to a white rusted truck with
Woodward Architecture
,
Ltd.
lettered on the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. Parked next to the vehicle was his new blue pickup with three thousand miles on the speedometer, and a sports car that carried him to meetings. But he only drove the white truck to visit Nagog. It had been a present from the community when he started his firm.

The rusted truck rattled down the highway as he pushed the speedometer to seventy miles per hour. Tom bounced over the potholes, the suspension similar to an all-terrain vehicle. His mechanic had tried to convince him to junk the tired vehicle, which now had 270,000 miles on it and a twice-rebuilt engine, but he couldn’t do it. As the rain continued relentlessly, he prayed the weather wouldn’t turn icy as he drove north.

An hour later, he pulled in front of his grandfather’s house in Nagog. Two cars were parked in the drive his grandfather shared with his neighbor Maryland. Tom now cared for the house, after Maryland had been placed in a nursing home. He realized what the cars might mean, and though he didn’t have time to investigate, he knew if he was right, there would be uproar in the community.

Tom walked into his grandfather’s garage and removed his leather coat and button-down shirt. He pulled a sweatshirt from a laundry basket on the dryer and pulled it over his T-shirt, covering his head with the hood. He went back to his truck and grabbed his tool belt from behind the seat. The rain changed to hail and white pellets of ice bounced off the cars. Tom shielded his eyes as he looked into the upstairs window of Maryland’s home. Lights had been turned on.

Every afternoon of his childhood, Tom had jumped from the yellow bus and run as fast as his legs could take him across Maryland’s yard. Without knocking, he’d bang through the kitchen door, his backpack landing on the table as he fell into the padded wooden chair, a cookie already at his lips.

Maryland kept her brown hair pulled back with a barrette. She wore big glasses that fell down her nose when she kissed his head.

“How was school?” she’d ask.

“Cool. My friend Jeremy got a yellow dump truck that’s remote-controlled. He let me play with it at recess.”

She’d tousle his hair. “Did you learn anything?”

“Just stupid stuff.” He’d open his backpack, and she’d look at his worksheets.

Maryland had been placed in a Florida nursing home by her son-in-law, Aaron. Tom had tried to stop it, but he wasn’t blood. Now there were strangers in her house.

He walked into Maryland’s living room and saw Aaron pacing.

Aaron looked up and walked toward him. “Tommy, I’m glad you’re here. There’s a shelf that seems to be buckling.”

Tom crossed his arms. “Nice to see you too, Aaron. What are you doing here?”

“Maryland wants to sell the house,” Aaron said.

“Really?” Tom removed his wet sweatshirt and walked to the bookshelf. Aaron wasn’t worth Tom’s anger. He pulled hardbound books from the sagging wood and tried to see who was looking at the house.

“How we doing?” Aaron asked as two women walked down the stairs. “I thought you might like to meet one of the neighbors. Heather, this is Tommy Woodward.”

Tom watched Heather walk toward him. He’d expected an older woman, but Heather was young and pretty, with a large diamond on her left hand. What did she want with a house in this community?

He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you and your husband looking to buy a summer place or hoping to live here year-round?”

“My husband?” Heather shook her head and stared.

Tom pointed to her ring.

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed as she tucked her hand behind her back. “Fiancé. I’m not married.”

“Well, if you’d like to know anything about the house, I’ve done the upkeep for the last few years.”

“Tommy’s our neighborhood handyman.” Aaron put his arm around Tom’s shoulder.

He stepped away. “I have to be going. I need to fix Sarah and Carl’s step.”

“Everyone helps each other around here,” Aaron said.

Tom snorted. “It was nice to meet you, Heather. Good luck with your home search.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Heather say, “I’d like to make an offer.”
This is going to be interesting,
he thought.