The Lake House (4 page)

“You were plenty awake for sex.”

“Excuse me for wanting to be with my fiancé after she’d been away for a month.” He returned to the bathroom and she could see him putting gel in his hair. He came out and grabbed a tie from the closet. “You know, sometimes you seriously act like a spoiled princess.”

“Oh, I’m a princess?”

“You get to travel the world because of me. Yet you come home and bitch because I don’t allow you to sleep all day. If the shoe fits.”

“And
I
have nothing to do with my success.” Her anger festered. He wasn’t listening to her. She tried to calm down, but the uncontrollable fury from feeling invisible forced the words out, “You know what, Charlie, I can’t do this anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I think we need to take some time apart.”

The muscles in his jaw cranked with tension as he tucked a blue silk tie under the collar. He walked toward her and leaned his face within inches of hers. “You might want to be careful with what you say, or your life could change drastically. I’m going to work. We have an important networking event at the end of the week. Get over your damn tantrum and get it together.” He walked to the kitchen and she could hear him putting on his shoes. The chair scraped against the tile and then the door slammed.

A stifled scream rumbled in her lungs. She climbed onto the stiff mattress and tugged at the window covers.
Damn curtains that shut out the light when he wants to sleep and brighten his day when he goes to work. Doesn’t matter that I fell asleep at 3 a.m.
With the curtains closed and the room dark, Heather grabbed her coffee and slumped onto the bed. She created a cocoon around her body with the blanket as she cradled her mug.

“You don’t even pay attention when I try to break up with you,” she mumbled.

Heather curled the blankets closer and sipped the coffee. She longed for the coffee she drank in Africa. She let her thoughts wander back to her trip as she tried to calm her nerves.

Every morning at five o’clock, Manal, her guide in Botswana, would sing out her name. Hot coffee prepared with sugar, a splash of brandy, and heavy cream awaited her on the table outside her tent. Porridge, covered in more cream and brown sugar, greeted
her when she took her place around the morning campfire. As the Okavango Delta’s cool dark waters gave birth to the blood-orange sun and monkeys tried to steal her silverware, she savored breakfast. Mid-morning, Manal would set up a table and camp chairs next to the open Land Rover and Heather feasted on scones and biscuits dipped in hot chocolate and watched giraffes nibble on the sausage tree’s long fruits. At night, while the kitchen staff sang, their cadences joined by hippo grunts and deep-throated lion calls, she and the other guests would stare at the stars and sip Amarula, the sweet, creamy liqueur of the marula tree.

Charlie was right. She’d spent a month living her dream of traveling and writing, and he’d helped her to achieve it. But that couldn’t mean that for the rest of her life she had to feel indebted to him . . . and invisible in their relationship.

A car horn honked. The rush-hour traffic on Storrow Drive motored past her apartment. Someone slammed a door and three car alarms screeched. As the city awoke outside her window, Heather longed for quiet.

From her overstuffed drawers, she grabbed a baggy sweatshirt and pink M&M’s flannel pajamas—which Charlie never saw—and threw on her glasses. In the kitchen she raised the thermostat from 60 to 75 and filled her coffee cup.

The refrigerator door hit against the table as she grabbed ingredients for a protein shake. She dug in the cabinets for the blender, but realized the glass pitcher was dirty in the dishwasher. Frustrated, she returned to the bedroom to get dressed and head out for breakfast. She opened the door to her tiny closet jammed with clothing and then closed it.

There wasn’t room for her in this apartment. Charlie used three-quarters of the storage space, citing the fact that she traveled
most of the year and only needed access to her things on the rare occasion she was home.

Charlie’s black leather couch felt stiff and uncomfortable as she sat with her laptop. A website with lakeside houses for sale appeared on her screen. On nights when insomnia left her awake, she spent hours on the Internet taking virtual tours of the homes on the site. From her Favorites folder she clicked on a picture of a blue Craftsman bungalow. The bungalow had come on the market almost two months ago. To lull herself to sleep she fantasized about owning it and having cookouts with friends, parties with dancing, sunny days on the beach.

As a young child, Heather had lived in a rented lake house with her grandmother and mother. Heather tried to remember her grandmother’s face, but it was like catching a dream. She had glimpses of memories: the gold chain that hung from her glasses, gray and black hair that tickled Heather’s neck when they hugged, and sticking out blue tongues at each other when they sat in the blueberry bushes eating berries. Heather remembered sun-warmed towels after a dip in the lake.

Their five-room house had shelves filled with knickknacks of blown glass animals and porcelain figurines. Pink crocheted cozies covered tissue boxes on end tables. In the living room her grandmother or mother would rock her to sleep to the sounds of a crackling fire and the women’s soft voices.

What Heather remembered best were the sweet smells of homemade bread and ginger cookies. Her grandmother loved to bake. The scent of molasses permeated the brown paneled walls and green carpets. Almost every afternoon, her grandmother would take down the yellow Bisquick box and measure out the water and flour mix. She’d roll it out on the table with Heather
sitting in a chair next to her. Then, with a juice glass, Heather cut out perfect circles for biscuits. She’d sneak little corners of the dough and she still recalled the slight metallic taste of baking soda and salt.

When Heather was five, her grandmother passed away, and Heather’s mother tried to pay the rent on the lake house, but after two years she’d put herself so far into debt, they were forced to move.

Heather closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. Charlie had paid for the apartment and their living expenses for the last six years; he opened her Visa and American Express statements before she saw them, and he allowed her a budget for luxury clothing as a business investment. She didn’t see her own paychecks; they were deposited directly into their joint account. He said all this was necessary because she spent so much time on the road and he felt she couldn’t be trusted with her own finances.

She looked around the ten-by-ten living room. The brick wall held a sixty-inch flatscreen TV that overpowered her senses when it was on.
Sports Illustrated
magazines had been neatly piled on the glass coffee table. The leather couch squeaked as she stood. Nothing about this place felt like home to her.

Charlie had threatened her career if she left. In everyone else’s eyes she had the perfect life, but . . .

Before she could change her mind, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Information. “Littleton, Massachusetts,” she said. “RE/MAX Realty.” Whether or not she could buy the house, it was time to make a change.

V
ictoria awoke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of hail hitting the roof. From under the pillow she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. The delicate skin felt raw. Five rainy, icy days, along with the flu, had kept her in bed.

Each day, lost in memories of her granddaughter, she stared at her sage bedroom walls in the room her parents once occupied and listened to the fire crackling in the fireplace. Seven years ago, Victoria had renovated the house in anticipation of Annabelle’s marriage to Tommy Woodward, a grandson of Nagog. She thought about all the plans she and Annabelle had dreamt up when they discussed the future: making ice cream on the porch, pushing baby strollers around the neighborhood, and, as Annabelle had put it, putting down roots secured in Massachusetts granite.

Those dreams had been lost when Annabelle died. After Victoria buried her granddaughter, she left Nagog—run away, as she had many times throughout her life. Now she was home to try to reconcile with the only family she had left—to find forgiveness and to come home somehow. There had to be more to life than loss and grief, and Victoria hoped that this place could help her to heal.

Molly came into the room and placed a wicker tray on the ottoman. “I have fresh-squeezed orange juice, coffee, eggs, and blueberry pancakes. It’s time for you to eat.” Molly’s plump body, clad in a jogging suit, bustled around the queen-size bed. Her soft hands tucked the Egyptian cotton sheets into the mattress. With one swift movement, she fluffed the brown duvet over Victoria.

“Not hungry.” Victoria rolled onto her back and stared at the cherry ceiling beams. Molly forced Victoria to sit up.

“Feed a cold, starve a fever. And you no longer have a fever. I still can’t believe you stayed out in that weather and made yourself sick.” She placed the tray over Victoria’s lap. “Sooner or later you have to get up. You can’t hide forever.” She placed a glass of juice in Victoria’s hand. “I’ll be downstairs cleaning if you decide to move.”

The orange juice no longer stung Victoria’s throat, and she gulped the sweet, pulpy liquid. Her stomach awakened and growled for more. The pancakes oozed cooked blueberries as she cut through the three thick layers. She could feel herself salivating as she sank into the first forkful.

Soul food. That’s what the people from the South called it. If only Molly’s cooking could lift the emotional boulder currently weighing on her shoulders. Instead it would likely just add pounds to her hips.

Downstairs, Molly turned on the vacuum cleaner. Molly had already washed the linens and cleaned the bathrooms in preparation for Victoria’s arrival. She’d vacuumed the soft carpet. The oak bureau, nightstands, and vanity table that had once been her parents’ bedroom set had been dusted and polished. But the rest of the two thousand-square-foot house needed attention. It had sat
empty for five years, and sheets that Molly had draped over much of the furniture after Victoria’s sudden departure still remained. The built-in woodwork customary to an Arts and Crafts bungalow needed to be treated with kindness. Though Victoria had thought about hiring a service, she knew Molly would insist on doing it herself.

Boxes had been delivered weeks before from the home she sold in Malibu, and they still needed to be unpacked. It was time for Victoria to stop hiding and make this her home again. Yesterday she’d felt well enough to get out of bed but had decided against it. She’d been acting like a child afraid to go to school after the boys had seen her underpants.

As she stood, she knocked over the glass of water on the nightstand. Water splashed onto the brass lamp and the curtains. The glass rolled under the bed and the water soaked into the carpet. Too stiff to bend, she left the mess.

In the master bathroom, she looked at the unused jetted tub. It had been meant for dirty, giggling great-grandchildren to play in with bubbly euphoria.

She disrobed and opened the glass shower door. Hot water pulsed onto her back as she leaned against the stone tile. Steam filled the room and fogged the metal-framed mirror. She turned off the taps and wrapped her body in a fluffy purple towel.

For the last week, Victoria had kept everything in her suitcases, as if she were in a hotel. Part of her feared moving forward uncertain of what her life would be now that she’d returned. She grabbed underwear from the smallest case, along with a pair of tailored slacks and a fitted green button-down shirt. Then she pulled out a curling iron from the vanity’s wooden drawer.

With quick, practiced skill she curled her hair into soft waves,
not allowing the heat to scorch her fragile locks. In her youth, she’d worried about wrinkles, gray hairs, and hormonal fluctuations, but it wasn’t until her late sixties that the texture and thickness of her hair became soft and fine. Aging, she thought, was not for the weak of heart.

From her makeup case, she pulled out bottles and jars. She applied moisturizer and a thin layer of foundation and blush. With a light hand she swept soft blue powder across her lids and then applied mascara. As Victoria took up her favorite soft berry lipstick, she remembered her mother saying that a lady never forgot to wear lipstick, even around the house.

Back in the bedroom, she lifted the largest suitcase and placed it on the bed. She unzipped the garment bag’s sides, unfolded the heavy case, and opened the middle zipper. She removed the items that were already on hangers and placed them in the closet: designer silk blouses in a myriad of colors, tailored pantsuits, and cocktail dresses. All had been bought in fancy boutiques in Beverly Hills, London, and New York. Now she wondered if she’d have a reason to wear the fancy clothing here.

She pulled out a quilted leather box from the small suitcase and walked to the vanity. Her hand ran along the smoothness of her mother’s antique rosewood jewelry box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She lifted the lid and filled the empty box with her jewelry: five pairs of diamond earrings; the diamond necklace her ex-husband, Devon, had given her for their anniversary; the tennis bracelet from her father; gold hoop earrings, chains, and assorted pieces she’d collected over the years when she traveled.