Heart of Stone (46 page)

EPILOGUE

TUESDAY, AUGUST 29, 1961

From behind the mountains to the east, the sun broke pink against high clouds, heralding the dawn of one last glorious day of summer. I'd had to stay on two days longer than planned to tie up loose ends with the state police. For most vacationers, though, the annual exodus had taken place Sunday. Dads had packed their families into station wagons, herding their stray children into the way-back, before setting off for home and their workaday lives. The kids would be behind their school desks within a week. Notebooks, composition pads, pencils, compasses, and rulers. Brown paper-bag book covers, fashioned by Mom with sharply creased corners and tight folds. New shoes and slacks and skirts. For the boys, a fresh haircut and some Vitalis to tame the cowlick. A hairband and ribbons for the girls. Patent-leather Mary Janes. Maybe a new lunchbox. The moms were returning to keeping house, den-mothering their Cub Scouts and Brownies. And there would be bake sales, the PTA, and ladies' clubs. But Dad had been due back in the office bright and early Monday morning. I was two days late.

I tossed my suitcase into the trunk of my Dodge, slammed it shut, and surveyed Cedar Haven one last time, ensuring I hadn't forgotten anything. Both cabins were locked and shuttered, linens washed, folded, and mothballed for safekeeping for another year. I drew a lungful of air, willing myself to preserve its pine scent in my mind until the next time.

“Ellie.” It was Isaac. I hadn't seen or heard from him since Saturday. “I'm so glad I caught you before you left.”

“I'm glad too,” I said.

“I wanted to come earlier to check on you after I heard what happened at Baxter's Rock. But I thought you'd left on Sunday. Then I heard from Mrs. Edmonds that you were still here.”

“The police needed a few details,” I said. “They asked me to stay a couple of days longer.”

“I'm here to apologize to you. I really mucked up everything.”

I smiled at him. “Don't think that. It was lovely. Truly lovely. Not every love story ends like a fairy tale.”

“But why does it have to end at all?” he asked, aiming his crooked smile at me. It was a little less confident now. Tinged with melancholy. He reached out and took my hand. I wanted to resist but didn't have the heart. “We can see each other,” he said. “It's not that far.”

My silence communicated what I thought of that idea. He released my hand and changed his tack.

“Listen, Ellie. Don't say no yet. We can try.”

I brushed his cheek gently with my hand.

“I love you,” he said, the speckles in his eyes catching the morning sun. “Please come back with me.”

“What?” I said, choking back the urge to laugh.

“Come back to New York with me. Leave those upstate hicks behind and come with me. What do you have there anyway?”

I shook my head and smiled as tenderly as I knew how. Then there was nothing more to say.

It had been a momentous week and a half on Prospector Lake. The first visit in many years for me. I felt saddened by the way some things had turned out but regretted nothing. I wondered for a brief moment if I was destined never to find my mate. Then I clicked my tongue and thought what a fine adventure it would be to find out the answer. My intense affair with Isaac had been at turns delicious and bitter. In the light of the summer's last day, I resolved to remember all of it with good cheer and nostalgia. Despite the short time we'd had together, Isaac had left a mark. Not a scar but an indelible mark I would always carry inside. I was grateful for the passion, the music, the laughter, and even the pain we'd shared. Those things were ours. Might we have been able to work things out and make a go of it? Perhaps. But standing there in Aunt Lena's compound, surveying the grounds one last time, I knew that I wanted better for myself. And more than that, I knew that I would accept nothing short of better. Maybe those were the same things.

After Isaac left, I strolled down to Aunt Lena's dock with my camera for one last look at the lake. I snapped some photos, wondering if I'd ever come back. Surely, yes. But one never knew. Endings always made me reflect on the permanence of good-byes. I thought of Simon. I'd said my farewell to him. An adieu, not an au revoir. I wondered if he'd realized it. I received word from Miriam three months later that Simon had died. I wept at the news. The world was short one angry, argumentative, uncompromising fighter. And it was poorer for it.

But that final day on Prospector Lake, I stood on the dock, squinting into the morning sun. I turned to look back at Baxter's Rock, clearly visible a few hundred yards to the southwest, and the image of Tiny Terwilliger falling to his death came rushing back to me. And there was the ghostly figure I'd seen struggling with him atop the cliff. As far as I was concerned, that sleeping dog, fleas and all, could lie there forever.

I shook the thought from my mind. It was barely eight, the lake was deserted, and I was seized with the urge to take one last dip. My things were all packed away in the car, and I thought of Aunt Lena. With a naughty giggle, I pulled my dress over my head, stripped out of my underthings, and dived in. The water felt fine, cool, restorative. I paddled around for a few minutes, wishing I hadn't soaked my hair. Perhaps next time, I would get myself a bathing cap like Lena's, replete with colorful, rubber flowers. I climbed back onto the dock. With no towel to dry myself off, I lay down on the warm wooden slats and let the sun do the job. I nearly dozed off, but a feathery flutter of wings called me back. I raised my head to see my old friend, the ring-billed gull, staring at me from one eye. The little pervert. Then I became aware of advancing footsteps on the dock beneath me and looked to see a man approaching from the shore. I covered up with my dress in time to deprive him of a proper nudie show. It was Officer Bob Firth.

Blushing crimson, he wished me good morning. I returned the greeting, clutching my sundress to my breast.

He diverted his eyes and cleared his throat. “You know that nude bathing is prohibited here on Prospector Lake.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their expertise and advice, I am forever grateful to Nancy Deneen, Dr. Hilbert, Lynne Raimondo, William Reiss, and Mary Beth Ziskin. A special thanks to my editor, Jeffrey Curry.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Ziskin is the Anthony and Lefty Award–nominated author of the Ellie Stone mysteries. He lives in the Hollywood Hills with his wife, Lakshmi, and two cats, Bobbie and Tinker.