Lake News (16 page)

“I find that hahd to b'lieve.”

“Because I bullied him? Well, I'm sorry for that, too.”

Gus grunted. That, and the cry of a baby several houses over, were the only sounds of life. Birds didn't sing here. They seemed to sense they'd be shot long before they'd be given a crust of stale bread.

“Have you been following the Lily Blake thing?” John asked.

Gus made a sputtering sound, meant to be a denial, but John wasn't buying. For a man who claimed not to watch television, Gus occasionally betrayed himself with a comment that was a little too knowing.

“Do you remember her when she was little?” John asked.

“Wouldn't tell
you
if I did.”

“Why not?”

“Don't know what you'd do with it.”

John was good for the first dig or two. More than that and he bristled. “Do you always have to be so negative? Maybe I want to help her. Did that ever occur to you?”

“Nah.”

“In the three years I've been back here, have I used anyone? Abused anyone?”

“The leopud don't change his spots.”

“Give me a
break.”

“You'uh waitin'.”

“Jeez, you don't give an inch.” John looked away. Seconds later he set his bottle down on a top stone and pushed off from the wall. “Someday,” he said, holding his temper, “someday it would be really nice to have a civilized conversation with you.”

He strode off before Gus could hand him either another jibe or more silence, and kept going until he was back at his truck. His jaw stayed tight until he had left the Ridge behind, until fresher air blew in through the windows and anger gave way to sadness.

Gus was eighty-one. Standing out in that grass, none too sure on his feet, with his white hair jutting out, his body bent and frail under a too-big plaid shirt, and a heartful of angst in his eyes, he looked positively ancient.

John didn't want to have to remember him that way. He wanted to see different things in those eyes and hear different words from that mouth. But he didn't know how to make it happen.

Poppy Blake's home, like Lily's cottage, was small, surrounded by trees, and on its own little patch of the lake, but that was where the similarities ended. Poppy's land was on the west shore rather than the east, a wedge shaved off the end of her parents' property and given as a gift to her after the accident, in the hopes of keeping her close to home. Poppy had acceded to that, but she refused to allow the direct road that Maida and George would have cut through the property from their house to hers. So the only access was off the main road, on a road that was narrow but paved.

The cottage itself comprised three connected wings on a single level. The left wing housed the bedroom, the right housed the kitchen and a weight room, but Poppy spent most of her time in the center wing. It held an arc of desks facing windows on the lake. On one end was a computer, on the other an open writing space. In the middle, with a picture-perfect view of the dock, the lake, and the fall foliage, were the multiple banks of buttons connected to the telephone that was Poppy's stock in trade.

“Boudreau residence,” she said into her headset in response to a blinking light.

“Poppy, it's Vivie.” Vivian Abbott, the town clerk. “Where
are
the Boudreaus?”

“On their way to see you,” Poppy told her. “Not there yet?”

“No, and I'm leaving in two minutes. If they don't get here before then, they'll have to register to vote next Saturday. Nine to eleven, that's what I told them. Oh, wait! Here they are! Thanks, Poppy!” As fast as that she was gone, and another light began to blink.

“Historical Society,” Poppy said.

“Edgar Cook here. My Peggy wants to know how late the sale's running.”

“Till four.”

“Hah. That's what I told her, only she didn't believe me. Thanks, Poppy.”

“You're welcome.” Another light blinked, this one on the main telephone unit, her own private line. “Hello?” she said, still smiling at Edgar.

“Is this Poppy Blake?”

Her smile faded. She recognized the voice. “That depends.”

Terry Sullivan made a sound that might have been a chuckle if it hadn't been so tight. “I recognize your voice by now, too, love. Is your sister around?” he asked nonchalantly. Like Lily was right there—which she wasn't. Like Poppy would put her on if she was—which she wouldn't. Like Poppy even
knew
where she was—which she didn't, at least not for sure.

“Is she?” Poppy asked right back.

“I asked first.”

“But you're the smart one. Far's
I
know, she's in Boston.” The words were barely out when she knew better—because, physical resemblance notwithstanding, there was no way that the slight figure who had suddenly appeared on her deck, dressed in a baseball cap, an old plaid hunting jacket, baggy shorts, and high-top sneakers, was the very dead Celia St. Marie.

Poppy sat higher and vigorously waved Lily inside.

“She tried to leave last night,” Terry said. “Didn't make it. Or let us think that. I'm just trying to imagine what I'd do if I were in her shoes.”

When Lily didn't move, Poppy waved with both arms and jabbed a finger in the direction of the deck door. Into the speaker at her mouth, she said, “And you imagined she'd come here? Why would she do that?”

“By default.”

“What default?” She put a finger to her lips. Lily very quietly opened the door.

“Where else would she go?”

“Manhattan? Albany?
I
don't know,” Poppy said, but her bewilderment ended at her voice. Grinning, she held out an arm to Lily and gave her a tight hug.

“Would you tell me if she was there?” Terry asked.

“I wouldn't have to.” She mouthed his name to Lily, whose eyes registered instant horror. To Terry, she said, “You'd hear it in my voice. We're not good liars up here. It goes against the grain.”

“I'm watching her friends in Manhattan. NYU, Juilliard—I have lists. She's not there.”

“Did you check her theater friends? She was on
Broadway with people from all over the country. If I was in her shoes,” she echoed his words, “I'd be with one of them.”

“Is that a lead?”

“No. I don't have names.”

“Would you give them to me if you did?”

“No.”

“Would you let me know if she shows up there?”

“No.”

That hard little chuckle came again. “That's my girl.”

“Not—on—your—life,” Poppy vowed, and with the sweep of a finger disconnected the call. The other arm still held Lily. She grinned broadly. “I had a hunch,” she said, hugging Lily with both arms again, but she didn't like what she felt. Poppy had always thought of Lily as vulnerable, even fragile, though she realized she never saw her at the best of times—Lily was understandably tense whenever she returned to Lake Henry. But the fragility was tactile now. Lily was thinner than Poppy remembered, and shaky. Holding her back, Poppy saw smudges under her eyes that hadn't been there when they had seen each other last, at Easter, five months before.

“You don't look so good,” Poppy said. “Beautiful”—which was the truth—“but tired.”

Lily's eyes filled with tears.

Poppy pulled her close again and held her longer this time, thinking that “beautiful” was an understatement. On paper, Poppy and Lily looked very much alike—same dark hair, same oval face, same slender build—but Poppy was the best buddy, Lily the siren. Maybe it was the breasts that did it. Lily was more endowed there, but she was also quieter, more dignified, more mysterious.
People knew where they stood with Poppy. With Lily they were never quite sure. That element of mystery added to her allure.

Poppy had spent a childhood following Lily around, suffering when Lily stuttered, taking pride when she sang. She hadn't always agreed with what Lily had done—going with Donny Kipling had been just plain dumb—but she knew for a fact that Lily didn't have a mean bone in her body. She hadn't asked for a stutter, or for the impossible standards that Maida set for her firstborn. There was something inherently unfair about Lily's lot in life, and the unfairness kept right on going.

Lily seemed to underscore that thought with an uneven intake of breath. The stricken look she gave Poppy when she drew back added to it.

“How'd you get away?” Poppy asked.

“A friend, a borrowed car. Does Terry think I'm here?”

“Not yet.”

“They'll come,” Lily said, looking haunted. “Sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” Poppy said. She hated to make things worse, but Lily needed to know. “Camera crews have already come through. A few reporters.”

Lily sank into a chair. “Asking questions?”

“Trying to. No one's talking.”

“They will. Sooner or later. Someone'll offer money. Someone'll take it.” She clasped her hands, clamped them between her thighs, and rocked back and forth. “John Kipling saw my lights last night. He pulled up at the dock this morning. He says he won't tell anyone. Can I believe him?”

Poppy liked John. She knew about the troublemaker he'd been growing up and about the ruthless journalist he'd been in Boston, but she hadn't known him personally until he returned to Lake Henry. In those three years, she had seen nothing but decency in the man.

“I'd believe him, if it were me. Besides, what's your choice?”

“I don't have one. They'll follow me wherever I go. At least here I have a place to stay. What do I do about Stella? She'll be over to check the cottage next week.”

“I'll handle Stella.”

“The cottage is a haven. I can feel Celia there.”

Poppy nodded. She glanced at the cap, the jacket, the sneakers, all so very Celia.

Lily looked down at herself. “I didn't bring much. Didn't know how long I'd be here.” She raised bleak eyes. “John told me about today's paper. They're still at it, Poppy. They're not stopping at anything. I feel powerless. It's like I have no rights.”

“You
do
. That's what we have courts for. You need to talk with a lawyer.”

“Obviously,
you
haven't seen today's paper. I
did
talk with a lawyer.”

“And? Doesn't he agree that you have a case for libel?”

“Yes, but the problem is the process. It'll drag the whole thing out. It'll get worse before it gets better, and it'll cost a fortune.” Lily's expression turned wry. “He told me to borrow money from Mom.”

Poppy might have shared the wryness, if she hadn't been flooded with guilt. Maida had given
her
so much—land,
the house, a van equipped with everything she needed to get in and out and drive herself around—and she was always sending over clothes, flowers, and more food than Poppy could eat.

Poppy's problems were physical. Maida could deal with physical things. Emotions were something else.

Lily pulled off the cap and shook out her hair. She frowned at the bill of the cap. “Is she ss-still angry?”

Poppy's heart broke at the stutter. It came out now only at times of stress, but she remembered when it was virtually a constant thing, with facial contortions that were painful to watch. She couldn't begin to imagine the pain Lily had felt as the one actually doing it in front of friends, schoolmates,
boys
. Poppy knew what it was to have people stare, but she was an adult. Lily had been a child, not only stared at but mocked.

Maida might have helped, but she had always seemed paralyzed where Lily was concerned. And Lily? God bless her, she came home for holidays and special events, always hoping it would change. Poppy wasn't sure that it would. Maida was a difficult woman, and not only toward Lily. She was hard on the orchard crew, hard on the cider crew. She had even grown hard on Rose. Had Poppy had the use of her legs, and the height and physical stature to confront Maida, she would have shaken a little common sense into the woman.

“I haven't talked with her since yesterday,” she said now. “Be grateful it's harvest time. She's preoccupied with work. Are you going over there?”

Lily looked at the lake. “I haven't decided. Think I should?”

“Only if you're a glutton for punishment.”

Lily's eyes found hers, beseeching now. “Maybe if I explain it to her—tell her my side of the story.”

Poppy wished it was that simple. Maida was a complex woman, layers and layers of emotions fifty-seven years in the building.

“But what if she hears it from someone else? She'll be hurt.”

“I won't tell,” Poppy promised.

“But John said people would find out—see lights or wood smoke—and he's right.” She glanced at the bank of telephone buttons. “Tell me they're not all talking about me.”