The Lake House (16 page)

The owl had been their mascot, its hoot their secret call. Carl’s childhood lisp didn’t allow him to hoot the way the others did. It always came out, “Thooth, Thooth, Thooth.” When the other boys laughed, the caw of the crow became his signature, but not before they named the owl after his pathetic hoot. At his bachelor party, his friends had presented Thooth as their gift to him.

Using a broomstick, Carl pushed and twisted the bird into the fireplace. Tommy once again stifled a laugh. He almost didn’t want to fix the damage, just to see the look on the home inspector’s face.

Carl looked at his watch and blew out the flares. Bill came into the room and Daniel came downstairs and began to cough in the smoke-filled room. Carl took his arm and led him toward the front door. Tommy jumped over the railing and hid at the side of the house as the men stepped outside.

Daniel took a puff from his inhaler and handed Bill a margarine container.

“Are you sure about the termites? What if they spread?” Bill asked as he put the container down and began taping a piece of paper to the front door.

“There’s only twenty,” Daniel said.

“Is everything done?” Carl asked.

Bill shook his head. “We need to dig up the oil tank and soak the porch. Then we’ll add the final touch.”

Tom knew exactly what the final touch would be, and he didn’t think termites were the best idea either. He also didn’t want to have to fill in a hole in the ground. He ran around the house and
came up on the other side causing the floodlights to illuminate the driveway. The men froze and looked at one another.

“What’s up, men?” he called to them.

Carl whispered, “Tommy, we’re just following our wives’ advice and getting some exercise.”

“Dressed in black?” Tommy crossed his arms and tried to give them the stern look he’d been given as a child.

“We thought we’d get some fresh air,” Carl added.

“And do a little yard work,” Bill said. “Tomorrow’s the home inspection, and Maryland’s house looks bad.”

“Were my excuses this lame as a kid? No wonder you busted me. I think you boys are getting a little slow in your old age,” Tom said.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Bill said.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a young woman moving into the neighborhood?” Tom asked. He walked onto the deck.

Daniel took a step toward Tom. “Now you hear me, Tommy Woodward. Just because you wouldn’t mind having a young woman in her skivvies walking around—”

“Nah, he’s gay,” Carl said.

“Very funny,” Tom said.

“It’s okay. It’s in vogue these days. Sarah doesn’t condone it, but it’s all over the television,” Carl teased.

“Will you shut up for three seconds?” Daniel said.

The light went on in Victoria’s yard, and the men stiffened.

“Is Molly visiting with Victoria? I wonder how
she
would feel about this? I think you might be in big fucking trouble,” Tom teased.

“Don’t swear,” Bill scolded.

“I learned that word at your knee. If you don’t like it, blame yourself.”

“Tommy, step aside. We’re doing what’s best for our community,” Daniel said.

“I think I will go. Molly always brings baked goods when she visits.” He stepped off the deck and moved toward the road.

“Get him!” Carl yelled.

Bill and Daniel grabbed Tom’s arms. It took all of Tom’s willpower not to laugh. He raised his hands as far as he could without creating pressure on their hold.

“Okay, you’ve broken me. I won’t talk if you promise me a poker game next week.”

The men looked to one another, nodded, and released his arms.

Carl patted his arm. “It’s always good to see you, Tommy.”

The three men walked toward Carl’s garage, the duffel bags clanking against the shovels. “For Pete’s sake, do you want to wake up the community?” Daniel boomed.

Tom shook his head and laughed.

He walked into Grandpa’s small kitchen to the sour smell of garbage and the blaring sound of the television in the living room. He turned on the fluorescent overhead light. Dish piles covered the counters and filled the sink. The refrigerator door hung open. He checked the burners on the stove. Thankfully, they were off. What had the housekeeper been doing this week?

A pile of mail had been left on the green stove. Under the AARP magazine he found a three-week-old issue of
The Providence Journal
. Someone in the community must have found the article, which meant everyone had seen it.

Tommy Woodward, owner of Woodward Architecture, Ltd., is considered one of the sexiest bachelors in Rhode Island. In a designer suit or a tool belt, this man can carry you over the threshold or build a cabana in your backyard.

Tom had known the bachelor auction for the Make-A-Wish Foundation would feel degrading. He thought the pictures, taken at the construction site and in his office, were for the auction catalog. Then the images hit the paper.

“Pretty Boy, Tommy. Will you marry me?” the guys on his construction crew catcalled.

At the office meeting, his female architects held up dollar bills. “I’ll give you ten for a hot night.”

“I’ll pay twenty,” another said.

When the men joined the fun, Tom felt his face flush. By the end of the meeting, his employees were willing to give him a hundred dollars if he’d dance like a stripper. As he opened the glass door, they began to sing, “I believe in miracles,” before the door swung shut they yelled out, “You sexy thing!”

He threw the newspaper in the trash. Next time he’d write a check to the charity.

Grandpa lay asleep in the recliner. Tom turned on the lamp next to the couch and shut off the television.

“Tommy, what are you doing here on a Friday night?” Grandpa said with his eyes closed.

“It’s Thursday, Grandpa.” He kissed his grandfather’s coarse white hair. “And I know you told the other men about the home inspection, so don’t act all innocent.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandpa said as he rubbed his eyes.

Tom had gotten his build from Grandpa. Until fifteen years ago, Grandpa swam five miles a day and sported a Speedo to show off his muscular body. Now, at eighty-four, he walked a little bow-legged, he’d lost a few inches of height, and his face was thinner. But when he smiled, the devil could still be seen in his aqua eyes.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Were you the lookout, and when you realized that I came a little early, you decided to fall asleep as your alibi?”

“What are you doing here on a Thursday night anyway? You shouldn’t be hanging out with an old man. You’re young and vibrant. You should be out having sex.”

“Yes, Grandpa.” The opening conversation hadn’t changed in four years. “Did the housekeeper come this week?”

“She quit,” he mumbled, “I grabbed her caboose . . . told her it was an accident, but she didn’t believe me.”

“Grandpa!”

His grandfather began to snore.

“I’m not going to believe you’re asleep again. I’m going to do your dishes, but the next housekeeper I hire is going to be a fat man with a five-o’clock shadow.”

Tom looked around the living room. The gold curtains from the seventies reeked of cigar smoke. The brown shag carpet had crumbs and dirt sprinkled across the matted fibers. Dust covered his late grandmother’s collection of knickknacks, Hummels and porcelain swans. The room had a moldy smell and the brown paneling peeled away from the wall. Unglued linoleum caught Tom’s foot as he walked to the kitchen.

What was he going to do with this place?

Tom filled the sink with soap and water. The kitchen needed a dishwasher. He’d drawn up plans to renovate years ago and
invited Grandpa to stay with him in Providence during construction.

“I don’t want the hassle,” Grandpa had said.

“What hassle? You stay with me for a few weeks and my crew will do the work.”

“I’m old. I don’t need fancy stuff.”

The first time Tom asked, frustration with Grandpa’s stubbornness had kept him from seeing the fear in the old man’s eyes. Too many times Grandpa’s friends left their homes for a simple procedure, or to visit their children, and hadn’t returned. Maryland lived in a nursing home against her will. The remaining Nagog residents had to be terrified they would be next. When their adult children did visit, many times it was to try to take away a driver’s license. A few had dared to bring brochures for elderly housing.

But this community wouldn’t go silently. If Heather Bregman wanted to move into this neighborhood, she’d better be ready for a fight. Tom looked out the window. He’d wait until the other houses went dark, then he’d sneak over to Maryland’s home and undo the damage they’d done. A part of him didn’t want to—he didn’t want things to change in Nagog—but then every bit of him wished he could turn back time to five years earlier, when his life had been right. When Annabelle had been alive.

H
eather tapped her pen against the desk in her tiny cubicle at
The Boston Globe,
stuffed into the corner at the back of the bullpen. Her desk was clear except for her coffee cup, a black phone, and her laptop. Pictures of her travels were pinned to the cubicle: the Tongariro Alpine Crossing in New Zealand, two mother elephants with a baby between them, all with their trunks in the air, the Great Wall of China, the Golden Temple in Kyoto, Japan, and many others.

Unlike her coworkers, Heather hadn’t hung the decorations to brighten or personalize the space but to remind people at the
Globe
that she actually worked. Months went by without her entering the building, and more than once she’d come into the office to find her cubicle used as storage.

She looked at the clock on the wall. Her boss and editor at the paper, George, was running late and had said he’d get to her as soon as he could. The latest column she’d written while on the road was up on her computer screen. Most of her columns were first penned in a notebook while she traveled. Plane and train rides gave her time to type up her notes and edit the stories. Rarely did she write at home or in the office, but she felt she should look busy when she was here.

She opened her purse and took out the keys she’d picked up from her attorney that morning. The house in Nagog belonged to her. It turned out her credit history had improved since moving in with Charlie, and her steady income was enough to secure a loan. Heather never wrote a check; as seller, Aaron paid her closing costs, and the second mortgage covered her down payment. The home inspection had been clear and her attorney signed the final documents while she was in Europe.

For the first time in her life, tonight she’d go home to her own place. The clock on the wall above her cubicle ticked away the minutes. A delivery truck was bringing her new mattress between four and six o’clock, and it was already after one. She needed to leave.

“Heather,” George said as he put his arm on the cubicle wall. “I’m ready for ya.” George Samson always wore a navy polo shirt stretched over his belly. By ten in the morning, creamy coffee drips decorated his wiry gray-and-black beard. He was a sweetheart until your name found its way to the blacklist. Mess with his deadline, and his wrath made you feel like you were sitting in the principal’s office, about to be expelled. It had happened only once to Heather in her six years on the paper. It hadn’t mattered that her computer had been stolen; George lectured her for ten minutes about backing things up on the
Globe
’s servers, then sent her away with her head hanging in shame. She hadn’t missed another deadline.

“Hey, boss,” Heather said as she gathered her laptop and purse and followed him into his office. Unlike Heather’s dark corner, light came through the large wall of windows in his office. Heather sat in front of George’s desk and continued to look outside at the blue sky. The front of the building had a glass
wall that created light throughout the office space. Except for Heather’s cubicle and the closets there weren’t many dark spots in the building.

“You know you’re one of my favorite writers,” George said as he sat at his desk, his back to the beautiful day outside. He picked up his coffee and drank. “You’re always ahead of your deadline and your column brings in good advertising revenue, but we need to think about the future.”

Her chest tightened with anxiety and she remained quiet. Heather had learned through the years to let her boss say everything on his mind before she spoke.

“Your column came up at last week’s board meeting, and I know that you and I have had this conversation before, but they’re worried about the syndicates you’ve lost in the heartland. Around the perimeter of the country you’re doing fine, but even there, papers want someone more famous. By now we were expecting a book deal, a product line, and even a television program.”

Heather nodded, squeezing her hands together so she wouldn’t bite her lower lip, her habit when she was nervous.

“There’s a former beauty queen on the Travel Channel, and there are rumors they might begin negotiations with her. It doesn’t mean you’re out, but it would be competition for your Sunday spot.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” Heather said. The woman was able to travel the United States, stay in five-star hotels, go to the best spas and restaurants, and had a crew to help her. If they asked her to write the Sunday column, the woman would also acquire Heather’s hard-earned fans.