The Lake House (22 page)

The photos began to appear on the computer in fast blips. Last weekend, his family had come for a cookout. His eldest son, in his early fifties, had more white than blond in his hair. His daughter, Shelly, the spitting image of her mother, now had her own grandbaby.

The computer finished importing the pictures. Joseph looked at the images of his great-grandchild. Emily, only two years old, ran across the beach in a neon-colored bathing suit with a built-in life jacket. In another picture, she smiled as Molly let her hold a sparkler, her brown hair stuck to ice cream–smeared cheeks.

How had his heart grown so big in one lifetime? The love he felt for his family, the amazement that overwhelmed him every time he looked at his three children, seven grandchildren, and now those chubby cheeks and wonder-filled eyes of his great-grandchild—how did he deserve all of them?

Joseph touched the computer screen and traced Emily’s cheeks. “Beautiful baby girl, I love you so much.”

He walked to the porch and sat on the swing. As he rocked, he listened to the night sounds: raccoons scavenging around the locked trash cans, the soft breeze rustling in the leaves. Joseph breathed in the smell of the lake, which had been his serenity throughout his life. But even this couldn’t calm his mind tonight; thoughts of Victoria continued to resurface.

He thought no one had known about the pictures he’d taken of Victoria and five-year-old Annabelle that day. The film, hidden in his desk drawer, had sat in its canister undeveloped.

Victoria had been asked to perform onstage in London the
fall of Annabelle’s sixth year. Victoria, Melissa, and Annabelle didn’t return to Nagog that next summer or for a few years after. Joseph had been relieved, but her absence created anger throughout the community as once again Victoria chose a life filled with glamour over even a short visit with her friends. Molly tacked postcards from Europe on the bulletin board and later a picture of Annabelle in her first stage performance as one of the orphans in
Annie.

Then the three of them came home, late one night in January. Melissa had been diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer and Victoria had brought her to Massachusetts to see the doctors at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. They removed her ovaries, but the cancer had already spread.

Barbara brought casseroles and flowers. Joseph found himself visiting every day. Annabelle would sit on his lap while he helped her with her schoolwork.

“Your beard tickles,” Annabelle had said when Joseph rubbed his cheek against her baby skin.

He’d scrub his face against hers until she giggled and squirmed.

Each night after dinner, Victoria and Annabelle would crawl into Melissa’s bed in the den and watch movies until they fell asleep. Many mornings, when Molly brought breakfast, she’d find the television screen filled with static and the three female hands entwined.

Everyone believed that Melissa would live and that the chemotherapy would work. But as the months passed, Melissa wasted away and sometimes was too tired even to smile or watch TV with her family. On April 18, 1981, Melissa passed. For three days after the paramedics took her daughter away, Victoria
refused to leave the bed. When Bill tried to carry her from the room, she thrashed against him. Screams echoed through the community, and a doctor had been called to administer a shot, and after that, Victoria just stared at the shadows that moved across the walls.

Annabelle stayed with the Jacobses while Molly made arrangements. The day of the funeral, Molly dressed Victoria in a black dress and veiled hat. The neighborhood held hands at the Rose plot. Victoria stared at her parents’ graves, refusing to look at Melissa’s coffin. She never spoke or acknowledged the minister or the community’s condolences. She was the model of stoic resolve as she held Annabelle’s little hand.

When they returned from the cemetery, the community gathered in Victoria’s home. Molly and Evelyn laid out food, and people sat with china plates on their laps. People spoke, trying to enliven the silence that permeated the house. Victoria didn’t see or hear them. She returned to Melissa’s bed with Annabelle curled into her arms.

A week later, through a blurring rain, Joseph thought he saw a ghost—a woman running in the downpour and wearing only a nightgown. He grabbed Barbara’s flowered umbrella and rushed into the rain without his slicker. He splashed through the puddles on the main road in the direction Victoria had gone, until he came to the cemetery.

Victoria stood there, staring at the grave, her hair clumped in knots. He sloshed through the mud and held the umbrella over her head. She looked at him, her silver eyes emptied of their brilliance.

“God’s not supposed to take angels,” she said. The cold rain had soaked the thin blue cotton nightgown and dirt splattered her calves and bare feet. He squeezed her to his chest, trying to
warm her trembling body. He worried that her sanity had shattered.

The tears flowed from her eyes as hard as the rain came down around them. “I’m the sinner. I don’t deserve this life. Why didn’t he take me?”

The next day, Victoria and Annabelle left the community and didn’t return for another eight years.

Joseph sipped his tea as he rocked on the porch swing and listened to the breeze rustle the leaves. Victoria had suffered deeply in her life. He wanted to be her friend, but he was afraid of the emotions that stirred when he looked at her. If her past behavior was any indication, it wouldn’t be long before she left again, and he could go back to pretending that he didn’t think about her.

“H
eather, are you here?” Gina Saducci called as she walked up the front steps and onto the deck. Heather opened the door, and Gina wrapped one arm around her. “Sorry I didn’t have time to call you back last night, but I figured I was headed here today anyway.” She handed Heather a cup of coffee and a white bag with
Michelangelo’s
printed on the front. “My mother sent cannoli, biscotti, and mochachino lattes to fatten you up.” She glanced around the living room. “Oh my God, this place is too cute. I love it, and the couch we picked out looks perfect. I’m a decorating genius even when I haven’t seen the space.”

“Thanks for bringing coffee. I didn’t sleep last night. I was up finishing the painting in the dining room.”

“You painted? I’m impressed. The pale green in this room is perfect.” Gina’s hand flew to her chest. “Look at these windows and the bookcases! This place is gorgeous, but we need to do more shopping to get some accent colors going, and you need curtains.”

“The color’s called April Mist. One of my neighbors helped me pick it out,” Heather said, knowing that Gina, an interior designer, would need to see the entire house before she could focus on the party. When Gina was excited, she spoke like a
hummingbird gathering nectar. She flitted from one idea to the next, barely stopping to breathe. Gina moved from room to room with a confidence that always made Heather feel overshadowed. Rather than try to hide her soft stomach and prominent curves, Gina flaunted them in fitted embellished jeans, a lace tank, and a satin short-sleeved jacket that gave her an air of sophistication and coolness. Her long black hair fell in waves to her mid-back, and with dark eyes and olive skin, her friend hardly needed to wear makeup.

As she made her way up the stairs, Gina chatted at her usual frenzied pace. “My boss is an ass. He gave our craziest client my home number. This guy works in London and he called me seven times at three this morning. I was in bed . . . with Michard, I might add. So I didn’t answer.”

Gina worked for one of the most prestigious interior design firms in the city, and though she claimed to love her job, Heather heard more complaints than raves.

“So at eight this morning my boss calls and screams at me for not taking care of the client’s needs. So I call the guy back. And do you know what his big emergency was? A shark tank.”

“What?” Heather asked as they walked upstairs toward the master bedroom.

“He wants a giant saltwater tank in the middle of his living room. Do you have any idea what kind of bracing it’s going to take for an aquarium that big? When I tried to explain this to him, he became irate, telling me that he didn’t want a great white, just a small nurse shark, and I was an idiot for not understanding that.”

“What’s the budget on this project?” Heather asked as she looked out the window and noticed four ladies—not one of them
a day younger than seventy—walking toward the beach in bathing suits.

“There isn’t a budget, and now the guy wants us to decorate his flat in London as well. That’s why my boss wants me to deal with his every whim, even if it means staying up all night taking down notes for his crazy ideas. Oh, and speaking of work schedules, Michard can’t come tonight. The backup chef at the restaurant called in sick, and since my father will kill Michard if anything goes wrong with his big dinner party, he has to work.”

Heather panicked. “Gina, who’s going to do the food for tonight? I have a really important guest coming.”

“God, you worry too much. It’s just a party. I have all the food being delivered in our catering truck in two hours. I hired two waiters to serve. I know this is your big night to wow the television guy.”

Heather exhaled. She plopped down on her new mattress, and Gina lay down next to her. “This bed is so beautiful. I love antique furniture.”

Before they became friends, Heather had been a waitress at Gina’s family’s restaurant, Michelangelo’s, where she’d taken orders, cleaned tables, and prayed that people would eat fast and leave a big tip. On Wednesday nights, when Gina walked in to claim her spot at her reserved table (nicknamed the Princess Section by the staff), the energy of the whole restaurant would shift. All eyes turned to her as she spoke to regular customers, flirted with the male waitstaff, and fell into her father’s embrace when he came from the offices upstairs.

After two years at Michelangelo’s, Heather had been promoted to head waitress of the dinner shift. Which meant after busting her butt serving customers, she had to stay until midnight
to help close the restaurant. One night, as Heather got ready to close up, Gina burst in and grabbed a bottle of Chianti.

“I’ve had a lousy day. You want to join me for a drink?” Gina asked.

Heather didn’t know what to say. She stood in her sauce-splattered apron, feeling awkward.

Gina’s tailored skirt showed off her toned legs as she slid into the booth. Heather touched her ponytail, pulled out the elastic, and tried to fluff her flat hair as she sat. Gina handed her a wineglass. She drank; strong flavors exploded in her mouth, prickling her tongue. Gina swirled the red liquid in her glass and held it to the light. She stuck her nose in the glass and breathed deeply, then sipped and rolled the wine around her mouth. “Ah, that’s good,” Gina said.

Heather kept her eyes on the table, embarrassed by her lack of sophistication, as Gina talked with the speed of a Ferrari about her interior design career. She tried to keep up with what Gina was saying, but the wine was making her head feel fuzzy. Something about trying to fit an armoire through a third-story window with a crane.

“The old bat told me to park the crane across the street. How am I supposed to move an armoire through a window from across the street?” Gina asked.

“That sucks,” was all Heather could think to say.

Gina sighed. “Well, enough about that. What about you? Have you ever been to Europe?”

“No.”

“I spent two years studying abroad. You should go.” For two hours, Gina talked about art, food, travel, and men.

Heather could only listen while she drank. She didn’t have
stories to share. She spent every waking moment at work trying to keep her utilities paid. She’d had one relationship since moving to Boston. Roger had been an engineering student who worked in the café next door. They were both broke, so their dates consisted of take-out dinners from their respective restaurant jobs and rented movies. They’d been each other’s first sexual partners, and then split after six months. There wasn’t any real reason except that the relationship had run its course.

By 4 a.m., the late hour and copious amounts of wine had loosened Heather’s tongue. “I wish I had your life. I want to travel, and write about the places I see. I want to date the men you talk about.”

“I know just the man for you,” Gina said.

“I’m not like you.”

“What are you talking about? You’re beautiful and independent. He’ll adore you.”

Lust grew, a hunger to live in Gina’s world.

A week later, Gina had introduced Heather to Charlie.

—

“Gina, I need to tell you something,” Heather said as she lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I broke up with Charlie.”

Gina sat up and looked at Heather. “What?”

“Well, I thought it was just going to be a break—some time to think about what I wanted—but we haven’t spoken in over six weeks.”

“I don’t understand. I talked to Charlie last night at my parents’ restaurant. He came in with his family. We spoke about tonight’s party and the television show and how important this was for your career. He said he would see me tonight.”