On Mystic Lake

Page 29

But, in the end, like all the other times, he couldn’t quite manage it.
Chapter 16
Their days followed a familiar pattern. Monday through Friday, Annie showed up at Nick’s house bright and early. He made pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and then the three of them spent the day together. Rain or shine, they were outside, fishing along the crumbling rock banks of the river, riding bikes on the trails around the lake, or window-shopping on Main Street. Today they had hiked deep into Enchanted Valley, and now, several hours and even more miles later, each of them was exhausted. Poor Izzy had fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
Annie leaned down and kissed Izzy’s forehead, murmuring a quiet good night.
“ ’Night, Annie,” Izzy mumbled back, her eyes closed.
Annie drew back. This was the time of the week she hated most. Friday night. She wouldn’t see Nick and Izzy again until Monday, and though she enjoyed the time she spent with Hank, she couldn’t wait to get back here Monday morning. She didn’t often let herself think about how much she liked Nick and Izzy, or how right it felt to be with them. Those thoughts led her down a dark and twisting road that frightened her, and so she pushed them away, buried them in the dark corner that had always housed her uncertainties. She had come to the sad realization that Blake wasn’t going to change his mind, that she wasn’t going to receive the apologetic phone call she’d fantasized about for weeks. Without even that slim fantasy to cling to, she was left feeling adrift. Sometimes, in the midst of a lovely spring day, she would stumble across her fear and the suddenness of it shocked and frightened her.
Those were the times when she turned to Hank—but his comforting words he’ll be back, honey, don’t you worry, he’ll be back didn’t soothe Annie anymore. She couldn’t believe in them, and somehow the not believing hurt more than the believing ever had. Terri was the only one who understood, and a phone call to her best friend, often made late at night, was the only thing that helped.
She started to turn away, when she noticed something through the window, a movement. She pushed the patterned lace curtains aside.
Nick was standing down alongside the lake, his shadow a long streak across the rippling silver waves. As usual, he’d helped with the dinner dishes, read Izzy a story, and then bolted outside to stand alone.
He was as lonely as she was. She saw it in his eyes all the time, a sadness that clung even when he smiled.
He was trying so hard. Yesterday, he’d spent almost two hours playing Candy Land with Izzy, his long body crouched uncomfortably across the multicolored board. Every time Izzy smiled, Nick looked like he was going to cry.
Annie had never been as proud of anyone as she was of him. He was trying to do everything right—no drinking, no swearing, no broken promises. Nothing but soft, sad smiles and time spent with the little girl who still studied him warily and didn’t speak to him.
So often, during the day, she was reminded of Blake, and the kind of father he’d been. Never there, physically or emotionally, for his daughter, taking so much of his life for granted. It was partially Annie’s fault; she saw that now. She’d been part of what their marriage had become. She had blindly done everything he’d asked of her. Everything. She’d given up so much—everything of herself and her dreams; she’d given it up without a whimper of protest . . . and all because she loved him so much.
Her life, her soul, had faded into his, one day, one decision at a time. Little things . . . nothing by themselves . . .
A haircut she didn’t have because Blake liked her hair long, a dress she didn’t buy because he thought red was a tramp’s color.
She’d done what they “agreed” she should do. She’d stayed home and become the perfect suburban wife and mother, and in her quest for quiet perfection, she’d let Blake become a bad husband and bad father. And all the while, she’d thought she was the perfect wife. Only now she saw how wrong she’d been: she’d made all those sacrifices not out of strength and love, but out of weakness. Because it was safer and easier to follow. She had become what she’d set out to be, and now she was ashamed of her choices. But still she had no true understanding of where she would go from here.
Alone. That was all she knew. Wherever she went from here, it would be as a middle-aged woman alone.
She wished she had Nick’s strength, his willingness to shove past his fear and try.
She touched the glass softly, feeling the cool smoothness beneath her fingertips. “You’re going to make it, Nick.”
And she believed it.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and went downstairs. Plucking her purse from the sofa, she headed for the door. Outside, the cool night air breezed across her cheeks.
She stared across the blackened lawn at Nick. It was at times like these, at the quiet end of the day, that memories of their lovemaking floated to the surface of her mind.
She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the feel of his hands on her naked skin . . . the softness of his lips . . .
“Annie?”
Her eyes popped open. He was in front of her, and when she looked at him, she was certain that it was all in her eyes: the naked, desperate need for companionship and caring. She was afraid that if she spoke to him, if she said anything, and heard the soft tenor of his voice in response, she would be lost. She was vulnerable now, longing to be held and touched by a man . . . even if it was the wrong man . . . even if she wasn’t truly the woman he wanted.
She forced a quick, nervous smile. “Hi, Nick . . . ’bye, Nick. I’ve got to run.”
Before he could answer, she ran to her car.
But a mile later, all alone in her car, listening to Rod Stewart’s scratchy-voiced song about his heart and soul, and an attraction that was purely physical, she was still remembering. . . .
Saturday morning, Izzy stood on the porch in her bright new overalls and rain boots, watching her daddy. He was kneeling in the yard, beside that tree they’d planted on the day of her mommy’s funeral. The skinny cherry tree that wouldn’t turn green, not even now when everything around it was blooming. It was dead, just like her mommy.
Her daddy was all hunched over, like a character from one of her books, wearing dirty gloves that made his hands look like bear claws. He was yanking up weeds from around the baby tree, and he was humming a song, one Izzy hadn’t heard in a long time.
All of a sudden, her daddy looked up and saw her. He gave her a big smile and pushed the silvery hair away from his face. The glove left a big streak of brown mud across his forehead. “Heya, Izzy-bear,” he said. “Wanna help me pull up weeds?”
Slowly, she moved toward him, past the row of primroses Annie had planted last week. He was still smiling when she came up beside him.
All she could think was that her daddy was back and she wanted a hug more than anything in the world, but she was afraid. What if he didn’t stay again? She almost said something to him, she even opened her mouth and tried.
“What is it, Izzy?”
The words wouldn’t fall out. They were jammed in her throat behind a big old lump. Come on, Izzy, she told herself, just say, “Hi, Daddy, I missed you.”
But she couldn’t. Instead, she reached out her hand and pointed to the trowel that lay on the ground. He bent down and picked up the big fork, handing it to her slowly. “It’s okay, Sunshine,” he said softly. “I understand.”
I love you, Daddy. Tears stung her eyes; she was sad and embarrassed that she couldn’t force herself to say the words. She squeezed her eyes shut before he could see the stupid, babyish tears. Then she took the trowel and moved in beside him.
He started talking, about the weather and flowers and the beautiful day. He talked so long she forgot she was embarrassed and sad and that she was a stupid little girl who couldn’t talk to her daddy anymore.
Sunday was the kind of day that tricked people into moving into this damp, soggy corner of the world. The kind of day when hapless tourists who stumbled into the rain forest tended to draw in deep breaths of awe and then find themselves driving their rental cars slowly past real estate offices. Almost involuntarily, they reached for pamphlets about cabins for sale, and called their faraway families with stories of the most gorgeous land they’d ever seen.
When Nick flung back the living room curtains and looked outside, he was as awestruck as any foreigner. A bright yellow sun had just crested the trees; lemony streamers of light backlit the forest and gave it a translucent, otherworldly glow. Lake Mystic swallowed the surrounding images and held them against its blue mirrored surface. On the far bank, a single gray heron stood on one leg, proudly surveying his domain.
It was a perfect day for a father-daughter outing. He hurried up the stairs and woke his sleeping child. He helped her brush her teeth and get dressed in warm woolen clothes. While she was sleepily making her bed, he went downstairs and packed a picnic lunch—smoked salmon bought fresh from the Quinault tribe at the local roadside stand, cream cheese and crackers for him, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and string cheese for Izzy. Annie had left a quart of homemade lemonade, and he poured it into a thermos, then crammed everything into a picnic basket.
Within the hour, they were driving down the winding coastal road that seemed to bisect the world. On one side stood the darkest, densest of all American woodlands, and on the other, the crashing wildness of the Pacific Ocean. Along the coastal side, the evergreen trees had been sculpted by a hundred years of gale winds; their limbs bent backward in an unnatural arc.
Nick parked in one of the turnouts that were designed to showcase the view to tourists. Taking Izzy’s hand, he led her down the trail toward the beach.
Below them, huge, white-tipped waves crashed against the rocks. When they finally dropped onto the hard-packed sand, Izzy grinned up at him.
The silver-blue ocean stretched out for a thousand miles away from the land. Sometimes, the wind along this stretch of the Pacific howled so hard no man could draw a breath, but today it was almost preternaturally quiet. The air was as crisp and delicious as a sun-ripened apple. Cormorants and kingfishers and seagulls cawed and wheeled overhead, landing every now and then on one of the wind-sculpted trees that grew atop house-size rocks in the surf.
Nick set the basket down on a gray boulder near the land’s end. “Come on, Izzy.”
They ran across the sand, laughing, creating the only footprints for miles, searching for hidden treasures: sand dollars, translucent quartz stones, and tiny black crabs. Around a bend in the coastline, they stumbled into a knee-deep mass of tiny blue jellyfish, blown ashore by the wind—a sure sign to old-timers that tuna would appear off the coast this summer.
When the sun reached its peak in the sky and sent its warmth through their layers of wool and Gortex, Nick led Izzy back to where they’d begun. He threw a huge red and white blanket over the hard sand and unpacked the basket. They sat cross-legged on the blanket and ate their lunch.
All the while, Nick told stories—about the Native Americans who had first combed this beach, hundreds of years before the first white settlers appeared; about the wild parties he had attended in high school on this very same stretch of sand; about the time he’d brought Kathy here when she was pregnant.