On Mystic Lake Part 16

Annie laughed. "I don't have toast, but I have lemonade. And if we don't eat soon, I'm going to start chewing on your coin. I think it's time to head home."

Izzy laughed, and it was such a high, clear, heartbreakingly beautiful sound that Annie let herself forget the tiny strand of worry.

If nothing else, she'd given Izzy back her voice and her smile . . . and now one hand was visible again. Maybe tomorrow, that glove would come off the left.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter 15.

It was raining on the day Nick came home.

He paid the cabdriver and got out of the car, watching the town's only taxi drive away.

He flipped up the collar of his Levi's jacket and hunched his shoulders against the driving rain. Tucked under one arm was the ragged, wrinkled bag of clothes and toiletries he'd purchased to get him through his time away from home. Rain thwopped the sack, but it couldn't be helped. Day had just rounded the bend into a lavender evening, and there was a slight chill in the air. The gravel road that led to the house went straight for about a quarter of a mile, then turned sharply around a triangular patch of Douglas fir trees. Beyond that, it disappeared into the misty mauve shadows along the lake.

He could have had the cab drive him to the front door, but he needed the time to approach slowly.

Blinking against the rain, he began the long walk home. To his left, the lake reflected the twilight sky. Glossy green leaves, rhododendron, azalea, trillium, and salal hemmed the road on either side, creating a shadowy tunnel that led him ever closer to the house.

At last, he turned the corner. Soft, golden light poured through the windows of his home. The chimney puffed smoke into the purple sky. It was how he'd always imagined it. . . .

This house had seized his imagination from the start. He could still recall the night Annie had brought him here. Kathy had the flu, so Nick and Annie had gone to the carnival alone, and afterward, she'd brought him here, to the "haunted" house by the lake.

He'd first seen this house through her dreamer's eyes. She'd lit a fire inside his soul that night, and this old house had become the physical embodiment of that dream. Perfect for a boy who'd lived in a car for two years and eaten breakfast from Dumpsters.

It had taken him years, but he'd finally saved enough money to buy the place. It had been summer then, August, when he'd signed the papers and written the downpayment check. Yet even on that hottest day of the year, this road had been cool and shaded, and a breeze had swept along the banks of the lake. He had gazed into the distance at Mount Olympus, which stood as an immense granite triangle thrust high, high into the robin's-egg-blue sky, with only the barest hint of snow left to dust its jagged crown.

The memory was as sharp as broken gla.s.s. He'd raced to bring Izzy and Kathy here, but it was night by then and shadows lay thick and dark along the porch rails.

He'd grabbed Kathy's hand and dragged her through the murky, musty interior.

Can't you just see it, Kath? This'll be the sunroom- where we'll have breakfast . . . and that's the kitchen, they where we'll have breakfast . . . and that's the kitchen, they don't make stoves like that anymore . . . and check out that don't make stoves like that anymore . . . and check out that fireplace-I bet it's one hundred years old. . . . fireplace-I bet it's one hundred years old. . . .

He smelled hope and home and possibilities.

She smelled must and dirt and work.

How had he failed to notice? And why hadn't he stopped talking long enough to ask her opinion? Why had he just thought, she's having one of her bad days, she's having one of her bad days, and let it go at that? and let it go at that?

With a tired sigh, he straightened his shoulders, crossed the gra.s.s, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the front door. The wet sack of his useless new belongings. .h.i.t the floor beside his feet, forgotten.

There was a flurry of footsteps behind the door, and a m.u.f.fled "just a minute," then the door opened and Annie stood before him.

The silence between them was deafening; every sound seemed amplified, the rhythmic thunking of the rain on oversized leaves, the quiet licking of waves on gravel.

He wished he could smile, but he was afraid. He looked away, before she could see the sudden longing in his eyes.

"Nick." It was just a whisper of sound; he imagined he could feel the moist heat of her breath on his neck. Slowly, slowly, he looked at her.

She was standing so close he could see the smattering of freckles that lay along her hairline, and a tiny white scar that bisected one eyebrow. "I've been going to AA twice a day," he said quickly, without even adding a mumbled h.e.l.lo. "I haven't had a drink since you dropped me off at the motel."

"Oh, Nick, that's wonderful. I-"

It was as if she suddenly realized how close they were standing. In the pale glow of the porch light, he saw a sweet blush color her cheeks.

She broke eye contact and cleared her throat, moving back a respectable few feet. "Izzy is in the family room. We were painting. Come on in."

"Painting. Sounds fun. I wouldn't want to-"

"You can do this, Nick." She took hold of his hand-her grasp was solid and comforting-and pulled him into the house. The door banged shut behind him.

The house smelled clean, and somewhere a radio was playing, but he didn't have time to really notice the changes she had made. She was pulling him down the hallway.

Her "family room" was what Nick used to think of as the s.h.i.+t room. Years ago, probably in the fifties, somebody had tried to remodel this room on a skimpy budget. Pressboard wood paneling hid the log walls underneath, and mustard-colored carpet covered the hardwood floor. The only nice thing in the room was a big old brick fireplace, in which Annie had a fire going.

The French doors that led onto the back porch were open. A cool, early evening breeze ruffled their gauzy white curtains, and the rain was a silvery veil between the house and the falling night. Multicolored jars and paint-brushes cluttered a portable card table. Spilled paint lay in bright blemishes on the newspaper that protected the carpet.

Izzy stood with her back to them, one gloved hand hung limply at her left side. There was a huge easel in front of her, with a piece of white paper pinned in place. He could see splashes of color on the paper, but her body blocked the picture.

He realized suddenly that Annie was gone. His hand felt cold and empty. Turning slightly, he saw her in the hallway. She gave him a quick thumbs-up and disappeared.

He sighed. Turning back toward the room, he took a cautious step inside. He expected Izzy to spin around and stare at him, but the carpet m.u.f.fled the sound of his steps, and she kept on painting.

"Izzy." He said her name softly, as if a quiet voice could somehow soften the surprise.

She dropped a baby-food jar full of blue paint. The colorful liquid splashed across the newspaper. Slowly, clutching her paintbrush, she turned around.

She looked like an angel. She was wearing a paint-stained pair of yellow overalls, but there were no streaks of color on her hair or face. Her jet-black hair lay in two evenly plaited braids, tied at the ends with bits of yellow ribbon.

She looked like she used to.

It was that thought, more than anything, that brought him fully into the room. His knees felt weak, and fear was a cold knot in his stomach, but he kept moving, going toward his little girl, who stood so silently beside the easel, her big brown eyes fixed on his.

Beside her, he knelt. His knees squished in the puddle of blue paint.

She looked down at him, her eyes unblinking, her pink lips drawn in a serious line.

Only a few years ago, she would have leapt into his arms and smothered him with kisses. Even when he'd had a hangover, or after a fight with Kathy, Izzy had always adored him. She'd never looked at him like she did right now-with the wary, worried expression of an animal that was ready to flee at the first hint of danger.

He realized with a sudden tightening in his chest how much he'd missed her kisses . . . the sweet smell of her hair . . . the gentle softness of her hand as she slipped it into his.

"Hey, Suns.h.i.+ne," he said, his eyes avoiding the tiny black glove that evidenced his failure and her heartbreak.

It was his pet name for her-given on the first day she'd smiled and he'd said it was like suns.h.i.+ne after a rain. He hadn't called her Suns.h.i.+ne in a long time. Since Kathy's death, and probably even before that.

She remembered. A little jumping smile tugged one side of her mouth.

There were so many things he could say to her right now, promises he could make, but in the end, he knew it would only be words. Promises made by a man who'd broken too many to be trusted.

One day at a time; that was one thing AA definitely had right.

That was how he'd lost his daughter-one moment at a time-and that was the only way to get her back. He couldn't ask for her trust; even though she'd probably give it to him freely, he had to earn earn it. One day at a time. it. One day at a time.

In the end, he made no promises. Instead, he said only, "What are you painting?"

She c.o.c.ked her head toward the paper and stepped back. It was a colorful smearing of squiggly lines and globs of falling paint. Because he'd seen her artwork before, he could make out Izzy's self-portrait: she was the tiny, big-headed stick figure in the corner with the floor-length cascade of black hair. Someone-probably Annie, judging by the spiked brown hair-stood beside her, wearing a broad brush stroke of a smile. Above the two stick figures was a bright yellow sun bracketed by writhing red rays.

Nick grabbed a clean paintbrush from the card table and dipped it into a jar of brown paint. Trying not to spill-although he had no idea why he bothered-he carefully maneuvered the paintbrush to the paper. "Can I add something?"

She stared up at him. Then slowly she nodded.

He drew a quick, misshapen circle alongside Annie. Another four strokes and he had a body of sorts. "This is Daddy," he said, without looking at her. Then he added eyes, a nose, and a flat line of a mouth. "I don't need to paint the hair-it's almost the same color as the paper. We'll just imagine it." Lowering the brush, he looked at her.

Her gaze was level and steady. Two oversized front teeth-her only grown-up teeth-nipped nervously at her lower lip.

"Is it okay if I come home, Izzy?" He waited a lifetime for her answer, a nod, a blink, anything, but she just stood there, staring at him through those sad, grown-up eyes in her little-girl's face.

He touched her velvet-soft cheek. "I understand, Suns.h.i.+ne."

He started to get to his feet.

She grabbed his hand.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees. He stared at her, losing himself in the chocolate-brown eyes that had once been his world. In that instant, he remembered it all-walking down the docks with her, looking at boats, dreaming about sailing around the world someday. . . . He remembered how it had felt to hold her hand and laugh with her and swing her in his arms on a beautiful, sunny spring day.

"I love you, Izzy," he said, remembering then how simple it used to be.

Nick stood on the porch, his legs braced apart, his arms crossed. He was hanging onto his world by a fraying thread. Dinner had been a tense affair, with Annie's cheerful chatter punctuated by awkward silences. He'd noticed that Izzy was using her right hand again-and not in that pathetic twofingered way.

Every time he looked at his daughter, he felt a hot rush of shame, and it took all his self-control not to turn away. But he hadn't taken the coward's road tonight, and that was something of a triumph. He'd looked Izzy square in the eye, and if he flinched at the wariness in her gaze, he did it inwardly, so she couldn't see.

Behind him, the screen door screeched open and banged shut.

It took him a second to find the courage to turn around. When he did, Annie was standing there, alongside the old rocking chair that had been Nick's gift to Kathy when Izzy was born.

Annie's fingers trailed lightly across the top rail, and her wedding ring glittered in the orange glow of the outdoor bulb. The size of the diamond reminded Nick once again of how different her world was from his. As if he needed reminding.

She was holding a small designer suitcase.

"Izzy has brushed her teeth. She's waiting for you to tuck her in." Her voice was as soft and cool as a spring rain, and it soothed the ragged edges of his anxiety.

She was standing close to him, her arms at her sides. Even with that Marine-issue haircut, she was beautiful. A tired gray UW sweats.h.i.+rt bagged over a pair of oversized jeans, but it didn't camouflage her body. Suddenly he could remember her naked, recall vividly how she'd lifted her arms and pulled off her s.h.i.+rt . . . the moonlight kissing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. . . .

"Nick?" She took a step toward him. "Are you all right?"

He forced a weak laugh. "As well as a drunk who has stopped drinking can be, I suppose."

"You're going to make it." She started to reach for him, and he leaned slightly toward her, needing that touch more than air, but at the last minute, she drew back. "It's not easy to start over. I know . . ."

He saw the haunted look in her eyes and wondered what he'd done to her, the man who'd put that egg-size diamond on her left hand. He wanted to ask, but it felt wrong, presumptuous, to probe her wounds. "You saved my life, Annie. I don't know how to thank you."

She smiled. "I always knew you'd be back for her, you know. It wasn't much of a risk. I could see how much you loved Izzy."

"Such optimism." He glanced out at the darkened lake. "I loved Kathy, too, and look what happened." He sighed and leaned back against the porch rail, staring out at the yard. "You know what haunts me? I never really understood my wife. The sad thing is-I do now. I know what hopelessness feels like; before, I thought I did, but I was skimming the surface. She used to tell me that she couldn't feel the sunlight anymore, not even when she was standing in it, not even when it was hot on her cheeks." It surprised Nick that he could talk about his wife so easily. For the first time, he remembered her her, not the illness or the crumbling of their marriage over the last few years, but Kathy, his Kathy, the bright-eyed, big-hearted girl he'd fallen in love with. "She didn't want to live in the darkness anymore. . . ."

When he turned back to Annie, she was crying. He felt awkward and selfish in the wake of her grief. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to upset you."

She gazed up at him. "You're so lucky."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter how you felt about Kathy by the end, or since the end. You obviously loved her. No matter what she did, or why she did it, she must have known." Her voice fell to a throaty whisper. "Most people are never loved like that in their whole lives."

He knew he was going to ask the question, though he shouldn't. He stepped toward her, a heartbeat closer than was safe. "How about you? Have you known that kind of love?"

She gave him a fleeting, sad little smile and looked away. "No. I have loved that way . . . but been loved . . . I don't think so."

"You deserve better than that."

She nodded and nonchalantly wiped her eyes. "Don't we all."

Silence fell between them, awkward and uncomfortable. "Annie-"

She stopped and turned to him. "Yes?"

"Maybe you'd like to come over tomorrow-spend the day with us."

"I'd like that," she answered quickly, then she looked away.

"Thank you." His voice was soft, and came as close to a kiss as he dared.

"You're welcome, Nicky." There was another moment of awkwardness as she stared up at him. "You should know that Izzy started talking while you were gone."

Nick frowned. "She didn't talk to me."

Annie touched his arm in a brief, fleeting caress. "She will. Give her time."

He couldn't meet Annie's gaze. Instead, he stared out at the lake.

She moved nervously from foot to foot, then said, "Well, I should be getting home. . . ."

"See you tomorrow."