On Mystic Lake Part 18

In the kitchen, they sat at the big plank table and ate store-bought macaroni and cheese until their skin took on the orange glow of whatever pa.s.sed for cheese in that little white packet. Izzy helped Nick wash and dry the dishes and put them away, and then they went upstairs. He helped her into her nightgown, brushed those incredibly tiny white teeth of hers, and together they climbed into her narrow twin bed.

He pulled the tattered copy of Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland off the bedside table. Curling an arm around Izzy's tiny shoulders, he drew his daughter close and began to read. off the bedside table. Curling an arm around Izzy's tiny shoulders, he drew his daughter close and began to read.

When he closed the book, her eyes were heavy and she was more than half asleep. "Good night, Suns.h.i.+ne," he said softly, kissing her forehead. Slowly, he drew back and stood up.

She reached out suddenly and grabbed his hand. He turned back, stared down at her. "Izzy?"

"Daddy?"

For a second, he couldn't breathe. It was the first time he'd heard her sweet child's voice in almost a year. Slowly, slowly, he sat down beside her. Tears stung his eyes, turned his precious baby into a blur. "Oh, Izzy," he whispered, unable to find any other words.

"I love you, Daddy," she said, and now she was crying, too.

He pulled her into a bear hug, hiding his face in the crook of her neck so she wouldn't see him crying. "Oh, Izzy-bear, I love you, too," he whispered over and over again, stroking her hair, feeling her tears mingle with his on the softness of her cheek. He held her tightly, wondering if he'd ever have the strength to let her go.

She fell asleep in his arms, and still he held her. Finally, he laid her head gently on the pillow and tucked the covers up to her small, pointed chin. When he looked down at his sleeping child, he felt a rush of emotion so pure and sweet and all-consuming that no single word-not even love love- could possibly be big enough.

Triumph was a trembling, high-pitched aria in his bloodstream. And all because of something as simple, and as infinitely complex, as a child's I love you I love you. Three little words he'd never take for granted again.

He couldn't contain the enormity of his emotions; they were spilling over, breaking one after another in waves. He felt the most incredible urge to laugh out loud. He wanted to share this moment with someone he cared for.

Annie.

He knew it was dangerous, this sudden desire to talk to her, be with her, tell her what he was feeling. Knew it, and didn't care. Couldn't care.

He went into his room and picked up the phone.

Monday was a magical day, filled with laughter. Once again the sun banished the clouds from the sky. Nick and Annie and Izzy rode bicycles and collected wildflowers and made crowns from the dainty purple and white flowers that had opened during the night.

Annie couldn't remember when she'd had so much fun. Blake had never spent a day like this with his girls, just the three of them; even when he'd had a rare day at home, he'd spent it on the phone or the fax or the computer. Annie was only now beginning to realize how lonely her life had been.

As she pedaled her bike down the National Park trail, she found herself recalling bits and pieces of her phone conversation with Nick last night. She talked to me, Annie. She talked to me, Annie. She told me she loved me. She told me she loved me. The awe in his voice had brought tears to Annie's eyes, and when he went on, telling her about their day at the beach, she'd envied them the easy perfection of it all. The awe in his voice had brought tears to Annie's eyes, and when he went on, telling her about their day at the beach, she'd envied them the easy perfection of it all.

Though neither one of them had mentioned the conversation today, it hung in the air between them, like dust motes that were occasionally thickened by a flash of sunlight. They'd woven a new strand of intimacy during their conversation. The distance of the telephone had made it easier somehow.

In the middle of it all, Annie had begun to remember the old Nick-the young Nick-and how she'd loved him. And when she closed her eyes while he was talking, she saw the boy who'd first kissed her beneath a starry night sky. The boy whose gentle, tentative kiss had made her cry.

She could feel herself drifting into dangerous waters. So many things about Nick touched her, but it was the depth of his love for Izzy that tangled her up inside and left her aching. No matter how hard she tried to forget the life she'd lived in California and the choices she'd made, Nick brought it all up again. Annie had raised a daughter who would never truly know the comforting embrace of a father's adoration.

And she had been a wife in love alone for too many years.

She had felt pathetic and small as she crossed the rickety bridge to that realization. For years, she'd mistaken habit and affection for true love. She had a.s.sumed that the love she gave her husband was a reflection of the love he felt for her, and now, because of her blindness, she was alone, a thirty-nine-year-old woman who faced her "golden" years without a child at home or a husband in her bed.

At that moment, she and Nick were separated by miles, and she was glad because if he'd been beside her, she would have reached for him, would have begged him to hold her and kiss her and tell her she was beautiful . . . even if the words were a lie.

Now, as they drove home after their bike ride, Annie prayed that Nick hadn't heard all that loneliness and pain in her voice. Every time he looked at her today, she'd looked away, fast.

By the time they returned to the house, she was a wreck. She sat quietly at the table, her eyes focused on her food, her right foot tapping nervously on the floor.

As soon as dinner was over, she bolted from the table and hustled Izzy up to bed, leaving Nick to wash and dry the dishes.

"Good night, Izzy," she said, tucking the child into bed. "Your daddy will be up in a minute."

" 'Night, Annie," Izzy muttered, rolling onto her side.

Annie closed the bedroom door and headed downstairs. She found Nick in the living room, staring out at the lake. Even from this distance, she could see that his hands were shaking. There was a damp dishrag lying at his feet.

The last step creaked beneath her foot and she froze.

He spun toward her. His skin was pale in the lamplight, and sweat sheened his forehead.

"You want a drink," she said.

"Want?" His laugh was low and rough. "That doesn't even begin to cover it."

Annie didn't know what to do. It was dangerous to touch him, but she couldn't turn away. Cautiously, she moved toward him. He reached for her hand, his sweaty fingers coiling around hers with a desperate squeeze.

After a long minute, she said, "How 'bout a bowl of Chocolate Chip Mint instead?"

"Great. I'll just go say good night to Izzy, then . . . I'll meet you by the fire." He gave her a relieved smile before turning and bolting up the stairs.

Annie went to the kitchen and scooped out two bowls of ice cream. The whole time she told herself that it was nothing, just a bowl of ice cream between friends. By the time she was finished, Nick was back downstairs. Together, they sat on the sofa.

In silence, they ate. The tinny clang of spoons on porcelain seemed absurdly loud. She was sharply aware of everything about him, the uneven way he tapped his foot anxiously on the floor, the way he kept tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind his right ear.

All at once, he turned to her. "How long will you be here?"

So that was it. She sighed. "About another month and a half. Natalie gets home on the fifteenth of June."

His gaze caught hers, and she felt as if she were falling into his blue eyes.

Annie's breath caught in her chest. She found herself waiting to hear what he would say next, though she couldn't imagine what it would be.

"What do you think of Mystic?" he asked slowly, watching her. "You sure couldn't wait to leave after high school."

"It wasn't Mystic that sent me running."

It was a long minute before he answered softly, "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know."

"You scared me."

She felt it blossom again at his words, that delicate bud of intimacy that had drawn them together last night. It scared her, especially now when she was so close to him. She tried to brush it away with a laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

He leaned forward and set the bowl down on the coffee table. Then, slowly, he turned toward her. One arm snaked down the back of the sofa toward her, and she had to fight the urge to lean back into it. "I think our lives are mapped out long before we know enough to ask the right questions. Mine was cast in stone the day my dad abandoned my mom. She had . . . trouble handling life. Before I even knew what was happening, I was her caretaker. I learned what every child of a drunk learns: don't talk, don't trust, don't care. h.e.l.l, I was an adult before I was ten years old. I shopped, I cooked, I cleaned . . . wherever we lived. I loved her, so I took care of her, and when she turned on me or became violent, I believed what she said-that I was worthless and stupid and lucky she stayed with me." He leaned back into the sofa.

Annie felt his fingertips brush her shoulders. She gazed at him, remembering how handsome he had been, how when she'd looked at him for the first time, she hadn't been able to breathe.

"Living here with Joe was like a dream for me. Clean sheets, clean clothes, lots to eat. I got to go to school every day and no one ever hit me." He smiled at her, and the heat of it sent s.h.i.+vers through her blood. "Then I met you and Kath. Remember?"

"At the A and W, after a football game. We invited you to sit with us. There was a K-Tel alb.u.m playing in the background."

"You invited me. I couldn't believe it when you did that . . . and then, when we all became friends, it stunned me. Everything about that year was a first." He smiled, but his smile was sad and tired around the edges and didn't reach his eyes. "You were the first girl I ever kissed. Did you know that?" invited me. I couldn't believe it when you did that . . . and then, when we all became friends, it stunned me. Everything about that year was a first." He smiled, but his smile was sad and tired around the edges and didn't reach his eyes. "You were the first girl I ever kissed. Did you know that?"

Annie's throat felt dangerously tight. "I cried."

He nodded. "I thought it was because you knew. knew. Like you could taste it in me somehow, that I wasn't good enough." Like you could taste it in me somehow, that I wasn't good enough."

She wanted to touch him so badly her fingers tingled. She forced her hand into a fist. "I never knew why I cried. Still don't."

He smiled at her. "See? The paths are set before we're aware. Kathy was so much simpler. I understood understood her. She needed me, even then she needed me, and to me that was the same as love. I just plopped into the role I knew. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Ask you to give up Stanford? Or wait for you, even though you hadn't asked me to?" her. She needed me, even then she needed me, and to me that was the same as love. I just plopped into the role I knew. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Ask you to give up Stanford? Or wait for you, even though you hadn't asked me to?"

Annie had never once considered being bold enough to talk to Nick about how she felt. Like him, she'd fallen easily-tumbled-into the role she knew. She did what was expected of her; Annie the good girl. She went away to college and married a nice boy with a bright future . . . and lost herself along the way.

"I always figured you'd be famous," he said at last, "you were so d.a.m.ned smart. The only kid from Mystic ever to get an academic scholars.h.i.+p to Stanford."

She snorted. "Me, famous? Doing what?"

"Don't do that, Annie." His voice was as soft as a touch, and she couldn't help looking at him. The sadness in his eyes coiled around her throat and squeezed. "That's a bad road to go down. Believe me, I know. You could succeed at anything you tried. And screw anyone who tells you different."

His encouragement was a draught of water to her parched, thirsty soul. "I did did think of something the other day. . . ." think of something the other day. . . ."

"What?"

She drew back. "You'll laugh."

"Never."

Dangerously, she believed him. "I'd like to run a small bookstore. You know the kind, with overstuffed chairs and latte machines and employees who actually read read."

He touched her cheekbone, a fleeting caress that made her s.h.i.+ver. It was the first time he'd deliberately touched her since that night by the lake. "You should see yourself right now, Annie."

Heat climbed up her cheeks. "You probably think I'm being ridiculous."

"No. Never. I was just noticing how your eyes lit up when you said 'bookstore.' I think it's a great idea. In fact, there's an old Victorian house on Main Street. It used to be a gift shop until a few months ago. When the owner died, they closed it up. They've been trying to find a renter. With a little elbow grease, it could make a great location." He paused and looked at her. "If you wanted to open that bookstore in Mystic."

The fantasy broke apart. They both knew that her life wasn't in Mystic. She belonged in another state, beneath another sun, in a white house by the sea. She stared down at her diamond ring, trying to think of something to say, a way to brush off the silly daydream and pretend she'd never voiced it.

He said suddenly, "Have you seen Same Time, Next Same Time, Next Year Year?"

She frowned. "The Alan Alda movie-the one about the couple who have an affair for one weekend every year?"

"Yeah."

She found it difficult to breathe evenly. The air seemed electrified by the simple word: a fair. a fair. "I-I always loved it." "I-I always loved it."

"It's starting in ten minutes. You want to watch?"

Her breath expelled in a rush. She felt like a fool for reading something into a simple little question about a movie.

"Sure."

They settled onto the sofa and watched the movie, but all the while, Annie had the strangest sensation that she was falling. She kept glancing at Nick, whom she often caught staring at her in return. She didn't want to consider how much he had begun to matter, but there was no way to avoid the obvious.

Last night, she'd learned that he liked chocolate chip ice cream and hated beets . . . that blue was his favorite color and professional sports bored him to tears . . . that he liked his baked potatoes with b.u.t.ter and bacon bits, but no salt or pepper, and that sometimes a kiss from Izzy, given as she snuggled close to him, had the power to make him cry.

She knew that often the need for a drink rose in him with such sudden ferocity that it left him winded and gla.s.sy-eyed. In those moments, he would push away from Annie and Izzy and run into the forest alone. Later, he would return, his hair dampened by sweat, his skin pale and his hands trembling, but he would smile at her, a sad, desperate smile that didn't reach his eyes, and she would know that he had beaten it again. And sometimes, in that moment, when their gazes locked across the clearing, she could feel the danger, simmering beneath the surface.

She didn't want to care too deeply about Nick Delacroix, and yet she could feel each day bringing them closer and closer.

When the movie ended, she couldn't look at him, afraid of what she'd see in his eyes . . . afraid of what he'd see in hers. So, she grabbed her box of tissues and her purse and ran for the door. She hardly even mumbled a good-bye.

Chapter 17.

Izzy woke up scared. She'd been dreaming about her mommy . . . that was all she could remember. Her mommy had been down by the lake, calling out to her . . . crying.

She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Without bothering to put on her robe and slippers, she crept out of her bedroom and hurried down the hall. She paused at her daddy's bedroom, then moved past. Down the stairs and out the front doors, into the darkest part of the night.

She stared at the lake. At first it was nothing but a charcoal-gray shadow in the vee of the mountains, but after a while, she could see the glistening waves and hear the murmuring voice of the water against the gravelly sh.o.r.e. The mist had thickened into a gray fog spiked with black toothpick trees.

Izzy-bear, is that you?

She flinched. The screen door jumped out of her hand and banged back into place. "Mommy?"

Something white flashed beside the sh.o.r.e.

She glanced back at the house and saw that her daddy's bedroom was dark. She knew she should tell her daddy where she was going, but then she saw the flash of white again and heard the sound of a woman crying, and she forgot all about it. She picked up the hem of her nightgown and hurried across the wet gra.s.s, her toes squis.h.i.+ng in muddy ground.

There were sounds everywhere-the cawing of crows, the hooting of a lonely owl, the ribbiting of bullfrogs-and though the sounds scared her, she didn't stop until she reached the lake.

"Mommy?" she whispered.

A fine mist rose from the water. It was in the mist that she saw her mommy. Clear as day, she was standing on the water, her hands clasped at her waist, her golden-blond hair a halo around her face. Izzy got a flas.h.i.+ng glimpse of white wings, and she heard a rhythmic sound, like the blurring start of a lawn mower, but she couldn't be sure of what she was seeing. There was a brightness to her mommy that hurt Izzy's eyes, like looking right at the sun. She blinked and tried to focus, but she kept seeing a spray of black dots and stars and her mommy went in and out of focus.

Izzy-bear, why did you call me?

Izzy blinked and tried to see her mommy's pretty blue eyes. "I didn't call you this time."

I heard you calling in your sleep.

Izzy tried to remember her dream, but it was just pictures and feelings and panic and it didn't seem to mean anything at all right now. "I don't know what I wanted."