On Mystic Lake Part 2

When Blake stared at the soaring white angles of the house, he felt an unexpected pang of loss. It was so beautiful, this home of theirs, so stunningly contemporary. A real showpiece on a street where teardowns routinely cost five million dollars and nothing was too expensive.

Annie had conceived, created, and designed this place. She'd taken the view-sea and sand and sky-and translated it into a home that seemed to have grown out of the hillside. She'd chosen every tile, every fixture; all through the house were incongruous little items of whimsy-an angel here, a gargoyle there, a ratty old macrame plant hanger in the corner of a room with thousand-dollar-a-square-foot wooden paneling, a family photo in a homemade sh.e.l.l frame. There was no place inside that didn't reflect her bubbling, slightly off-center personality.

He tried to remember what it had felt like to love her, but he couldn't anymore.

He'd been sleeping with other women for ten years, seducing them and bedding them and forgetting them. He'd traveled with them, spent the night with them, and through it all, Annie had been at home, baking recipes from Gourmet Gourmet magazine and picking out paint chips and tile samples and driving Natalie to and from school. He'd thought sooner or later she'd notice that he'd fallen out of love with her, but she was so d.a.m.n trusting. She always believed the best of everyone, and when she loved, it was body and soul, forever. magazine and picking out paint chips and tile samples and driving Natalie to and from school. He'd thought sooner or later she'd notice that he'd fallen out of love with her, but she was so d.a.m.n trusting. She always believed the best of everyone, and when she loved, it was body and soul, forever.

He sighed, suddenly feeling tired. It was turning forty that had changed his outlook, made him realize that he didn't want to be locked in a loveless marriage anymore.

Before the gray had moved its ugly fingers into his hair and lines had settled beneath his blue eyes, he thought he had it all-a glamorous career, a beautiful wife, a loving daughter, and all the freedom he needed.

He traveled with his college buddies twice a year, went on fis.h.i.+ng trips to remote islands with pretty beaches and prettier women; he played basketball two nights a week and closed the local bar down on Friday nights. Unlike most of his friends, he'd always had a wife who understood, who stayed at home. The perfect wife and mother- everything that he thought he wanted.

Then he met Suzannah. What had begun as just another s.e.xual conquest rolled into the most unexpected thing of all: love.

For the first time in years, he felt young and alive. They made love everywhere, all times of the day and night. Suzannah never cared what the neighbors thought or worried about a sleeping child in the next room. She was wild and unpredictable, and she was smart-unlike Annie, who thought the PTA was as vital to world order as the EEC.

He walked slowly down to the front door. Before he could even reach for the bell, the hand-carved rosewood door opened.

She stood in the doorway, her hands clasped nervously at her waist. A creamy silk dress clung to her body, and he couldn't help noticing that she'd lost weight in the past few days-and G.o.d knew she couldn't afford it.

Her small, heart-shaped face was pale, alarmingly so, and her eyes, usually as bright and green as shamrocks, were dull and bloodshot. She'd pulled her long hair into a tight ponytail that accentuated the sharp lines of her cheekbones and made her lips look swollen. Her earrings didn't match; she was wearing one diamond and one pearl, and somehow that little incongruity brought home the stinging pain of his betrayal.

"Blake . . ." He heard the thin lilt of hope in her voice, and realized suddenly what she must have thought when he called this morning.

s.h.i.+t. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so stupid?

She backed away from the door, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. "Come in, come in. You . . ." She looked away quickly, but not before he saw her bite down on her lower lip-the nervous habit she'd had since she was young. He thought she was going to say something, but at the last minute she turned and led the way down the hallway and out onto the huge, mult.i.tiered deck that overlooked the Colony's quiet patch of Malibu beach.

Christ, he wished he hadn't come. He didn't need to see her pain in sharp relief, in the way she kept smoothing her dress and jabbing at her hair.

She crossed to the table, where a pitcher of lemonade- his favorite-and two crystal gla.s.ses sat on an elegant silver tray. "Natalie's settling in well. I've only talked to her once-and I was going to call again, but . . . well . . . it's been hard. I thought she might hear something in my voice. And, of course, she'll ask for you. Maybe later . . . while you're here . . . we could call again."

"I shouldn't have come." He said it more sharply than he intended, but he couldn't stand to hear the tremor in her voice anymore.

Her hand jerked. Lemonade splashed over the rim of the gla.s.s and puddled on the gray stone table. She didn't turn to him, and he was glad. He didn't want to see her face.

"Why did you?"

Something in her voice-resignation, maybe, or pain- caught him off guard. Tears burned behind his eyes; he couldn't believe this was hurting. hurting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the interim settlement papers he'd drafted. Wordlessly, he leaned over her shoulder and dropped them on the table. An edge of the envelope landed in the spilled lemonade. A dark, bubbling splotch began to form. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the interim settlement papers he'd drafted. Wordlessly, he leaned over her shoulder and dropped them on the table. An edge of the envelope landed in the spilled lemonade. A dark, bubbling splotch began to form.

He couldn't seem to draw his eyes from the stain. "Those are the papers, Annie. . . ."

She didn't move, didn't answer, just stood there with her back to him.

She looked pathetic, with her shoulders hunched and her fingers curled around the table's edge. He didn't need to see her face to know what she was feeling. He could see the tears falling, one after another, splas.h.i.+ng on the stone like tiny drops of rain.

Chapter 3.

"I can't believe you're doing this." Annie hadn't meant to say anything, but the words formed themselves. When he didn't answer, she turned toward him. Sadly, after almost twenty years of marriage, she couldn't bear to meet his eyes. "Why?"

That's what she really wanted to understand. She'd always put her family's needs above her own, always done everything she could to make her loved ones feel safe and happy. It had started long before she met Blake, in her childhood. Her mother had died when Annie was very young, and she'd learned how to seal her own grief in airtight compartments stored far from her heart. Unable to comprehend her loss, she'd focused on her grieving father. It had become, over the years, her defining characteristic. Annie the caretaker, the giver of love. But now her husband didn't want her love anymore, didn't want to be a part of the family she'd created and cared for.

"Let's not rehash it again," he said with a heavy sigh.

The words were like a slap. She snapped her head up and looked at him. "Rehash it? Are you joking joking?"

He looked sad and tired. "When did you ever know me to joke?" He shoved a hand through his perfectly cut hair. "I didn't think about what you'd . . . infer from my phone call this morning. I'm sorry."

Infer. A cold, legal word that seemed to separate them even more. A cold, legal word that seemed to separate them even more.

He moved toward her, but was careful not to get too close. "I'll take care of you. That's what I came to say. You don't have to worry about money or anything else. I'll take good care of you and Natalie. I promise."

She stared at him in disbelief. "February nineteenth. You remember that date, Blake?"

His million-dollar tan faded to a waxen gray. "Now, Annalise-"

"Don't you 'now, Annalise' me. February nineteenth. Our wedding day. You remember that day, Blake? You said-you vowed vowed-to love me till death parted us. You promised to take care of me on that day, too."

"That was a long time ago."

"You think a promise like that has an expiration date, like a carton of milk? G.o.d . . ."

"I've changed, Annie. h.e.l.l, we've been together more than twenty years; we've both changed. I think you'll be happier without me. I really do. You can focus on all those hobbies you never had time for. You know . . ." He looked acutely out of his depth. "Like that calligraphy stuff. And writing those little stories. And painting."

She wanted to tell him to get the h.e.l.l out, but the words tangled with memories in her head, and it all hurt so badly.

He came up beside her, his footsteps clipped and harsh on the stone flooring. "I've drafted a tentative settlement. It's more than generous."

"I won't make it that easy for you."

"What?"

She could tell by his voice that she'd surprised him, and it was no wonder. Their years together had taught him to expect no protest from Annie about anything. She looked up at him. "I said, I won't make it easy for you, Blake. Not this time."

"You can't stop a divorce in California." He said it softly, in his lawyer's voice.

"I know the law, Blake. Did you forget that I worked beside you for years, building the law firm with you? Or do you only remember the hours you you put in at the office?" She moved toward him, careful not to touch him. "If you were a client, what advice would you give?" put in at the office?" She moved toward him, careful not to touch him. "If you were a client, what advice would you give?"

He tugged at his starched collar. "This isn't relevant."

"You'd tell yourself to wait, spend some 'cooling off' time. You'd recommend a trial separation. I've heard heard you say it." The words tripped her up in sadness. "Jesus, Blake, won't you even give us that chance?" you say it." The words tripped her up in sadness. "Jesus, Blake, won't you even give us that chance?"

"Annalise-"

She kept tears at bay one trembling breath at a time. Everything hung on the thread of this moment. "Promise me we'll wait until June-when Natalie gets home. We'll talk again . . . see where we are after a few months apart. I gave you twenty years, Blake. You can give me three months."

She felt the seconds tick by, slicing tiny nicks across her soul. She could hear the even, measured cant of his breathing, the lullaby that had eased her into sleep for more than half her life.

"All right."

The relief was overwhelming. "What are we going to tell Natalie?"

"Christ, Annie, it's not like she's going to have a heart attack. Most of her friends' parents are divorced. That's half of our G.o.dd.a.m.n problem, all you ever think about is Natalie. Tell her the truth."

Annie felt her first spark of true anger. "Don't you dare make this about motherhood, Blake. You're leaving me because you're a selfish p.r.i.c.k."

"A selfish p.r.i.c.k who's in love with someone else."

The words cut as deeply as he intended them to. Tears burned behind her eyes, blurred her vision, but she'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd let them fall. She should have known better than to fight with him-she had no practice, and hurtful words were his profession. "So you say."

"Fine," he said in a clipped, even voice, and she knew by the tone of it that this conversation was over. "What do you want to tell Natalie and when?"

This was the one answer she had. She might be a complete failure as a wife and lover, but she knew how to take care of her daughter. "Nothing for now. I don't want to ruin this trip for her. We'll tell her . . . whatever we need to . . . when she gets home."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"I'll send someone over tomorrow to pick up a few of my things. I'll have the Cadillac returned on Monday."

Things. That's what it came down to after all these years. The bits and pieces that were their life-his toothbrush, her hot rollers, his alb.u.m collection, her jewelry- became just things to be divided up and packed in separate suitcases. That's what it came down to after all these years. The bits and pieces that were their life-his toothbrush, her hot rollers, his alb.u.m collection, her jewelry- became just things to be divided up and packed in separate suitcases.

He picked up the envelope from the table and held it out to her. "Open it."

"Why? So I can see how generous you've been with our our money?" money?"

"Annie-"

She waved a hand. "I don't care who owns what."

He frowned. "Be sensible, Annie."

She looked at him sharply. "That's what my dad said to me when I told him I wanted to marry a skinny, dirt-poor, twenty-year-old kid. Be sensible, Annie. There's no rush. Be sensible, Annie. There's no rush. You're young. You're young. But I'm not young anymore, am I, Blake?" But I'm not young anymore, am I, Blake?"

"Annie, please . . ."

"Please what-please don't make this hard on you?"

"Look at the papers, Annie."

She moved closer, stared up at him through her tears. "There's only one a.s.set I want, Blake." Her throat closed up and it became hard to speak. "My heart. I want it back in one piece. Have you given me that in your precious papers?"

He rolled his eyes. "I should have expected this from you. Fine. I'll be living at Suzannah's house if there's an emergency." He pulled out a pen and wrote on a sc.r.a.p of paper from his wallet. "Here's the number."

She wouldn't take the piece of paper from him. He let go and it fluttered to the floor.

Annie lay perfectly still in her king-size bed, listening to the familiar sound of her own breathing, the steady rhythm of her own heart. She wanted to pick up the phone and call Terri, but she'd already leaned on her best friend too much. They'd talked daily, for hours and hours, as if talking could ease Annie's heartache, and when their conversations ended, Annie felt more alone than ever.

The last week had pa.s.sed in a blur, seven endless days since her husband had told her he was in love with someone else. Each lonely night and empty day seemed to hack another bit of her away. Soon, she'd be too small for anyone to notice at all.

Sometimes, when she awoke, she was screaming, and the nightmare was always the same. She was in a dark room, staring into a gilt-edged mirror-only there was no reflection in the gla.s.s.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and went to her walk-in closet. She yanked open her lingerie drawer and pulled out a big gray box. Clasping the box to her chest, she moved woodenly back to the bed. A lifetime's collection of photographs and mementos lay at her fingertips, all the favorite pictures she'd snapped and saved over the years. She went through them slowly, savoring each one. At the bottom of the box, she found a small bronze compa.s.s, a long-ago gift from her father. There was no inscription on it, but she still remembered the day he'd given it to her, and the words he'd said: I know you feel I know you feel lost now, but it won't last forever, and this will make sure lost now, but it won't last forever, and this will make sure that you can always find your way home again . . . where that you can always find your way home again . . . where I'll always be waiting. I'll always be waiting.

She clutched the bit of metal in one hand, wondering when and why she'd ever taken it off. Very slowly, she slipped it around her neck again, then she turned to the photographs, beginning with the black-and-white ones, the Kodak trail of her own childhood. Small, dog-eared photos with the date stamped in black across the top. There were dozens of her alone, a few of her with her daddy. And one of her with her mother.

One.

She could remember the day it was taken; she and her mom had been making Christmas cookies. There was flour everywhere, on the counter, on Annie's face, on the floor. Her dad had come in from work and laughed at them. Good Good G.o.d, Sarah, you're making enough for an army. There's G.o.d, Sarah, you're making enough for an army. There's just the three of us. . . . just the three of us. . . .

Only a few months later, there were only two of them. A quiet, grieving man and his even quieter little girl.

Annie traced the smooth surface of the print with her fingertip. She'd missed her mother so often over the years-at high school graduation, on her wedding day, on the day Natalie was born-but never as much as she missed her now. I need you, Mom, I need you, Mom, she thought for the millionth time. she thought for the millionth time. I need you to tell me that everything will be all I need you to tell me that everything will be all right. . . . right. . . .

She replaced the treasured photograph in the box and picked up a colored one that showed Annie holding a tiny, blotchy-faced newborn wrapped in a pink blanket. And there was Blake, looking young and handsome and proud, his big hand curled protectively around his baby girl. She went through dozens more pictures, following Natalie's life from infant to high school senior, from graham crackers to mascara.

Natalie's whole life lay in this box. There were countless pictures of a smiling, blue-eyed blond girl, standing alongside a succession of stuffed animals and bicycles and family pets. Somewhere along the way, Blake had stopped appearing in the family photos. How was it that Annie had never noticed that before?

But Blake wasn't who she was really looking for.

She was looking for Annie. The truth sank through her, twisting and hurting, but she couldn't give up. Somewhere in this box that held the tangible memories of her life, she had to find herself. She went through print after print, tossing aside one after another.

There were almost no pictures of her. Like most mothers, she was always behind the camera, and when she thought she looked tired, or fat, or thin, or ugly . . . she ripped the photo in half and ditched it.

Now, it was as if she'd never been there at all. As if she'd never really existed.

The thought scared her so badly, she lurched out of bed, shoving the photographs aside with a sweep of her hand. As she pa.s.sed the French doors, she caught sight of a disheveled, desperate-looking middle-aged woman in her husband's bathrobe. It was pathetic what she was becoming. Even more pathetic than what she'd been before.

How dare he do this to her? Take twenty years of her life and then discard her like a sweater that no longer fit.

She strode to the closet, ripping his clothes from their expensive hangers and shoving them in the garbage. Then she went to his study, his precious study. Wrenching the desk drawer open, she yanked everything out.

In the back of one drawer, she found dozens of recent charge slips for flowers and hotel rooms and lingerie.

Her anger turned into an honest-to-G.o.d fury. She threw it all-charge slips, bills, appointment reminders, the checkbook register-in a huge cardboard box. On it, in big bold letters, she wrote his name and office address. In smaller letters, she wrote: I did this for twenty years. Now I did this for twenty years. Now it's your turn. it's your turn.

Breathing hard, feeling better than she had in days, she looked around at her perfect, empty house.

What would she do now? Where would she go? She touched the compa.s.s at her throat and she knew. She touched the compa.s.s at her throat and she knew.

Perhaps she'd known all along.