On Mystic Lake Part 25

"Annie?"

She took a deep, shaking breath. More than anything, she wanted to throw herself into his big, strong arms. She ached suddenly to say the precious words, I love you, I love you, but she didn't dare. She knew that if Nick could, he'd promise that the sun would s.h.i.+ne on them forever. But neither of them was so naive anymore; both had learned that everything could change in an instant, and that the heartfelt vows of people in love were fragile words that, once shattered, could cut so deeply you'd bleed forever. but she didn't dare. She knew that if Nick could, he'd promise that the sun would s.h.i.+ne on them forever. But neither of them was so naive anymore; both had learned that everything could change in an instant, and that the heartfelt vows of people in love were fragile words that, once shattered, could cut so deeply you'd bleed forever.

He stood up, moved toward her. With one dirty finger, he touched her chin, so gently it was like the brush of a b.u.t.terfly's wing. "Honey, what is it?"

She forced a bright smile, too bright, she knew, but there was no help for that. "I got something in my eye. It's nothing. Let me change my clothes, then I'll come out and help you guys."

Before he could answer-or ask another painful, loving question-she ran into the house.

Nick and Annie lay in bed, barely touching, the sheets thrown back from their naked legs. A big old oak fan turned lazily overhead, swoos.h.i.+ng through the air, stirring it with a quiet thwop-thwop-thwop thwop-thwop-thwop.

After Izzy had been put to bed, they'd circled each other, he and Annie, saying none of the things that seemed to be collecting in the air between them. Now, he held her tightly, stroking the soft, damp flesh of her breast. She'd been quiet all evening, and every so often he'd looked at her and seen a faraway sadness in her eyes. It scared him, her sudden and unexpected quiet. He kept starting to ask her what was wrong, but every time the words floated up to his tongue, he bit them back. He was afraid of whatever it was that lay curled in all that silence.

"We need to talk," she said softly, rolling toward him.

"G.o.d, if those aren't the worst four words a woman can say." He waited for her to laugh with him.

"It's serious."

He sighed. "I know it is."

She angled her body until she was almost lying on top of him. Her eyes looked huge in the pale oval of her face, huge and filled with sadness. "I went to see a doctor today."

His heart stopped. "Are you okay?"

The smile she gave him was worn and ragged at the edges. "I'm healthy."

His breath expelled in a rush. "Thank G.o.d."

"I'm also three months pregnant."

"Oh, Christ . . ." He couldn't seem to breathe right.

"We tried for years and years to get pregnant."

Blake's baby. Her husband's baby, the man who'd said he'd made a terrible mistake and wanted her back. Nick felt as if he were melting into the hot, rumpled sheets that smelled of her perfume and their spent pa.s.sion. Her husband's baby, the man who'd said he'd made a terrible mistake and wanted her back. Nick felt as if he were melting into the hot, rumpled sheets that smelled of her perfume and their spent pa.s.sion.

I always wanted more children. Those had been her exact words, and in them, he'd heard the residue of a lifetime's pain. He'd known then it was the one thing he couldn't give her. Now it didn't matter. Those had been her exact words, and in them, he'd heard the residue of a lifetime's pain. He'd known then it was the one thing he couldn't give her. Now it didn't matter.

He knew Annie too well; she was a loving, honorable person, and a ferocious mother. It was one of the things he loved about her, her unwavering sense of honor. She would know that Blake deserved a chance to know his child.

There would be no future for them now, no years that slid one into the next as they sat on those big rockers on the porch.

He wanted to say something that would magically transform this moment into something it wasn't, to forge a memory that wouldn't hurt for the rest of his life. But he couldn't.

Before their love song had really begun, it was coming to an end.

Chapter 23.

Nick knew that Annie was making her arrangements to return home, but she was careful around him. She hung up the phone when he came into the room.

He tried to erect a s.h.i.+eld between them, something that would soften his fall when she left, but it was impossible. Yesterday, he and Annie had driven to Seattle to see a specialist in high-risk pregnancies. He couldn't stay detached. He was there for her every minute, encouraging her to keep drinking water when she thought she couldn't take another sip, holding her hand during the ultrasound. When he saw the baby-that tiny, squiggly gray line in a sea of fuzzy black, he'd had to turn quickly away and mumble something about having to go to the bathroom.

Each day, he tried not to think about what was to come, but he felt the silent, insistent march of every hour, ticking away what he wanted most in his life.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, when a strand of sunlight slid through an open window and highlighted Annie's cropped hair, he was stunned by her beauty; and then she'd smile at him, that soft, sad, knowing smile, and it would all come cras.h.i.+ng back. He'd hear that ticking in his head again.

She had changed him so much, his Annie. She'd given him a family and made him believe that love was a heavy winter coat that kept you warm all year. She'd shown him that he could pull himself out of the destructive patterns of his life; he could quit drinking and take care of his daughter. She'd given him everything he'd dreamed of.

Except a future.

When they were together, they didn't talk about the baby or the future.

Now she was standing in the living room, staring at the pictures on the fireplace mantel. Absently, she stroked her still-flat abdomen.

As he walked down the stairs, he wondered what she was thinking. The steps creaked beneath his weight, and at the sound, she looked up, giving him a tired smile. "Hey ya, Nicky," she said.

He went to her, slipped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. She leaned her head back against his shoulder. Tentatively, he reached a hand out, let it settle on her stomach. For a single heartbeat, he allowed himself to dream that the child was his, that she she was his, and this moment was the beginning instead of the end. was his, and this moment was the beginning instead of the end.

"What are you thinking?" he asked quietly, hating the fear that came with the simple question of lovers everywhere.

"I was thinking about your job." She twisted in his arms and looked up at him. "I . . . want to know that you'll be going back to it."

It hurt, that quiet statement of caring. He knew what she needed from him right now, a smile, a joke, a gesture that rea.s.sured her that he would be all right without her. But he didn't have that kind of strength; he wished he did. "I don't know, Annie . . ."

"I know you were a good cop, Nick. I've never known anyone with such a capacity for caring."

"It almost broke me . . . the caring." The words held two meanings, and he knew that she understood.

"But would you give it all up . . . the caring and the love and trying . . . would you give it up because in the end there is pain?"

He touched her face gently. "You're not asking about my job. . . ."

"It's all the same, Nick. All we have is the time, the effort. The end . . . the pain . . . that's out of our control."

"Is it?"

A single tear streaked down her face, and though he longed to wipe it away, he was afraid that the tiny bead of moisture would scald his flesh. He knew that this moment would stay with him forever, even after he wanted to forget. "I'll never forget us, Annie."

This time he didn't care how much it hurt; he let himself dream that the baby she carried was his.

Annie showed up at her dad's house bright and early. For a moment after she got out of the car, she simply stood there, staring at her childhood home as if she'd never seen it before. The windows glowed with golden light, and a riot of colorful flowers hugged the latticework below the wrap-around porch. She wouldn't be here to see the chrysanthemums bloom this year, and though she hadn't seen them flower for many, many years, now it saddened her.

She would miss seeing her dad. It was funny; in California she had gone for long stretches of time without seeing him-sometimes as much as a whole year would slip by without a visit-and she hadn't had the ache of longing that now sat on her chest like a stone. She felt almost like a girl again, afraid to leave home for the first time.

With a sigh, she slammed her car door shut and walked up to the house.

She hadn't even reached the porch when Hank flung the door open. "Well, it's about time, I haven't seen you in days. I was-"

"It's time, Dad."

"Already?"

She nodded. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"Oh." He slipped through the door, closing it behind him. He sidestepped around her and sat down on the wicker love seat. Then he motioned for her to sit beside him.

She sat down in her mom's rocking chair and leaned back. Memories of her childhood were close out here; they came encoded in the sound of the rocker on the wooden porch. She could almost hear hear her mother's voice, calling Annie to come into the house. her mother's voice, calling Annie to come into the house.

Hank stared out at the green darkness of the forest. "I'm sorry, Annie. About all of it."

Annie felt her throat tighten. "I know, Dad."

Hank turned to her at last. "I made you something." He went into the house and came out a moment later, carrying a present.

She took the thin box, wrapped in beautiful blue foil, and opened it. Inside was a thick, leatherbound photograph alb.u.m. She flipped the cover open. The first page held a small black-and-white Kodak print that had seen better days; the edges were dog-eared, and tiny white creases covered the print in maplike patterns.

It was a rare photo of Annie and her mom, one she'd never seen before. Her mother was wearing a pair of white pedal pushers and a sleeveless s.h.i.+rt, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was smiling. Beside her, a spindly Annie was standing next to a brand-new bike.

Annie remembered that bicycle. She'd gotten it for her birthday, amid a shower of balloons and cake and laughter. She remembered how proud her mother had been when she first rode it. There you go, Annie, honey, you're on your way now. way now.

Slowly, she turned the pages, savoring each and every photograph. Here she was at last, Annie . . . from the early, toothless days of kindergarten through the midriff-baring teenage years.

It was her life spread out before her, one frozen moment at a time, and each one brought a bittersweet remembrance. Lady, the puppy they'd brought home from the grocery store . . . the Christmas tree ornament she'd made in Mr. Quisdorff's woodshop cla.s.s . . . the white satin sleeveless dress she'd worn to the junior prom.

The memories crowded in on her, clamoring to be held and savored, and she wondered how it was that she'd forgotten so much. In every photograph, she saw herself, saw the woman emerging through the freckled, gap-toothed features of the girl in these pictures. The final page of the book was reserved for the family photograph she and Blake and Natalie had posed for only two years ago.

There I am, she thought, gazing at the smiling, bright-eyed woman in the black St. John sweater . . . she thought, gazing at the smiling, bright-eyed woman in the black St. John sweater . . . and there and there I'm not. I'm not.

"I couldn't find very many pictures of your mom," Hank said softly. "I went through a dozen boxes up in the attic. That's pretty much what there is. I'm sorry."

Annie was surprised to hear his voice. She'd fallen so deeply into her own thoughts, she'd forgotten that her dad was beside her. She gave him a small smile. "We're like that, we moms. We take the pictures, but we don't record our own lives very well. It's a mistake we never realize until it's too late. . . ."

She flipped back to the beginning of the alb.u.m, to a five-by-seven black-and-white copy of her mom's graduation picture. She looked so heartbreakingly young. Though you couldn't tell, Annie could recall perfectly the hazel hue of her mother's eyes. She caressed the photograph. Did you ever look for yourself in mirrors, Mom? Did you ever look for yourself in mirrors, Mom? Were you like the rest of us? Is that why you dreamed of Were you like the rest of us? Is that why you dreamed of opening a bookstore? opening a bookstore?

She wondered now, for the first time in years, what her mom would be like today. Would she be dying her hair, or would she have allowed her beautiful blond to fade into gray? Would she still be wearing that electric-blue eye shadow from the seventies, and those fuzzy hot-pink bits of yarn to tie up her layered ponytails? Or would she have gracefully turned to a conservative shoulder-length cut by now?

"She was beautiful," Hank said quietly, "and she loved you very much." He touched Annie's cheek with his papery, old man's hand. "I should have told you that-and given you these pictures-a long time ago. But I was young and stupid and I didn't know. . . ."

There was an emotional thickness in Hank's voice. It surprised Annie, his unexpected journey into intimacy. "What didn't you know?"

He shrugged. "I thought you grieved for a few respectable months and then got on with your life. I didn't know how . . . deep deep love ran, how it was in your blood, not your heart, and how that same blood pumped through your veins your whole life. I thought you'd be better off if you could forget her. I should have known that wasn't possible." love ran, how it was in your blood, not your heart, and how that same blood pumped through your veins your whole life. I thought you'd be better off if you could forget her. I should have known that wasn't possible."

Annie's heart constricted painfully. Never had her father shown his grief and his love in such sharp relief. It moved her to touch his velvety cheek. "She was lucky to be so loved, Dad. By both of us."

"She's still loved-and still missed. No one can ever take her place for me, except you, Annie. You're the best of Sarah and me, and sometimes, when you smile, I see your mama sitting right beside me."

She knew then that she would remember this day forever. She would buy a wicker love seat for her deck, and she would sit there with her new baby and remember what she had once allowed herself to forget.

"I'll visit more often this time," she said. "I promise. And I want you to come down for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. No excuses. I'll send a ticket."

"It better be coach."

She smiled. It was exactly what she would have expected him to say. "h.e.l.l, Dad, I'll put you on a bus if it'll get you down there."

"Are you going to be okay, Annie Virginia?"

"Don't worry about me, Dad. That's the one thing I learned up here in Mystic. I'm stronger than I thought. I'm always going to be okay."

It rained on the day Annie left. All the night before, she and Nick had lain awake in bed, talking, touching, trying in every way they could to mark the memory on their souls. They had watched in silence as the sun crept over the dome of Mount Olympus, turning the glaciers into spun pink gla.s.s on the jagged granite peaks; they'd watched as the clouds rolled in and wiped the sunlight away, and as the rain tiptoed along the surface of the lake, turning from a gentle patter to a roaring onslaught, and then back to a patter again. They'd stared at each other, their gazes full of pent-up longing and fear, and still they'd said nothing.

When finally Annie rose from the pa.s.sion-scented warmth of his bed, he reached out and clasped her hand. She waited for him to speak, but he didn't. Slowly, hating every motion, she slipped out of her T-s.h.i.+rt and dressed in a pair of leggings and a long sweats.h.i.+rt.

"My bags are in the car," she said at last. "I'll . . . say good-bye to Izzy and then . . . go."

"I guess we've said our good-byes," he said softly. Then he smiled, a tender, poignant smile that crinkled his eyes and made her want to cry. "h.e.l.l, I guess we've been saying them from the moment we met."

"I know . . ."

They stood for a long time, gazing at each other. If it were possible, she fell in love with him even more. Finally, she couldn't stand how much it hurt to look at him.

She pulled away from his hand and went to the window. He came up behind her. She wanted him to take her in his arms, but he just stood there, distant and apart.

"I've been married for almost twenty years," she said quietly, watching her own reflection in the gla.s.s. She saw her mouth move, heard the words come out of her lips, but it felt as if it were another woman talking.

And it was. Annalise Colwater.

Slowly, slowly, she turned to face him.

"I love you, Annie." He said it like he said everything, with a quiet seriousness. "It feels like I've loved you forever." His voice was gravelly and low. "I never knew it could be this way . . . that love could catch you when you fell. . . ."

The words made her feel fragile, as if she were crafted of hundred-year-old gla.s.s and could be shattered by the touch of the wind. "Oh, Nick . . ."

He moved closer, close enough to kiss, but he didn't touch her. He just stared down at her through those sad blue eyes and gave her a smile that contained all his joy and sadness, his hope and fear.

And his knowing. His knowing that love wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. That sometimes it could break your heart. "I need to know, Annie . . . am I in love alone?"

Annie closed her eyes. "I don't want to say it, Nick. Please . . ."

"I'm going to be alone, Annie, we both know that. As the months pa.s.s, I'm going to start forgetting you-the way your eyes crinkle in the corner when you smile, the way you bite down on your lower lip when you're nervous, the way you chew on your thumbnail when you watch the news."

He touched her face with a tenderness that broke her heart. "I don't want to make you cry. I just want to know that I'm not crazy. I love you. And if I have to let you go to make you happy, I'll do it, and you'll never hear from me again. But, G.o.d, Annie, I have to know how you feel-"