Minutes later, other heavier footsteps ascended the stairs. Alarm seized her, and she looked at the clock. Frank was almost never up this early when he didn’t have to teach. But again there was a knock on her door. It opened, and there he stood. In his hand he held two mugs of coffee.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. Lydia said nothing and didn’t smile. He stepped in and offered her a mug.
“You can set it there.” She nodded toward her desk. “What do you want?”
“Just—good morning!” His smile was unguarded. It was possible that he did not even remember the horrible last moments of the night before.
“You must have slept well,” Lydia said, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest and her blanket up around her collarbone. “You never get up early, and you never make coffee for me. So…what is it?”
He seemed to weigh his options and then spoke. “I said things last night that I should have probably framed more carefully.”
Frank paused, watching her, but she simply waited. He tilted his head slightly and seemed to be searching for the precise phrasing of delicate truths.
“I confess, I can’t really see how your new plan for our lives would work right now. I know that’s disappointing for you. I admire you for searching for ways to keep your career alive, and yes, I do remember the dreams we shared when we were younger, Lydia. Of course I do. I, too, would like to feel so free and inspired again. Maybe I will. Maybe you can help me get there. Someday.”
Ordinarily such a comment would have encouraged Lydia, but she eyed him skeptically.
“There are a lot of things I have appreciated about you for many years, Lydia, and your resourcefulness is certainly high on the list. You will make this happen if it’s meant to be. When the time is right. Whether or not I see the vision.”
It was a qualified endorsement, but more support than he’d offered in quite some time. She wondered if she had touched a nerve in his conscience. Or if he was just that masterful at manipulating her.
“There’s something I want you to see,” he said, moving his gaze to the window. “And it looks like a really lovely day, so I think we should take a drive to see it.”
“Oh?” Lydia could not think of anything outside that Frank might want to share with it her.
“I heard what you said about needing to move on, from romance writing to something new, and I think in one way that makes sense for you at this point. I also know that long ago Mary Stone Walker and the era she lived in inspired you.”
“Long ago? They still do.” Lydia had the sense that her husband had one static idea about who she was and could no longer perceive her in the moment.
“Well, today, there is a furniture auction in Portman, and… Hold on, hold on”—he held up his hand as Lydia shook her head—“there is a whole container load of items, from bookcases to linens to rocking horses, that were gathered from up and down Michigan’s west coast. I thought it would be fun for you to do what I do…walk among the items and think about the lives those objects were part of. You’re a master storyteller, Lydia—well, you are!—so I know it would amuse you. You’ve never been to one of these things, and I think it’s time. Undoubtedly there will be some interesting items from the early nineteen hundreds. We’ll make a day of it: go to the auction, get lunch, and walk downtown along the river.”
“Come on. Do you really think you can attend that auction and not buy something, Frank? I don’t want to be part of that.” She stood up and stepped over to her desk where she began straightening the piles of paper. “I just don’t think it’s right anymore.”
Lydia felt him looking at her as she sorted research notes from the impossibly flawed pages of her current romance manuscript, placing her notes on top of Ethel Van Zant’s scrapbook and tossing her manuscript to the center of her desk to read as soon as she could stomach it. She ran her fingers slowly along the edges of the scrapbook, wondering if she should force Frank to look at it right now. Here was an antique that had relevance, right there in the room with them. A minute passed before she raised her gaze to meet his. His jaw was set, his expression cold.
“What is it?” she demanded. “You want me to forget your cruelty last night, your dismissal of my hopes and even my love, and we’ll just go buy a few more antiques? What kind of an idiot puppet do you think I am, Frank?”
“My cruelty to you?” He looked off to the side and gave a huff of disbelief. “You want me to give up my own career plans and capitulate to yours, adopting your tired views on my life’s work, but when I protest, that’s cruel?” Lydia watched his eyes grow hard with anger quickly. She watched for a hint of uncertainty, of guilt, but there was none, and she groped through what had been said in the foggy hours after midnight to see if there was something she might have forgotten or misinterpreted. “Now, I came in here with coffee because I wanted to suggest a nice outing that would be a change of pace, some time together doing something fun, and again you’ve made it about you, your unhappiness, my failings. Is there a way out of this, Lydia?”
He would go to the auction whether she went or not, and if she let him leave with this chip on his shoulder, there was no telling what he might think he had a right to do or buy. She gave a short laugh, her heart pounding harder, her thoughts dissolving into familiar disorientation. If she did not choose a diplomatic response, there would be another nasty battle; in fact, the situation might already have slipped out of control.
“A way out… Hmm, a way out. Good question,” she said, looking into his face and trying to lighten her tone. “Okay. How about if we both try to let go of hard feelings for the rest of the day? We’ll go to the auction—as casual observers—and just have a good time. Have lunch, take a walk.”
“Okay then, sure. You’ll enjoy it,” he said coolly. “I’ll meet you in the truck in fifteen minutes.”
• • •
Inside the Portman field house, Lydia pointed to a locked glass case containing vases, inkwells, silverware, and a set of coins.
“Special items?”
“Yes, those are more valuable,” Frank said.
“That vase—the carved one with the little figurine standing on the base—how fanciful.”
“Nineteenth century, art nouveau.” Frank peered into the case. “Bidding will probably start around $3,000. Not a bad idea for your birthday.”
“At that price, it goes from fanciful to silly.”
Frank chuckled. “Lydia, where is the aristocrat in you? With higher standards, you would likely achieve greater wealth. That’s how it works, you know. Oh, there he is. See the guy with the funky hat? That’s our auctioneer. Grab a couple of seats. I’ll meet you there. It’s almost time.”
Frank had been right. It was stimulating to wander through the place, browsing the unusual items in all states of renovation and disrepair, and contemplating the lives they might have been part of. For the last three hours or so, their conversation had gradually grown more lighthearted, and the change was encouraging. It had been… Well, Lydia couldn’t remember the last time she and Frank had gone somewhere just to spend time together, with no agenda.
When Frank met her at the folding chairs near the back of the fifteenth row, he was holding a card with the number 610 on it. Lydia’s stomach lurched.
“Your bidding number,” she said, turning her face quickly to the front of the room where the auctioneer stood at a podium.
“Our bidding number,” Frank corrected her. “Just in case you get a notion to bid on some special little thing. A footstool or a kitchen chair or something. It’s a fun experience. If slightly addictive.”
She nodded, staring ahead of her, and wondered how soon she could get him to leave. The bidding began, and Lydia watched as the auctioneer and patrons interacted so rapidly it was both impressive and comical. After half an hour or so of this entertaining exchange, she began to relax.
“
That was pretty cheap for a bed like that, wasn’t it?” she asked Frank.
“Yes and no. It needs a lot of restoration. Hours and hours and hours.”
“Still, something like that would be fabulous even in a rough state.”
He smiled and nudged her in the ribs. “That’s why we have the number!”
When the auctioneer moved from the podium to a large oak dining room set, Frank sat up straighter.
“Huh. That’s quite a specimen,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“Yeah, didn’t you notice it when we were walking around? Little griffins carved on each of the chairs. But something like that—”
Frank held his hand out to silence her, listening to the auctioneer’s details.
“R. J. Horner, circa 1880, solid quarter-sawn oak…” the auctioneer recited.
“I think I’ve read about this,” Frank whispered, his eyes fixed ahead.
Lydia stared at his profile. “Where? What do you mean?”
“Wait—”
“Four fully skirted leaves, racetrack edging…”
“Jesus, I think…” Frank pulled at his mouth, thinking, listening, his eyes ablaze.
The auctioneer said something about the dining set’s provenance, about western Michigan, the Huntington family.
“My God!” Frank grabbed Lydia’s hand. “I thought I recognized that woman.” He pointed across the room. “The woman in the white coat. Fox fur. See…”
“Yes. What about her?”
“Shirley Huntington. Her grandmother was a great patron of the arts in western Michigan. I bet the family lost the table, and she’s trying to buy it back. Yes, I think I heard about that situation a while ago. Lydia, Mary stayed with the owner of that dining room table…that woman’s grandmother!”
“You’re kidding. Are you sure?”
“My memory usually serves me pretty well on these points.” He squeezed Lydia’s fingers so tightly the bones crunched together.
“Well, it will be fun to see this play out then, won’t it?” Lydia said cautiously, watching his face. He nodded absently.
The bidding started at $9,000. A cluster of interested buyers was seated in the same far quadrant of the room, and they quickly drove the price up over $20,000. Just as the bidding slowed, and the auctioneer held a hand pointed toward the Huntington woman as he scanned the room, Frank raised his card high in the air.
“Frank! What are you doing? Jesus Christ!” Lydia said, pulling at his arm. He swatted her hand away.
“Hush! Don’t act that way!” he hissed under his breath. “Come on, I’m just going to give her a run for her money. Anything that was part of Mary’s life deserves a higher price tag.”
Up the price soared. Frank and the stranger in the white fur volleyed the numbers back and forth, and at $26,990, the auctioneer pointed at Frank with his gavel, then banged it on the podium with approving finality. The Huntington woman stood up, shoved past the row of knees between her and the aisle, and walked rapidly out of the building. The auctioneer called for a break, and people stretched, walked around, and drifted toward the food counter.
Frank turned toward Lydia, smacked his forehead, and cried out with a laugh, “My God, what have I done?”
She stared at him, sick with anger and shock.
“You just spent over half of our savings.” Lydia’s voice was unsteady. “You tell me what the hell you are doing.”
He put his hand gently on her arm. “Oh, Lydia, but look at that set! The Huntingtons owned it, and Mary stayed with them. I’ve seen photographs of the main-floor rooms of that house, and I’m sure now that I heard about Shirley Huntington’s effort to reclaim all the heirlooms. Mary must have sat in those chairs, eaten off that table! She must have!”
“Frank Carroll…you cannot do this. I don’t care who sat or ate there; we can’t afford such a thing. And you know that.” She glanced around them at a handful of people who were clearly aware of the topic of their discussion, and she whispered, digging her fingers into his arm, “Can you hear me? You’ve lost your mind.”
“I know, I know, I know,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I went overboard, didn’t mean to.” He wiped at his mouth as if to remove the smile. “I’ll take care of it. Wait here, and just calm down.”
She watched him hurry toward the booth where people with numbers in their hands and checkbooks ready were lined up to pay for their purchases. When it was his turn, he spoke with animation for a few seconds, nodding, shaking his head, giving a laugh, and then pulling out their checkbook. Lydia rushed down the row of chairs, tried unsuccessfully to push quickly through the crowd, and got there just as he was turning from the transaction.
“What did you do, Frank? You wrote a check?”
“I told the guy that it was only as the Huntington woman was leaving that I recognized she was a family member, and I wanted no part in depriving her of her family’s heirloom. The check was just a dummy check. Don’t worry.”
“Dummy check… What are you talking about?”
Frank was guiding her toward the coatracks near the front doors. “You know. Until the woman replaces it.”
“Does this woman know she’s going to replace it?” Lydia fought to keep hysteria out of her voice.
He gave an impatient little shake of his head as if she should know what he was talking about. “It’s all arranged.”
She grabbed his wrists and stopped him. “Look at me, Frank. Explain what you are talking about.”
“The Huntington woman will be contacted today because she arranged to be the default buyer.”
“That’s an auction thing? That’s how it works?”
“Yes, an auction thing.” He smiled, handing Lydia her coat.
“So what did the guy say when you told him you won’t be buying it?”
“He looked relieved, actually,” Frank said.
“Ohhh. Okay. Phew! Do you want to go back in and look the table and chairs over while you can?” Lydia asked generously, her heart still beating too hard. They could go home now; they’d made it through without irreversible trouble. “Seems like it would be interesting.”
But Frank was walking toward the door.
“Nah, that’s okay. Enough antiques for today.” His tone was crisp, as if his mind were elsewhere, and as they drove home, he responded to Lydia’s comments distractedly.
“Shall we stop in one of these parks and walk around a bit? To fill out this pleasant date?” Lydia said, as they passed another lakefront town.
“If you don’t mind, I’m feeling like I ought to get some things done at home,” Frank said. “I forgot about a project that’s overdue for some attention.”
“Sure.” She watched the fields, trees, and fences flow past with the sense of a disturbance that she could not quite bring into focus.
He glanced at her, then stared back at the road. “You know, you don’t have to be a millionaire to acquire something like that dining room set, Lydia. You just have to have certain priorities.”
She watched his face, waiting for him to qualify his statement, to smile, to thank her for going, to continue the connection with her somehow. But he said nothing more.
13
White Hill, Michigan—June 1936
He had given her walls
She wished to burn, his body she wished to tear…
He was the dark, he was the house and sound.
~ Louise Bogan (1897–1970), “The Flume”
The blue pitcher on the table held milk purchased at the dairy that morning, and there was enough for Bernard to have a hearty glass. Mary didn’t care for it herself, so it seemed even more of a gift that she’d gone across town into the outskirts of White Hill to get it for him. She eyed him as he handled the pitcher because it was one of the only things she still possessed from her childhood, and Berna
rd always seemed to be rough with it. He spotted her watching him and gave a curious smile.
“Well?” he said. “Ain’t you hungry, Mary?”
She picked up her fork and looked down at the whitefish, given to her that morning by a friend of Bernard’s, which she had fried for supper in corn meal and lard. She cut off a piece, stabbed it with the fork, then set it down. She was so rarely hungry anymore. Bernard returned to his fish and potatoes without waiting for an answer. As he lifted his gaze back to her, she averted her eyes and reached for her glass of water.
“What is it, Mary? What’s wrong with you?”
“Bernard, nothing’s wrong,” she said. He asked this question often, sometimes with a daring tone, as if she should certainly have nothing to complain about, but more often lately with hope that she was sick with a pregnancy. “The heat puts me off eating.”
“It’s not something else?” He kept his eyes on her as he drank the glass of milk.
“No, Bernard, I’m sorry. It’s just the way I am in summer.” She stood up and took her plate to the sink, wondering how long it would be until he left the house for the tavern. Tonight she might walk until the moon set.
He scraped back his chair and stepped up behind her and put his arms around her arms, his hands on her belly where he wanted a child to grow. His mouth was on her neck, then slid to her ear, and Mary closed her eyes, flushed with a warring surge of emotional revulsion and physical desire.
“Let’s try again,” he whispered, the skin of his lips on her ear. “Right now.” He slid his hands up her ribs to her breasts. “Right. Now.”
The Lake and the Lost Girl Page 12
