Max’s release date, circled in red on every calendar on the island, neared. In four more days, Hope and Emmalyn would take the ferry across the water, pull onto that ribbon of endless highway, and make the trip to the correctional facility for the last time. No ice road to maneuver this time. No windsled trips before the ice road opened. No winter advisories. No threats of visitation cancellations. No gut-wrenching good-byes and tear-filled return trips back to the island and its winter isolation, the exile and refuge in one three-mile-by-fourteen-mile package. No more misery over a dropped phone call or empty mailbox. They’d bring him home.
How could something so freeing be so unnerving? Would he burn up on re-entry? Would he need counseling to adjust to freedom? She knew she was skirting around the real issue. They’d made it work long-distance. Could they make it work face-to-face?
She asked the questions to the bathroom mirror on this rare day off. It refused to tell her what she needed to know, so she headed downstairs to start breakfast. Hope deserved to sleep in. She’d been a trooper about getting up at four on the days Emmalyn opened the café.
Emmalyn made coffee and took the eggs out of the refrigerator so they could come to room temperature before she tried a new omelet recipe. She set them beside the exquisite flower arrangement delivered to The Wild Iris. With her name on it. From Max. How had he managed that? He couldn’t buy and sell from prison. Bougie claimed she hadn’t been involved. Hope pled the same. Cora, too.
It wasn’t the first time he’d sent flowers during the past five months. A mystery each time. What had he gone through to show her such grace? Like other mysteries, it wouldn’t be solved until she could see him face-to-face. She bent to the fragrant blossoms and filled her lungs with what they represented.
Braced and tenderized, Emmalyn took her cup of coffee to the porch, determined to tough out the morning chill for the sake of the early morning air.
She wasn’t alone. A figure stood where the sand and water met, hands in his pockets, the back of his head and angle of his shoulders achingly familiar. How had he gotten there? What was he doing home early? That never happened, did it?
Emmalyn left her coffee on the porch and headed for the beach, uncertain if she should call out to him or surprise him or if the fact that he hadn’t come to the cottage meant he wasn’t sure he could. He must have heard her approaching through the sea grass and across the sand, but he didn’t turn. He faced the water, the horizon, the future. She stood beside him and did the same.
She reached to draw his hand from his pocket and linked her pinky finger with his.
“This is your view every morning?” he said, his voice husky with emotion.
“No. It’s different every morning. But it’s the same setting every day.”
“I wouldn’t have recognized the place.”
Emmalyn leaned her head against his shoulder. “A little paint and a new roof can do wonders.”
“Not the building,” he said. “This. My view of things is so different now that even this looks unfamiliar”—he turned to her—“in the best possible way.”
She smiled, then retracted it, unsure where his thoughts were headed. Her heart thundered in her chest. If she listened closely, she could hear his thundering, too.
“I like the name you chose.” He gestured toward the sign Hope and Emmalyn had hung on the porch railing. “ ‘As Waters Gone By.’ You got that from the book of Job, didn’t you?”
“You know that verse?” She and Hope had kept that one secret—the cottage’s name—to share when they could tell the whole story.
Max pulled a scrap of paper from his opposite pocket, not letting go of the pinky connection. He smoothed it on the thigh of his jeans and handed the paper to her.
Even through the tears forming, she could read the block-print words: “As waters gone by . . . ”
“I had it taped to the underside of the bunk above me. It helped keep me sane.”
Emmalyn’s breathing grew more ragged. “Max, do you remember that scene in Shawshank Redemption when the character says all he wants when he’s released is ‘a warm place with no memory’? Remember?”
“I do.”
“Welcome to a warm place with new memories.”
Emmalyn wiggled three more fingers into their tentative grip as a voice behind them called, “Daddy!”
Group Discussion Guide
1. The main character—Emmalyn—appeared on the scene both devastated and taking bold steps. Does that make her unlike the people you know, or a reflection of people you know? In what way?
2. The Wild Iris owner, Boozie, exhibited both an eclectic style and an incomparable heart of compassion. What do you think might have changed in the story and in Emmalyn’s outcome if she hadn’t had a person like Boozie in her life at that critical point?
3. Emmalyn’s relationship with her mother and sisters suffered several blows before the story opens, and more as the story developed. What signs in the story made you think there was hope for restoration for that family?
4. More than miles created distance in the lives of many of the As Waters Gone By characters. What actions contributed to lengthening emotional distance? What was required of the characters to shorten emotional distance?
5. Symbolism abounds in As Waters Gone By. What did the cottage represent? The dog? The young girl? The waves? What role did the ferry play? The shed behind the cottage? The maple tree?
6. In what ways did the Wild Iris Thanksgiving meal serve as a turning point?
7. Life didn’t turn out as planned for Emmalyn. She’s not alone on that count. If you were to write the story of the next five years of her live—beyond the final page of the book—what do you think it would hold? How would she cope? Would she still live at the cottage?
8. Emmalyn described the island as her place of exile, early in the story. How would you describe it? Why?
9. It’s always remarkable to witness a scene when peace settles someone’s heart even before their circumstances change. At what point in the story did you see the first stirrings that peace might lie on the horizon for Emmalyn?
10. We’re given only hints of Boozie’s background, the life events that formed who she was as a person, a friend, an encourager. In what ways did Emmalyn serve a role Boozie needed?
11. The tree, the L in the road, the stretch of beach and sea grasses are all very real places on Madeline Island. How strong was your desire to see the place for yourself when you finished the story? Why? (Author’s Note: The cottage was a work of imagination. The land on which it rested in the story is private property in real life. The author visited the area twice in recent years and still can’t shake the longing to purchase that little bit of land hemmed by water.)
12. Why do you think the author set the story primarily in late fall and early winter?
13. How would you describe Emmalyn’s faith when she arrived on the island? How would you describe it at the end of the book?
14. What turned the hunting cottage into a home? What does that say about the hopes for Emmalyn’s future?
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We hope you enjoyed Cynthia Ruchti’s As Waters Gone By and will want to continue reading works by this award-winning author. Here’s a sample of her debut novel, the critically acclaimed They Almost Always Come Home.
1
From the window [she] looked out.Through the window she watched for his return, saying,“Why is his chariot so long in coming?Why don’t we hear the sound of cha
riot wheels?”
—Judges 5:28 nlt
Do dead people wear shoes? In the casket, I mean. Seems a waste. Then again, no outfit is complete without the shoes.
My thoughts pound up the stairs, down the hall, and into the master bedroom closet. Greg’s gray suit is clean, I think. White shirt, although that won’t allow much color contrast and won’t do a thing for Greg’s skin tones. His red tie with the silver threads? Good choice.
Shoes or no shoes? I should know this. I’ve stroked the porcelain-cold cheeks of several embalmed loved ones. My father and grandfather. Two grandmothers—one too young to die. One too old not to.
And Lacey.
The Baxter Street Mortuary will not touch my husband’s body should the need arise. They got Lacey’s hair and facial expression all wrong.
I rise from the couch and part the sheers on the front window one more time. Still quiet. No lights on the street. No Jeep pulling into our driveway. I’ll give him one more hour, then I’m heading for bed. With or without him.
Shoes? Yes or no? I’m familiar with the casket protocol for children. But for adults?
Grandma Clarendon hadn’t worn shoes for twelve years or more when she died. She preferred open-toed terrycloth slippers. Day and night. Home. Uptown. Church. Seems to me she took comfort to the extreme. Or maybe she figured God ought to be grateful she showed up in His house at all, given her distaste for His indiscriminate dispersal of the Death Angel among her friends and siblings.
“Ain’t a lick of pride in outliving your brothers and sisters, Libby.” She said it often enough that I can pull off a believable impression. Nobody at the local comedy club need fear me as competition, but the cousins get a kick out of it at family reunions.
Leaning on the tile and cast-iron coffee table, I crane everything in me to look at the wall clock in the entry. Almost four in the morning? I haven’t even decided who will sing special music at Greg’s memorial service. Don’t most women plan their husband’s funeral if he’s more than a few minutes late?
In the past, before this hour, I’m mentally two weeks beyond the service, trying to decide whether to keep the house or move to a condo downtown.
He’s never been this late before. And he’s never been alone in the wilderness. A lightning bolt of something—fear? anticipation? pain?—ripples my skin and exits through the soles of my feet.
The funeral plans no longer seem a semimorbid way to occupy my mind while I wait for the lights of his Jeep. Not pointless imaginings but preparation.
That sounds like a thought I should command to flee in the name of Jesus or some other holy incantation. But it stares at me with narrowed eyes as if to say, “I dare you.”
Greg will give me grief over this when he gets home. “You worry too much, Libby. So I was a little late.” He’ll pinch my love handles, which I won’t find endearing. “Okay, a lot late. Sometimes the wind whips up the waves on the larger lakes. We voyageurs have two choices—risk swamping the canoe so we can get home to our precious wives or find a sheltered spot on an island and stay put until the wind dies down.”
I never liked how he used the word precious in that context. I should tell him so. I should tell him a lot of things. And I will.
If he ever comes home.
* * *
With sleep-deprived eyes, I trace the last ticks of the second hand. Seven o’clock. Too early to call Frank? Not likely.
I reach to punch the MEM 2 key sequence on the phone. Miss the first time. Try again.
One ring. Two. Three. If the answering machine kicks in—
“Frank’s Franks. Frankly the best in all of Franklin County. Frank speaking. How can I help you?”
I bite back a retort. How does a retired grocery manager get away with that much corny? Consistently. One thing is still normal.
“Frank, it’s Libby. I hate to call this early but—”
“Early?” he snorts. “Been up since four-thirty.”
Figures. Spitting image of his son.
“Biked five miles,” he says. “Had breakfast at the truck stop. Watered those blasted hostas of your mother-in-law’s that just won’t die. Believe me, I’ve done everything in my power to help them along toward that end.”
I don’t have the time or inclination to defend Pauline’s hostas. “I called for a reason, Frank.”
“Sorry. What’s up?”
I’m breathing too rapidly. Little flashes of electricity hem my field of vision. “Have you heard from Greg?”
“He’s back, right?”
“Not yet. I’m probably worried for nothing.”
He expels a breath that I feel in the earpiece. “When did you expect him? Yesterday?”
“He planned to get back on Friday, but said Saturday at the latest. He hates to miss church now that he’s into helping with the sound system.”
“Might have had to take a wind day. Or two.”
Why does it irritate me that he’s playing the logic card? “I thought of that.”
“Odd, though.” His voice turns a corner.
“What do you mean?”
Through the receiver, I hear that grunt thing he does when he gets into or out of a chair. “I had one eye on the Weather Channel most of last week,” he says.
What did you do with the other eye, Frank? The Weather Channel? Early retirement has turned him into a weather spectator. “And?”
“Says winds have been calm throughout the Quetico. It’s a good thing too. Tinder-dry in Canada right now. One spark plus a stiff wind and you’ve got major forest fire potential. They’ve posted a ban on open campfires. Cook stoves only. Greg planned for that, didn’t he?”
“How should I know?” Somewhere deep in my brain, I pop a blood vessel. Not my normal style—not with anyone but Greg. “Sorry, Frank. I’m . . . I’m overreacting. To everything. I’m sure he’ll show up any minute. Or call.”
From the background comes a sound like leather complaining. “Told my boy more than once he ought to invest in a satellite phone. The man’s too cheap to throw away a bent nail.”
“I know.” I also know I would have thrown a newsworthy fit if he’d suggested spending that kind of money on a toy for his precious wilderness trips when I’m still waiting for the family budget to allow for new kitchen countertops. As it stands, they’re not butcher block. They’re butcher shop. And they’ve been that way since we moved in, since Greg first apologized for them and said we’d replace them “one of these first days.”
How many “first days” pass in twenty-three years?
His precious wilderness trips? Is that what I said? Now I’m doing it.
Frank’s voice urges me back to the scene of our conversation. “Hey, Libby, have him give me a call when he gets in, will you?” His emphasis of the word when rings artificial.
“He always does, Frank.” My voice is a stream of air that overpowers the words.
“Still—”
“I’ll have him call.”
The phone’s silent, as is the house. I never noticed before how loud is the absence of sound.
* * *
It’s official. Greg’s missing. That’s what the police report says: Missing Person.
I don’t remember filing a police report before now. We’ve never had obnoxious neighbors or a break-in. Not even a stolen bike from the driveway. Yes, I know. A charmed life.
The desk sergeant is on the phone, debating with someone about who should talk to me. Is my case insignificant to them? Not worth the time? I take a step back from the scarred oak check-in desk to allow the sergeant a fraction more privacy.
With my husband gone, I have privacy to spare, I want to tell him. You can have some of mine. You’re welcome.
I shift my purse to the other shoulder, as if that will help straighten my spine. Good posture seems irrelevant. Irreverent.
Everything I know about the inside of police stations I learned from Barney Fife, Barney Miller, and any number of CSIs. The perps lined up on benches along the
wall, waiting to be processed, look more at ease than I feel.
The chair to which I’ve been directed near Officer Kentworth’s desk boasts a mystery stain on the sitting-down part. Not a chair with my name on it. It’s for women with viper tattoos and envelope-sized miniskirts. For guys named Vinnie who wake with horse heads in their beds. For pierced and bandanaed teens on their way to an illustrious petty-theft career.
“Please have a seat.” The officer has said that line how many times before?
Officer Kentworth peers through the untidy fringe of his unibrow and takes my statement, helping fill in the blanks on the Missing Person form. All the blanks but one—Where is he? The officer notes Greg’s vehicle model and license plate number and asks all kinds of questions I can’t answer. Kentworth is a veteran of Canadian trips like the one from which Greg has not returned. He knows the right questions to ask.
Did he choose the Thunder Bay or International Falls crossing into Canada? What was your husband’s intended destination in the Quetico Provincial Park? Where did he arrange to enter and exit the park? Did he have a guide service drop him off? Where did he plan to camp on his way out of the park? How many portages?
I should have sent Frank to file the report. He’d know. Greg probably rambled on to me about some of those things on his way out the door seventeen days ago. My brain saw no need to retain any of it. It interested him, not me.
Kentworth leans toward me, exhales tuna breath—which seems especially unique at this hour of the morning—and asks, “How’ve things been at home between the two of you?”
I know the answer to this question. Instead I say, “Fine. What’s that got to do with—?”
“Had to ask, Mrs. Holden.” He reaches across his desk and pats my hand. Rather, he patronizes my hand. “Many times, in these cases—”
Oh, just say it!
As Waters Gone By Page 29
