Where We Fall: A Novel

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “I’m broken just like you,” he says. “It’s going to work out.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “I know that you’re not going to fill those holes you have inside by having sex with me.”

  And just like that, he sums up everything in a sentence. I bury my face in his arms, and they hold me close enough to ease away some of the emptiness.

  He whispers into my hair, “I want to have sex with you. More than I can tell you. Damn, Jules, I think about it all the time. All the time. The only thing better than crossing that goal line is thinking what it’ll be like. But we can’t. Not tonight. Not like this. Not the first time.”

  His refusal stings, and after a while it changes into something else.

  “I love you,” I whisper into his ear.

  “I love you more,” he says. “Forever and ever.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LAUREN

  Quinci has returned to the city with my partial manuscript in her hands. So far she’s enjoying the read, even though she doesn’t understand my fascination with what she calls the “wild.” Coming from her mouth, it sounds like a dirty word. Quinci is Park Avenue and cappuccinos.

  I have sunk into the crisp golden hues of fall with a fervor that quenched my earlier misgivings. It is as though I have never left, and a tiny part of me is sorry I did. I missed the views. I missed the smell of pine. I missed the cool air.

  I’m finishing a morning stroll, a steep, uphill climb from the rec center below. The walk energizes my legs, and I feel the strain in my butt. The weather is a chilly forty degrees, and the trees that line the road and its switchbacks are in full October splendor. I haven’t forgotten how the breeze invigorates, how the quiet fills me with deep thought and centeredness. A few miles away, the crowds have descended on downtown Banner Elk for leaf changing and the Woolly Worm festival that marks the peak season. After a quick shower, I will drive down the mountain to join the throngs of people craft shopping and racing worms.

  Every third week in October, thousands of visitors flock to the town’s center, where they purchase a “fuzzy worm” for a dollar, give it a name, and race it against other worms, up a three-foot length of string. The winner and its unique markings are interpreted to predict the fate of winter.

  As I climb into my truck and move down the mountain, the temperature rises about ten degrees, though the fickle sun and its intermittent glimpses behind the clouds make it seem colder. The streets are crowded with visitors from all over, and I find a parking space next to the Banner Elk Cafe. Crossing the street, I quickly join the masses en route to the park entrance. I am strolling along the line of booths stuffed with art, crafts, and specialty items. The dog park is corralled and filled with yappy pooches. The smells of festival food fill the air—elephant ears, roasted corn, barbecued ribs—and I stop to chat with a local artist whose work I’d always admired. I notice at once that both she and her talent have matured. She paints oils of scenic vistas of the region, and captures detail in her emotional colors, blended and brushed onto the page.

  A painting in the corner behind her tabletop catches my eye. It’s a fairly large canvas, and I can make out the delicate strokes of the murky lake and the trees in the background that form a canopy over the hidden path. I am pulled into the frame against my will. Free floating, I feel his lips on my forehead, the trail of drops against my skin. It is a good-bye and a future shooting off the canvas and knocking into me until I have to reach for the table to stabilize me.

  In the foreground there is a couple seated on a bench. Their backs are to the artist and to me. His arm is around her. She is leaning into him protectively. There is no way to decipher their ages, only the sadness that swarms around them, reflected in the somber-toned clouds. Indeed, on first sight, the picture appears gloomy and dark, though on closer inspection the lake is shimmering with light, and I know the fate of two. A bright orange sweater covers the girl’s shoulders. The man is kissing her hair.

  The artist studies my face before she speaks. “You’re Claire and Arthur’s daughter?”

  I nod. “Yes, I’m Lauren.”

  She stretches out her hand to meet mine. “Meline Stapleton.”

  “I know who you are,” I say, pulling myself together. “I’ve always admired your work.”

  “How are your parents? I haven’t seen them here in a while. Almost as long as you’ve been gone.”

  My eyes are fixed on the picture, though I make pleasantries with this kind woman. “When they’re here, they prefer to stay at the house. They’re not much into crowds.”

  “Where’s that young boy of yours? He could never get enough of you. The ladies and I used to admire the two of you every year.”

  “That’s some memory,” I whisper with a half smile. All the years we were together. Three festivals. His worm lost to mine each time. Lance Wormstrong and J. K. Crawling. We were quite a team.

  “Such a handsome couple.”

  “Tell me about that piece over there,” I say, pointing to the masterpiece on the floor.

  Her tired, round body moves toward the corner and lifts the canvas for me to see. It is almost bigger than she is. “Lake Coffey. She’s not for sale.”

  I gaze at the painting with a mixture of pain and regret. The couple is contained in the frame, but I feel them reaching off the canvas, reaching for me. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  “I think so. My husband had gone to the lake to do some fishin’, and he kept me waitin’—a good forty-five minutes—when I was ready to pick him up. I had just driven to Walmart for supplies, so I started to sketch as I was waitin’.”

  I’m staring too long, and my eyes feel full. The sadness coats my words when I ask, “You never knew the couple on the bench?”

  “Don’t very much like to paint people I know. My fingers find a way of marking their ugly parts. She had that bright orange sweater on, and the sky just right there opened up and cried on them. Poured. Darn good thing, ’cause it finally got Al to get his butt in the truck. I got a photographic memory. Those two didn’t move a muscle. He just kept right on saving her from everything. Even that sky.”

  “It’s really something,” I say, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I have no other words for the pain the picture induces. “Would you consider selling it?”

  She hesitates. “Lake Coffey’s always been mine.”

  “I’d like to have it.”

  “Nobody’s ever wanted her. She’s either too big or too expensive. Some folks say she makes them sad.”

  At once, I am desperate. I don’t want to let the painting go: “Name your price.”

  “Well, now, she’s one of my older paintings. Before I became attached to her, she was priced at $750.”

  “I’ll pay double.”

  Meline turns deep red right before my eyes. She rests her index finger on her wrinkled cheek and says, “Al won’t be too pleased if I say no to that. It’ll be tough to lose her.”

  “I understand. I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Darn tootin’, you got yourself a painting.”

  I reach for my checkbook, though not before noticing the wet filling her eyes. Her hair is gray, falling down her shoulders. The sadness makes her seem smaller and older than she is.

  “Can I leave her here while I do some shopping?”

  “Take your time. I want to spend as much time with her as I can.”

  I thank her, watching how she gently places the painting beside her. She handles the things she loves with delicate care. I would have done the same. It makes me think about what I’ve given up, and the sadness that picture evokes in me.

  Meandering over to the stage where the worm races are held, I am reminded of our gang of friends piling into the car to enjoy the absurdity of it. There was no training your worm. There were no frontrunners. Yet the thrill of cheering on a caterpillar as it climbed up a string had been ridiculously fun. Besides, the $1,000 prize for the winning caterpillar was a bonus.
r />   The stage is packed, and the surrounding audience is jammed against one another. It is a tidal wave of colorful jackets and furry hats. I love the anonymity of it all. To be among thousands of people who don’t know my name. Though the novels I’d shared with the world were personal, my pen name gave me a veil to hide behind, a shield to protect myself from scrutiny. I reveled in the secluded life I had created for myself in London, complete with a phony author bio that included five cats: Sam, Driver, Simon, Ally, and Bailey. The author photo, we randomly pulled off the web.

  Virginia Sutherland, the English recluse, did not have a website or a Facebook or Twitter account. Her fans accepted her agoraphobia by creating their own fan page, which had more than half a million followers. I knew this because Quinci was a social media wizard who tracked stats with words like tweets, likes, and shares. This would change with the new book. I had decided when I stepped through the doors of our house and confirmed it when I saw Ryan’s face staring down at me from the TV: I can no longer hide behind the moniker of Ms. Virginia Sutherland. Lauren Sheppard will be in ink across the new cover.

  I want my life back.

  A little boy with a worm named Vincent van Go is jumping up and down on the stage. His woolly friend has just taken a slither closer to becoming a finalist in the race. If only life followed the predictions we make. How much is predicated on fate? How much is opportunistic planning? I cheer for the little boy in the bright yellow parka and resume my walk around the festival. The wind picks up, and I hug my jacket tighter around me, stuffing my hands into the lined pockets. I am at ease perusing the booths, and soon I have bags of knickknacks I will probably never touch.

  The skies are changing rapidly. The sun has given up in its fight with the clouds and abandons the sky. This is how the weather works in mountain country. The brash forces of nature blow through the valleys and temperatures drop, skies quickly darken, and erratic conditions descend across the land. The festival guests are collectively layering their bodies with extra warmth. I didn’t think to bring gloves, as the day started out so gloriously, but I am freezing now, the chill biting at my bones. Shuffling through the swarm of people, I reach Meline’s booth, and there is a small crowd gathered around her space. I wait patiently until she finds me standing there.

  “Lauren!”

  I wave, telling her to finish with the last of the customers, but she ignores me and heads my way.

  “There’s a young lady over there admiring Lake Coffey! I told her it was sold, but she’s pushy.”

  My eyes land on the four teenagers surrounding the painting. One of them is rolling her eyes, as though art is the most boring thing on the planet. The others are prodding the girl in the middle—the skinny one with the highlighted hair—to hurry up. They’re impatient and clearly uninterested.

  “My daddy talks about this lake and these mountains all the time.”

  Meline whispers to me, “It’s sweet. Kids today hardly think about their parents.” Then she says to the girls with the never-ending hair and legs, “Here’s the lucky lady who’s taking Lake Coffey home.” They all turn in unison, and I wave as the older woman positions herself behind her table to talk to other customers.

  The leader, the one they call Marlee, is texting away on her phone and doesn’t look up. The other two, who look like twins, are slowly slinking away from the booth, and from me. And the one whose father loves the lake, the one with the transparent green eyes, is studying me.

  No matter where you are on Beech or Banner Elk, folks ask where you live: “Do you have a house on the mountain? Are you visiting? It follows “hello” and “nice to meet you” because it sheds light on who you are.”

  I didn’t expect the question, though, from the fresh-faced teenager. She smiles and says, “Do you live here?”

  I smile back. “That’s a good question.”

  “Not really,” she says. “It’s either yes or no.” One of the twins elbows her in the arm.

  “We have a vacation home on Beech.”

  “My dad loves that little lake and being on Beech; my mama, not so much . . .”

  “Your dad has good taste.”

  Marlee stands between us with her hands on her hips and her long blond hair peeking out from beneath a fur-lined hat. She is chic and fabulous and very pretty. “Her daddy’s hot,” she says, swaying her body dramatically.

  “Marlee, that’s so gross,” says one of the twins, while the other chants, “Eww.”

  The green-eyed girl begins talking again. “I wish he’d pick up the phone. I think he’d like it for Christmas. Do you take installments?” she adds.

  “He’s visiting the wacky ward. They don’t allow cell phones,” says Marlee, who doesn’t take her eyes off her phone. “C’mon,” she adds, “what’s the fascination with art? You didn’t even want to come today. Do I have to remind you of how we had to drag you away from your boyfriend this morning?”

  One of the twins berates her with a stabbing look.

  All three look at their phones and try their best to move away from Meline and her work, and I am transfixed by the young girl who wants my painting. She creates distance with her eyes, but there’s a kindness in her face when she smiles.

  She asks, “Please wait until I reach him. This place has so much meaning for him. Let me just see if he’s even interested. I can take a picture and send it to him.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I’ve already purchased the painting.”

  She looks away while one of the twins moves toward her and shields her from my stare.

  “Is she okay?” I ask, recognizing something in her plea, though not wanting to pry.

  “PMS,” a twin says, but I know there is much more behind this girl’s disappointment.

  Marlee flits back into the conversation. “Her daddy’s famous around these parts. Best football coach in the state. Her mama, on the other hand, let’s just say she’s got some loose screws.”

  “Marlee!” they all shout in unison.

  The girl pretends not to hear, but the comment colors her cheeks. She says to me, “Don’t listen to her. She’s partially crazy herself. My dad is kind and sentimental. He used to take me here when I was kid and we’d hike and fish. He changes when we reach this altitude.”

  The shape of her eyes and the curve of her nose say one thing, while the man they describe sneaks into memory. A subtle ache extends throughout my body. The pull toward this young girl feels inescapable. My heart beats a little stronger, and I have to stop my hands from reaching out. “Do you have a home up here?”

  “Nope. Daddy wishes we did. Sometimes we rent in Fox Pointe or Klonteska.”

  I know I have never met this girl before, but something in her reaches deep inside of me. The similarities are too striking not to say anything. I see her dad hiking, I can picture the boy she’s talking about, the one who came alive when we reached the mountaintop. The words force their way out of my throat. There is fear and curiosity laced in their tumble: “Is Ryan Holden your father?”

  She brightens. “Do you know him? Oh, my God, this is totally random!”

  The air I’ve been holding in my belly releases into the sky. Along with it are the shattered dreams and promises we made to each other long ago, on a bench by a beautiful lake. Everything I thought I saw moments ago is screaming at me. The way she stands, the thickness of her hair. She has his eyes and her nose. His warmth and her grit. She’s a unique combination of the two of them. I’d say she got the very best parts. She is an astonishingly pretty girl. Her beauty makes me want to run away and never come back.

  I say with a forced smile, “I haven’t seen your dad in years. We went to college together at Davidson.”

  “Then you must know my mama . . . Abby . . .”

  I pause. “Yes, I knew her very well. We were roommates for a while. Best friends. We lost touch after college.”

  The other girls walk off, bored by our revelation. “I’ll meet up with you guys in a sec,” she tells them.r />
  “I’m Lauren,” I say, reaching my hand out to hers, tentatively, because I know that I’m about to touch the two of them. The friend who betrayed me, the lover who did worse. It’s painful to look at her.

  Her fingers wrap around mine, and I fight the surge that Ryan and Abby’s daughter is sending up my arm. I should loathe her and walk away, though her innocence shields her from any blame. I’m also curious.

  “I’m Juliana. Juliana Holden. But you know that already.”

  I try to breathe, and the cold air mixes with nervous energy. The girl has me shivering, and it has nothing to do with the frigid temperatures.

  “Daddy’s coaching at Pine Ridge. They’re state champs, and if you know anything at all about my daddy, you know he’s just obsessed with football.” She beams proudly when she speaks of him. “He’s good,” she says, nodding.

  “And Mama’s okay too . . .” She seems less sure of this and turns away from me, fixes on her Uggs. “She’s not feeling so good these days.”

  Remembering the roommate I once cherished, the nights we talked ourselves to sleep, I thought Abby’s fragility might have gone away when she got what she wanted.

  “She’s not sick, like cancer sick. She’s been having a hard time with stuff lately . . .”

  I nod because I feel almost nothing when she says this. I don’t mean to be cruel, but the wound feels raw again. Juliana’s face has sparked a notch in me that I had blocked out. Her face brings it all back. Feelings are knocking me around, and I’m unable to protect myself.

  “Anyway, I’ll tell my daddy I saw you and you asked about him.” And then she is gone. And I feel my heart unravel inside my chest.

  I am sure she will forget my name, that we met, and all will go along as it has since that painful day many, many years ago.

  Meline says to me, “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

  How can I tell her that I have? That I saw the apparition of what might have been.