I wonder if this is how Ryan felt all those years when he mistook loyalty for love.
I am putting away dishes when I spot the Beech Mountain Club Bulletin on the countertop. Finding a seat on one of the bar stools, I begin to read about the upcoming events on the mountain and spot the name Virginia Sutherland. I double check the spine of Point Blank, which I have tossed on the tabletop, and see that it is her, the author of the book. The article says she will be speaking at the club’s annual “meet the author” event. I grab my cell phone and email the book-club girls. Many of them have homes on Beech. Perhaps they might want to join.
Ms. Sutherland has never spoken publicly about her work. The article describes a recluse, living alone across the pond. She has chosen Beech Mountain as her first and only public appearance because it is her “favorite place in the world” and she wants to “give back to the Beech community.” I study the picture of the middle-aged author, the vague photo that adorns the back cover of the book. I can’t wait to meet her in person.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RYAN
My days on the mountain begin with a short walk along the windy roads. The fog tumbles off the mountain at that hour, and it is a tranquil time for reflection. Sometimes E.J. joins me, or I take off for a jog. The crunch of my sneakers on the pavement squelches the anger that sometimes still rises up—that Abby lied, that Lauren waited too long to come back. It’s a lot easier to be angry at Lauren for abandoning me all those years ago than to be sad for what will never be.
Abby laughs more often, and a peacefulness has chased away her edginess. Her love is less claustrophobic and aggressive. We’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels a lot like the old days when we were good friends, minus the nervous agitation. Nighttime is when the changes are most noticeable. She gets in on her side of the bed and I get in mine. We don’t even make excuses. We fall away from each other and into sleep.
“Did you boys call your mama this week?” We are driving down the mountain to ASU in Boone, and it’s a special time for me to engage with E.J. and Devon.
E.J. tries to explain to me that there’s no reception in the house.
The boys have learned to bring out the best in each other, but like most teenagers with their bodies hunched over cell phones, texting and playing mindless games, they have a dumb-and-dumber quality that endears them to me. “Have you considered using a landline?”
They laugh, which makes me feel old. “No one has a landline anymore.”
The forty-minute drive goes by quickly. The boys listen to ESPN radio and I hear them discuss imaginary fantasy football lineups. Opening the car windows, I let the cool mountain air shake us awake before we hit the fields with temperatures in the eighties. Devon has shaved his head and looks less frightening. Something in his eyes had changed, and possibly, something in his soul. He loves to hang over the seat between E.J. and me. I have grown fond of him and the way he handles the kids in the program with their daily running and passing drills.
The chime of ESPN’s breaking news hits all of our ears at once. “They finally ruled on the Bobcats’ name,” says E.J. “They’re going back to the Hornets.” The boys high-five each other and come up with names I can’t repeat, which make our home team sound pathetic and small.
The kids are waiting when we pull into the parking lot behind the Mountaineers’ stadium. E.J. is a hero in the state of North Carolina, and the boys enrolled in this summer program dream of following in his footsteps. They line up daily to watch him toss a ball, and they ask him the most important questions in the world, every day, multiple times a day. He doesn’t mind, though. He always pretends it’s the first time they’re asking. He’s the same way with them on the field. I know I’ve done my job right when he exhibits the patience to watch the boys make the same mistakes without a sign of frustration. He encourages them to get back up, to shake it off, to give it a perfect effort—all the lessons he learned on my field.
Witnessing players grow up and mature is one of the most gratifying parts of any coach’s career, and today is especially satisfying for me. It’s not only E.J., or the young boys we are working with. What’s different is Devon. Devon comes alive around these kids. The pounding he received from Ellis turned him into a caring, sensitive instructor, and by day’s end the boys are fighting one another for his attention. A few even ask him for the same advice they ask of E.J., and others climb on his shoulders for a ride on his back. I can’t bear to think what might have happened to him had he not been given this second chance.
Sometimes I let her sneak up on me. It could be a sign along the road reminding me of how happy we once were, or I’ll hear E.J. tell Juliana how pretty she looks, and he’ll reach for her in a way that makes me know he loves her deeply. I remember that kind of love. How it can consume and control. Make you think that anything is possible.
A package came for me in the mail right before we left Charlotte. I was clearing out my office at the high school for the summer and someone had dropped it on my desk. I recognized her handwriting at once. I fingered the letters of my name, how she could spell with so much emotion around each letter. There was a tiny box with a short note: “I’ve held on to this for too long. You should take it back.” I should have known what it was. Instead, I ripped through the cardboard until the last piece of us sprang from the box and landed on my desk. I picked it up. It was smaller and duller than I remembered it being. I held it in my hand for a long time and for a split second I thought about picking up the phone and telling her this is wrong, she can’t leave, that I didn’t have the answers, but we would figure it out. We’d have to figure it out.
I can’t live without her, I told myself.
But I didn’t do any of that. I called Abby instead.
And she sounded happy to hear from me when she said, “We’re all packed up and ready to go. Let’s get this adventure started!”
And I shoved the ring, and all the feelings that went along with it, back in its box.
You don’t take back what you never let go of.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LAUREN
My things are packed, and I’m ready to go. As soon as the luncheon is over, my new life as Lauren Sheppard begins in New York City. After months of interviews, moving back and forth from the mountains to Manhattan, Chicago, and Atlanta, I accepted a position with Condé Nast and one of their travel magazines.
Q says she can’t keep up with my multiple personalities. Author, photographer, wanderlust, recluse, and woman behind the alias. I have kept her on her toes.
“Why now?” she asks.
“It’s something I have to do. I never liked that name anyway.”
“You loved that name. It took you weeks to come up with it! Wait until you see what happens when word of this spreads.”
“Those books aren’t mine anymore. The pain is someone else’s.”
Through the phone line, I can hear Q’s brain churning. “Your waterfall book will be an instant success when you announce that you’re Virginia Sutherland.”
“That’s not why I’m doing it.”
“I know. You want to connect with readers . . . Blah, blah, blah. I wish all my authors were as righteous as you.”
When Ryan walked away from me, knowing the truth about what had happened, the need to keep my pen name disappeared. I had hidden behind the guise of Virginia Sutherland to keep us apart. He wasn’t mine to love anymore, and my words were purely fiction, no longer a testament to us and the great love I held in my heart.
If Abby could shed her skin, so could I.
The morning starts out bright and crisp. After the evening rains, the temperature has dropped, and I take a fast walk around our block to charge myself up before the lunch. The ladies at the club are wonderful and accommodating. There will be no meddling publicists and no celebrity antics. The ladies have advertised the event while maintaining the integrity of the Beech community.
My parents arrive from their condo in Charleston shortly aft
er I finish breakfast.
“It’s about time,” they say, speaking over each other. Then my mother adds, “We thought we’d never see the day you got the recognition you deserve.”
I hug them to me. Mom whispers in my ear how she’s so happy she can finally tell the mah-jongg girls that I have an honest career and I’m not just traveling around the world with my camera.
We laugh, and I explain to them that this coming out is not some marketing ploy to build traction for the new book. Like most things in life, it’s about timing.
I help them carry their things to their room when Pop says, “What’s this?”
Lake Coffey is hanging above their bed. After staring at it for months, I decided I couldn’t look at it anymore. Like my books, the colors seem to have faded and grown dull.
“The girl has red hair, Arthur!” says my mother to my father.
“It’s from Woolly Worm. Meline Stapleton painted it.”
My father tells me it’s lovely, though I don’t believe he means it by the crispness of his praise.
“That Meline’s such a delightful one,” chirps my mother. “I hope she’s coming today.”
I dress in a plain green sheath and brush my hair back into a ponytail. There’s no mistaking that I am not the Virginia Sutherland that the group of women is coming to see. I coat my lips in red and then decide it’s too much and opt for light pink. It won’t matter. I eat my lipstick before I reach the door.
The club is bustling when we arrive. Dawn, the manager, greets us with a smile, her short, dark hair forming a knit cap on her head. “It’s hard to believe that little Lauren Sheppard is the renowned Virginia Sutherland.” She gives me a hug, and I thank her for her discretion and for ensuring the event runs smoothly.
A waiter hands us mimosas, and my mom swats my dad on the arm. “Arthur, the cardiologist told you no alcohol.” I can’t gulp mine down fast enough. And before I can savor the flavor, they spot some of their friends and are thrust into the snowbird conversation that everyone seems to have this time of year.
Members and guests fill the room; so many, that some have crossed over to the balcony. Friends greet me with cheerful hellos, and I almost wish Q were here to distract me. She’s always so good at making noise.
There is a podium set up at the front of the room that’s surrounded by large, round tables. The centerpieces are autographed books that will be given away in a raffle. I walk toward the bar, which had always been my favorite spot in the club. It is an intimate room, a fraction of the size of the dining hall with its aged wood panels and plush brown carpeting. There is a stone fireplace and a few small tables. Golf is always playing on the flat-screen TV, which stands high above the bar, but today the TV is off, and I step down the stairs and take in the views of the real golf course from the wooded balcony. The foliage on the mountains is lush and green, and the backdrop is magnificent. The pristine golf course looks as though someone painted across the lawn in long, sweeping strokes. A hedgehog dashes behind the bushes. His friend is not far behind. I spend time watching them romp across the field before I take another mimosa from a passing waiter. My mother finds me and says, “Mimosas have a lot of sugar, honey. Don’t fill up.”
A voice from behind us calls out my name, and Mom and I stiffen. “Lauren?”
Mom’s mouth opens in sheer surprise: “If it isn’t Ryan Holden’s wife here in the flesh.”
“Gail, charming as ever,” says Abby with a smirk.
Mom clears a path between us before whispering in my ear, “Walk away, honey, she’s not worth your time,” and disappears through the club doors.
Abby and I size each other up until she asks what I’m doing here.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say I’m here for the same reason as you, to hear Ms. Sutherland speak.”
She looks confused. “Ryan said you moved.”
“I’m leaving this weekend. You should be pleased.”
“You have it all wrong, Lauren. I don’t want to fight.”
She looks good, Abby does. Her white dress shows off her tan, and her hair falls loosely down her shoulders. She looks serene and settled. Cold Creek has had a positive influence on her. I think about Jean-Pierre and how I should have married him when he asked. Then he’d be holding my hand right now, and I wouldn’t be alone, facing the woman who betrayed me.
“Have you read her books?” she asks.
“Every one.”
“You know I was never much of a reader.”
“I remember,” I say, nodding my head, while a rush of memories collides into me. “I’ll see you inside,” I add, surprised by my shortness. I need to get away from her.
Guests are filing in, descending the stairs and taking their seats. Others hover along the fringes of the room, whispering among themselves. The echoes increase in sound, a rumble bouncing off the upholstered walls: Ms. Sutherland is a no-show. Pat Stringer, the club manager, approaches the front of the room and requests that the ladies take their chairs. I am seated at a table near the front with my parents and some family friends.
Pat’s thick accent unravels the mystery clouding Virginia Sutherland’s absence. I prepared her speech, and the precise wording of each made-up fact is timed to keep the guests on the edge of their seats.
“As some of you have already guessed, Virginia Sutherland won’t be joining us.” The groans in the room are loud. “But the real author of these outstanding books is here with us today. The town of Beech Mountain couldn’t be prouder to welcome our very own Lauren Sheppard, author of Point Blank, If I Only Knew, and That Girl.”
The room gasps and the applause slowly mounts. I feel eyes on me, searching for what they hadn’t seen before, the ordinary becoming extraordinary. As I take my place behind the podium, the smiles and praise remind me of how far I’ve traveled and what I’ve brought back to life. Everyone is standing, and as I begin to tell my story, I notice a blurry image toward the back of the room. I can’t make out the face, though it is the one person who is still seated, the one who can’t bring herself to applaud. And I know at once it is Abby.
I speak to the crowd for a full thirty minutes. The honesty is cathartic, and it opens up a thoughtful discussion.
When I’m finished, I sign books at a table in the bar area until there’s no one left in line but Abby. I step away to kiss my parents on the cheek, thank Dawn for hosting the lovely event, and grab a vodka from the bar. When I return, she is still there, standing patiently in front of the table, thumbing through one of my books. I pack up my pens and sticky notes. “Are you waiting for an autograph?”
“Is this how you planned it all along? Did you think he was going to find you and profess his love to you?”
“I thought you didn’t want to fight.”
“What was it you said when that lady asked if your stories are about you? You said, and let me quote you, ‘I write what I know.’ Did you think if you wrote the fairy-tale ending you’d get it?”
Her accusations are wearing me down. They’re the final straw in an already-tiring day. I plead with her to stop. “Abby, what do you want from me? Ryan loves you. He chose you.”
“I read that book, Lauren.”
“It’s fiction. That’s what sells.”
“It’s you and Ryan. You know it. I know it.”
I’m finding the small space in the bar confining, so I cross over to the glass doorway that leads to the patio. Abby follows with a bottle of water in her hand. We are pretending to admire the late-afternoon sun as it soaks the field below in light. History tells me how Abby will stand with one hand on her hip while the other plays with her hair.
“I don’t have five cats either,” I say. “Seeing how you believe everything you read.”
“Do you still love him?” she asks, in her soft voice. The one that tells me the tide is shifting.
“How can you ask me that question?”
“Do you?” she persists.
“It doesn’t matter, Abby.”
&
nbsp; “It does,” she says. “Did you tell him?”
I set the vodka on the ledge and steady myself for her reaction. “Yes,” I say, “I did.”
“Typical Ryan,” she says, unusually composed. “We knew what he would do with that. Such a martyr. It’s why he’s so easy to love. I saw a lot of that in your book. It reminded me of the three of us.”
“It’s not real, Abby.”
“Oh, but it is,” she says. “We never loved that way. Not the way you loved him. Not the way he loved you. He’ll always love you.” Her eyes are welling up with tears. Her hand has fallen from her hair and takes the other one in its grasp. “After all the work I’ve done on myself, Ryan has paid the price.”
“Abby, I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I need to leave.”
Words tumble out of her. Whether for me or for herself, I’m not sure.
She says, “It’s my fault, I’m owning it, but you made it a hell of a lot easier to cover up the mess and move on. If you had stayed, we could have figured this out. I used to think it would have killed me, but now I’m not so sure. Being in a crazy lie of a marriage is worse.”
Inside I cringe when she talks about moving on. I thought I’d never move on. “Abby,” I say again, “I need to go.”
“Please don’t,” she says, taking hold of my arm. “We were supposed to be friends forever. We were supposed to know how to forgive each other. Nothing will feel right until I fix this.”
There she is. The Abby I met on the first day of freshman year. Abby with the big brown eyes that suck me in. Abby who can get me to feel sorry for her even after she has betrayed me in the worst possible way. I am tossing the excuses around: I did this. I left them. I didn’t fight.
Shoulder to shoulder we stare out at the mountains of Tennessee. A few golfers are driving by in their carts and wave up to us. “Abby, you don’t need to do this. You don’t need to explain anymore.”
Where We Fall: A Novel Page 26
