“Lucy, it’s just an irate client. You had no right listening to my messages. That’s business.”
“Are you serious, David? A man threatens your life and you’re ticked because I listened to your private messages?”
He shook his head, then came over and put an arm around her, leading her to the couch. They sat and he took her hands.
“People get seriously emotional sometimes, and they want to strike out, and a lot of times it’s the attorney they target. You know that.”
“I understand, David, I’m not stupid, but this is different. I think you should listen to them. This is not just some pest.”
“I will, okay, but believe me, honey, it wouldn’t be the first time somebody lost it on me. And if I think it’s warranted, I’ll notify the police.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
He shrugged. “Could be the guy who lost custody in a divorce case last week. Or the brother who’s fighting a will, hates his siblings, and thinks nothing in life is fair.”
“But nothing quite like this has ever happened before.”
He gave her a crooked smile.
“It has?”
“I’ve had threats, yes, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Now forget it. I’ll take care of it, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, so worn out, so relieved, she just wanted to go to bed. And when she woke the next morning, it all seemed like a bad dream.
* * *
RUTH TRIED TO KEEP HER MIND from drifting as she drove to the lake, but as she made a mental list of all the little tasks ahead of her at the store later that day, like e-mailing Lucinda Barrett and inviting her for a signing, and submitting a rush order for Denise, the high school librarian, who had forgotten about an upcoming book fair, her mind floated off in the direction it always did on this trip: a rehash of her marriage, her failure as a wife, and the gut-wrenching guilt over the last night she had seen her husband alive.
Which was why she avoided going to the lake, because as much as she always tried to remember the good things about her marriage, for her kids’ sake, somehow it was always the bad ones that came flooding back at moments like this. Once her friend Hannah had remarked that when Eddie was away on his fishing trips, she would begin to miss him so badly, that after those first few days, it was only the good in him that she could recall. The annoyances seemed to fade with each moment’s separation. After all these years apart from Bill, Ruth wished she could say the same.
It was a beautiful drive, though, the blacktop road winding up and down hills and around curves that seemed to go on endlessly. The surrounding woods, littered with boulders and worn rocks, were bursting with new green leaves. You couldn’t drive fast, and Ruth found herself remembering the first time she’d taken this drive with Bill.
She was still nineteen, he was nearly twenty-one, and he drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other squeezing her thigh. The longing inside her had been a glorious ache that shot from her stomach down her legs. They couldn’t wait to get there. Still, she kept begging him to slow down. She should have seen it then, there had been warning signs for sure. Bill was so full of life. And reckless at times. But she, quiet, ordinary Ruth, couldn’t believe she was with this handsome, funny guy who could have had anyone. For the first time in her life she didn’t have a stack of books beside her bed. Bill had burst into her life like a tornado and she never knew which way the wind was going to blow, but in her dull, ordered life, it had been intoxicating. She didn’t have time for reading.
She hit the brakes suddenly as a deer wandered into the road, forcing her thoughts in another direction. Thomas. After the little ceremony at the lake, she’d be driving straight to the prison for her book meeting, and would finally find out why Thomas had called. Because he’d never called again. Her gut told her that something had changed, but she had no way of finding out. There’d been no more letters. And prisoners couldn’t get calls.
The road narrowed then, veering left, and she slowed again as she approached the lake. A hodgepodge of houses cluttered the land around the lake, from beautiful chalets right on the water’s edge, to tiny cabins flung like boxes across the surrounding hills, some of them added onto many times as they went from summer shacks to year-round dwellings. People were walking dogs and children rode bikes as Ruth navigated past the many side streets until she rounded the lake, driving toward the north shore, where the land was plentiful and sloped gradually to the foot of a small ridge of mountains. These were the old fish camps, properties that had been in families for generations.
Ruth wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t come here with Bill that day nearly forty-four years ago. What if she’d gone to her class at the community college, as she was supposed to? But Bill had given her that wicked smile, his light blue eyes glittering. “Come on, Ruth, haven’t you ever been bad in your entire life?” he’d asked. It was the way he’d said “bad,” so softly, so suggestively that it sent a rush of heat through her, and she knew she was on dangerous ground. But it was thrilling, and yes, that day Ruth had been bad. But it had felt so good.
She neared the fish camps and the road pulled away from the water, as the houses were staggered on larger tracts of land. The camp, which had been in Bill’s family since his great-grandfather had settled in the area, originally had three cabins, each on an acre. Over the years, two had been sold, until there was just the middle one left. When Bill had died she immediately thought of selling it, but the kids had gotten too upset. Each summer she’d had to take them out here for sleepovers, with fishing and bonfires, until they became teenagers and outgrew the phase. She barely ever came anymore.
Then, after his accident, Colin announced that he wanted to buy back the cabin next door, which Bill’s dad had sold back in the sixties. The biggest of the three, it had fallen into disrepair over the years. She asked Colin why he would do such a thing, when she would have gladly given him the other one. He shook his head and smiled, telling her it was too small for year-round living. “Besides, that’s Dad’s place, and yours,” he’d added, “and it always will be.” What could she say to that?
She braked as she came to the cluster of tall pines at the beginning of the gravel driveway. Turning in, she drove through the tunnel of green branches and found her children’s cars already parked in the clearing. There they were, sitting on the dock down at the water’s edge, the three of them huddled close together. It seemed like just yesterday she was watching them jump off that dock, their shrieks of joy echoing off the mountains.
There were no shrieks of joy now.
* * *
RUTH GOT OUT OF HER CAR, glad that Jenny and Alex had come alone, leaving their children and spouses behind. She walked down the long sloping lawn to the dock, which was more like a wide wooden deck. Bill had rebuilt it when Colin was born, wanting it big enough for chairs and blankets and toys for all of them.
Her children turned at her approach, and Jenny stood and walked over.
“Hey, Mom.” Her blotchy face was a sure indicator she’d been crying.
“Hi, honey.” Ruth put an arm around her as they walked.
“We were just talking about that day you scattered Dad’s ashes. How we were so upset and we thought you were crazy.”
They stepped onto the wooden dock and Alex stood as well. “Yeah, we thought you were throwing Dad away,” he said with a smile she knew was meant to be comforting to her.
“I was crying because I thought the fish were gonna eat him,” Colin said with a little laugh.
They’d been so little, Colin just six years old, clutching Bill’s battered field guide to birds. They’d come here then, just as they were now, the four of them.
“It was always his favorite place. And even though we’d never talked about it…” she began, and then stopped. Why would they talk of death? They were so young. “Well, I just thought it was where he’d want to be.”
“Of course you did the right thing. It’s so peaceful,” Jenny sai
d.
“Why don’t we come out here more?” Alex said softly, almost to himself.
Maybe for the same reasons she didn’t. It was just too painful. But in different ways for them.
“Speak for yourself,” Colin said, in a teasing voice, to lighten the mood. “I’m here every day now.”
Jenny locked eyes with her, and Ruth saw the message there. It had taken nine months for his house to be renovated, and now Colin had been living there for six, without incident. Still, Jenny thought it was a mistake for him to be so far from civilization. Or without neighbors nearby. In case.
Ruth took a deep breath. “All right, then. Why don’t we do this.”
They’d carried out this ritual several times before. When Bill would have been forty. And then again at fifty. And now sixty-five. A man she couldn’t even picture, his face always frozen in time as he’d looked that night he’d walked out of the house for the last time, a handsome man in his early thirties, still in his prime.
“I have a Dad memory,” said Alex. He was looking more and more like Ruth’s father as he aged, tall and solid, his dark sideburns flecked with gray. “I was nine and he took me hunting with his buddies. I’d gone once before and I…I just didn’t get shooting an animal and I started crying. I thought Dad would get upset, but he gave me a hug and told me there were lots of ways to be a man. And that he actually didn’t like shooting anything. He just liked the partying.”
“You’re lucky, I can barely remember what he looked like,” Colin said softly. “I have to look at pictures to really see him. But I think my clearest memory is of him whistling every morning before he went to work. It was such a happy sound.”
Jenny smiled through her tears. “I remember he brought me a big Valentine one year, this huge red velvet heart-shaped box trimmed with lace. I ate one chocolate every day because I wanted it to last forever.”
They waited. Ruth had forgotten, and now she had to think of something.
“I’ll never forget how he used to get you all up in the middle of the night on Christmas because he couldn’t wait until morning. I would be so tired, I’d roll over and complain, but he didn’t care. He’d pick me up and carry me downstairs and then sit me beside the tree. He couldn’t wait to see your faces.”
“Yeah, remember riding bikes around the house in the middle of the night?” Colin said.
“How about the time I got a skateboard and we went outside while it was pitch dark in our pajamas and coats,” Alex said, as Jenny cried softly now.
They made the sign of the cross and together said the Our Father and Hail Mary. Then Colin read aloud, in the same deep voice as his father, the poem by Emily Dickinson that Ruth had found and read at his funeral mass. It was an odd choice, but a desperate one at the time.
“If I can save one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto her nest again,
I shall not live in vain.”
When he finished, Jenny handed them each a single daisy, which they tossed one by one into the water. Alex popped the top of the can of beer, which echoed loudly across the lake.
“Here’s to you, Dad,” he said with a quiver in his voice, as he slowly poured the golden liquid into the lake, “and your favorite things: fish, family, birds and beer.”
“Here’s to you, Dad,” Jenny and Colin repeated.
They stood there a long time, the petals separating from the long stalks of the daisies, a puddle of foam hovering on the surface. Then she heard Colin sigh.
“So what do you think he liked best,” he said, “the fish?” The lighthearted tone was back.
“Nah, probably the beer,” Alex joked back. “We were three little pains in the asses if I recall correctly.”
Jenny had tears streaming down her face.
“It was his family,” Ruth managed to say through the lump of grief in her throat. “You three were everything to him.”
“You, too, Mom,” Colin said.
She bent and hugged him. If only that were true. But what could her children remember? They loved their father, and she made certain they never knew what had really happened between them.
* * *
WHEN LUCY WOKE THAT NEXT MORNING, much later than usual, David had already gone to work. The terror and anxiety of the night before seemed surreal, thanks to his reassurances and the brilliant sunshine streaming in the windows. And once she opened her laptop to check her e-mail, all thoughts of that creepy voice evaporated when she saw the message from a bookstore in New York, one of the original dozen she’d sent review copies to. The subject line read: Your Fine Novel. She gasped out loud.
Dear Ms. Barrett,
Several of us in our store have read your fine novel and enjoyed it immensely. It’s beautifully written and timely as well. It also hit home with me in a personal way.
If you’re able to make it north in the near future for a signing, perhaps we can chat about it over a cup of tea. We’d love to have you.
Also, I’ll be recommending your novel to several book clubs. Would you be interested in meeting with them, via phone conference? And do you have book club questions?
Thanks for sending a review copy to our store.
All my best,
Ruth Hardaway, Owner, The Book Lover
P.S. I was unable to locate your publisher through our distributor, could you please forward information?
Her euphoria faded. The Book Lover could certainly order copies from her publisher, the big drawback was that they’d be stuck with any books that didn’t sell, unlike with real publishers, where they could simply return them. Lucy knew her only hope was to admit it was self-published and supply the books on consignment, and pray that the owner of The Book Lover wouldn’t mind this arrangement. Or change her mind. But this was fantastic news.
She reread the e-mail a few more times, bouncing in her seat and laughing out loud. The store owner was suggesting Lucy’s novel to several book clubs! It was unbelievable. She called David at the office to tell him the good news, and was surprised when he answered himself.
“I let Jason go this morning,” he said. “He was completely unqualified for the job.”
“Are you going to hire someone else?”
“Not right away. I can handle it.”
“I could come in and—”
“No, no. I’m fine. Just focus on the book.”
“Actually that’s why I was calling. I’ve been invited to do a signing at a bookstore in New York, and I want to do it. Do you think that’s crazy?”
There was a long pause.
“I know, it’s just one store and it’s so far away, but it’s a start. And they love the book!”
“I think it’s a great idea. How else are you going to get the word out there?”
“And David, she’s recommending it to a few of her book clubs.”
“That’s great, Lucy. Listen, I have to go, I’ve got another line ringing and…”
“Okay.”
She hung up the phone and stood there, letting out a small squeal of joy. Then she typed a reply: Yes, I would love to come and do a signing at your store. Since my publisher is small and doesn’t take returns, I’d be happy to supply any copies on consignment, if that’s okay with you. Hopefully that would do it.
Then she realized she didn’t have book club questions. How could she have overlooked that? And she still had to finish the website. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by everything she needed to accomplish by the launch. Her insides were racing, Ruth Hardaway’s beautiful words playing in her mind over and over. This was her first big break.
4
LUCY ARRIVED AT SERENDIPITY AN HOUR EARLY to help her boss set up, but Kate already had trays of appetizers arranged on some of the fancy dishes they sold, and a cut glass punch bowl filled with champagne cocktail.
“Oh, Kate, it all looks beautiful.”
“Well, m
aybe we’ll start to move some of these items if people see how they can be used.”
Kate looked gorgeous in a flowing chartreuse caftan, her hair pulled back in a chignon. Tall and slender, she had skin the color of caramel and was descended from some of the first slaves brought to St. Augustine.
“I hope the rain stops,” Lucy said. It had been pouring for several hours and she knew that lack of nearby parking could definitely hamper her turnout.
“Let’s have a toast,” Kate said, while Lucy stood there looking out the window at the empty street, her insides racing with excitement.
Two years ago, Kate Viall had taken a chance and hired her after she’d finished the book and given up on getting it published. Lucy had no retail experience, but knew she needed something different. She’d been hiding from the world since they’d moved, first making beds at the B&B, then cloistered in the house writing alone. In this lovely gift shop, with a constant flow of people and Kate’s easy demeanor, Lucy had felt herself coming back to life a little bit each day. She threw herself into creating window displays, rearranging shelves of stale merchandise for better eye appeal, and crafting press releases to introduce a new line or a special event.
Six months later, Kate had made her manager and opened a second store in Georgia. When she wasn’t working, Lucy continued to write, trying to improve her novel.
Now Kate handed her a crystal flute, then touched it with her own glass.
“Here’s to you, Lucy, and the success of your novel.”
Lucy smiled and took a sip.
“Come on, you look like you just lost your best friend.”
She shrugged. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.”
“It’s going to be fine. We already sold two books.”
Lucy couldn’t help picturing the thousands on the shelves of BookWorld.
“Where’s David?” Kate asked, as she flipped on more lights to combat the darkening skies.
“Working late, as usual. He’ll be here soon.”
“My niece used him for her closing, you know. She just loved him.”
Book Lover, The Page 5
