A Week at the Lake

by Wendy Wax

  The rest of them nodded. Nadia made it up one more step.

  “Do we have any oatmeal?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Not need breakfast. Need cool down.” Another step was conquered.

  “Good thinking, Mac. An oatmeal bath is definitely the way to go,” Emma said.

  “I’ll check the pantry.” Zoe turned and went inside.

  “Okay, I’m sorry but I’m feeling this horrible urge to put on Alicia Keys’s ‘Girl on Fire,’” Serena said.

  “Don’t you dare. I don’t even want to hear you humming it.” Mackenzie reached out a hand to the struggling nurse.

  “No. Don’t touch.” Nadia made it up the final step and stood swaying slightly on the porch, her arms outstretched, her legs straight and apart. Like some large starfish cast up on a beach.

  “Got it.” Zoe appeared in the open doorway, a canister of Quaker Oats in one hand.

  “Start a cool bath,” Emma told her daughter. “We’ll sprinkle a cup or two in it.”

  They hovered around Nadia all the way to the guest room and into the attached bath.

  “You need to get undressed,” Mackenzie said.

  “Feel like baby,” Nadia whispered. “Afraid to move.”

  “We’ve got this,” Emma said to the woman who despite her size and tough manner had tended her so carefully. “Zoe, Martha has an aloe plant growing up in the master bath. Can you bring it and that bottle of Aveeno moisturizer down?” She moved toward the nurse. “Serena, Mackenzie, and I are going to get these clothes off and get Nadia into the tub.”

  By the time Zoe got back with the things Emma had requested, Serena, Emma, and Mackenzie were a sodden mess and the bathroom floor resembled the deck of a sinking ship, but Nadia was in the tub and Emma was pressing the wet washcloth gently to her face.

  “Now we know just how many puny American women it takes to get a Russian weight lifter into a bathtub,” Serena said, eyeing the disaster area that the bathroom had become. “I think some of us need a new exercise program.”

  “All I know is I’m ready for a shower and a nap,” Emma said with a tired smile as Serena’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. “But it feels good to take care of someone else for a change.”

  They left Nadia soaking to go upstairs and get cleaned up. Emma leaned heavily on Zoe. Serena felt the vibration that signaled a message being left, but it wasn’t until she’d showered and pulled on a light robe that she checked her messages.

  Brooks Anderson had called not once but twice. More to the point, Brooks Anderson was driving up to Lake George. He’d made a reservation for dinner tomorrow night at the Inn at Erlowest, the restored mansion down the road. “I hear they have an incredible chef and the place is right on the lake not too far from you.”

  There was a brief silence before the voice that sent unwelcome shivers of memory up her spine continued, “I made a reservation for eight p.m. I hope you can make it.” And then the words that she’d yearned to hear for so long: “There are so many things I need to say to you.”

  Twenty-two

  Are you sure you don’t mind if I take the Jeep?” Serena stood in the doorway of the den, where the others were settling in to watch a movie. She felt conspicuous in the tight, short black dress with the plunging neckline that she’d chosen, especially given the fact that everyone else was still wearing the shorts and T-shirts they’d pulled on that morning. They were also makeup free, while she had spent a full hour and a half applying makeup and twisting her hair into an intentionally messy knot that brushed one shoulder. A girl needed her armor and a couple of weapons at her disposal if she was going to confront her past. It wasn’t every day you got the chance to make the person who’d dumped you see exactly what he’d lost.

  “You want scooter?” Nadia, who apparently saw no conflict with a minidress and the necessity to swing a leg over a motorcycle seat, was slathered in aloe lotion, her face a tight cherry red, her arms and legs still splayed starfish-like. Although she’d protested mightily that she was there to “take care Miz Mickhels” and not the other way around, she’d succumbed when Emma promised not to tell Eve and then presented the nurse with the first of the Xanax Mackenzie used for flying. That with the special salve that Martha had whipped up had served to make her more comfortable.

  “You missing Three Stooges in So Long Mr. Chumps,” the nurse said. “And popping corn, too.”

  “I take it your ‘friend’”—Mackenzie made air quotation marks for emphasis—“is male.” As if Serena might, for some inconceivable reason, have gone to this trouble to impress another woman.

  If Zoe hadn’t been there, Serena had no doubt Mackenzie would have added and air quoted the word “married” to her observation. Which might have something to do with the fact that Mackenzie now barely mentioned the husband she’d always seemed to worship. “My feet hurt from just looking at those heels.”

  Serena shrugged. “I’m willing to dress for a gourmet meal. And I’m not planning to walk one step farther than in the door and to the table.”

  “I’ve heard the new chef at Erlowest is first rate,” Emma said. “We’re open to doggie bags.”

  “If it’s as good as all that we’ll all go there together,” Serena said. “You seem stronger and your hair’s starting to look less like a baby chick’s. Maybe we should go out and celebrate.” In fact, watching Emma take charge of Nadia’s sunburn had been an impressive sign of improvement. “Or maybe you should let Jake Richards take you.”

  Emma laughed but sidestepped the comment about Jake. “I do feel better, but not enough to go anywhere that would require as much prep time as you’ve put in. It was time well spent though. You do look mah-veh-lous.” Emma had always done a fair Ricardo Montalban impression.

  “Why thank you eveh so much.” Opting for Georgia Goodbody, Serena batted her lashes and mimed her fan. “Y’all know how compliments do go straight to my head.”

  Mackenzie and Emma rolled their eyes. “You are quite welcome, Katie Scarlett.” Emma did a pretty fair southern accent when she had a mind to. And had watched Gone with the Wind on more than one occasion in deference to Serena’s southern roots.

  “Don’t wait up.” Serena gave them a finger wave and tucked her evening bag beneath her arm. Outside, she climbed carefully into the Jeep, her trepidation giving way to an embarrassingly giddy sense of excitement. It was the moment she’d imagined since Brooks Anderson II had up and married someone else, her own personal shoot-out at the OK Corral. The moment when she would force him to confront the mistake he’d made. At which point she would succinctly and articulately call him all the names he so richly deserved before making an unforgettably dramatic exit. Serena smiled at the scene as it played out in her head.

  It was only a matter of minutes south on Highway 9 before the sign for Erlowest appeared. She turned left and followed the narrow road that curved down toward the lake. “Goodness,” she breathed at her first sight of the huge turn-of-the-century stone castle that sat high on a hill overlooking the water. Careful not to teeter, she walked across the parking lot, stopping briefly to take in the stone patio with its outdoor fireplace, around which guests sat enjoying the flickering flames and the expansive view of Lake George.

  Inside, everything spoke of the home’s luxurious history. Through a pedimented and framed doorway to the left lay two small formal dining rooms with white-cloth-covered tables, intricate woodwork, and period wallpapers and furnishings. Just beyond it an elegant staircase angled upward. A stained glass window bearing a coat of arms gleamed above the landing.

  She stepped up to the small welcome desk that had been set in a corner of the living room.

  “Mr. Anderson is waiting for you in the lounge, Miss Stockton.” The young woman escorted her past the stairs and through a short hallway to a small wood-paneled room. It was a masculine space with a wooden bar at one end and a sitting area and fireplace at t
he other. A small wooden door led onto the stone patio.

  Brooks Anderson was seated near the fireplace and stood as she entered. He was still tall and broad shouldered with the build of a former athlete who had most definitely not gone to fat. The years had not diminished his appearance; in fact, just the opposite. His brown eyes lit with the warm smile that she’d never forgotten. His nose was still patrician, his cheekbones strong, his chin firm. His dark hair was still thick and only lightly threaded with gray. A tan that came from hours on a golf course and no doubt a family beach house on Fripp or Kiawah or some other expensive Lowcountry island tinged his skin. He was living the life they’d both grown up in. And which he’d chosen over her.

  His lips, which she also remembered too well, said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  He came forward and took one of her hands in his, and at that simple touch she was overwhelmed by memories. Only they weren’t the angry final ones she’d been reliving for so long. Their families had always known each other but what she remembered now was the moment he’d really seen her for the first time. It had been the summer before his senior year at Carolina, when she was still in high school. Both of their families had been delighted when they’d started dating. They’d become less so when she accepted a scholarship to NYU’s drama school. But Brooks had claimed to admire her sense of adventure and, with his newly acquired MBA, had agreed to accept a job at Morgan Stanley in Manhattan, where they’d live while she studied acting and he began to build his career. The rest, as they said, was history.

  “Me either.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes and she felt a shiver of . . . She wasn’t sure whether it was anticipation or apprehension. She’d come prepared to unleash her anger, to make him regret what he had done. But she hadn’t expected the feelings that were flooding through her now, hadn’t thought his touch could ignite anything except more anger.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure.” She took back her hand and followed him over to the bar, where the bartender poured her a glass of prosecco. She needed to be careful. In control. Make him regret what he’d done and get out. “The inn is beautiful,” she said, falling back on the manners and small talk that had been drilled into her from childhood. Underneath it all her heart was beating too wildly. “I understand the chef is new and well thought of.” She took a sip of her drink.

  “Yes, I was given a grand tour when I checked in.” He said this with a smile that creased the corners of the eyes that were considering her so carefully. “There are apparently ten fully restored suites, thirteen fireplaces, two formal dining rooms, several living rooms, and this lounge, all of it built by and for a bachelor.” His Charlestonian accent flowed over her, smooth and familiar.

  “There’s no accounting for the things some men will do,” she said more flippantly than she felt.

  “Too true.” He looked her right in the eye.

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  He placed a hand on the small of Serena’s back as they followed the young woman to the dining room where they were seated at a table for two beneath a leaded stained glass window. Crystal and silver glinted in the candlelight. The wallpaper was a deep red, the chairs a warm mahogany, and the carved coffered ceiling, moldings, and architectural details turned the formal room surprisingly intimate. Far more intimate than she intended for this meal to get.

  They’d barely been seated when a bottle of champagne arrived in a silver bucket. After a look to Serena for approval, Brooks nodded and the cork was removed, first glasses poured.

  “It’s a good thing I’m staying less than a mile from here.” She reminded herself to be careful how much she drank, but she could feel a heady excitement bubbling up inside her in the same way the champagne bubbled in their glasses. Brooks’s intent gaze confirmed that her efforts on her hair and makeup had paid off.

  “The suite they’ve given me takes up a good quarter of the second floor,” he said. “If you don’t feel comfortable making the drive, I have plenty of room.”

  Serena smiled but made no comment. She would walk every step in these murderous overpriced heels before she’d end up in what was probably a curtained tester bed.

  They clinked their glasses. “To old friends,” she said.

  “And new beginnings,” he added before they drank.

  What the hell did that mean? She dropped her eyes to the menu and focused on the handwritten descriptions. “Everything looks delicious,” she said.

  “Yes, everything does,” he murmured. She didn’t have to look up to know he was looking at her and not the menu.

  “What do you think sounds better for a starter, Hudson Valley foie gras or bison tartare?” she asked, though she couldn’t have cared less. She lifted her eyes and sipped the champagne, studying him as he studied her.

  “I say we each order one so we can taste them both,” he said.

  She nodded and smiled again, though she had no intention of allowing either one of them to slip so much as a morsel into the other’s mouth. But it seemed the balloon of her long-held anger had sprung a slow leak now that they were sitting across the table from each other. She felt as if she’d gone onstage certain of her lines, only to have the other actor veer wildly off script.

  But she was a professional actress, and a script or scene could only be hijacked if she allowed it. “So,” she said. “Tell me what you’re doing in New York.”

  She listened as he talked about the deal his client was putting together with a large New York hedge fund and the role he would play in seeing that it got done. “I couldn’t help thinking about our plans, yours and mine. How I would be a titan of finance and you would be a famous actress.” He raised his glass of champagne to her. “I’ve done well by Charleston standards. But you”—he shook his head and smiled—“you’ve achieved exactly what you set out to. Just as I knew you would.”

  She didn’t drink, she couldn’t. And she damned sure wasn’t going to point out that she was famous for playing a cartoon of herself, as she usually did. The truth was the way he was looking at her, his obvious admiration and attraction, were balms to her soul.

  Somehow they made it through the starters (no spit was swapped) and she managed to choose an entrée and even a dessert as she pressed him for more details of the project and how long he’d be in New York.

  He asked about As the World Churns, whether she still loved New York, what part of it she lived in, and how Emma was feeling. Somehow, neither of them mentioned his wife or his children, whom she happened to know were now in college. Nor did he ask if she’d ever been married or currently had a boyfriend.

  She’d barely picked at the delicious food that had been served and cleared with elegant efficiency, but at least she’d managed not to drink enough to allow herself to end up in his suite—something she’d begun to imagine in embarrassing detail somewhere in the middle of the main course she hadn’t eaten. It was past time to bring this conversation to a head, to say the things she’d come here to say and then make her exit. She did not want to like him or forgive him. And she most definitely didn’t want to be attracted to him.

  She set down her fork. Pushed away the untouched warm bourbon and banana bread pudding. “Why are we here right now?” she asked.

  “You mean other than to eat dinner?”

  “Yes. To be more specific, why, after you broke our engagement over twenty years ago in order to marry someone else, are you now here a half a mile from where I’m staying feeding me a five-course meal and hinting that you have room for me in your suite.”

  “Well, I thought it was more than a hint.” He gave her the smile that had once melted her from the inside out.

  She sat up. Folded her hands in her lap. “There is no way you actually thought you could show up, buy me a dinner, and take me to bed.”

  “I wasn’t counting on it, no.” He gave her a rueful smile that wa
s almost as devastating as the fiery melting one. “But it is almost criminal to sleep in that suite alone.” He did the crinkly-eye thing. “Did I mention there’s a two-person hot tub next to the fireplace and overlooking the lake?”

  “That’s it.” She moved to scrape back her chair prepared to stand, deliver the devastating monologue that she’d been composing in her head for the last two decades, and leave him in a pool of regret.

  His hand encircled her wrist. The touch sent sparks shooting inside her that she wanted to believe were sparks of anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t go. I guess I’m nervous and I—I—just wanted to lighten the mood.”

  She stayed put, but she could feel her muscles tighten in their eagerness to flee. She tried to remember the first name she’d wanted to call him.

  “The sole purpose of tonight was supposed to be a sincere apology for my behavior all those years ago. At which point I’d sit quietly while you told me off for being such an . . . imbecile.”

  Imbecile had definitely been on her list, but nowhere near the top.

  “So you were just going to apologize for being stupid?” His apology had thrown off her timing. As had his manner. But the time had come. He made no move to stop her.

  “You broke my heart. You went back on everything you promised. Everything we’d dreamed about. One minute you loved me, the next you loved someone else. You’ve left me all these years wondering what I did wrong.” She was whispering where she’d planned to shout. Exposing herself in ways she hadn’t meant to. She had planned to call him all kinds of ugly things, not reveal her own vulnerability.

  “You were far more than stupid. You were cruel and—and—cruel.” She tried to call up all the names she’d been hoarding, but every one of them had fled in the face of the emotions that she’d believed she had exorcised but which now churned inside her. “Shit.” She closed her eyes, opened them.

  His eyes had lost their sparkle, but not their warmth.