Hank stared out at the green darkness of the forest. “I’m sorry, Annie. About all of it.”
Annie felt her throat tighten. “I know, Dad.”
Hank turned to her at last. “I made you something.” He went into the house and came out a moment later, carrying a present.
She took the thin box, wrapped in beautiful blue foil, and opened it. Inside was a thick, leatherbound photograph album. She flipped the cover open. The first page held a small black-and-white Kodak print that had seen better days; the edges were dog-eared, and tiny white creases covered the print in maplike patterns.
It was a rare photo of Annie and her mom, one she’d never seen before. Her mother was wearing a pair of white pedal pushers and a sleeveless shirt, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was smiling. Beside her, a spindly Annie was standing next to a brand-new bike.
Annie remembered that bicycle. She’d gotten it for her birthday, amid a shower of balloons and cake and laughter. She remembered how proud her mother had been when she first rode it. There you go, Annie, honey, you’re on your way now.
Slowly, she turned the pages, savoring each and every photograph. Here she was at last, Annie . . . from the early, toothless days of kindergarten through the midriff-baring teenage years.
It was her life spread out before her, one frozen moment at a time, and each one brought a bittersweet remembrance. Lady, the puppy they’d brought home from the grocery store . . . the Christmas tree ornament she’d made in Mr. Quisdorff’s woodshop class . . . the white satin sleeveless dress she’d worn to the junior prom.
The memories crowded in on her, clamoring to be held and savored, and she wondered how it was that she’d forgotten so much. In every photograph, she saw herself, saw the woman emerging through the freckled, gap-toothed features of the girl in these pictures. The final page of the book was reserved for the family photograph she and Blake and Natalie had posed for only two years ago.
There I am, she thought, gazing at the smiling, bright-eyed woman in the black St. John sweater . . . and there I’m not.
“I couldn’t find very many pictures of your mom,” Hank said softly. “I went through a dozen boxes up in the attic. That’s pretty much what there is. I’m sorry.”
Annie was surprised to hear his voice. She’d fallen so deeply into her own thoughts, she’d forgotten that her dad was beside her. She gave him a small smile. “We’re like that, we moms. We take the pictures, but we don’t record our own lives very well. It’s a mistake we never realize until it’s too late. . . .”
She flipped back to the beginning of the album, to a five-by-seven black-and-white copy of her mom’s graduation picture. She looked so heartbreakingly young. Though you couldn’t tell, Annie could recall perfectly the hazel hue of her mother’s eyes. She caressed the photograph. Did you ever look for yourself in mirrors, Mom? Were you like the rest of us? Is that why you dreamed of opening a bookstore?
She wondered now, for the first time in years, what her mom would be like today. Would she be dying her hair, or would she have allowed her beautiful blond to fade into gray? Would she still be wearing that electric-blue eye shadow from the seventies, and those fuzzy hot-pink bits of yarn to tie up her layered ponytails? Or would she have gracefully turned to a conservative shoulder-length cut by now?
“She was beautiful,” Hank said quietly, “and she loved you very much.” He touched Annie’s cheek with his papery, old man’s hand. “I should have told you that—and given you these pictures—a long time ago. But I was young and stupid and I didn’t know. . . .”
There was an emotional thickness in Hank’s voice. It surprised Annie, his unexpected journey into intimacy. “What didn’t you know?”
He shrugged. “I thought you grieved for a few respectable months and then got on with your life. I didn’t know how . . . deep love ran, how it was in your blood, not your heart, and how that same blood pumped through your veins your whole life. I thought you’d be better off if you could forget her. I should have known that wasn’t possible.”
Annie’s heart constricted painfully. Never had her father shown his grief and his love in such sharp relief. It moved her to touch his velvety cheek. “She was lucky to be so loved, Dad. By both of us.”
“She’s still loved—and still missed. No one can ever take her place for me, except you, Annie. You’re the best of Sarah and me, and sometimes, when you smile, I see your mama sitting right beside me.”
She knew then that she would remember this day forever. She would buy a wicker love seat for her deck, and she would sit there with her new baby and remember what she had once allowed herself to forget.
“I’ll visit more often this time,” she said. “I promise. And I want you to come down for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. No excuses. I’ll send a ticket.”
“It better be coach.”
She smiled. It was exactly what she would have expected him to say. “Hell, Dad, I’ll put you on a bus if it’ll get you down there.”
“Are you going to be okay, Annie Virginia?”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. That’s the one thing I learned up here in Mystic. I’m stronger than I thought. I’m always going to be okay.”
It rained on the day Annie left. All the night before, she and Nick had lain awake in bed, talking, touching, trying in every way they could to mark the memory on their souls. They had watched in silence as the sun crept over the dome of Mount Olympus, turning the glaciers into spun pink glass on the jagged granite peaks; they’d watched as the clouds rolled in and wiped the sunlight away, and as the rain tiptoed along the surface of the lake, turning from a gentle patter to a roaring onslaught, and then back to a patter again. They’d stared at each other, their gazes full of pent-up longing and fear, and still they’d said nothing.
When finally Annie rose from the passion-scented warmth of his bed, he reached out and clasped her hand. She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Slowly, hating every motion, she slipped out of her T-shirt and dressed in a pair of leggings and a long sweatshirt.
“My bags are in the car,” she said at last. “I’ll . . . say good-bye to Izzy and then . . . go.”
“I guess we’ve said our good-byes,” he said softly. Then he smiled, a tender, poignant smile that crinkled his eyes and made her want to cry. “Hell, I guess we’ve been saying them from the moment we met.”
“I know . . .”
They stood for a long time, gazing at each other. If it were possible, she fell in love with him even more. Finally, she couldn’t stand how much it hurt to look at him.
She pulled away from his hand and went to the window. He came up behind her. She wanted him to take her in his arms, but he just stood there, distant and apart.
“I’ve been married for almost twenty years,” she said quietly, watching her own reflection in the glass. She saw her mouth move, heard the words come out of her lips, but it felt as if it were another woman talking.
And it was. Annalise Colwater.
Slowly, slowly, she turned to face him.
“I love you, Annie.” He said it like he said everything, with a quiet seriousness. “It feels like I’ve loved you forever.” His voice was gravelly and low. “I never knew it could be this way . . . that love could catch you when you fell. . . .”
The words made her feel fragile, as if she were crafted of hundred-year-old glass and could be shattered by the touch of the wind. “Oh, Nick . . .”
He moved closer, close enough to kiss, but he didn’t touch her. He just stared down at her through those sad blue eyes and gave her a smile that contained all his joy and sadness, his hope and fear.
And his knowing. His knowing that love wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. That sometimes it could break your heart. “I need to know, Annie . . . am I in love alone?”
Annie closed her eyes. “I don’t want to say it, Nick. Please . . .”
“I’m going to be alone, Annie, we both know that. As the months pass, I’m going t
o start forgetting you—the way your eyes crinkle in the corner when you smile, the way you bite down on your lower lip when you’re nervous, the way you chew on your thumbnail when you watch the news.”
He touched her face with a tenderness that broke her heart. “I don’t want to make you cry. I just want to know that I’m not crazy. I love you. And if I have to let you go to make you happy, I’ll do it, and you’ll never hear from me again. But, God, Annie, I have to know how you feel—”
“I love you, Nick.” She smiled sadly. “I’m crazy in love with you. Over the moon in love with you. But it doesn’t matter. We both know that.”
“You’re wrong, Annie. Love matters. Maybe it’s the only thing that does.”
Without waiting for her to answer, he leaned down and gave her one last tender kiss—a kiss that tasted of tears and regret, a last kiss that said good-bye.
As Annie walked through the house, it occurred to her that she should have left something behind, a sweater hanging in the closet or a pair of shoes tucked under the bed. There was nothing of her here now, no token that recalled the times she’d laughed in this room or the nights she’d slept in Nick’s arms.
Biting down on her lower lip, she went to Izzy’s room and found the little girl sitting on the end of her bed, her feet swinging just above the floor. She was wearing Annie’s white sweater, the cashmere cardigan with the pearl buttons. A pretty lacquered box lay open on her lap.
“Hey, Izzy-bear,” Annie said softly, “can I come in?”
Izzy looked up. She tried to smile, but already her brown eyes held a sheen of tears. “You wanna look through my collection again?”
Annie went to the bed and sat down beside Izzy. She pointed to a pretty purple ring. “That one is awfully pretty.”
“It was my grandma Myrtle’s . . . and these buttons were my mommy’s.” Izzy picked out a big cream-colored one with four holes in the middle. She handed it to Annie. “Smell it.”
Annie took the button and lifted it to her nose.
“That one smells like my mommy’s bedroom.”
Slowly, Annie put the button down. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded-up handkerchief. It was a pretty pink thing with a big red AVC sewn across the bottom. “Why don’t you put this in your collection?”
Izzy pressed it to her nose. “It smells like you.”
Annie was afraid she was going to cry. “Does it?”
Izzy pulled a faded pink ribbon from her box. “Here. This is one o’ my hair ribbons. You can have it.”
Annie took the satin ribbon. “Thanks, pumpkin.”
Izzy closed her box and clambered into Annie’s lap. Annie held her tightly, savoring the feel of her, the smell of her hair.
Finally, Izzy drew back, and her brown eyes were huge in her pale face. Annie could tell that she was doing her best not to cry. “Today’s the day, isn’t it? You’re leavin’ us.”
“Yes, Izzy, today’s the day.”
Izzy swallowed hard. “But, Annie, who’s gonna braid my hair now? Who’s gonna paint my toenails and make me look pretty?”
Annie couldn’t meet Izzy’s earnest, overbright eyes. Forcing a wan smile, she took the child’s hand. “Come with me.” She led Izzy outside. They walked through the soggy grass, and Annie eased open the new white gate to the garden. They picked their way down the stone path toward the park bench that sat in the midst of the flowers.
They stared in silence at the blooming flowers, and Annie knew that, like her, Izzy was remembering the day they’d planted them. Afterward, when the first flower had bloomed, she and Izzy and Nick had sat in the garden in a darkening night and shared their memories of Kathy. They’d laughed and cried and talked. And since then, Izzy said that every new blossom reminded her of her mommy.
Izzy scooted closer. Annie tried to shore up her courage for what was to come. With a sigh, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the antique coin. Closing her damp fingers around the slim metal disk, she stared blindly at the colorful wash of blooming flowers. “I’m going to miss you something fierce, Izzy.”
“I know, but you gotta go be with your daughter now.”
It was a heartbeat before Annie could find her voice. “Yes.”
“I wish . . . I wish I was your daughter.”
“Oh, Izzy . . . your mommy loved you very, very much. And your daddy loves you with all his heart and soul.”
Izzy turned to her. “Natalie could come here, couldn’t she? I’d let her have my room. And when the baby comes, he could sleep with me. I’d . . . I’d share Miss Jemmie with him. Honest, I would. I’ll be a good girl, I promise. I’ll brush my teeth and make my bed and eat my vegetables.”
“You already are a good girl, Izzy.” She touched the child’s small, tear-streaked face. “Natalie and I have a home in California. And the baby has a daddy who misses me.”
Izzy sighed. “I know. By Disneyland.”
“Um-hmm.” She squeezed Izzy’s tiny hand. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Izzy. I’ll be thinking about you, and I’ll call you lots and lots. . . .” Her voice cracked, and for a minute the pain was so intense, Annie was afraid she was going to spoil everything by bursting into tears. “I’ll always love you, Izzy-bear.”
“Yeah.” It was a quiet sigh, barely audible.
She twisted around to face Izzy. “I need you to do something for me while I’m gone.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to take care of your daddy for me. He’s big and strong, but he’s going to need you sometimes.”
“He’s gonna be sad.”
The words stung. “Yes.” She handed Izzy the coin they’d found at the abandoned ranger’s station, the one Izzy had asked Annie to protect. “You’d better give this to your daddy. He’s a safe place now, Izzy. You can trust him with everything.”
Izzy stared at the coin in Annie’s hand; then, slowly, she looked up. Tears magnified her brown eyes. “You keep it.”
“I can’t.”
Izzy’s tears started to fall. “You keep it, Annie. Then I know you’ll be back.”
The next thing she knew, Annie was crying. She pulled Izzy into her lap and hugged her. It started to rain softly; droplets slid down the white pickets and hit the marshy grass, their fall as quiet as the sound of a woman’s tears or of a soul breaking softly in two.
“I love you, Izzy,” she whispered, stroking the child’s hair. Then, very softly, she said, “Good-bye.”
Nick left Izzy with Lurlene and followed Annie out of town, keeping the squad car a safe distance behind. He felt like one of those crazy stalkers, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed her all the way to the Hood Canal Bridge.
There, he pulled over and got out, watching her red Mustang speed across the bridge, becoming smaller and smaller and smaller.
And finally, just as suddenly as she’d come into his life, she was gone.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bank of beautiful delicate yellow flowers along the edge of the road.
Look, Annie, the glacier lilies are blooming. The thought came out of nowhere, cutting deep. He could no longer turn to her and say whatever came to mind. Besides, she was going to a place where flowers bloomed all year.
The urge for a drink came on him, hard and fast.
He closed his eyes. Please, God, help me hold on . . .
But the prayer was useless. He felt himself starting to fall, and there was no one to catch him. He lurched for his car and jumped in. The car spun away from the bridge turnout, fishtailing back onto the highway, speeding back toward Mystic.
At Zoe’s, he found his favorite chair empty, waiting for him in the darkened corner. It was middle-of-the-day quiet, with just the occasional clinking of a heavy glass on the bar and the low buzz of a television.
It looked like it always had, and for no good reason, that surprised him. The same oak bar, flanked by empty stools. The same cheap fans, circling tiredly overhead, barely disturbing the smoky air. T
here weren’t more than a handful of people in the place, the old faithfuls who’d staked out their usual spots and sat, glassy-eyed and smoking, clutching drinks.
“Jesus, Nick, where yah been?”
Nick looked up and saw Zoe standing by him. She plunked a drink down in front of him. Then, with a slow nod, she turned and headed back to her place at the bar.
Nick took the glass in his hand. It felt cool and smooth and comforting. He swirled it around, watching the booze shimmer in the dull light from an overhead fixture.
He brought the drink to his lips, inhaling the sweet, familiar fragrance of the scotch. Drink . . . drink, said a tiny voice deep inside. You know it will take the pain away. . . .
It was seductive, that voice, luring him into the fragrance of the scotch, promising a solution to the pain in his heart, a blurring filter through which to remember Annie.
He wanted to guzzle this drink and then order another and another and another, until he could barely remember that he’d loved her in the first place.
But then he thought of Izzy.
Can I come home, Izzy? When he’d said those words to her, he’d wanted her trust more than anything else in the world. And he wanted it still.
The booze wouldn’t help; the rational part of his brain knew that. He’d get drunk—be a drunk again—and then what? Annie wouldn’t be any closer to coming back to him, and he would have failed his little girl again.
He slammed the drink down, threw a ten-dollar bill onto the table, and lurched to his feet, backing away. At the bar, he waved at Zoe. “I’m outta here.”
She grabbed a wet towel from underneath the bar and wiped the wood down, eyeing him. “You okay, Nick?”
He tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Good as always, Zoe.”
He raced out of the bar. His hands were shaking and his throat felt uncomfortably dry, but he was glad to be out of there.
He ran until his side ached and his breathing was ragged, until the need for a drink didn’t consume him. Then he sat for two hours on a park bench, watching the sun slowly set on Main Street. Breath by breath, the panic and fear passed. The pain was still there, throbbing on his heart like an open wound, and he recognized that it would be there for a long, long time, but Annie had changed him, helped him to see himself in a different and kinder light. That’s what he had to focus on now. He had a life that mattered, a daughter who loved and needed him. Falling apart was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Kristin Hannah Page 26
