The Lake Season

by Hannah McKinnon

  Above them the first twinkling stars had shown themselves. Staring up at them, Iris floated beside Cooper. Wondering what the kids were doing under those same stars, back at home. “It’s beautiful at this time of night,” she said finally.

  “You’re beautiful,” Cooper replied. He was looking at her.

  Iris righted herself, planting her feet firmly in the sand. How long had he been watching her like that?

  Cooper moved closer. Reaching underwater, he found one of her hands and drew it to him, pressing it to his mouth. Iris watched, trembling. As though it were someone else’s fingers pressed to his lips.

  “What are you afraid of, Iris Standish?” he asked her softly.

  “Everything.”

  Iris knew what was about to happen, but she closed her eyes anyway. Forcing aside her fears, and Trish’s voice, and all the hundreds of reasons she should turn away, climb out of the lake, and race back toward the house.

  But she did not. As the voices of her family carried across the water, rising in laughter and falling away in hushes, Iris let Cooper Woods press his wet mouth against her own. She did not pull away as he kissed her assiduously, encircling her waist with his arms. She did not flinch as he ran his hands over her slick, wet head. Nor did she cry out when he drew her toward the shore and lay down against her in the shallow waters, their bodies moving with a gentle rhythm as the lake lapped softly at every inch of their skin.

  Twenty-One

  The wedding planners had landed. With the big day looming, Tika, Leah’s coordinator, arrived to confirm the wedding’s “launch and design tactics,” something that sounded to Iris like a NASA rocket dispatch.

  Tika roared up the drive in a tiny silver Audi TT, top down and her long, red hair jetting behind her. Followed by another car, filled with people whom Iris assumed were her assistants. Polished young women with sleek ponytails and portfolios tucked under their arms, and a twiggy young man in salmon-colored pants, who sprang from the passenger seat of the Audi and shielded his eyes as he took in the house.

  “It’s an army,” Millie murmured, watching them through the kitchen window.

  “An underfed, manicured army,” Iris corrected.

  Leah swept down the porch stairs and greeted Tika with ­European-style kisses.

  “Welcome!” she said, gesturing to the porch, where Millie and Iris stood watching the congregation. The young man in salmon pants issued a perfunctory pageant-style wave.

  “This is Devon,” Tika said, “our visionary.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Leah gushed.

  “Uh-huh.” Devon snapped his head left and right, scrutinizing the property as he chewed one end of his aviator sunglasses impatiently. “So this is it?”

  Tika pressed a small clutch to her chest. “No, no, don’t worry. The reception site is up that way.” She pointed toward the barn, behind the house.

  Devon furrowed his pale brow. “I’m not feeling it.”

  Which apparently was not a good sign. Behind them the minions began to fidget, and Tika whisked open a portfolio of photos that one of the minions nervously had produced, as if on cue. “These are the shots I took last month. Remember the sloping meadow? The oak trees bordering the hill? You’ll see the site is perfect.”

  Devon, swatting at a stray fly, did not look convinced.

  “Guess this doesn’t involve me,” Iris said quickly, already making a getaway for the door.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Millie said, placing a firm arm around her daughter’s waist and drawing her to the porch steps. “Come meet the team. They’re very talented.”

  “You mean affected,” Iris whispered.

  Iris tried not to roll her eyes as she followed “the team” up the grassy rise behind the house, as the girls puffed and wobbled in their ridiculous heels. Devon led the small band, his stride brisk and impatient. Iris spotted Cooper’s truck at the barn ahead of them, and she felt even more silly following this pastel-clad band up the hill.

  “This is it?” Devon asked again. They’d paused at the main barn. He put a finger to his mouth and tapped it, clearly baffled by the scenery. He looked to Tika. “You said we were going for Out of Africa. Honey, this is decidedly more Grapes of Wrath.”

  “Africa?” Millie piped up.

  “Patience,” Tika said coolly to Devon. Though she, too, began tapping her clutch.

  “It’s this way,” Leah told them with an accommodating smile. She stepped in front of the planning party to lead the way, looking cool and unruffled in her seersucker tennis skirt and crisp blouse. “Not much farther.”

  Devon assessed Leah briefly, then, seeming to decide on something, slipped his arm into hers. “Love the sandals,” he said. “Just don’t lose me in a cornfield, okay? I’ve got a treatment at noon.”

  Iris snorted.

  Millie, who did not find any of this funny, exchanged worried looks with Tika. “He’ll be fine,” Tika assured her. “He’s a genius. And look, he adores Leah.”

  As the planning party forged uncertainly ahead, Iris stole away and ducked into the barn.

  “What’s all that about?” Cooper met her in the doorway and gestured curiously toward the departing group.

  “It’s Leah’s wedding posse. They’re scouting the joint.”

  “Sounds insidious.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Their eyes met and held, but despite the shared laugh, Iris felt uncertainty creeping in. One moment she wanted to reach out and touch his cheek; the next she wanted to run.

  “I’d better catch up with them,” she said reluctantly.

  “What for?”

  “Moral support. Millie’s about due for a heart attack,” she added. “There’s talk of Africa . . .”

  Cooper reached for Iris’s hand, ignoring her nervous chatter. “C’mere.”

  It was all the invitation she needed. In the cool shadows of the barn, Iris wrapped her arm around Cooper’s neck and kissed him on the mouth. A rise of yearning rose up inside her, and she pressed her nose into the curve of his neck, already moist with the heat of the morning. Iris inhaled his smell. A scent already familiar and comforting. Something she ached to lose herself in.

  • • •

  For the next several days, Iris did just that. As the Willetses took off for a quick pre-wedding visit to Maine, and as Leah and the planners hovered around the kitchen island with charts, Iris trusted herself to get lost. She stole away to the barn. And to the lake. And once to the shaded bed of his truck, parked in the far fields by the woods—wherever Cooper was. The rafter work in the large barn was finally complete, and with the new supply of Vermont lumber, he had moved on to the old smokehouse.

  Cooper issued Iris a special invitation to work with him. She’d risen early and headed to the lake for her usual swim one morning when she noticed something glimmering on the rock wall by the dock. It was a tool belt, with her name stitched in red across the nylon. She lifted it, appreciating the weight of the tools within. Her very own hammer. Wrench. Shears. Each sleek instrument she pulled from its pocket felt right in her hand. A small note was tucked in the largest pocket, alongside a box of nails. “For Iris, to rebuild. Love, Cooper.” It was the best gift she could ever remember being given.

  But Cooper wasn’t her only distraction. The cookbook had taken shape and it was time to put out some feelers in the publishing world. Iris put in another call to Joan Myer. Joan was not just one of her favorite editors at Wordsmith Press in Manhattan. Joan was the publisher in cookbooks. Even before the Food Network channel had besieged the publishing industry with celebrity cookbooks, Joan had predicted the wave and made her own mark with distinguished lesser-known chefs. She was also game to take on a new author, something not every editor was willing to jump at. The question was, what if that author was Iris?

  Iris put in the call to Joan’s assistant and was su
rprised when Joan picked up on the first ring. “Yes, it’s Joan.”

  “Hi there, Joan. This is Iris Standish.”

  “Iris, hello. Whatever happened to your author’s piece on family farm cuisine? Did she ever find a chef to collaborate with?”

  “Well, unfortunately, it was just a little too far out of her area of expertise.”

  Joan clicked her tongue. “Too bad. So, what else have you got for me?”

  “Well, it’s interesting you ask, actually.” Iris paused, gathering herself. “I have this friend who is an amazing cook. Top-notch, really. And she lives here, in New Hampshire, where she runs her own bakery and café.”

  “You’re summering in New Hampshire? Lucky dog. The city is positively sweltering. Disgusting, really.” Joan sighed audibly.

  “Yes, it is nice up here,” Iris answered, trying to stay on course. “So, my friend, Trish, really knows New England fare. I mean, she is New England fare.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Iris could imagine Joan glancing at her watch or checking her email. Editors were always buried. Iris had to make her pitch fast and strong.

  “So what I thought was, why not collaborate with her? I mean, she’s perfect. She’s got the experience, and we work well together. And her food—well, it’s just to die for.”

  “Right. So you teamed her up with your struggling author?”

  “No, no, not my author.” She took a deep breath. “I teamed her up with me.”

  There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  Iris sank onto the bed. “I’ve been toying with the book idea for a while. So, I thought, why not? I could do this. I mean, I am doing this.” Iris swallowed hard. “I’m writing the book. And we’ve got sample pages, if you’d be willing to take a look.”

  Joan did not answer right away.

  What was Iris doing? Poor Joan probably dealt with wannabe authors all the time. It was no different from the parents who timidly approached Iris at PTA meetings clutching hand-scrawled pages with “Just the cutest little idea for a picture book! Would you mind?” Usually about some ordinary fur-ball animal, like a squirrel. Who lived in their attic. Or some equally mundane idea, like the time her sweet elderly neighbor, Mrs. Dooley, flagged her down at the bus stop with a typewritten story about her schnauzer, Otis, who loved to chase his tail. “Oh, if you could just see him. Once he even caught it!” And the look on Mrs. Dooley’s face: bursting with hope and canine pride. They did not understand that Iris was a nonfiction agent, who could barely connect her own writers with editors in this tough market, and who did not specialize in children’s literature or squirrels, and certainly not tail-chasing schnauzers. These painful incidents happened all too often, each time leaving Iris nodding politely, sometimes even feigning false enthusiasm, as she fought the knowledge that if she did not escape quickly she would be forced to stomp this person’s dream dead like a bug. And yet here she was, doing the same thing to Joan. Only this time, Iris was Mrs. Dooley.

  As the silence stretched painfully between them, Iris decided to grab the bull by the horns. Might as well get trampled trying. “Look, Joan, I know I’m not an actual author. But I know the parent this book is intended for. And Trish knows food. We’ve been working on these recipes all summer, and they’re special. Seasonal, local, healthy fare. And all kid-friendly. It’s what every parent I know is craving. No more microwave macaroni. No more hot dogs from the freezer. We’re talking fresh, sustainable family dinners where everyone dines and unwinds together. The way we grew up, in our own family kitchens.” Finished, Iris collapsed on the bed.

  “I see,” Joan said slowly, turning the ideas over on her tongue. “Healthy but quick. Getting the family back to the table. Sustainable ingredients.” Please, Iris thought. Please ask to see some pages.

  After a pause, Joan spoke. “Tell you what. I’m heading to Long Island next weekend. If you can get me some sample chapters before that, I’ll try and take a look.”

  “Really? Oh, Joan, thank you! This means a lot.”

  “Just be patient,” Joan cautioned. “Most of the team is away right now, and I’m about to take my own two-week hiatus. It’s been god-awful here in New York. And I just wrapped a deal with National Geographic that about killed me.”

  “Congratulations,” Iris said. “Sounds like you need a break.”

  “You’ve no idea,” Joan groaned. “Okay, so let’s say you get this to me by Friday. I can’t promise I’ll get to it before I leave town, but I’ll try.”

  Iris bit her lip. Friday? She had Joan’s attention now. And she didn’t have much time left in New Hampshire with Trish. “Friday it is,” she promised.

  Twenty-Two

  Iris held her last days alone on the farm close. Each morning, she rose before the rest of the house and stepped directly into the swimsuit she’d left on the bedside rug the night before, wrapping her bathrobe tightly about her as she stole downstairs and across the dewy lawn. No longer did she wade in carefully but strode into deeper water, relishing the brisk shock against her skin. Only after she was waterlogged, her limbs heavy with exertion, did she paddle back to shore and return to the kitchen, where she sat in her damp bathrobe at the table and sipped her coffee in peace. Reflecting on the new strength she felt. Counting the days until the kids arrived. And the days she had left alone with Cooper.

  Only that particular morning, she was not alone. When she stepped back inside, her feet leaving the faintest of wet prints on the wide plank floors, she spied Millie leaning against the kitchen sink, a teacup clutched in hand. Her expression was neutral, still fogged by the early hour, but she was dressed crisply and her hair was already done.

  “Good morning,” Millie said as Iris closed the patio door behind her. For once she did not comment on the watery footprints.

  “Morning, Mom.” With the influx of guests and planners, the two had not found themselves alone together since Paul’s divorce papers or Cooper’s revelations about Leah. And it wasn’t as if either had sought the other out. There was too much to say, and yet, it all seemed somewhat pointless to Iris now, a conversation too far past due.

  Iris helped herself to a mug in the cupboard and took her usual seat at the table. Millie joined her.

  “So, the wedding plans are all set?” It was a feeble attempt at small talk, but one Iris felt she owed her mother. Besides, if she didn’t pick the topic, Millie would. And there were plenty of those that she’d rather not discuss.

  “I think so,” Millie said. “I can’t believe it’s next weekend.” Her voice was as loose as her expression, a rare thing. Iris regarded her closely.

  “You all right?”

  Millie sighed lightly. “Of course. Just busy. The wedding, the Willetses—thank goodness they went to Maine for a few days. And, well . . .” She did not add Iris and her many pressing troubles, those unwelcome guests she could practically see seated alongside them at the table, each chair filled with an ominous disappointment: Iris’s failed marriage to her right. The about-to-be-from-a-broken-home grandchildren to her left.

  “I know. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.” Iris looked apologetically at her mother. “Of course, it’s been great to be here. And great of you and Dad, to help me through all this.”

  Millie frowned, expression returning vividly to her face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Iris. Of course we’re here for you.” She regarded Iris more closely. “But since you mention it, what are your plans? You know, when summer ends . . .”

  Iris glanced out the window. “I don’t know, exactly.” It was an honest response, if a less-than-revealing one. “When the wedding’s over, I’ll go home of course. Paul and I will have to tell the kids.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “And we’ll figure out the next move from there.”

  Millie blinked several times, as if this was the wrong answer. “Don’t you think . . .�
�� she began, selecting her words cautiously. “Well, what I mean to say is, are you sure about all this? It seems so—I don’t know—final.” She paused, allowing Iris a chance to fill in the gaps, which she did not, could not, she was so taken aback.

  “Mom. Paul sent divorce papers. You saw them. Dad’s been working on them with Arthur. I don’t think there’s any going back.”

  “Oh, Iris.” Millie set her cup down impatiently. “None of this is irretrievable. You are not a sitting duck in the matter. Have you considered that? And the kids, what about those poor kids . . . ?”

  Iris put her hands to her eyes. She was tired of feeling so hollow in her mother’s presence. “Mom, I know we haven’t sat down to really talk about this yet. But I am not a sitting duck. Yes, I was taken aback by all of this in the beginning. But since I’ve been back here, things have become clearer to me.” She braved a look at her mother. “As much as I hated him for doing this, Paul’s right. We are not a healthy couple. And we sure aren’t a happy couple. In fact, we haven’t been for a really long time. You must have known that.”

  “But you made your choice,” Millie interjected, laying her cards and her expectations clearly on the table. You made your bed, Iris. Now lie in it for all eternity.

  “Is that what you want, Mom? Do you want me to just keep this going, even if it makes us all miserable? Because I used to think I could do that. In fact, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all these years. But I don’t think it’s turned out so well. Do you?”

  Millie leaned in. “It’s not just about you, Iris. It’s about the kids.”

  Which made the tears start. “Of course it is! Which is why I’ve stayed so long. And fought so hard. You knew Paul and I were in counseling. But do you know for how many years? Do you?” Her voice was high and defensive now.