Cooper had said the café was just on the outskirts of town, but she didn’t know which end, or its name. So far she hadn’t passed anything, but she was well outside of the village center now. She picked up her phone, intending to Google Stowe eateries, but of course she had no service. Frustrated, she tossed the phone back on the passenger seat.
Ahead, a sharp curve took her around a large outcropping of rocky hillside. On the other side of the road a silver trail of river snaked through a gully. The road straightened, dotted with only a few clapboard houses and inns, and she followed it another mile. She was just about to give up when a small red house caught her attention up ahead. There was a sign in front covered in white lights. “Andy’s Café.” This had to be it.
Cooper’s truck was not parked in the small gravel lot. Iris’s heart sank, but it was quickly followed by a surge of anger at herself. What had she been expecting? She had no idea if this was the right place. Or if Cooper was even in town, for sure. It dawned on her that this might be a big mistake.
Iris did not know how long she sat outside Andy’s. She stared numbly at the twinkly white lights that adorned the hand-painted sign. Even in her haze of confusion, its charm was not lost on her. The little café was barely larger than one of Millie’s potting sheds, and yet it had old barn siding and transom windows with teeming flower boxes. A copper gooseneck lantern hung over the front door. Lily would’ve thought the place magical, the stuff of fairies.
When her stomach began to rumble, Iris realized she’d been stewing in the car for over thirty minutes. At the very least she needed to eat something. Stiffly, Iris got out of the car and stretched. The chalkboard sign by the front listed crème fraîche pancakes as today’s breakfast special. Mouth watering, she hoped they’d still serve them.
They did. When she’d dragged the last forkful of fluffy pancake through the puddle of maple syrup on her plate, Iris was stuffed. It was time to go home. Paul and the kids would be wondering. Paul would probably be impatient; what reason did she have for delaying her return? She’d suddenly decided to go antiquing in Vermont? Iris closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
“Is that all, ma’am?” The waitress was about Millie’s age, though soft around the edges and quick with a smile. Iris was half tempted to ask her to drive her home. She was suddenly exhausted.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Why don’t I get you another cup of coffee, hon. Would you like that?”
Iris nodded, her eyes still closed. Yes, she should ask this nice lady to drive her home. She’d probably stay below the speed limit and keep the radio turned to something soft, so Iris could sleep. She might even come in and make them all dinner when they arrived home.
The bell above the door jingled again.
“Would you like cream in that coffee, honey?”
“Better make that a decaf, Mary.”
Iris’s eyes flew open at the sound of his voice. Cooper Woods stood across from her.
His eyes were glassy with emotion, but his voice was steady. “Caffeine makes her talk too fast,” he said. “Though I love the sound of her voice.” He sat down across from her and ran a hand over his eyes. “But then again, she talks so much it’s hard to get a word in, anyway.”
“Decaf it is.” Mary disappeared, leaving Iris floundering for words.
“What are you doing here?” Iris sputtered.
“Me?” Cooper laughed.
Iris flushed deeply, the reality of what she’d done rushing at her. He was here. And so was she.
“Iris, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” she sputtered. “Now it is.” She composed herself and looked him in the eye. “I want to have lunch here with you next week.”
Cooper’s brow furrowed. “Next week?”
“Yes.” She was grinning—it was all making sense now.
“I don’t understand. I thought you were going home.”
“I am going home. I have to. But I want to have lunch with you next week. And the week after that. And the next one, too.”
Cooper studied her carefully, his head cocked to one side. The corner of his mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Iris couldn’t help it. She laughed, with joy and nervousness and relief. “This can work. My marriage is over; I know that for sure now. Hell, I knew it before you and I even began.” She paused, looking at him in earnest. “So, I have to go home and get through that. But as I do, I want you in my life, Cooper.”
The look on his face wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping for. The smile disappeared, and Cooper glanced to the door, and back at her. “Iris, you don’t owe me any promises. I’m so glad you’re here, but after everything you said at my cabin . . .”
She reached across the table, knocking the saltshaker over, and grabbed his hand. “I’m not making you a promise. I’m making a lunch date. Every week, until I figure things out. However long it takes.”
“Are you sure about this?” His voice was soft, uncertain.
Iris squeezed his hand. “Cooper, this summer I came home. Not just home to my parents’ farm or to my crazy family. But home to myself. And I’m not leaving that ever again.”
“What about Paul? And the kids?”
“It’s going to be hard. But it’s not fair to the kids, or even to Paul, to pretend. I don’t want to raise a family in a house full of sadness.”
Iris looked out the window at the maple trees across the main road. Already, the edges of the leaves were hued in the yellow of fall. “If anything, Leah made me realize life is too short.” She paused and took a deep breath. “My kids will always come first, but that doesn’t have to mean I come last.”
Cooper listened intently, his eyes moving over her face as she spoke. When she finished he blinked and sat back in his chair. He was still holding her hand.
Mary returned with their coffees, and set one cup in front of Iris and the other before Cooper. “One decaf, one regular. Anything else?”
“The menu, please,” Cooper said finally. His eyes still on Iris.
“You don’t want your regular, hon?” Mary asked.
Cooper shook his head, grinning in that boyish way that made Iris’s breath catch in her chest. “I think I’d better try something new this time. It seems we’ll be coming here a lot more often.”
Forty
The postcard showed a bird’s-eye view of the farm’s north field, dappled orange with fat round squash. Leah’s dreamy script covered the back in one sweeping sentence. “Come pick a pumpkin!”
Fall had spread through New England, tracing the leaves in gold and tickling the fresh-mown lawns with its detritus. Each morning the air was crisp, the scent of wood smoke thick, as Iris wrapped her neck with one of Millie’s pilfered woolen scarves before walking Samson.
Now, as she stood at the counter in her kitchen, Iris set the postcard down and looked outside. Sadie stood at the mailbox, her skinny long legs once browned by the summer sun now covered in denim, like two navy toothpicks. From here, she looked so grown-up. Beside her, Jack bent over a mud puddle, dragging a stick through the water. He dropped it for a rock, which he tossed into the puddle. Iris watched as Sadie jumped back, scolding him. Lily laughed and brandished the muddy stick, and began chasing them both. The kids were okay.
It had been a long couple of months back home. Iris was thankful the kids were happily settled into their new classes at school; the routine had ferried them through the rougher days. Paul, to her dismay, had been more surprised than she’d imagined when she came home late that August afternoon to tell him it was over.
There were long October nights when Iris cried, alone under her sheets, wondering if this was all a terrible mistake. But when she stood at her window and looked up at the rich constellations dotting the darkness, she felt something lift. Remembering the sky over Ham
pstead Lake. The person she’d returned to that summer. And the family still awaiting her there. And then she knew they’d get through, somehow.
They’d agreed easily to joint custody, and were cognizant of allowing the kids access to them both whenever they wished. For now, Iris and the kids remained in the house. The advance for the new book had given her some cushioning, at least for the present. It wouldn’t hit store bookshelves for another year. In the meantime, she had taken on two new authors, turning Paul’s den into her own office, and while the work was still young, she felt promise.
As for Cooper, she kept her promise about lunch. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes once every other. They spoke on the phone before bed every night, his voice in her ear as crisp as the fall air.
In the beginning, Iris had worried so much about dividing herself, about the going back and forth, and what it meant both for herself and for the kids. But she was learning that those were only places; she already had what she needed inside. And what was missing, Cooper was gently filling in. With each word, each whisper, each touch.
Now, Iris ran her finger over the orange pumpkins on the postcard once more, and glanced up at the wall clock. The bus was coming. No time for a coat. She raced outside and down the driveway, her breath coming in short white puffs.
“Is that for me?” Lily asked, grabbing the postcard from her hand.
“The pumpkins,” Iris huffed, doubling over. “They’re ready.”
Jack frowned. “For what?”
“Aunty Leah says the pumpkins are ready to pick. Who wants to go to the farm this weekend?”
• • •
As the school bus doors slapped shut, Iris tucked the postcard back in her vest pocket. She waved heartily as the bus heaved itself back onto the road, and away. Lily’s grinning face growing smaller in the window.
In the end, it was not about Paul or Cooper, or even the new book with Trish. It was something her father had said. The words were murky now, as time tends to make things, but the sentiment remained visceral. Bill Standish had warned her about roads. The winding and the scenic, the ones that rose up over craggy hilltops and vanished down the other side. It was something that coursed inside her, a lane that led her away and back again to what mattered most. More than one road led home. It was all right to change course, as long as she kept her compass pointed in the right direction. And for the first time in a long time, Iris knew the way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In keeping with the title, I am so thankful for all the “sisters” in my life. To those girls with whom I laugh, cry, walk my dogs, throw together recipes, share my bike, carpool . . . you know when to show up with a bottle of wine, and never question the chicken feathers in the backseat. Jennifer, Jen, Sarah, Jamie, Alexander, Dawn, Amy C., Becky, Amy R., and all the rest: you know who you are. May you also know how fiercely I love each and every one of you.
I must thank the incredibly talented and always effervescent MacKenzie Fraser Bub, of Trident Media, who first got her hands on these pages and left no room for guessing in her enthusiasm for this story. You remained steadfastly on board, from first read to completion—always checking in. I’m so grateful for our partnership. And I love that you tote a hammer in that sleek handbag! Thank you.
Thank you to my amazing editor, Megan Reid, at Emily Bestler Books, who fell in love with these sisters and eagerly took the reins. I remain in awe of your expedience, your sharp ear, and your belief in Iris. You’re a sister at heart yourself; I knew that this story was in competent hands from the moment we met. Working with you has been pure joy.
To Emily Bestler, who leads a powerhouse team at Emily Bestler Books, of Simon & Schuster. I am ever grateful for your kind words, which were both generous and immensely meaningful to me as a writer. I am honored to be on your team.
Family is everything. And families make good stories. To my parents, Marlene and Barry, who first taught me the love of a good book. To my brothers, Jesse and Josh, who survived the shared stories of our childhood that delight my own children today. To my grandmother Marjorie, the real storyteller of the family, whose ebullient voice still rises in my memories. And to my grandfather Seth, who still delights in a good dog tale. Most of all to my own family: to Jason, Grace, and Finley. You are the reasons I do what I do every day. You are my reasons for everything.
OTHER BOOKS BY HANNAH MCKINNON
(AS HANNAH ROBERTS-MCKINNON)
Franny Parker
The Properties of Water
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Hannah Roberts McKinnon
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
ISBN 978-1-4767-7764-1
ISBN 978-1-4767-7766-5 (ebook)
The Lake Season Page 36
