CHAPTER 13
ABI
Riddles
As I examine my reflection in the mirror—dark hair hanging long and smooth down my back, eyes rimmed in smoky charcoal, body sheathed in a simple dress of royal blue—I can’t help wondering why I’m doing this. I came back to Molly’s Knob because this was, and probably will always be, my one true home. I craved the peace I knew I would find here, but I also needed to do good things for other people. Kind of like a karmic cleanse, if that’s even possible at this point.
I knew when I saw the sadness in Sam’s eyes on day one that I would help him if I could. I knew when I saw the curiosity in Sara’s that I owed it to her to show that nothing is going on between Sam and me, and the only way I could do that was to accept her invitation. To put her feelings above my own. And plus, there was little Noelle.
But what if, what if, there is a part of me that wants to see Sam again?
God, that’s despicable. He’s married. And I’m here to do good, not to dabble in things that will send me to hell rather than save me from it.
But if I don’t go, what will that say to Sara Forrester?
I don’t know.
I’ve gotten myself so confused over it that now I just want to go and get it over with, however it ends.
I give my reflection another once over. I didn’t want to dress like a slob to make a point. That could be insulting to Sara. But I didn’t want to over dress either, so I chose something simple. A dress that, I hope, is appropriate without going anywhere near the she’s-trying-to-look-nice-for-her-ex realm.
I have no idea how I actually look to someone who isn’t stark raving mad.
But this is how I’m going, for better or worse. I don’t have time to change, and I’m not going to be rude and show up late. That might give an even worse impression. So, spinning away from the mirror, I slip my feet into sandals and head for the living room to grab my purse from the chair by the door.
I jump in the car. Even though I could probably walk to Sam’s house in half an hour, I don’t want to risk angering the foot any more than my increased anxiety level likely will.
The main road I drove in on when I got back to Molly’s Knob dead ends at Lake Mist. Right brings me here to my cabin. Left would take me to Sam’s. All of Lake Mist wraps around the cove in a gently meandering path. I am at one end of the street. Sam is at the other. Our lake is in between. Something about that seems poetic and tragic all at once.
The sun is dying as I pull up in front of my destination. The little place I’m renting is one of the older structures around the lake. It’s charmingly rustic.
Sam’s, however, is not.
It’s new.
His house is the picture of a tastefully luxurious lake home. Its façade is a mixture of wood and stone, done in all natural hues, making it look as though it sprung from the ground itself. The roofline boasts multiple peaks and I can imagine, with the slope of the yard leading down toward the lake, that the back is mostly glass. Considering the sheer size of the place, I assume that Sam and Sara are planning on having more children. It can hold several more bodies to fill the rooms and a lot more laughter to fill the air.
As I make my way to the front door I squash a pang of envy. It has no place in my heart, in my life. Ruthlessly, I drum up a smile instead.
I check my watch when I ring the bell. 6:58.
The door is answered in a timely manner, the broad, heavy wood pulled open to reveal a casually dressed Sam holding his child on one hip.
His smile seems to falter a bit when his gray eyes quickly rake my frame from head to toe. He snaps them up to my face, almost guiltily, and steps back to wave me inside.
“Come on in, Abi. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Me, too. Me, too,” Noelle chimes happily from her perch like a pretty little songbird. In one of her hands is a doll, whose dress is a few shades lighter than the one I’m wearing. “Your dress is blue!”
“It is indeed.”
Noelle thrusts her doll toward me. “This is Mia. She’s my favorite because her dress is blue. Blue is my favorite color, just like your eyes. See?”
“Ohhhh.” I make the appropriate fuss over the doll, rounding my eyes and lips. “I do see. She’s very pretty, and so is her dress.”
“I told you.”
“Yes, you did.”
Noelle kicks her legs and her father, sensitive to nonverbal cues like any good parent would be, lowers her to the ground. She comes to take my hand and I let her pull me away, happy to have a distraction from Sam.
“Come to my room,” she says, tugging me forward.
“Just show it to her and then come straight back down. Dinner will be ready soon,” Sam warns.
As I’m being whisked away, I ask over my shoulder, “Is there something I can do to help get things ready?”
I’m really regretting not bringing a bottle of wine, but since I know absolutely nothing about this couple, and Sara specifically told me not to bring anything, I am empty-handed.
“Not a thing. I’ve got it all under control.”
I nod and let Noelle lead me from the cozy foyer to a beautiful winding staircase with decorative wrought iron railing. Half of my mind is taking in details of the house, like the attractively distressed hardwoods, the intricately designed ceilings, and the sand-colored walls, while the other half is wondering over Sam’s phrasing. I’ve got it all under control.
Does that mean he does all the cooking, too? It seems like he made the cookies. And he does at least some of the grocery shopping. And he brought food to the community café. And he’s had his daughter with him each time. I can’t help wondering what Sara does with her time.
At the top of the steps, Noelle turns left and then releases my hand to run in to the first room on the left. She jumps expertly onto the bed and then turns to look at me with wide, flashing emerald eyes. “This is my room.”
I walk in to what looks like the boudoir of a princess. The walls are the softest pink with mint green ribbons painted around the room halfway up. Someone, likely Sara, made real satin bows and attached them to the ribbon at regular intervals, bows that match the bows on Noelle’s pink-and-green comforter. A white rocking chair sits in one corner, and the white matching chest, dresser and nightstand are adorned with little pink and green bows painted on the front of each drawer. It’s tasteful and feminine and everything I can imagine a mother wanting her little girl to have. It’s also everything I can imagine a little girl wanting. In short, it’s perfect, nothing less than I would expect from the perfect couple with the perfect family and the perfect life.
I smile. Rather than envy, I only feel joy, happiness that someone who has mattered to me for the better part of my life has gotten everything he could ever want. If anyone deserves perfect, it’s Sam. Sam and this innocent little girl.
“This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.” The words muffle at the end, my throat tight as I think of another little girl’s room that was befitting of a princess. It was different but the same. It just didn’t turn out well for her.
I mentally shake off the thought. I can’t go there.
“Did you have a room like this when you were little?”
“No, but I wanted one. This is like a princess’s room.”
“It is. Daddy says I’m his princess, but I like to be his little bee.”
“You can be both, I bet.”
“Yeah.” Her tone says she’s already bored with the conversation. “Look at my books,” she exclaims, leaping off the bed and giving me heart failure as she lunges toward a white bookshelf set into one corner.
I meet her in front of a collection of Golden Books. “Do you know all these stories?”
“Not yet, but Mommy is going to read me a different one every night until I do.”
“She sounds like a good mommy.”
“Uh-huh,” she agrees, tightening one pigtail, making it sit slightly crooked on her head. “Wanna see my toys?”
“Of course,” I say, just before Sam’s voice calls from the lower level.
“Elizabeth Noelle, your time is up. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Noelle’s eyes round as she turns to me. “That was my daddy. Come on.” And just like that, we are off again, toys forgotten as we make our way back downstairs.
I follow the tiny little blonde through a stunningly appointed dining room and into a chef’s kitchen filled with glass front cabinets, gleaming stainless, and swirling granite. Sara Forrester is seated at a padded pub chair situated along the raised bar portion of the island. She slides off it, coming slowly to a stand as I approach.
“Thank you for coming,” she says kindly, her eyes shining with sincerity.
“Thank you for having me. Your home is gorgeous.”
“Oh, thank you. It took us two years to get it the way we wanted, but we’re pleased. It was worth it, wasn’t it, Sam?”
She aims her gentle smile to her husband, who is tossing a salad with tongs. What looks like four filet mignons rest on a platter to his right. “Totally worth it,” he says without turning around.
I glance around the space, at the family room adjacent to the kitchen, at the wall of windows that separates the indoors from the outdoors and the magnificent lake beyond. As I suspected, the back of the house is mostly glass, capitalizing on the incredible view. Sam’s home is turned cattycorner on the lot so that it faces the main channel. With the house nestled back in the trees that way it is, it gives the sensation of being alone with the lake and nature.
I see the flicker of candlelight in hurricane lamps on top of a table on the patio. I assume we are eating out there, as place mats have already been set out. I don’t see silverware or glassware, though.
“Can I finish setting the table? Just tell me what I can do to help.”
“Sure,” replies Sara. “I was just about to finish.” She moves gingerly to take silverware and napkins from the end of the bar, and nods to a stack of dinner plates and bread plates. “If you could bring those…”
“Of course.”
I take the plates and grab the salt-and-pepper shakers beside them, assuming they’re to go out as well, and I follow Sara to a part in the wall of glass. She puts a hand in the gap and pushes, and the clear floor-to-ceiling panel parts. It moves silently and easily, folding accordion style to open up the interior living space to the exterior one.
I follow her out into the quiet dusk, and as she places a napkin to the left of each plate, I set a bread plate to the left of that. I make another trip around to set the dinner plates.
When the plates are set, I take the silverware from Sara, smiling as I make my way back around the table, doling out eating utensils. Sara goes back inside and, before I retreat to the kitchen as well, I take a moment to revel in the stunning view. The water is flat and glassy, the darkening sky turning the lake to an inky abyss. It still calms me to look out at it, though. This place and I…we have a connection.
I startle only slightly when Sara speaks from my right shoulder. Her voice is so quiet it seems to be a part of the falling night rather than a disturbance of it. “I know what it is to live with pain, Abi.”
“Pardon me?” I begin to turn toward her, but I’m so caught off guard, I stop. I’m afraid to face her, afraid for her to see. Her words pierce all the way to the core of me, and I don’t want her to see what I might not be able to hide.
“You’re in pain. I can see it. But we have to keep on living,” she continues. “Right up until the end. No matter what.”
Still facing the water, I smile again, but I feel my lips tremble with the effort. I don’t tell her that sometimes living isn’t living at all, but slow motion dying. I don’t tell her that sometimes things happen that steal away our purpose and our hope and leave us with nothing but misery and regret. I don’t tell her because those are my burdens to bear, and I have to bear them alone.
“Maybe we can help each other.”
At that, I finally turn to face Sam’s wife. Her green eyes, so like her daughter’s, seem to glow in the dying light.
“What do you mean?”
Before she can answer, Sam interrupts. “Ladies, dinner is on.”
Sara wraps her cool, thin fingers around my forearm and squeezes, giving me a knowing smile before she turns back toward the table.
“Here, Daddy,” Noelle says, trying to hold out the big bowl of salad she’s cradling in her arms.
Sam takes it from her as he sets the platter of steaks down among the several other bowls that now populate the table’s surface. I don’t know how I missed him bringing out food, but I did. I suppose I was wrapped up in my own thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else.
Everything except the voice of my hostess as she spoke riddles into my ear.