Would you like some more tea, dear?” Mrs. Lightman asked.
“No, thank you,” Quinn said. “I’m still drinking this.” She picked up her half-full cup for emphasis. Taking a sip, she smiled at Mrs. Lightman. “It’s wonderful, by the way. I’ll have to get the name of it before I leave.”
“It’s Lipton’s English Breakfast Tea,” Mrs. Lightman said.
“Oh. Well, it’s delicious. Good old Lipton’s,” she said, with a cheery smile, thinking that everything she’d said since she’d arrived at the Lightmans’ house fifteen minutes ago had sounded inane. Which was unusual. Quinn was good at talking, both talking to other people and getting other people to talk to her. Neither of these traits was in evidence now, though. And that was a shame, because it was so quiet in the Lightmans’ living room that it made her want to fill the silence or, if not fill it, at least break it. She put her cup back in its saucer now, just a little too hard, and its clinking sound startled Mrs. Lightman.
“Sorry,” Quinn said, in something close to a whisper. She’d finished writing about Jake an hour earlier in the parking lot of the Butternut Motel but the memory of that fall afternoon had lingered: the vivid patch of blue sky at the tunnel’s end, the crunch of leaves beneath her feet, the feel of Jake’s warmth against her. Having summoned it forth, she found that she didn’t want to let it go. But the present was calling, and it was the present that had prompted her to go visit Jake’s grave at Prairie Oaks Cemetery in Winton. She’d visited it several times in the spring of her senior year, and she had little trouble finding his gravestone. It was at the end of a long row, flanked on either side by small black spruce trees. Jake Lightman, “taken from us too early, forever in our hearts,” the epitaph read. She’d brushed some fallen twigs off the gravestone. Then she’d made the short drive to the Lightmans’ house. It wasn’t until Mr. Lightman had answered the door, smiled, and hugged her warmly that the spell of that fall afternoon was broken. She’d felt grateful and relieved that Mr. Lightman was happy to see her.
Quinn broke off a piece of cookie and nibbled on it.
“Those are Pepperidge Farm,” Mrs. Lightman told her. “Raspberry Thumbprint. There’s more in the kitchen,” she added, though Quinn still had three of them left on a little plate beside her teacup and saucer. She smiled her thank-you, though, and Mrs. Lightman disappeared back into the kitchen, presumably to get some more. Quinn exhaled and looked around the living room as if she were seeing it for the first time. And, in a way, she was. She and Jake had seldom come in here. As she studied it, she realized it had an odd, almost . . . padded quality to it. The wall-to-wall carpeting was gingerbread thick, the curtains were heavy, and even the furniture seemed entombed in its own upholstery. Was that why it was so quiet in the room, she wondered, because everything in it absorbed sound? But it was more than the room’s silence that disturbed her. Because while it was clean—there were fresh vacuum lines on the carpet, and not a speck of dust on the cabinet that held Jake’s trophies—the room had an unused, airless feeling to it. Maybe Jake’s parents never came in here, either, she speculated, unless they had guests. Or maybe their whole house feels this way, as if the two people who still live here live here in such a way as to not disturb the past.
“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Lightman said, reappearing. She set another plate of cookies down on the coffee table, right next to the identical plate of cookies she’d already brought her, and Quinn, unsure of what else to do, popped a whole one into her mouth.
Mrs. Lightman waited, as though she was used to waiting. She was still attractive, Quinn thought. Her auburn hair showed no trace of gray and was swept back, off her face, and then twisted in an elegant knot and held in a clasp at the back of her neck. She was wearing pale pink lipstick, and her outfit, a beige-edged white blouse with a beige wool cardigan and dark gray wool slacks, was no less chic for being so conservative. As Quinn swallowed her cookie, the dry crumbs catching in her throat, she had an image of Mrs. Lightman putting on her lipstick in front of her bedroom mirror every morning. She would do it without a feeling of anticipation or enjoyment. She would do it because, in her mind, it needed to be done. She would keep up appearances, though Quinn couldn’t help but wonder at the effort it must cost her to keep them up.
Now Mr. Lightman came into the room and sat down on the edge of the sofa. He smiled at Quinn, and she tried, again, to start a conversation. “I thought the dedication was so moving,” she said to them both. But it was Jake’s mother who responded.
“It was more of a warning than a dedication, wasn’t it?” she asked Quinn, a frown wrinkling her brow.
“In what way?” Quinn asked, taken aback.
“Oh, students, you know. They’re still talking about driving out on the ice at Shell Lake. Not in the winter. Not when it would be safer. But in the spring. When it starts to melt. You know, kind of like a dare.”
Quinn must have looked astonished because Mr. Lightman chimed in. “No, it’s true. None of them remember Jake, of course. Not personally. But they all know the date he died. It’s become something of an urban legend, I suppose you’d say. Or, out here, a rural legend,” he added. “Anyway, last spring, when we were having an early thaw, some seniors were going to drive out there, to prove what, I don’t know, their own stupidity, I guess. But someone called the police and they got down there before they followed through. That’s when Mr. Mulvaney started talking about the dedication. He thought it would be a kind of deterrent. He never said as much, to us, but I think he hoped it would be one in the future.”
Quinn nodded. So this was why he’d required the junior class to go to the ceremony. And she remembered the girl with too much eye shadow, standing next to Quinn and scrolling down her iPhone screen.
“Well, obviously, I don’t want young people driving on the ice,” Mrs. Lightman said, as if someone had just accused her of wanting this. “I don’t want an accident like Jake’s to happen to anyone else. But the truth is, I’ll never go visit that stone. Before yesterday I hadn’t been to Shell Lake in ten years. When I want to pay my respects to Jake, I go to his grave.”
“That makes sense,” Quinn said. And here she took the opportunity to tell the Lightmans about her own visit to his grave before she’d come here. They nodded politely. But when the conversation fell silent again, she said, “I spoke to Tanner at the ceremony. He looked well.”
“We don’t see him that often,” Mrs. Lightman said, and she looked briefly down at her hands.
“No?” Quinn said, surprised. Tanner had told her he came up here at least once a month. She looked at Mr. Lightman, as if he might clarify the situation, but he only nodded in agreement.
“I’ll probably see him again,” Quinn said, trying to keep the conversation moving. “He told me he’s staying at Loon Bay this week, and I’m checking in there tonight.”
Jake’s parents exchanged looks. Had she said something wrong? She remembered Tanner at the dedication saying he and his mom “didn’t get along,” though she had no idea what he’d meant by this. But she got the distinct feeling sitting here in the Lightmans’ living room that there was indeed some kind of conflict between them.
Mr. Lightman started to say something, but Mrs. Lightman intervened.
“I had no idea you were planning on visiting for this long, Quinn. Surely you’re very busy back home. There can’t be much for you to do in Butternut.”
“Oh . . . well,” Quinn said, surprised, and a little confused, that Mrs. Lightman seemed to be discouraging her from staying longer. “I thought I’d spend a little more time in town. I’ve been away for so long,” she said, feeling this explanation was lame. But how could she explain to Mrs. Lightman her need to be in Butternut right now and how much of that need had to do with her son and the accident?
“Well, of course, you should do what you want,” Mrs. Lightman said. “But why would you want to stay at Loon Bay?”
“The price is right?” Quinn suggested, with a smile.
“That may be so, dear,” Mrs. Lightman said, leaning forward. “But you can stay here with us, if you’d like. We’d love to have you. And you wouldn’t have to pay for a room.”
“Oh,” Quinn said, feeling anxious at the thought. Mrs. Lightman wasn’t suggesting she stay in Jake’s old room, was she? “No, no, thank you,” she said. “That is so kind of you to offer, though. But I’m doing some writing while I’m here and I might be keeping odd hours. I don’t want to disturb you. And, um, I’m only going to be here for another couple of days.” She hurried on. “I wanted to spend some time with a friend of mine, Gabriel Shipp. He lives on Butternut Lake. I saw him yesterday.” And he is so changed, she almost said. But it felt wrong to be sharing her worry over Gabriel with someone whose own unhappiness was already boundless. And she remembered with a sting having explained to Theresa that the reason she hadn’t gone to the reception was so she could see him. There was a long pause while Mrs. Lightman considered Quinn’s excuse. Or maybe she was considering the imaginary crumb she was now brushing off her cardigan.
“I see, dear. If you change your mind, though, there’s always a room for you here,” she said. She looked sad when she said this and then looked down at her hands folded in her lap. The days must be so long for Mrs. Lightman, Quinn thought. And she wanted to hug this frail but beautiful woman or take her away somewhere, anywhere but here. But of course it would make no difference. She’d take her grief with her wherever she went.
“Maggie,” Mr. Lightman said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “are you getting tired?”
“I am, Paul.” She turned to Quinn. “Sorry, dear. I need to rest every afternoon.” And Quinn saw her eyes drift, as though foreshadowing her retreat.
“Of course,” Quinn said, standing up. She was ashamed at how relieved she felt by the prospect of leaving this house. “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “And the cookies.”
Mr. and Mrs. Lightman rose, too, and then Mrs. Lightman surprised Quinn by taking her hands and holding them in her own cool, dry hands that felt, somehow, as unused as this room. “You look so lovely, Quinn,” she said. And for the first time since Quinn had arrived Mrs. Lightman looked directly into her eyes. “You know Jake made some mistakes. But he loved you very much,” she said. “He was planning on the two of you still seeing each other on weekends in college. He told me once he wanted to marry you. He was so happy with you, dear.” Her blue eyes were shining.
Quinn was stunned. When she looked at Mr. Lightman, though, he nodded his agreement, as if he, too, had been privy to this information. Obviously, Jake’s parents had never found out that she’d broken up with him the night he’d died. Well, she wouldn’t be telling them this now. And, for a moment, she felt almost light-headed with tiredness. She had to get a good night’s sleep sometime soon. Mrs. Lightman had her scheduled nap to look forward to every day. And for her, even an hour of unconsciousness must have felt like a sweet gift.
“Paul will walk you out, dear,” she said to Quinn now, giving her hands another squeeze. “And don’t forget, you’re always welcome here.”