LIZ
MACY EVANS CALLED their little exercise group the Walkie-Talkies, and every time she did Liz had to repress the urge to slap her. It was so tasteless. So obvious. But Liz hadn’t been crowned Miss Congeniality in the Miss Teen Minnesota pageant for nothing. Instead of scowling like she wanted to, she patted her neighbor’s bare arm and said, “Now, Macy. We’re just some friends out for a little fresh air.”
And gossip. But apparently only Liz was classy enough to keep that particular to herself.
It was just the two of them this morning, a pair of ladies pushing sixty who were regularly mistaken for much younger at a distance. Macy wore spandex capris that hugged her every slightly sagging curve (Liz wouldn’t stoop so low as to call the leopard print trashy, but it was just a hair’s breadth shy) and a tank top that tied with a bow at her waist and concealed the little tummy bulge that her twins had left behind. Of course, the boys were grown now and long gone, but they had been gracious enough to bequeath reminders of their existence: several college loans, a hole in the basement wall where one of them had once thrown a cue ball in anger, and the gray hair that Macy regularly colored a deep brown several shades darker than her natural, mousy gray.
Liz’s own almost shoulder-length saltwater-taffy-blond hair (compliments of a subtler stylist than Macy’s) was pulled back by a pale pink headband, and she was dressed in a modest white tennis dress. It was a bit of an unusual choice for the four-mile walk that they took along the lake every morning. But Liz liked to be able to move freely, and to pop in for a coffee at Sandpoint Cafe mid-workout if she felt so inclined and not stand out like a sore thumb among the summer tourist crowd. Not that spandex ever stopped Macy from also sidling up to the bar and ordering a venti skinny white mocha with an extra shot of espresso. Venti. As if Sandpoint were a Starbucks instead of a refurbished bungalow with homemade lemon meringue pies and a plump proprietor who had to be told, repeatedly, exactly what venti meant.
Sometimes Liz wondered why she and Macy were friends at all.
Macy was particularly skittish this morning, as high-strung and spirited as a newborn filly, and as they started down the hill where they both lived at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooking the water, she could barely contain herself. “You are never going to believe what I found out,” she gushed, huffing just a bit as Liz had, somewhat perversely, set a pace that agreed with her long legs and forced Macy to all but jog.
“I’m sure I won’t,” Liz demurred, dipping her head in acknowledgment. Normally she would be very interested in what Macy had to say, but everything felt off this morning. She had meant to stay up and watch for Quinn’s late-night return to the A-frame across the lake, but she had fallen asleep instead. When she woke at sunrise, Liz was irritated with herself and prickling with something weightier than idle curiosity. She had tried to call Quinn’s cell, but there was no answer.
“It has to do with Lorelei Barnes,” Macy continued, unperturbed by neither the speed at which they clipped along nor Liz’s brittle manner. In fact, she seemed not to notice. “Remember her? She was the guardian of that girl in JJ’s class.”
That girl. Of course Liz remembered her. But she wasn’t in JJ’s class. She was in Nora’s. Liz didn’t bother to correct her.
“Well, she passed away last week,” Macy whispered reverently, and she started to cross herself before she remembered that she hadn’t gone to Mass since she was twelve. They were Reformed now.
Liz wanted to say, “So what?” They hadn’t been friends with Lorelei Barnes, close or distant. Liz wasn’t sure that she had ever uttered ten words to the woman in all the years that the girls were classmates. Maybe a cursory greeting at a school event, but she couldn’t conjure the memory. Instead of rebuffing her friend, Liz reined in her rebellious decorum and played along. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Did you know she was rich?”
That gave Liz pause. The Lorelei she remembered farmed and worked the night shift at the Summer Prairie Brewery bottling small-batch artisan beers that Jack Sr. had once loved. He was particularly fond of their winter ale, a dark, thick concoction that the label assured Liz contained notes of toffee and chocolate. She had never tasted it. And neither, apparently, had Lorelei, for the woman had been as slim and lithe as a willow switch. Long auburn hair, troubled brown eyes. Liz had found her unsettlingly striking.
“Don’t spread rumors,” Liz said, slowing just a bit because Macy was starting to wheeze. “That poor woman went through enough.”
It was true. Lorelei was a single mom living in one of the shabbier farmhouses several miles out of town. A diagnosis of ALS a few years ago had landed her in the nursing home. She wasn’t even fifty. Such a tragedy, made even more wrenching because she didn’t have family nearby. Or at all? No one really knew her situation. Of course, there was that girl, who wasn’t actually Lorelei’s daughter but her niece. And it was anyone’s guess where she ended up.
“It’s not a rumor.” Macy shook her head and a dark curl stuck to the thin film of sweat at her temple. “Kent went for a run with her lawyer last night. She inherited farmland when her father passed several years ago—a hundred acres in all. It’s not much, but it’s valued at over a million.”
“A million,” Liz mused, and wasn’t aware that she had said the words out loud until Macy laughed.
“It’s nothing, I know. But still. Who knew? She didn’t live like she had money in the bank.”
Of course, it wasn’t exactly in the bank, was it? And really, nothing? Liz swallowed hard. There was a time when she would have considered a million not nothing but a modest nest egg. That was before Jack Sr. passed and Liz got her first good, hard look at their finances. Her husband had made more than one terrible investment. Thankfully, they owned their home outright and Jack had put a chunk of money in a 401(k), but Liz would have seriously struggled without the rental properties. And those she would soon have to start selling. Discreetly, of course. Her bank account was nobody’s business.
Liz felt a familiar twinge of bitterness at the reminder that her financial situation was nothing more than a pretty illusion. Her friends still thought that the almost-new Cadillac in the garage (she had sold Jack’s) and the sprawling house in the swankiest neighborhood in Key Lake were indicators of Jack Sr.’s robust career in real estate that would ensure a comfortable retirement. Macy and Kent were already snowbirds, flying south for the winter to Arizona or Florida, wherever struck their fancy that particular year. Beverly and Peter preferred European vacations. So far, Liz had been able to decline their invitations by citing a desire to stay close to family. She wasn’t sure how long they’d believe it.
Macy kept the one-sided conversation going, supplying Liz with all the tales that were fit to repeat and a couple that were not, until the lakeside bike trail merged with the quaint Main Street sidewalk of Key Lake proper.
“Sandpoint?” Macy asked, already slipping her credit card from the little clip on her cell phone.
“Not today.” Liz smiled as she breezed past. “I promised Quinn I’d stop by this morning.”
“Oh?”
And because Macy was standing on the sidewalk looking perplexed and rosy cheeked, Liz hurried back and gave her a hug and a breezy kiss. They were friends after all, best friends, and for all her blustery ways Macy was loyal and eager and funny. A winning combination.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been myself this morning,” Liz said. “A bit of indigestion, I’m afraid.”
Macy perked right up. “I’ve been taking probiotics! I can’t tell you how much they’ve helped . . .”
But Liz was already walking away, arms swinging purposefully. “Tell me about it tomorrow!” she called over her shoulder.
Liz had most definitely not promised Quinn she’d stop by, and she doubted that her younger daughter would be happy to see her. Quinn had been a degree short of hostile since the day she and Walker pulled up a couple months ago in that ghastly purple import. Hadn’t Jack and Liz taught their children never to buy foreign? Her mind slid to thoughts of other things foreign and Liz had to hold herself in check. Walker had been born in the United States, she reminded herself, though he certainly didn’t look the part. But Liz was no racist—she just didn’t think that Walker Cruz (with his long mop of black, curly hair and unnaturally smooth skin) was right for her baby girl.
Their marriage papers were legitimate, though, signed by a justice of the peace in La Mirada, where Quinn was studying secondary education at Biola. Liz had seen them. And to think, Jack had only agreed to let her go to California because she was attending a conservative Christian college, and how much trouble could she get into there? More than enough, it seemed. Did the Reformed church offer annulments? And if so, was there a statute of limitations? Like, say, after three years of marriage? Liz made a mental note to check.
Main Street wasn’t long, but it was lovely. For a single block the shops were pristine, hanging baskets spilling from porticos and long planters filled with geraniums so lush they looked fake. One side of the street backed onto the water, and there was a wide boardwalk that made the shops accessible from both the street and the docks.
When Liz advertised the renovated A-frame where Quinn and Walker were currently living, she always pointed out that it was “secluded, but within a short, picturesque walk from downtown Key Lake.” It sounded better than it was. Though pretty, downtown wasn’t exactly a bustling center of trade and commerce. There was Sandpoint, where you could get a decent latte, and Malcolm’s on the Water, where you could buy something harder and a burger to go with it. Malcolm’s had a sunny patio and a small boat dock, and served a famous mixed drink in a fish bowl during the summer months—which Liz thought was lowbrow, but the tourists certainly seemed to enjoy it. Other than that, there was a Hallmark, a boutique called The Bright Side that carried mostly swimming suits and cover-ups, and Louie’s, a drugstore where you could purchase milk, bread, and eggs. For everything else, you had to drive to the Walmart in the newer part of town. Tourists tended to stock up at Walmart on their way into Key Lake and then leave their cars parked for the remainder of the week.
At the corner, Liz veered off the sidewalk and joined the boardwalk that led out of town. The slated boards arched over the water for a ways and she had a perfect, sprawling view of the lake in all its glory. The sun glinted off the surface and made it shimmer like spun gold, and Cardinal Island rose up from the warm glow like a tower. Once, when her children were smaller, Liz had settled them all in the canoe and paddled out to the island for a picnic. Quinn was only three and whined the whole way, and a bird had pooped on JJ. The entire thing was a bust. Liz couldn’t decide if she hoped her children remembered her effort or not.
It was still early, not quite eight o’clock, and the only sign of life on the water was a smattering of lazy fishing boats. Liz waved at Arie Van Vliet, recognizable by the abundance of white hair poking out from under his ever-present Vikings cap. He waved back a little too enthusiastically, and she was grateful that he wasn’t close enough to hear her chuckle.
Jack hadn’t been gone for two years and already she had had suitors. Not officially, of course. One didn’t date past college in Key Lake. After that, people were more or less paired, and those who weren’t knew their prospects were grim. Some moved away. Some embraced the single life. And those who found themselves widowed and alone after being a happy (or unhappy) couple for more years than they ever imagined possible learned to speak volumes with mere glances. Arie, a widower for over a decade now (he lost his wife to cancer; Liz couldn’t remember the type), would have scooped her up so fast it would have made her head spin.
Liz didn’t much want her head to spin.
Where the boardwalk ended, a gravel path began to wind through the trees near the water. Liz stepped into the dappled shade of gnarled oaks and drew close to the edge of the trail to let a jogger pass. She was almost halfway around the lake at this point, two and a half miles from home and another half mile to go before the A-frame. Liz didn’t regret her decision to pop in on Quinn, but the day was already warming in that slow, burning way of August. She could feel the heat beginning to descend through the cooler morning air. It was going to be a scorcher. Maybe she would ask Quinn for a ride home.
The thought made Liz’s stomach flutter, and she didn’t know if it was because she was nervous about inconveniencing her daughter or if she was hungry. Liz had planned on stopping at Sandpoint for a coffee and a scone until she was seized with the desire to be far away from Macy. And close to Quinn. Her longing for her daughter was a layered thing, and she wasn’t quite ready to examine it.
The front door of the cabin was locked, but Liz kept a spare under the lip of the flowerpot on the little front porch. She debated a moment whether to knock or quietly let herself in, and decided that if she poked her head inside and all was quiet she would just slip away unnoticed.
Renters sometimes complained that the key stuck, but the lock was butter in Liz’s hands. She eased the door open and stopped just over the threshold, noting instantly that the windows were open and it was definitely not seventy degrees in the house. Walker and Quinn had turned the air-conditioning off again. She repressed a little sigh and determined to bring it up with Quinn again. Just maybe not today.
Were there lights on? Sounds in the house? Liz couldn’t tell. So she took a few more steps and scanned the great room. The sitting area to her right was empty, but as her gaze flicked over to the kitchen, Liz found herself staring directly at Quinn. Her daughter was leaning against the counter, tank top bunched up in one hand and a small pen in the other. No, it wasn’t a pen. It was a syringe. And Quinn was giving herself an injection.
Liz didn’t mean to make a sound, but she must have done exactly that. Quinn’s head whipped up.
“Mom?!” She dropped whatever she was holding and hastily tugged her top down. As she kicked the vial beneath the edge of the cupboards, anger began to mingle with the shock already coloring her pretty face. “What in the world are you doing here?”
And just like that, Liz couldn’t think of a single reason for coming. A part of her wanted to scurry across the space between them and take her daughter into her arms. She looked so vulnerable in her pajamas. The girl wasn’t even wearing a bra, and because she was so young and lovely and perfectly perky she didn’t need to. Liz felt an ache in her heart that was exactly Quinn-sized. But another part of Liz was already pulling herself up, straightening the skirt of her tennis dress and lifting her chin a fraction of an inch.
“The renter’s agreement specifically states that the windows are to remain closed,” Liz said. She hadn’t even known the words were going to come out of her mouth until she uttered them, and though she wanted to take them back, to ask Quinn about the syringe and the sad downturn of her sweet mouth, something stubborn and unbending and distinctly Midwestern prevented her from doing so. One didn’t talk about such things.
“Oh, Mom.” Quinn put her forehead in her hand and took a deep breath. When she looked up she said, “You scared me half to death. I could have sworn I locked the door last night.”
Liz didn’t bother to tell her about the key. “Just out on a walk and thought I’d stop by.”
“You could have called first.”
“Family needs to call first?” Liz began to straighten the knickknacks on the end table beside her and then reached to square a picture on the wall that had slipped a bit crooked. “Now that I’m here, how about we have breakfast? I could take you to Luverne’s for pancakes.”
It was a spur of the moment offer. A stroke of brilliance, if Liz said so herself. Luverne’s had been Quinn’s favorite when she was a little girl, but her daughter’s eyes didn’t brighten at the idea like Liz had hoped they would. Instead, her gaze darted to the spare bedroom just off the kitchen, and for a moment a look of something like panic shadowed her face.
“No, thanks,” she said too quickly. “Walker’s working on a project. I promised I’d make him breakfast. In fact, I’d better get started.” Quinn turned to the cupboard beside the stove and pulled out a frying pan, banging it onto the gas range with a bit more force than necessary.
“I could whip up—”
“No, Mom, really,” Quinn interrupted. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Just need a little time alone.”
Liz wanted to argue that all they had was time alone. But she bit her tongue and gave her daughter a narrow smile. “Well, have a good day then, darling. Let me know if you need anything at all.” She considered mentioning the windows one last time, then decided against it.
“Goodbye,” Quinn called, but her back was already turned and the word was muffled and weak.
Liz let herself out, heart pounding wildly in her chest. She was hurt and embarrassed, sure that there was something going on but helpless to do anything about it. The chasm between her and her child felt enormous. The syringe was mildly terrifying—Quinn wasn’t diabetic, at least not that Liz knew of. She was aware that the condition could develop later in life, and she no longer had access to Quinn’s medical files, but her daughter and Walker practically ate paleo and exercised all the time. Swimming and jogging and yoga on the lawn . . . who knew what else? Type 2 diabetes at twenty-five would have been a shock.
But that mystery could be solved at a later date. Liz was far more worried about the fact that when Quinn felt backed into a corner, she didn’t look toward Walker and the gorgeous master suite that they shared.
What was she hiding in the spare bedroom?
Liz couldn’t even begin to guess. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.