On Mystic Lake

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He glanced around. “So, where’s that busy husband of yours? We’re ready to party.”



“He’s only fifteen minutes late. For Blake, that’s nothing. I told him six-thirty so he’d be here by seven.”



Slowly, Hank withdrew his arm. Turning slightly, he went to the window that overlooked the driveway.



She followed him. “Dad?”



It was a full minute before he spoke, and then his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. “When you first brought Blake home, I was impressed. Sure, he was young and skinny and poor, but I could see the man emerging inside him. He was what every father dreams of for his daughter, intelligent and ambitious. Not like the boys I knew in Mystic. I thought to myself, now here’s a boy who will take care of my little girl—”



“I know the story, Dad. . . .”



He turned to her. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”



She frowned. “What do you mean?”



“What you’d brought home was just someone else for you to take care of.” He frowned. “I should have worried about your heart instead of your financial comfort. If your mother had been alive . . . she would have known what to look for. It’s just that I wanted you to have better than I could give you.”



“I know, Dad.”



“It . . .” His voice trembled and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It hurts me to see how you are now. Last spring you were so happy. I miss hearing you laugh. I think . . . when you were in Mystic, I gave you some bad advice. Hell, I gave you bad advice your whole life. I should have told you that you’d make a wonderful bookseller. I should have been telling you that kind of thing for years.” He turned to her at last. “I should have told you that you were the smartest, most talented, most incredibly gifted person I’ve ever known . . . and that I was proud of you. That’s what your mama would have said.”



“Oh, Daddy ...”Annie knew that if she tried to say anything more, she’d start to cry.



“A dad . . . he teaches responsibility and accountability, but a mom . . . ah, a mom teaches her child to dream, to reach for the stars and to believe in fairy tales. At least, that’s what Sarah would have given you. But me? What does an uneducated old millworker like me know about fairy tales and possibilities and dreams?” He sighed, and when he looked at her there were tears in his eyes. “I wish I had it to do over again, Annie Virginia. . . .”



She stepped into her father’s big, strong arms and clung to him. “I love you, Dad,” she whispered against his warm neck.



When she finally drew back, her mascara was running down her face. She grinned. “I must look like something out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I’d better run to the bathroom and freshen up.”



She spun away and hurried through the kitchen. She passed Terri and Natalie, who were busy arranging candles on the cake.



Natalie looked up. “Are you okay?”



Annie nodded. “Fine. My mascara is bothering me.”



“Is Dad home yet?”



“I’m going to try his car phone right now. He’s probably pulling up the driveway.”



Above Natalie’s head, Terri shot Annie an irritated look. Annie shrugged helplessly and went to the phone, punching in Blake’s cellular number. It didn’t even ring; it just patched her through to his voice mail.



Annie turned, faced their expectant looks. “He’s not in the car.”



They waited another forty minutes for Blake, and then by tacit consent, they started the party without him. They came together at the table, the adults talking furiously to cover the awkwardness and disappointment. Still, the empty chair at the head of the table couldn’t be ignored.



Annie forced a bright smile all through the meal. Terri regaled them with funny anecdotes about life on the soaps—and death in the air—until everyone was laughing. After dinner, they sat around the fireplace and opened gifts.



At ten o’clock, Terri reluctantly went home. She hugged Natalie tightly, then held Annie’s hand as they walked to the front door. “He’s a real shithead,” she whispered furiously.



There was no point in answering. Annie hugged her friend and said good-bye, and then walked slowly back to the living room.



Hank rose immediately. “I think I’ll go to bed. Us old guys need our beauty sleep.” He squeezed Natalie’s shoulder and bent to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday, honey.” Straightening, he threw Annie a frustrated look and strode from the room.



Silence fell.



Natalie went to the window. Annie came up beside her. “I’m sorry, Nana. I wish I could change it.”



“I don’t know why I keep expecting him to be different. . . .”



“He loves you. It’s just . . .” Words failed Annie. She’d said the same tired thing too many times and she couldn’t even pretend tonight that it made a difference.



She turned to Annie. “What good does his love do me?”



The softly spoken question raised a red, stinging welt on Annie’s heart. “It’s his loss, Natalie.”



Natalie’s eyes filled slowly, heartbreakingly, with tears. “When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that he wasn’t my real dad. Did you know that?”



“Oh, Nana . . .”



“Why do you stay with him?”



Annie sighed. She wasn’t up to this conversation. Not tonight. “You’re young and passionate, honey. Some day you’ll understand. Obligations and commitments build up around you—sort of like plaque. You have to do the right thing. I have other people to think about.”



Natalie snorted. “I may be young and passionate, but you’re naive, Mom. You always have been. Sometimes I feel like the grown-up around you. You always think everything will work out for the best.”



“I used to think that. Not so much anymore.”



Natalie’s gaze was solemn. “You should have heard yourself last spring, Mom. You sounded so . . . happy. Now, I know why. He wasn’t around, making you jump every time he came into the room and scurry around to do his bidding.”



It took Annie a second to find her voice, and when she did it was soft and hurting. “Is that how you see me?”



“I see you for who you are, Mom. Someone who loves with all her heart and will do anything to make us happy. But last spring, something made you happy.”



Annie swallowed past the lump in her throat. She turned away, before Natalie could see the moisture gathering in her eyes.



“Tell me about Izzy. I bet you fixed her right up.”



“Izzy.” Although Annie knew it was opening the door on her pain, she let herself remember. Her thoughts scrolled back to the garden, to a handful of straggling shasta daisies, and a small, black-gloved hand. “She was something, Natalie. You would have loved her.”



“And what about him?”



Annie turned slowly back to Natalie. “Who?”



“Izzy’s dad.”



“He’s an old friend of mine from high school.” Annie could hear the way her voice softened, and though she knew it was dangerous, she couldn’t change it. She smiled at a memory. “He was the first boy I ever kissed.”



“There it is again, Mom.”



Annie frowned. “There’s what?”



“That voice. It’s the way you sounded while I was in London. Is he part of what made you happy, Mom?”



Annie felt vulnerable and exposed, a woman walking out on a thin, rickety bridge. She couldn’t tell her daughter the truth. Perhaps someday, when the bridge of their years had brought Natalie to full womanhood, when she’d seen something more of life and love. When she could understand. “A lot of things made me happy in Mystic.”



It was a long minute before Natalie spoke. “Maybe he and Izzy can come down here some time. Or maybe you and I can visit them.”



“No,” Annie said softly. She wanted to say something more, tack an excuse onto the simple word that seemed to make no sense. But she couldn’t manage it. Instead, she pulled Natalie into her arms and squeezed tightly. “I’m sorry your dad forgot your birthday.”



Natalie sniffled. “You’re the one I feel sorry for.”



“How come?”



“In eighteen years you’ll be saying the same thing to Katie.”



Chapter 28



Some time around midnight, a woman walked up to Blake. She was wearing a skintight black catsuit with a huge silver belt and black stiletto heels. With an easy smile, she sat down next to him. She tapped a long fingernail on the bar. “Vodka martini—two olives,” she said to the bartender.



In the background, a throaty Dwight Yoakam song came on, something about the pocket of a clown.



The woman turned to him. Nibbling on her olive, she asked him to dance.



Blake pushed off the bar stool and stumbled back from her, putting as much distance as he could between them. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m married.”



But he didn’t turn away; he couldn’t. He stood there like a man possessed, staring at the woman. He couldn’t help wondering how those breasts would feel in his hands—the young, solid breasts of a woman who’d never had children, the small, pink nipples that had never nursed a baby.



At that, Blake felt something inside him shift and give way. He realized the truth, the one he’d been denying for months. He loved Annie, but it wasn’t enough. He’d cheat on her. Maybe not tonight, maybe not even this year; but sooner or later, he’d slide back into his old routine. It was only a matter of time.



And when he did, he would be lost again. There was nothing on earth lonelier than a man who betrayed his wife on a regular basis. Blake knew how seductive it was—the temptation to possess a stranger, make love in the middle of the night with a nameless woman. But afterward, it left him broken somehow, ashamed of himself and unable to meet his wife’s gaze.



Shaken, he turned away from the woman in the catsuit and left the bar. He drove home and parked in the garage. Tiredly, he went into the dark, cool house. Without bothering to flick on any lights, he headed through the kitchen.



He found Annie waiting for him in the living room. She was sitting on the sofa, with her feet tucked up underneath her. “Hello, Blake,” she said in a soft, tired voice that seemed to cut through his heart.



He stopped dead. For no reason at all, he thought she’d seen him tonight, that she knew what he’d almost done. “Hey, Annie,” he said, forcing a smile.



“You’re late.”



“A bunch of us went to the sports bar on Fourth. We won a big settle—”



“It was Natalie’s birthday party tonight.”



Blake winced. “Oh. Shit. I forgot to mark it on my office calendar.”



“I’m sure she’ll love that answer.”



“You should have called to remind me.”



“Don’t turn it on me, Blake. You’re the one who screwed up. You can remember when a client owes an alimony check, but you forget your daughter’s eighteenth birthday.” She sighed. “You should go see her now—I’ll bet she’s still awake.”