Lake House

by Marci Nault

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

A heartwarming debut novel about the unlikely friendship between two outcasts of different generations who, in struggling to move on from the past, discover love, healing, and family in a charming New England lakeside community. Achingly tender, yet filled with laughter, The Lake House brings to life the wide range of human emotions and the difficult journey from heartbreak to healing. VICTORIA ROSE. Fifty years before, a group of teenage friends promised each other never to leave their idyllic lakeside town. But the call of Hollywood and a bigger life was too strong for Victoria . . . and she alone broke that pledge. Now she has come home, intent on making peace with her demons, even if her former friends shut her out. Haunted by tragedy, she longs to find solace with her childhood sweetheart, but even this tender man may be unable to forgive and forget. HEATHER BREGMAN. At twenty-eight, after years as a globe-trotting columnist, she’s abandoned her controlling fiancé and their glamorous city life to build one on her own terms. Lulled by a Victorian house and a gorgeous locale, she’s determined to make the little community her home. But the residents, fearful of change and outsiders, will stop at nothing to sabotage her dreams of lakeside tranquility. As Victoria and Heather become unlikely friends, their mutual struggle to find acceptance—with their neighbors and in their own hearts—explores the chance events that shape a community and offer the opportunity to start again.

Release date: May 7, 2013

Publisher: Gallery Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

The Lake House

CHAPTER 2

The last thirty hours hung heavily on Heather Bregman’s shoulders. The knot of pain at the base of her neck radiated to her forehead as the airport noise vibrated behind her eyes. Two days of flying in coach had left her exhausted. Yesterday, the man next to her had snored his way from Johannesburg to London with his large thigh pressed against her hip and his elbow dug into her waist. Whoever had decided that a human could be stuffed into a box with only a ten-degree recline should spend the rest of eternity folded in half, she thought.

The herd of passengers made its way to the baggage claim. Logan International Airport had the ambiance of a prison: dingy gray walls met grimy floors; fluorescent lights hung next to exposed heating ducts, bundled wires, and falling insulation. The airport had been under renovation since the late nineties, with no marked improvement.

A fur coat bumped against Heather’s arm. The owner flashed an apology as she ran past. Her thick, red hair flowed in long waves and her pearly skin radiated like a bright spring day. She threw herself into the waiting arms of a beau. The man kissed her lips, her eyes, and her cheeks.

It must be nice, Heather thought, while she waited for her luggage. Maybe on the other side of the automatic doors she’d find her fiancé, Charlie, waiting with a warm car. She didn’t need to feel precious or missed; at this point, a ride home would be romantic.

She thought of the hours she’d spent trying to decide on an outfit to wear before finally picking a red velvet jacket and designer jeans. The strappy shoes she’d bought in London sparkled around her fresh pedicure. For the last month she’d worn beige zip-off pants, tanks, and hiking boots on her African safari. Most days she’d felt like a dusty, sweaty mess. When she’d tried on the clothing she felt like a girl again, but for all her primping, she should’ve worn sweats. Charlie wasn’t coming and she knew it.

She twisted her engagement ring. The decision she’d made over the last month felt like a dumbbell pressed against her chest. She pulled the ring off and looked at her hand without the sparkling diamond against her tan skin. A white line marked the place. Great, she thought. I wonder how long it will take to fade.

Her black suitcase fell onto the conveyor belt. She placed the ring back on her hand and pushed through the crowd. She tried to balance in the tight space on her three-inch heels, and almost fell over when she lifted the sixty-pound bag.

As she waited for her duffel, the clock seemed to tick at half speed. For the twelfth time, the security announcement came over the loudspeaker. We get it already. Don’t leave our bags unattended.

An elderly couple stood beside her, their eyes puffy with fatigue. They leaned on each other, the woman tucked under the man’s arm. An ancient leather suitcase drifted along the conveyor belt. The man wasn’t quick enough to grab it, and Heather rushed forward. The awkward bag bumped against her leg as she hauled it to the couple.

“Thank you, dear.” The old woman placed her hand on Heather’s arm. The skin on the lady’s fingers looked like rice paper, blue veins showing through.

What was it like to be old? Heather wondered. Everything over. Mistakes known. Accomplishments checked off. No need to work. To have a home that showed years of wear and tear but exuded love from a lifetime of family memories. When you were old, no one cared how you looked. Sags and wrinkles were expected.

If Heather didn’t need to keep her frame in a size 6, she would eat chocolate and ice cream without guilt, and instead of exercising every day, she’d settle onto her couch and read. If career—and relationship—didn’t seem to hinge precariously on her looks, she wouldn’t have to spend hours curling or straightening her long, brown, highlighted hair just to pay hundreds of dollars to fix the heat damage, and she’d wear glasses instead of the contacts that irritated her brown eyes.

Settled. Comfortable. It seemed an eternity away.

At twenty-eight, she was struggling to build her career. Newspaper syndicates around the country had dropped her column, “Solo Female Traveler.” She needed that book deal, the cable show, and the sought-after television interviews.

The conveyor belt stopped. Empty. She dropped her head in disgust and trudged to the customer service counter. Just her luck: the bag with her coat, boots, and gloves hadn’t arrived. The click of her heels echoed in the near-empty airport. It took fifteen minutes to file a lost luggage claim, then she made her way to the taxi stand. Cold air cut through her thin jacket, and she hugged herself for warmth.

The traffic lanes usually congested with taxis, shuttles, and cars were now empty. Heather stood alone, surrounded by concrete, silence seeping in with the cold. She longed to lean her head against a warm body.

A security officer sat on his stool, his chin curled into his navy winter coat.

“Where are the cabs?” she asked.

“They headed out. There aren’t any more flights tonight. The hotel shuttle’s across the street. Last one’ll be by in a few minutes or you can catch the last T.”

The snow that had delayed her flight had turned to gray slush on the road. She cringed as she looked from the sloppy mess to her strappy heels, which she’d never intended to wear in the snow.

The suitcase wheels stuck in the slushy muck. She tried to hop to the driest spots, but ice and sand squished between her toes. At the bus stop, ten minutes passed. Her feet and hands turned to red and then yellow ice cubes as she sat on the plastic bench.

Spent. That’s how she felt. Exhausted to her marrow, as if she couldn’t take another step.

The blue-and-yellow shuttle pulled to the curb. The driver stepped down and grabbed her luggage. “Where ya headed?”

“Back Bay.”

“I’ve got four stops before ya. It might take a while,” he said as he pulled her bag onto the van.

The T would’ve been quicker, but it was after midnight and she’d missed her chance. She climbed onto the van, found a seat, and leaned her aching head against the icy window.

A rainbow of lights flashed around her as the bus made its way along the slippery streets: the blue-and-orange clock face in the Custom House Tower; the glow of street lanterns made to resemble colonial candles flickering in glass.

Forty minutes passed and the van pulled in front of a row of brick townhomes. She dragged her suitcase up the stone steps that had been smoothed by hundreds of years of use and were now slippery with ice. The large mahogany door was heavy as she maneuvered her suitcase into the foyer and then through another door into the lobby.

Her heels clicking against the marble-tiled floor, she walked to the elevator, only to find that it was out of service. She sighed, picked up her suitcase with both hands, braced it against her thigh, and hauled it up the thirty-five stairs to the third floor, the bag banging against her leg.

A dark kitchen greeted Heather when she opened the door to the apartment. She turned on the overhead light and sat at the square metal table to peel off her shoes. The black-and-white ceramic floor tiles were cold and she pulled her toes under her thighs to warm them. The shoes dangled from her fingers, and she glared at the fiery red straps. “For how much I spent, these should make my legs look great and be comfortable.”

Exhaustion weighing heavily on her eyelids, Heather longed for a hot bath with bubbles up to her neck. She wanted to slide into a soft bed with down comforters fluffed over her and curl into warm, protective arms.

With paper towels, she wiped the slush track her suitcase had left on the tile, then she crammed the bag into a small closet.

Snorts of contented sleep greeted her when she creaked open the bedroom door. Charlie lay in the center of the bed splayed in all four directions. He turned onto his back, his six-pack exposed above his underwear. With his thick black hair and dark Italian eyes, he could grace the cover of a magazine.

Three short snores vibrated his throat. She looked at the stray piece of hair that fell over his eye. In their first years together, she’d tuck the strand into place and kiss his cheek. It had been a long time since she’d played with his hair. What had happened to them? There’d been a time when Charlie’s love had made her feel safe, secure, and happy.

Heather had spent the last six years on planes, in hotels, and exploring the world while Charlie worked as her agent, building her career. When Charlie looked at her, she felt he saw a columnist—another client in the string of people he’d made into products.

A burp of morning breath escaped Charlie’s lips when she leaned over him.

“Charlie, I’m home,” she whispered.

With his eyes closed, he reached for her waist and pulled her onto his body. His free hand moved under her jacket. “Good trip?”

“Yeah.”

Stubble chafed her upper lip, and she tried to keep her mouth closed to avoid his sour taste. He pulled at the jacket’s buttons.

“Charlie, I’m tired.”

“What’s new?” He rolled her away and turned his back to her.

A silk chemise hung on the bedpost. She removed her clothes and slipped into the cold garment. Goose bumps dotted her skin. She curled into the fetal position, the thin blanket pulled to her chin. Hot-blooded Charlie couldn’t sleep with a comforter.

The first night she’d spent in this apartment, Charlie had leaned against the headboard, her back against his chest and his legs wrapped around her waist, as they ate Thai food. He’d kissed her hair, nuzzled her neck, and told her she was beautiful. Now he couldn’t bother to meet her at the airport.

She turned toward Charlie and looked at his back. Heather had been away for a month, yet as she lay in bed next to her fiancé, her heart still cried with the need for home.



“Rise and shine!” Charlie threw open the green curtains behind their bed. The sun illuminated the darkened room with blinding brightness. Heather tried to cover her eyes with the pillow, but he grabbed it away, so she buried her face in the blanket. Charlie jumped on the bed, bouncing the mattress with his large frame.

“Why do you insist on doing this?” she snapped. They’d always kept different hours. He insisted on opening the curtains while he dressed for work. Sunlight put him in the right mood for the day. It made Heather pray for rainy mornings. She reached for the eye mask on the end table. The smooth material slipped between her fingers and fell to the floor. Charlie grabbed her wrist and rolled her to him, entwining their bodies. The sunshine pierced her retinas.

“If you don’t want weeks of jet lag, you have to get back on East Coast time.” He bounded from bed. “Want to join me in the shower?”

“You haven’t even showered?” He didn’t answer. She looked at the red LED lights on his nightstand—7:35.

Charlie’s baritone voice drifted over the water’s sound as he sang in Italian. She shuffled to the kitchen, pulled out the industrial-strength coffee she’d bought in Costa Rica, and leaned against the counter, waiting for the miraculous liquid to be ready.

The overhead track lighting blinked on, and Charlie walked into the room. The coffee began to drip into the pot, and she bent over the coffeemaker to take in the aroma. Covered by only a white towel, Charlie’s erection pressed into her backside. He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned until her ribs pressed painfully into the granite counter.

“Want to go back to bed?” He nuzzled her neck.

No.

“I’ve missed you,” he said as he nipped her ear.

“I’m tired.” She shifted her weight away from the counter and ducked out from under him.

“I’ve heard that one before.” He grabbed the pot and emptied it into the cup she’d taken from the cupboard for herself.

“Do you mind leaving some for the person who barely slept last night?” Heather fumed.

“You mean the one who just spent a month lounging around in safari camps? The one who doesn’t have to go into the office today? God, you’re grumpy this morning.” Charlie slurped from the cup and walked away.

Four aromatic ounces had collected in the pot. Heather poured them into Charlie’s Harvard Law mug and walked the short distance through the living room and into their bedroom.

The large closet housed Charlie’s elaborate collection of suits. He pulled a navy blue ensemble from the dry-cleaner bag and laid it on the bed. Then he inspected a pressed shirt. Always the same routine: lay out the suit, check for rogue stains or wrinkles, get dressed, fluff his hair in the mirror. His shoes were kept in the front closet. When he came home at night, he buffed them, inserted shoe trees, then stored them in cotton bags inside their original boxes.

Heather placed her mug on top of the bureau, knowing it would drive him crazy as he thought about water marks on the wood.

Like clockwork he looked at the cup and then glared at her. “I’m not in the mood for one of your tantrums. If you’re trying to pick a fight, I don’t have time.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” she said, mimicking his earlier comment.

He belted his pants and sat on the bed to put on his socks.

She tapped her foot, trying to control what was about to blow, knowing she should stop. She needed to have a conversation that was gentle and kind, but anger took over. “Maybe if someone had bothered to pick me up from the airport, I wouldn’t be so tired and grumpy this morning.”

“That’s what you’re pissed about?” He buttoned his jacket and looked in the mirror. “You got in close to midnight. I have an important meeting this morning—about your career. Did you want me to stay up all night waiting for you at Logan?”

“You were plenty awake for sex.”

“Excuse me for wanting to be with my fiancé after she’d been away for a month.” He returned to the bathroom and she could see him putting gel in his hair. He came out and grabbed a tie from the closet. “You know, sometimes you seriously act like a spoiled princess.”

“Oh, I’m a princess?”

“You get to travel the world because of me. Yet you come home and bitch because I don’t allow you to sleep all day. If the shoe fits.”

“And I have nothing to do with my success.” Her anger festered. He wasn’t listening to her. She tried to calm down, but the uncontrollable fury from feeling invisible forced the words out, “You know what, Charlie, I can’t do this anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I think we need to take some time apart.”

The muscles in his jaw cranked with tension as he tucked a blue silk tie under the collar. He walked toward her and leaned his face within inches of hers. “You might want to be careful with what you say, or your life could change drastically. I’m going to work. We have an important networking event at the end of the week. Get over your damn tantrum and get it together.” He walked to the kitchen and she could hear him putting on his shoes. The chair scraped against the tile and then the door slammed.

A stifled scream rumbled in her lungs. She climbed onto the stiff mattress and tugged at the window covers. Damn curtains that shut out the light when he wants to sleep and brighten his day when he goes to work. Doesn’t matter that I fell asleep at 3 a.m. With the curtains closed and the room dark, Heather grabbed her coffee and slumped onto the bed. She created a cocoon around her body with the blanket as she cradled her mug.

“You don’t even pay attention when I try to break up with you,” she mumbled.

Heather curled the blankets closer and sipped the coffee. She longed for the coffee she drank in Africa. She let her thoughts wander back to her trip as she tried to calm her nerves.

Every morning at five o’clock, Manal, her guide in Botswana, would sing out her name. Hot coffee prepared with sugar, a splash of brandy, and heavy cream awaited her on the table outside her tent. Porridge, covered in more cream and brown sugar, greeted her when she took her place around the morning campfire. As the Okavango Delta’s cool dark waters gave birth to the blood-orange sun and monkeys tried to steal her silverware, she savored breakfast. Mid-morning, Manal would set up a table and camp chairs next to the open Land Rover and Heather feasted on scones and biscuits dipped in hot chocolate and watched giraffes nibble on the sausage tree’s long fruits. At night, while the kitchen staff sang, their cadences joined by hippo grunts and deep-throated lion calls, she and the other guests would stare at the stars and sip Amarula, the sweet, creamy liqueur of the marula tree.

Charlie was right. She’d spent a month living her dream of traveling and writing, and he’d helped her to achieve it. But that couldn’t mean that for the rest of her life she had to feel indebted to him . . . and invisible in their relationship.

A car horn honked. The rush-hour traffic on Storrow Drive motored past her apartment. Someone slammed a door and three car alarms screeched. As the city awoke outside her window, Heather longed for quiet.

From her overstuffed drawers, she grabbed a baggy sweatshirt and pink M&M’s flannel pajamas—which Charlie never saw—and threw on her glasses. In the kitchen she raised the thermostat from 60 to 75 and filled her coffee cup.

The refrigerator door hit against the table as she grabbed ingredients for a protein shake. She dug in the cabinets for the blender, but realized the glass pitcher was dirty in the dishwasher. Frustrated, she returned to the bedroom to get dressed and head out for breakfast. She opened the door to her tiny closet jammed with clothing and then closed it.

There wasn’t room for her in this apartment. Charlie used three-quarters of the storage space, citing the fact that she traveled most of the year and only needed access to her things on the rare occasion she was home.

Charlie’s black leather couch felt stiff and uncomfortable as she sat with her laptop. A website with lakeside houses for sale appeared on her screen. On nights when insomnia left her awake, she spent hours on the Internet taking virtual tours of the homes on the site. From her Favorites folder she clicked on a picture of a blue Craftsman bungalow. The bungalow had come on the market almost two months ago. To lull herself to sleep she fantasized about owning it and having cookouts with friends, parties with dancing, sunny days on the beach.

As a young child, Heather had lived in a rented lake house with her grandmother and mother. Heather tried to remember her grandmother’s face, but it was like catching a dream. She had glimpses of memories: the gold chain that hung from her glasses, gray and black hair that tickled Heather’s neck when they hugged, and sticking out blue tongues at each other when they sat in the blueberry bushes eating berries. Heather remembered sun-warmed towels after a dip in the lake.

Their five-room house had shelves filled with knickknacks of blown glass animals and porcelain figurines. Pink crocheted cozies covered tissue boxes on end tables. In the living room her grandmother or mother would rock her to sleep to the sounds of a crackling fire and the women’s soft voices.

What Heather remembered best were the sweet smells of homemade bread and ginger cookies. Her grandmother loved to bake. The scent of molasses permeated the brown paneled walls and green carpets. Almost every afternoon, her grandmother would take down the yellow Bisquick box and measure out the water and flour mix. She’d roll it out on the table with Heather sitting in a chair next to her. Then, with a juice glass, Heather cut out perfect circles for biscuits. She’d sneak little corners of the dough and she still recalled the slight metallic taste of baking soda and salt.

When Heather was five, her grandmother passed away, and Heather’s mother tried to pay the rent on the lake house, but after two years she’d put herself so far into debt, they were forced to move.

Heather closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. Charlie had paid for the apartment and their living expenses for the last six years; he opened her Visa and American Express statements before she saw them, and he allowed her a budget for luxury clothing as a business investment. She didn’t see her own paychecks; they were deposited directly into their joint account. He said all this was necessary because she spent so much time on the road and he felt she couldn’t be trusted with her own finances.

She looked around the ten-by-ten living room. The brick wall held a sixty-inch flatscreen TV that overpowered her senses when it was on. Sports Illustrated magazines had been neatly piled on the glass coffee table. The leather couch squeaked as she stood. Nothing about this place felt like home to her.

Charlie had threatened her career if she left. In everyone else’s eyes she had the perfect life, but . . .

Before she could change her mind, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Information. “Littleton, Massachusetts,” she said. “RE/MAX Realty.” Whether or not she could buy the house, it was time to make a change.