The Color of Water in July (15 page)

Daniel was looking straight at her now, brown eyes wide, mouth relaxed into the gentlest, the softest of smiles. Jess could almost feel herself reaching across the table and grasping his face in her hands, pulling it closer to her, but then she stopped as if jolted. What was she thinking?

“Are you out of your mind?” Jess said sharply, again a little too loud. “We had the bright idea to think of the one thing that can’t
ever
work.” And as she spoke, she saw the bloody sand dripping through her fingers, saw a flash of Doc Coggins’s face.

Daniel was looking at her, hard at her, looking deep into her eyes like he was trying to see something inside that she wasn’t saying, trying to read on her face a story that the words didn’t tell. After a moment, he stood up and turned his back to her, and walked, almost ran, out the bar door, and stood just outside the window in the lamplight where she could still see him. It was raining now, and he was getting wet.

Daniel was not the type to leave her stranded, and he didn’t. He just stood there in the rain waiting, water dripping down his forehead, looking out at the mostly empty street.

Realizing she had no alternative, eventually she followed him outside and got into the truck with him, and he drove her home. But Jess could see something different in his profile, something obdurate and hidden that she had never seen there before. And she was left feeling that indeed her heart was made of stone, because she felt better now, like she had closed that suitcase neat and tidy, no loose ends, no stockings hanging out the sides, and now she was ready to move on.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

J
ESS
,
AGE THIRTY-THREE

Russ and Paul had gone to Traverse to look at granite countertops. Jess had the day to herself, so she decided to go into town. It would get her mind off the cottage to take a walk around. It was another glorious summer day. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, standing in line at the fudge store or drifting in and out of the T-shirt shops, licking chocolate ice-cream cones that were melting and running down over their fingers as they strolled. She meandered past the marina, the post office, and out to the south, where the street became more residential, lined with trim gingerbread cottages, window boxes overflowing with red geraniums, porch railings shining with fresh paint. The town straddled the area between Pine Lake and Lake Michigan. The smaller lake was connected to the larger one by a small circular harbor and the Pine River Channel, which had been built, originally, to get the pine logs out to the lumber barges on the Great Lakes that would take them south to Chicago or Gary, Indiana.

As she was walking, Jess tried not to pay attention to the fact that there was a book stuck in her pocket, even though it was a little too bulky and so scraped against her butt as she walked. She turned the corner and descended a few steps onto the walkway that ran alongside the Pine River Channel. There were pleasure boats: big cabin cruisers and yachts with their sails down and motors purring, chugging calmly up the channel, bright flags fluttering in the wind. Pretty soon, she could see Lake Michigan, which appeared to stretch on forever, much grayer than the blue of Pine Lake.

Down on Michigan Beach, the wind was blowing straight off the lake. She liked the way it roared in her ears, the sound seeming to silence her own thoughts. She found a park bench and sat down, looking across the expanse of sand toward the water. Here and there were small groups of mothers and children, their bright-hued towels making vivid splashes across the sand; a solitary couple was walking barefoot on the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge.

Jess looked out at the vast expanse of water. Shifting her weight slightly, she pulled the little book out of her pocket, turning it to gaze at the picture of the author on the back cover. He looked older, yes, face a little more bony than before, hair still longish. Now, there were laugh lines around his eyes. This was the first time that Jess had really allowed herself to look at his face. In spite of herself, she felt herself grinning back at him.

How many times had she thought about him over the years? Picked up the phone to dial 411 for his number, and then thought better of it and hung up? She used to imagine that she would call him just to ask him one question:
Did you stay in the North?
She had clung to the hope that he had, that he was out there somewhere looking at birds and walking light-footed through the woods.

But she hadn’t ever tried to reach him, fearing two things in equal measure: That he would still be there, going on, without her. Worse even, that he
wouldn’t
be there, that he would be gone, off into some cubicle, in an office somewhere, wearing a suit and tie.

No, he
had
to be in the woods still. It was essential to her system of belief. So always over the years, she had put the phone back in its cradle without calling. All in all, it was better not to know.

Even across the span of years, Jess still had the same familiar feeling: that this was a face that she knew, in some deep way, some way that predated her own self, like she had known him before she had ever seen him, that she knew him as she knew her own self. What had felt like love to her at seventeen, she had realized belatedly, was what kinship feels like. She, who had never had a cousin, or an aunt or uncle, no sister or brother, or a child. She who bore only the faintest passing resemblance to her own mother, but this face—it was not love, apparently, after all—it was the affinity of blood for blood.

What if they had been allowed to know each other as family? If he had known her mother as . . . Aunt Margaret? Jess stared at the picture, trying to formulate some feeling that represented what that kind of love must feel like. And as she stared at the photo of this cousin-man-stranger, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest. What she felt when she stared at that familiar-yet-unfamiliar face was nothing like that.

Jess stood up and shoved the book back into her pocket without ever opening it. That she should find herself feeling like this, all hot and bothered, after all these years, was ludicrous even to her. Staring at his photo like some lovesick preteen staring at a pop star. Honestly. She turned onto the path heading back into town. Paul was returning to New York, and she and Russ would have dinner alone tonight together—Jess started making a mental shopping list: pasta and garlic, fresh coffee, red wine.

Thinking about Russ made Jess feel comfortable. Dwelling on the past was violating her own rules.
It was the place,
she thought. Journey’s End
was
haunted in a way. Not by Great-Aunt Lila but by the ghost of her own past self that she thought she had left behind. Jess Carpenter picked up the pace as she walked back into the throng of summer tourists walking down Main Street. She had seen a good specialty grocery store around the corner, where she thought she could find some tortellini and decent olive oil. Looking forward to cooking a good dinner, Jess bustled about her errands, and then, arms full of packages, a copy of the
Times
tucked under her arm, she got in the car and drove to back to Wequetona.

“Dinner,” Jess said, as she came in, plunking the grocery bags on the counter. “Those the plans?”

“Yeah, these are the basic plans. We’ll just take down that wall, put in a new set of cabinets and the new appliances. Oughta look great. Most of the rest we can do with coats of white and yellow paint.”

“What about Holcombe Gaines and the beauty of natural pine?” Jess said.

“Nah, never sell. Everybody wants white and yellow these days. Natural wood is dark.”

Jess started to unload the grocery bags, putting a bottle of Chardonnay into the 1940s metal fridge.

“Hey, Jess, that Barnes lady called,” Russ said. “Bringing some prospective buyers. She made it sound like pretty much a done deal. Somebody you know, I guess.”

“Oh, who is it?”

“I can’t remember the name. Something Republican-sounding?”

“Russ. Honestly?
Republican-sounding?
”

“Like Bush or something? You got any Bushes up here?”

“Bushes? Russ. Enough with the Kennebunkport thing.”

“Well, I don’t really remember, but the operative words were “boatloads of money” and “remodel sounds great.”

“When are they coming?”

“I think she said sixish.”

“Great, we’ll eat after,” Jess said.

At around six, Jess was sitting at Mamie’s writing desk, looking out the window at the lake and the front walk. She saw Toni Barnes come striding down the path, this time dressed in red and white: white linen pants, red strappy sandals, and a red-and-white-striped sailor shirt. Following a short distance behind were two people that Jess didn’t recognize. There was a thin, sandy-haired man with a slightly receding hairline, dressed in a Patagonia pullover, jeans and boat shoes. A very tall and thin woman stood beside him, her light-brown pageboy pulled back in a tortoiseshell barrette. Wequetona people, obviously, but if Jess had ever known them, she did not recognize them anymore. Jess watched Russ get up and go out to shake Toni’s hand and make the introductions. She hesitated a bit, wanting to delay the inevitable greetings, the pretending to remember each other, the perfunctory condolences for Mamie. Jess stood up and walked out to the porch.

“Why, Jess, how nice to see you again. It’s been too long, much too long. This is my wife, Martha. Martha’s from the Belvedere Club. Martha . . . Jess . . . ? I guess it’s not Carpenter anymore?”

“Jess Carpenter,” Jess said, sticking out her hand, mentally ticking down the line of cottages. Who was this nondescript man? Was he an Addison? A Coffey? A Slade?

“What a delight to meet you,” Martha said, holding out a cool hand with long, slender fingers. “I understand you’re a researcher. How
in-
teresting.”

“A librarian,” Jess muttered.

“We were so terribly sorry to hear about Miss Mamie’s passing. She was an institution around here,” the man said.

“It’s lovely to see you again”—Jess pretended that she remembered him—“and a pleasure to meet you, Martha. Please go ahead and look around. Take your time.”

Jess was looking at the affable couple, so pleasant, though she still couldn’t place the fellow; any one of twenty Wequetona boys would have grown up to look just like him. His wife, Martha, was an example of well-bred Midwestern good looks: even features, thin long legs, flat chest, and straight hair. She was stooping slightly, as tall women sometimes do; her husband, equally thin and angular, was about her height.

“You know, we used to sail out from the Belvedere, and always noticed your cottage, so
attractive
, sitting up here on the bluff,” Martha said.

“Most of us Wequetona people think of Journey’s End as almost a symbol for the Club as a whole,” her husband said. “I’m sure you feel as we do, that Journey’s End should ‘stay in the family’ so to speak . . . ”

“Please,” Jess said, wanting to cut the conversation short. “Go ahead and look around.”

With Toni Barnes leading the way and Russ hovering, ready to be the obsequious guide, Jess left the little party to tour the cottage and went back to her work, reading through a bibliography of new works about Molière.

She could hear their chattering voices: Martha’s little squeals of delight as Russ talked about the magazine piece, the wall coming down, and the stainless-steel Viking range. Toni and the husband talked about winter insulation, air-conditioning, and more closet space. Martha and Russ talked about working for the magazine, about New York, about Maine and the South of France.

It
’s
all to the good,
Jess thought. They could have their golf and their sailing and their summer cottage in the Club, on the lake. These were exactly the kind of people that Mamie adored,
such attractive people
, as she would say. Their children would grow up here, skipping down the front walk with white ribbons in their hair, just as she had. With any luck, their grandchildren would do the same.

By the time they were coming back down the stairs, Russ was already negotiating. There were only twenty or so cottages in the Wequetona Club, and most of them rarely changed hands. Journey’s End was the largest and the most architecturally striking. Jess had heard more than once the litany of who these people were, people she saw walking around in bathing suits or golf shorts, the president of this, the chairman of that, one of the blah-blahs from blah-blah . . . Russ was betting that money was no object for these people. Jess actually heard him use the words “once-in-a-lifetime chance.” Again, Jess felt as she had several times before during this trip. Let him handle it. Let him take care of this transaction, as though she wasn’t even involved, as though the business had nothing to do with her. Wouldn’t Mamie be proud of me, she thought, for finding this nice, boring, rich couple to sell to . . . so Wequetona . . . more like the Tretheways than the Tretheways themselves.

“That’s our offer,” Russ was exulting to Jess as soon as they had said their good-byes and walked back down the front path. “They’re going to get back to us tonight. I’m sure the place is sold.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Jess said. “That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”

She walked down the familiar mothball-smelling hallway to the as-yet-unchanged cottage kitchen and started assembling the ingredients for her dinner. Now, she was wishing they had just gone and picked up a pizza. She did not feel like cooking. The cottage kitchen was old-fashioned and awkward. There was no counter space. She searched through the cupboards until she found a cutting board and got started chopping up onions.
When can we leave
? she thought. She did not care at all about the stupid magazine article. She just wanted these people to sign on the dotted line so she could get the hell out and go back home. Even the humid, dirty hubbub of New York in July was preferable to this. The onion odor was sharp and Jess felt her eyes starting to tear up.

Chop.
I want to get out of here.
Chop.
I hate vacation.
Chop.
I’m sick of the lake.
Chop. Chop. Chop.

The mindless chore of cooking soothed her mind, and by the time Jess sat down with Russ out on the front porch, plates of tortellini balanced on their knees, she was starting to feel something close to happy.

“Just think of all that money,” Jess said.

“Inheriting it,” Russ said. “I’ve always said that was the best way to go.”

“Who was that anyway?” Jess asked. “I didn’t recognize him at all.”

“I keep forgetting his name. It’s like Wasp-mire or something like that.”

“Not
Whitmire
?” Jess said, racking her brain again for some familiar feature in the bland, middle-aged face.

“Yeah, that’s it. Phelps Whitmire. You know, as in
Phelps Gate
? At
Yale
?”

Jess’s eyes widened in surprise.

Russ, not noticing, continued. “These are real substantial folks. Monument types. Come to think of it, isn’t there a Whitmire Hall somewhere? Princeton?”

“That wasn’t Phelps Whitmire,” Jess said.

“Yeah, Phelps and Martha Whitmire. Can you believe it? Now those are the kind of people I like to take money from!” Russ whooped.

“
That
was Phelps Whitmire?”

“So you
do
know him?”

“You can’t take their money,” Jess said, her voice suddenly steely with fury.

“Oh, honey,” Russ said, leaning closer to her so that his plate tipped precariously and a few drops of spaghetti sauce dripped onto the floor, “I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . . I know it’s your money . . . It’s just that you and me . . . I thought . . . ” Russ paused and looked searchingly at Jess’s face, which now looked guarded and cool.