The Lake House (19 page)

The flowers brought with them the memory of her grandmother: trowel in hand, face smeared with dirt as she planted in the garden. Heather wondered how old her grandmother had been when she passed. She would’ve fit right into this community.

For the hundredth time, Heather went over the conversation with Aaron the day she saw the house. He’d said that the houses had been passed down to younger generations, and then he’d introduced Tommy as one of her neighbors. He’d swindled her into buying it, knowing full well the age of her neighbors. She realized her need for the house had led her to be impulsive and buy the place without researching first. It was finally hitting her that she was living in a retirement community, basically, and seemed to be the only resident under the age of seventy. A part of her knew if she heard this story from a friend she’d find it funny, but the realization didn’t fill her with mirth. There definitely wouldn’t be parties with neighbors, or margaritas on the beach.

Heather moved her legs apart and pulled her head to her left and then right knee to stretch her inner thighs. The muscles began to unwind and she leaned her chest on the soft lawn. A second ladybug flew onto her arm and chased the first one.

A woman rode her scooter along the road. A black brace stuck out from under brown cotton culottes. She had on a floral long-sleeved shirt that skimmed away from the rolls above her waist. A wide-brimmed hat fluttered as she sped nearer, then she stopped in front of Heather, and without further introduction, said, “You know the sun is dangerous. Look here. Melanoma.” She pointed to a scar on her nose and then lifted up her shorts to reveal a long sunken area on the back of her thigh. “I beat it twice against the odds, but they removed large chunks of my skin, and chemotherapy nearly killed me. If you don’t want to endure what I did, you should stop wearing skimpy clothing and cover up.”

Heather stood and walked toward the woman with her hand outstretched. “I’m Heather. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Agatha Lowe. I live three doors down.”

“Thank you for the advice, but I wear sunscreen, and it’s after six. I don’t think I have to worry.”

“Every young person thinks they’re unbreakable. In my day, women didn’t go around wearing shorts that barely covered their cabooses and their bras as shirts. We still got skin cancer. Think about it.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Heather smiled.

Agatha nodded. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I see you have quite a bit of work ahead of you with that moving truck.” The gravel crunched under the scooter’s tires as Agatha rode off.

Heather sat back down on the grass and pulled her head to her knees. Her thighs still screamed with tightness, and she took deep breaths as her body unwound.

A breeze moved over Heather’s skin, carrying with it the sour, thick scent of a cigar. No one seemed concerned that she might end up with lung cancer from the old men smoking in her front yard. Every night since she moved in, as the sun was setting over the lake, the men took up residence under her tree. The thick burnt smell of tobacco filled her house as they yelled stories about World War II to one another. She wanted to ask them to move to a different location but hesitated, trying to think of a way to avoid making her first encounter with these men a disagreeable one.

Last night, before she went to bed, she’d dragged the picnic table to a different location closer to her neighbor’s house on the right. Now she looked up from her fragmented moment of yoga serenity to the astonishing sight of the four men, cigars hanging from their mouths, carrying the table back to its original location, putting it down in the ruts it had already made in the grass, and sitting down as if nothing had happened. Then
the man with the Red Sox cap pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle.

Thomas came out of his house and made his way across her lawn.

“Evening, Heather,” he said as he smacked his lips. Heather moved to stand but he put up his hand. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You just go right ahead and stretch that cute little figure of yours.”

Heather blushed, stood, and tugged her small shorts down her thighs a couple of inches. Thomas took her fingers in his hand, bowed, and kissed them. “If I was a younger man, you’d be in trouble.”

Heather laughed.
Dirty old man
. “I think I still have to be careful.”

“Better believe it.” He smiled and squeezed her hand as he led her toward the picnic table and the other men.

“Men,” he said as he put his thin arm around Heather’s waist. “Our new neighbor, Heather. Heather, this is Bill, Carl, Joseph, and Daniel.” He pointed to each, and she tried to remember the names and faces.

Joseph stood and extended his hand toward her. “It’s nice to meet you. How are you liking your new home?”

“It’s lovely. It’s been a lot of work to get it cleaned, but Molly and Victoria have been such a great help.”

“Well, you let us know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and looked around the picnic table.

The other men grumbled under their breath and looked at their cards. The smoke began to fill her sinuses, and she sneezed and began to cough.

“Well, it was nice to meet all of you. I have to get back to work.”

“Yeah, finish unpacking your stuff, but leave ours alone,” Daniel said as she walked away.

She thought about turning around to say something but felt it was better to leave it alone. In time, she’d suggest that they smoke somewhere besides her front yard.

Heather opened the back of the truck and lifted the top box. She could hear Bill’s booming voice as she carried the box to the deck.

“It was so cold in northern Germany that when I tried to move the scope, my skin froze to the metal. The doctors tell me the reason my fingers are swollen now is from the frostbite.”

World War II stories again? Didn’t they have anything else to discuss besides what she suspected were exaggerated tales from half a century ago?

“A missile missed our sub by inches!” Carl yelled. “The explosion knocked me into the radar equipment, and I thought, this is it—any moment the flames are going to blow through and we’re all dead.”

Apparently that missile took out most of his hearing.
Heather continued to move the boxes from the truck to the deck.

“Do you need some help, Heather?” Joseph asked from the picnic table.

The thought of carrying the boxes upstairs exhausted her. She wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t ask the old men to help her move. She’d be worried they’d get hurt.

“Thank you, that’s a nice offer, but I’ve got it.”

The work was heavy and dusty, and she began to sweat as she carried the contents of the truck to the deck. At least once they were on the deck they’d be halfway into her house. As she worked, a white rusted truck rattled into the driveway. Tommy
stepped from the vehicle and Heather froze between the truck and the deck, a box in her arms, taking in the sight of Tommy standing in her driveway: white T-shirt and jeans, hair as if he’d just run his hands through the thick waves. For a moment she let herself stare into the ocean of his eyes, then without volition, her gaze dipped along the taut deltoids, the chestnut hairs gleaming on his forearms . . . Blood flushed her skin and her heartbeat quickened.

He waved to the old men and walked up to greet her. “Hello again.”

“Hi,” she said, ducked her head, and walked quickly to the deck to deposit the box. Catching her reflection in the glass door, she gasped. She looked like someone who’d been hiking in the woods all day.

“Do you need some help?” Tommy asked.

She didn’t want him seeing her like this. She picked up the box she had just dropped on the porch, opened the door, and half turned toward him, keeping the door open with her no doubt grass-stained backside. “No, I’m fine. I think I hear my phone ringing. I’ll see you later.” Then she rushed into the house and upstairs.

In the mirror she’d hung on the closet door, Heather looked pasty white. She looked haggard with the combination of jet lag and moving stress; the ponytail elastic hadn’t been able to hold Heather’s mane, so frizzy strands stuck out. This is what he’d seen. In all her fantasies and daydreams of meeting him again, never was she dressed in running shorts, sweaty, frazzled, and covered in dirt.

Now she was trapped in the house because she didn’t want to run into him again. It would seem strange if she showered and changed before she moved the rest of the dusty boxes. Then
again, anything was better than looking the way she did. At least she’d be clean and smell better. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

“T
ommy, what are you doing here on a Friday? You’re young and vibrant. You should be out having sex, not hanging around an old man,” Grandpa said as he walked away from the picnic table.

“You’re more fun than any woman my age.” Tom waved to the other men and then went to the back of his truck. He grabbed a large flat box and carried it into the house as Grandpa opened the door for him. “What did the doctor tell you about smoking cigars?” he said as he put the box down.

“That it’s bad for my health. I think being eighty-four is a bigger problem. And the other men were the ones smoking, not me.”

“Liar. I saw you when I pulled into the driveway.”

The box contained a desk Tom had bought, which came in four pressed wood panels. Glue and an Allen wrench were the only tools he’d need to assemble the furniture. He’d wanted to spend a day locked in the wood shop, feeling smooth wood under his palm, but work had been too hectic to take time to create a handmade desk. He ripped open the cardboard box and spread the contents around the room.

Grandpa settled into his recliner with a bag of chocolate chip cookies. “When was your last date?” He held the bag out to Tom, who grabbed a cookie and popped it into his mouth.

“I went out with a nice young lady two days ago. Which is why I didn’t come to see you.”

“Was she hot?” Grandpa leaned forward.

Tom chewed absently, looking at the assembly instructions. “She was pretty.”

Grandpa swished his false teeth with his tongue. “Nah, I don’t want pretty. I’m an old man who lives vicariously through his grandson. I want details.” He pounded on the chair with his fist. “Details. And speak up so I don’t miss anything.”

Tom looked at his grandfather. “She had red hair and freckles across her cheeks.”

Erica had bought Tom at the Make-A-Wish bachelor auction. With the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, she caused more than one wide-eyed waiter to stumble during their dinner.

As they ate, he learned that she’d grown up in Southern California and moved to New England to attend Smith College. She graduated magna cum laude, then came to Providence to work in advertising. She had a plan: three children by thirty-seven, one of them adopted from China, and a house on the ocean. When she retired, at fifty-five, she would travel the world doing charity work.

Tom had paid for dinner, kissed her on the cheek, and thanked her for her contribution to the charity.

Grandpa pushed a button, and his recliner rose to help him stand. His black pants, a size too big now, were covered in cookie crumbs that fell to the rug as he stood. Over his Oxford shirt he wore a thick wool sweater that never came off, even in August. “Cold bones,” he’d say.

“How old are you again?” Grandpa asked.

“Thirty.”

“At thirty you should be getting nailed every night. That’s when women are hitting their sexual peak. Or better yet, you should get a wife to keep your bed warm.”

“Grandpa, where did you learn the term ‘nail’?” Tom asked.

“I watch television.”

“They say ‘nailed’ on television? What kind of shows are you watching?”

“Ah, it could’ve been the smut I was reading. What difference does it make?” Grandpa walked to the window. “Did you see that hot young thing next door? Earlier she was stretching on her front lawn. I think she likes giving me a show . . . but if you want her, I won’t use my charm.”

Tom began to organize the parts of the desk according to the instructions. “You go for it, Grandpa. She’s not my type. Plus, she’s engaged.”

“A man hasn’t come ’round. She’s been moving in all by herself,” Grandpa said. “As for type? You’re too picky. You need to go out and get the pipes cleaned.”

“I’m not looking to get my pipes cleaned.”

Grandpa grunted. “What kind of man isn’t looking for that? I wonder if I raised you right.”

Tom had heard the stories from his grandfather’s conquests throughout his life. As a young man, Grandpa had been a cad. He’d been older than the other children in Nagog by at least ten years, yet he was one of the last men in the community to marry. Thomas had loved women. He didn’t care about the shape, size, or age. Each one was a different flavor in an intricate buffet of gourmet foods. The way they smelled and tasted and the light that caught in their hair drew him like fish to a baited hook.

At twenty-two he managed his father’s factory, and every woman at the social dances knew he would inherit the business. The Great Depression had been in full force and many people
looked for relief in simple pleasures. Thomas had taken full advantage.