Lake News (44 page)

John watched her go. Totally aside from grogginess, he was feeling confused about things he couldn't put his finger on. He wanted to be alone.

Dulcey had no sooner left, though, than a neighbor came from across the street to offer condolences. She didn't come inside. Nor did any of the others who came by in short order. They just stood at the door, told John that they were sorry about Gus's death, and left.

He was touched. Gus hadn't been any warmer to his neighbors than he had been to his family, yet these people found it in themselves to come by. They made him feel guilty for every negative thought he'd had about the Ridge, which only added to his confusion.

Needing to do something, knowing that he had a funeral to plan and that he wanted Gus looking good, he went to the bedroom closet. It was a total mess. Either Dulcey had drawn the line here or Gus had forbidden her to touch it. There was an overcoat that John remembered from childhood, and a couple of shirts that weren't flannel or plaid. There were—incredibly—a few dresses that had belonged to John's mother. And there was a suit. John pulled it out, thinking that he might bury Gus in it. Apart from needing a pressing, it was in fine shape. He brushed at a place where the jacket bulged.

Feeling something there, he pulled back the lapel. Suspended from the hanger on a string was an opaque plastic bag. He laid the suit on the bed, removed the bag, and opened it. Inside was a collection of clippings. Some were old and yellow, some more recent. They were arranged chronologically and neatly, as though a hand had carefully pressed them flat before filing them away.

John looked at the clippings, one after another, until the heartache was too great. Here was a collection of his
work, preserved by a father who had never once,
never once
told John that he loved him.

Feeling intense inner pain, John straightened, arched his back, and pressed his hands to his eyes. He moaned, but that brought little relief. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, stared at the papers, moaned again.

Unable to stand still, he went out the back door and paced the yard in the dark. He walked the length of the stone wall that Gus had been busying himself with so recently, then walked back as he tried to sort through his thoughts. From nowhere came the image of Gus falling on his butt, of John trying to help him up and being shaken off.

Then came a weak and gravelly voice.
It was me who let you down. Me who failed. Me who was never good enough. Not for your mother. Not for Don. Not for you.

Understanding then—feeling a gut-wrenching sorrow for a man who had suffered, an illegitimate child born at a time when illegitimate children were marked, a man who had grown up believing himself unworthy, a man John had loved for no other reason than that he was his father—John sank to his knees on the grass. Hunching his shoulders, appalled but unable to stop, he cried softly for everything that he hadn't seen, hadn't known, hadn't done.

He couldn't remember the last time he had cried, couldn't remember the last time he had let go quite this way. After a while, he might have been able to stop, but the release felt good. So he let the tears flow until they ran out.

Slowly, he rose from the grass. He dried his eyes on
his sleeve, went inside, and threw cold water on his face. By the time he straightened, he was thinking clearly.

Carefully, he returned the packet of clippings to the bag where Gus had kept them, and rehooked the bag on the hanger, to be buried along with the suit and Gus. He collected a clean shirt, a tie, underwear, socks, and shoes, and brought everything out to the truck. Then he drove home, hung Gus's clothes in his own closet, and took the shower that he badly needed after a day and a half without.

His body was still damp when he set off in the canoe, and the cool air was chilling, but a strong, steady stroking warmed it quickly. When he reached his loons, he stowed the paddle. All four birds were here this night, swimming slowly, diving occasionally, raising their voices in the night, in a sound so primal that it shot straight to his soul.

There was timelessness here, a sense that death was no more than a progression of life. There was history here, a returning from season to season, and survival—two young successfully raised to perpetuate the species. Yes, the years had seen losses when nests were flooded or young lost to predators. But there was reason, order, and meaning.

Breathing that in, feeling at the same time loss and gain, John put his paddle in the water and set off. The call of his loons followed, carrying smoothly across the water and around a series of bends to Thissen Cove.

Lily was sitting at the end of her dock. She stood when he neared, as though she had been expecting him. When the canoe glided alongside, she took the line from him and tied it to a cleat.

Seconds later he was on the dock, taking her in his
arms, and it was the most natural, most right thing he had ever done. He wasn't thinking about writing a book. Wasn't feeling duplicitous or exploitative. His mind and his heart were in total sync.

He held her close, then closer still, while the lake flowed around them and the loons called. He kissed her once, then again—sweet, then deeper. By the time the third kiss was done, there was hunger as well.

At Lily's urging they went up to the house, up the stairs to the bed in the loft, and again it was the most natural, most right thing—removing clothes, touching private spots, rushing toward consummation. John's dreams had been dominated by Lily's body, and he found it even more beautiful than he had imagined, the full expanse of warm flesh and soft curves. He felt the comfort she gave, the consolation, the hope, and his body came alive as never before. Buried inside her, deep and deeper still, he felt fulfillment even as he hungered for more.

She climaxed with the catch of her breath and a soft cry.

He lingered, reluctant to leave her. In time, he slipped to his side and drew her close, but he didn't speak. He kissed her softly and tucked her against him, thinking that he could be perfectly happy lying still like this with Lily Blake for the rest of his life, then rethinking that moments later when his penis thickened. And she was ready. She welcomed everything he did, then and in the hours that followed, and the initiative was far from one-sided. Her hands weren't knowing, but they learned. Her increasing boldness was an aphrodisiac in itself, feeding his arousal.

Eventually exhaustion caught up, and John finally let
go. Safe in Lily's bed, warmed by the heat of their bodies and the scent of sex, he sank into a sleep so deep that he didn't hear a thing.

I'm at the cider house. Will be done at four.

Lily propped the note on her pillow, then took it back and drew her initial couched in a swirl that could have been a heart if John woke up in a mood to see hearts. She wasn't used to mornings after. She had no idea how he would wake up, or when. But she had promised Maida she would work today, and besides, she needed space.

Sheltered by a hooded raincoat, rubber boots, and gloves, she got it. She thought about the night that had been, and the night before that. She thought about the
week
that had been, and the week before that, and tried to reconcile them all, but it felt as though she had been through a lifetime of events and emotions. So many unresolved issues. How to sort through? How to
deal?

Maida made sandwiches for lunch and served them on the porch. She didn't ask about the day before, not about Gus or John or Terry, but the noon hour was misty and calm, a cat with sheathed claws, and Lily welcomed the break. She returned to the cider house for the afternoon's work, feeling her body now in ways she hadn't earlier, and working harder to limber it up.

Quitting time approached. She had taken off her rubber clothing and was spraying down the cider house floor when John appeared at the door. He looked tentative. Sharing the feeling, unsure about what to say and do after the night, she finished quickly, washed up, and met him outside.

He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans and wore that same hesitant look.

But they were lovers now. At some point during the day, Lily had accepted that. She could agonize all she wanted about whether she was crazy to trust him with her emotions, but that didn't change the fact that she cared deeply for him.

“Walk with me?” she asked with a small smile.

His features relaxed so quickly that it was almost comical. Almost, but not quite. It was actually quite endearing, Lily thought as she gestured toward the orchard. Minutes later they were walking on a hard-packed dirt road past row after neat row of apple trees. She picked a row that looked less worked and led him off onto the grass. Even without the sun, which was still hidden by mist, the apples gave off a sweet scent.

“What kind are these?” he asked as they walked.

She pointed. “Cortland. Macoun. Gravenstein. McIntosh.”

“Mixed together?”

“They have to be. Blossoms have to receive pollen from different varieties to be fertilized. Cortland can't pollinate Cortland, or Mac pollinate Mac. Unfortunately, bees don't know that. But they do move from tree to tree. So we mix varieties this way.”

“What variety goes into cider?”

“Varieties, plural. There's a mix. Each orchard has its own recipe.”

“What's yours?”

“I don't know. Mom does. She has it down to a science. I do know that Delicious apples make thin cider.”

“Not so good?”

“Nope.” She went to a tree, studied the apples within reach, and picked two deep in her palm, stem intact, as she'd been taught long ago. She passed one to John and looked around. Wooden ladders leaned against a few trees, crates sat under others. “Another two weeks and the harvest will be done. Apples going to market will be at the packer. Apples going for cider will be in our vaults with reduced oxygen to prevent spoilage. We'll take out only as much as we need to produce however many gallons of cider each week. The fresher the better.”

She gestured him toward one of the older, wider trees. Slipping down, she sat against its trunk. He joined her there.

For a time they munched in silence. Then, quietly, John said, “I wanted you when I woke up.”

She looked his way, but he was studying the trees. “When was that?”

“Noon.”

“What did you do then?”

“Went into town. Made funeral arrangements.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

She studied his face. Even in pain, it was strong. She had kissed those eyes closed and kissed that mouth open. He had taught her those things by example.

He met her gaze. “It was the bastard thing. I always thought he felt unwanted. What he felt was unworthy.”

“I'm glad he told you. It helps.”

“Helps me. Not him.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at her, then tipped his head back and studied the tree overhead. He was quiet for so long that she gave up the wait. Then he lowered his head and smiled. “Pretty smart for a cabaret singer,” he teased. Snagging her neck inside the crook of his elbow, he pulled her close.

Lily didn't know whether it was the smile, the praise, or the closeness, but she felt warmed all the way to her toes.

And then some.

Oh yes.

And then some. Her hand lay on his chest, covered by a shirt now, as it hadn't been last night. He wasn't as hairy as some men. Smooth skin stretched over ropey pecs. There was a dusting of hair on his upper chest, a larger patch above his navel, a denser one at his groin.

He pushed to his feet, pulled her up, and walked her back to their cars. “I'll follow you home,” was all he said, but there was an intimacy to it, a promise.

By the time she had driven around the lake and parked at the cottage, she was as aroused as when John had first pulled her close in the loft. No—more aroused. She knew now what his beard felt like against her breasts, how his muscles tightened and his body shook. She knew what his skin smelled like after a shower, and again after sex. She had touched him when he was fully aroused.

They didn't reach the bed this time, but made love at the top of the stairs, with only enough clothing removed to make it possible. Afterward, he held her close until their bodies had calmed. Then he put his forehead to hers.

He didn't speak.
The voice she heard was in her head. It offered up a range of possibilities—the need for life in the face of death, the need for a friend in unfriendly times, even purely, simply, lust. It could also be love—an interesting thought, a
frightening
thought. So she pushed it from her mind.

He held her there on his lap until darkness settled in around the cottage, and he did stay the night. By the time Lily awoke the next morning, though, he was gone.

The funeral was held in the church at the center of town. The service was brief, a simple send-off for a complicated man, but the hall was full. Most of the Ridge was there to bury one of its own, but there were enough others to suggest that they had come out of respect for John.

As she had when she attended the service the Sunday before, Lily slipped into a back pew and sat with her head bowed while the minister talked. She would have stayed out of sight at the graveyard, too, if John hadn't caught her hand and drawn her into step with him behind the casket on his way out of the church.

She was trapped. Unable to pull away without hurting him and making a scene, she went along. He held her hand as he had before, as though she were a mooring, the only thing keeping him steady. But it was different now. It was public now.

Unsure about how that would play in Lake Henry, Lily kept her eyes low. After a few prayers, the casket was lowered into the ground. She could feel the tension in John then, and wouldn't have dreamed of stepping away,
but again she was trapped, wanting privacy but denied it. Mourners passed John with a brief word, the shake of a hand, the touch of an arm, and always their eyes caught hers. There were faces with names—Cassie; the senior and junior Charlie Owenses; Willie Jake and his Emma; Allison Quimby; Liddie Bayne—and faces without. Lily nodded awkwardly, swallowed often, and thanked her lucky stars that she didn't need to speak. She was neither here nor there, in nearly every respect.