The Lake House (5 page)

She opened the secret compartment in the bottom of the travel jewelry box. Inside was a pearl ring Annabelle had given
her. She slid it onto her finger and rubbed the white gold that swirled around the smooth pink pearl.

Annabelle had curly, golden locks that flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Her high cheekbones curved under bright, blue eyes. Always lost in her imagination, the girl would twirl the hair strand behind her ear until it became a tight ringlet. Victoria had always commanded men’s attention in the past, but when she walked next to Annabelle, she knew it was her granddaughter who caused men to stumble over trash cans and walk into doorways, unable to take their eyes off of her.

Victoria continued to unpack, placing items in drawers that contained articles she’d left behind when she fled Nagog after Annabelle’s death. The way she’d run from the community five years ago hadn’t been so different from the first time she’d left home—she’d barely packed a bag.

Downstairs, the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Victoria placed the breakfast tray on the wooden butcher-block counter of the island. Through the glass panels in the whitewashed cabinets she could see the dozens of plates and bowls that filled the cupboards ready for the meals she’d planned to fix her family. One cabinet contained wineglasses that now looked smoky with years of disuse. Each one would need to be washed.

She pulled a dusty red mug from the cabinet and turned on the tap to clean it. Once it dried, she filled it with coffee and curled it to her chest, pulling in its warmth as she looked out the window above the sink. By now there should’ve been Sunday dinners here, children playing in the sunroom. Victoria would’ve stood at this sink, its white porcelain front against her waist as she peeled carrots and chatted with Annabelle.

Victoria knew that an apron that read
World’s Greatest Grandmother
hung inside the pantry door. Unopened cookbooks lined the shelves. Victoria wasn’t a great cook, but she’d thought she might spend her golden years learning the skill. After dinner the children would’ve curled up on the old couches in the sunroom and watched movies, their heavy eyes trying to stay awake past their bedtimes.

Outside the window, black-and-white chickadees landed in the empty bird feeder and searched for food, then flew to the melted snow piles and pecked at the fallen pine needles. Snowstorms were for children: cold red noses peeking out from between scarves and hats; bright-colored snowsuits wrapped around small legs like pillows; saucers and sleds careening down hills while the children screamed in excitement.

Tommy and Annabelle would’ve had children by now. They’d planned to have a “truckload of kids,” as Tommy had put it. Victoria could almost see the bright blond hair sticking up and the aqua eyes of their father sparkling with excitement while the children told Grandma stories of ice-skating on the pond and she made them hot chocolate.

Annabelle had wanted these things, the winters that she hadn’t experienced growing up in Malibu. Victoria had taken her granddaughter on ski trips to Tahoe and Aspen, but it wasn’t the same as having school canceled because the sky had dumped a winter playground on your front lawn.

The vacuum cleaner hum went silent and then restarted farther down the hall. Victoria took her coffee into the front sitting room. The furniture was still covered with sheets and the carpets needed to be cleaned, but other than that, this room hadn’t changed since the day Victoria had left for California when she was nineteen. This was her mother’s space. While the rest of the
house had a modern flair, this room had been decorated similarly to the Boston residence where they’d lived when Victoria was a toddler.

Familiar pictures hung on the walls. Victoria scanned the frames: a black-and-white photo of the family, ancestors’ portraits dating back to the 1800s, and in the middle, above the fireplace, the largest portrait of all—her thirteen-year-old face captured by a painter.

Victoria turned on the Tiffany lamps and the light created a soft glow that illuminated the dust as she removed a sheet from the furniture. She could almost see her mother in the high-backed chair. A crisp shirt and a pencil skirt had been her mother’s favorite outfit, lipstick and a touch of rouge her only makeup. She kept her curly blond hair short, and tucked it behind her ear whenever she read. The epitome of grace and decorum, she never raised her voice over a speaking tone. She didn’t need to—one improper move by Victoria and her mother could impose wrath with the “look.” Victoria hated the “look,” and she’d received it often as a child.

She walked to the window and watched the raindrops dance in the puddles on the road. She tried not to look across the beach to Joseph’s home, but her heart defied her mind as she gazed at the warm light coming from his study.

T
he day after Victoria and Joseph made love for the first time, he became a sailor. That year, the women of Nagog had endured World War II together as the men of the community fought in Europe. Seventeen-year-old Victoria waited for the postman,
always hoping for a letter. Sometimes they came daily; at other times, weeks would pass without word. She tended the victory gardens and collected tin for the drives. Then she walked the country road, under the green-leafed canopy, to the small white Episcopal church where she sat in the pew alone and prayed, “Please God, bring him home to me.”

When she finished her prayer, she stood and walked to the alcove in the back of the church. The sun came through the stained glass and the colorful prism light reflected across Victoria’s skin as she lit a candle and pressed her hands together. From her heart she sang, performing for God so he might hear her prayer over the millions of other women who asked for their loves’ safety.

At night, she, Molly, and their friends Evelyn, Maryland, and Sarah curled under a mountain of lace in Victoria’s canopy bed. They pretended to sleep, but their minds were active, recounting the news and searching for hidden messages that the war would end.

During the second summer of Joseph’s absence, the heat blistered the porch paint and burned the grass tips. The temperature reached 100 degrees, and Victoria found solace in the lake. Diving deep below the surface, darkness enveloped her as she swirled her body like a mermaid. Over and over she plunged and surfaced until she gave way to fatigue. She lay in the sand, moisture evaporating from her suit as the sun melted her muscles.

Images of Joseph flashed behind her eyelids: the sunlight illuminating golden flecks in his blond hair, his infectious smile, the dimples that framed his mouth. The way he’d encircle his face with his hand and point to her—his secret sign to tell her she was beautiful.

The sounds of Molly’s mother preparing dinner interrupted Victoria’s thoughts. She knew it was time to go in and help her own mother with supper. Reluctantly, she stood and was walking across the beach when a scream came from Maryland’s house.

Doors banged and women ran across their front yards. When Victoria reached the house, Maryland was curled in her mother’s arms and they were both crying. Victoria turned to Evelyn, who stood by the staircase, a letter in her hand as she stared at the sobbing women. Victoria’s circulation slowed as her blood solidified. She felt like a china cabinet suffering an earthquake, her strength breaking into tiny prismatic shards that reflected like the church’s stained glass. Something had happened to Maryland’s brother, James. Victoria looked at the tiny diamond on Evelyn’s hand, the promise ring James had given her before he left for the war.

“What happened?” Victoria asked as she put her arm around Evelyn. More women entered the room and they turned and waited for the response.

Evelyn continued to stare out the window unable to speak.

Maryland’s mother wiped her tears and said, “James’s platoon came under heavy fire. He’s missing in action.”

Victoria knew how hard Evelyn and Maryland had prayed and still James might not come home. The protective bubble of Nagog hadn’t been able to save him, and the security Victoria had felt during her whole life was crumbling.

Something changed in Victoria that day. She stopped going to church every afternoon to pray and only went on Sundays, when the community attended the Church of the Good Shepherd. The vigil she’d kept for Joseph became harder to endure, knowing that any day a letter could arrive stating he’d suffered the same fate as James. Movies became her respite. For the rest
of the summer, on Thursdays and Saturdays, she rode her bike the four miles to Littleton’s town center. With popcorn in hand, she lost herself in other worlds. The silver screen opened a window to life outside of Nagog, which had begun to feel like a prison—a world in which waiting for news from the war front seemed every woman’s sole occupation. Instead, the women on the big screen wore sequined tops, bared their bellies, traveled. They could live the way they chose without ties to community or expectations from parents.

Everything in Victoria’s life had been planned: She would attend Wellesley College this fall, marry Joseph upon his return, and have babies. Her father’s plastics company would be combined with Joseph’s family’s textile factory. She and Joseph would summer in Nagog and uphold tradition. Parties would be thrown and social calendars kept. She would live her mother’s life.

And if Joseph didn’t come home from the war, a different husband would be chosen from her parents’ circle.

In the dark theater, a secret hunger grew. Though she still wrote Joseph letters and tended the gardens like a good Nagog woman, she longed to be like Ingrid Bergman: known and loved by everyone in the world, not just by a long-absent soldier. She wanted to wear gowns and attend fabulous parties on Humphrey Bogart’s arm.

As the years passed and she was forced to sit with the neighborhood women and sew clothing, Victoria found herself unable to join the conversations. The women read
Ladies’ Home Journal
and discussed the latest recipes created to help the modern woman create tasty meals without the use of butter.

Victoria’s mother snubbed her nose at the government’s ads of Rosie the Riveter. “A proper woman doesn’t wear coveralls
and a handkerchief over her hair while flexing her muscles,” her mother said. “What is this country coming to if we start treating our young women like boys?” All the ladies nodded in agreement.

Their snobbery angered Victoria. They were hypocrites. Victoria knew that her father had hired women to work in his factory. The safe life of Nagog was kept alive by the muscles in the arms of those women who were willing to work. “What’s wrong with a woman working in a factory?”

Her mother gave her the “look,” and Victoria went silent as she seethed inside—her spirit slammed against the cage Nagog had become.

The entire community was determined to live enclosed in their tiny bubble. Victoria felt as if she’d never be part of the outside world. She hid her
Motion Picture
magazines from her family, sharing them only with Molly. “Look at the women’s dresses,” she’d say as she admired the actresses’ photos. “They’re so glamorous. I want their life.”

“They’re beautiful, but who would want to live in Hollywood?”

“I would,” Victoria said. She looked at her best friend and confided her secrets. “I want to become an actress. I want to live in Hollywood and be like Ingrid Bergman.”

Molly patted her hand. “You miss Joseph. Once he comes home you’ll forget all about Hollywood. The two of you are meant to be together.”

Victoria turned away. No one understood or even dreamt of a life bigger than Nagog. And what if Molly was right? Once Joseph returned, would Victoria forget about her dreams and simply give in to the life she’d been handed? She’d be nothing
more than a wife and a mother, never finding out who she could become if given the freedom to find out. The need for escape burned in her.

V
ictoria looked away from Joseph’s home and stared at the wrinkles in her hands as she spoke to the empty sitting room. “When you’re a child, you think you have control over your future. You don’t realize how unforeseen events can change the trajectory of your life.” She picked up a silver frame from one of the shelves by the fireplace. In the picture, her mother stood erect, a posed smile on her face, while Victoria held her arms wide as if to say,
Look at me
. Her mother’s speeches had been a part of life. Victoria remembered sitting in this room by the fireplace as she listened to her mother’s voice.