and sniffing, and then, with a sudden burst of bravado, pushed through the pet flap in the side door of the kitchen and disappeared. She’d been nervous when they’d first experimented with letting Smokey go outside, but there’d never been any problems, other than the occasional dead mouse or bird he triumphantly brought back with him.
After unpacking the cooler and wrenching open a few first-floor windows, Lake prowled through the rooms, taking stock. Though the house had come fairly cheap, it had wonderful bones and had cleaned up beautifully. To the left of the center hall was a long, wide living room with a fireplace. On the other side were a small library and a dining room. The kitchen was at the back, and though not huge, it had what real estate agents like to call “country charm.” Flowing from it was a tiny den with a TV. Her favorite part of the house was the screened porch that ran along the back. Whenever she read or just daydreamed in one of the black wicker rockers out there, it brought her instantly back to her grandmother’s house in central Pennsylvania.
It had been four whole months since she’d last been at the house. Though she’d been avoiding coming up here because she feared her grief was still too raw, it wasn’t sadness that she experienced today. It was discomfort. The house felt foreign to her, as if she were in a dream and everything that should be familiar was slightly off, out of place. Give it a few minutes, she told herself. You love this place and it’s just going to take time to feel at home here again.
She poured a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen sink. There was a small purple stain in the porcelain sink. What was it from, she wondered. Blueberries? She couldn’t even remember now.
With the glass still in hand, she carried her duffel bag upstairs. The stairs creaked and groaned, disturbed by the sudden weight. When she neared the entrance to the master bedroom she felt a pit begin to form in her stomach. It was this room, far more than her bedroom in New York, that she associated with the death of her marriage. Because it was here, on weekends, that she and Jack most often had sex—and it was here where he had first shrugged her hand away.
She stepped into the room. As she saw the bed, with its pale-blue spread, she caught her breath. It made her think not of Jack but of Keaton. She could see his butchered body all over again, lying in the bloodied sheets.
Why did I come here? she felt like screaming as she stood frozen in place.
She needed a plan, she told herself, something to keep her from going crazy. She turned around and walked across the hall to the guest room. This will be my room now, she decided as she laid her duffel bag on the wooden luggage rack. She would organize the room and later tackle the garden. And next it would be time for dinner and then for bed. When she felt calmer tomorrow, she would work on the presentation.
After changing the bedding in the guest room and dragging in some of her possessions, she put on shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of wilted gardening gloves. As she stepped onto the porch, the phone rang, making her jump. It can’t be the police, she thought, scolding herself for being so skittish. They had no idea she was here—unless of course they talked to Maggie.
She let out a small sigh of relief when she heard Molly’s voice on the other end of the line.
“So I’m sitting here on pins and needles,” Molly said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You don’t sound as if you’re on pins and needles,” Lake said. “You sound as if you’re in a car.”
“I’m just driving up to the fish market on Ninth Avenue. I’m doing a dinner tomorrow night. So tell me about Jack’s little visit. What was that all about?”
“He claimed he needed to get some papers—but it seemed odd to me.”
“Odd how?”
“Like he was looking for an excuse to come by.”
“Like he wants to get back together?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Actually, no. How did he act toward you?”
“Molly, you can’t be serious. The guy just filed for full custody. That’s hardly a strategy for wooing me back.”
“Guys rarely behave logically when it comes to women.”
“Trust me, that’s not it. Here’s what I think—that his coming by