Chapter 6
After a seven-hour drive through a seemingly endless expanse of farmland, I pull into the postage-stamp parking lot up the street from Cov.
It’s five thirty. Just enough time to change clothes, slap on deodorant, and apply makeup.
I find a parking spot in the least trafficked part of the garage, slide the driver’s seat back, and awkwardly shimmy into a pink-and-purple floral dress, scanning the garage to ensure no one’s watching.
I pull down the vanity mirror and apply enough bronzer to mask my freckled, too-much-time-in-the-office complexion, and add concealer to hide the under-eye bags from my tequila binge last night.
My hair is another story. The wind from the drive has created a blond bird’s nest. I brush my hair for five minutes until every tangle is gone.
By the time I’m done, I look downright respectable.
I grab the bag of gifts for Mom and the Parkers, leave the parking garage, tiptoe downhill into town, and take in the scene.
I had forgotten how idyllic Wayzata is in the summer.
Small apparel shops and trendy restaurants line Lake Street.
Families disembark from speedboats on their way to dinner.
Older folks sit in Adirondack chairs in the plaza watching the sun set over the lake.
Kids slurp ice cream at Ben they slog.
His drinks come earlier each day, the ice clinking by midafternoon, scotch, mostly, occasionally gin. Sometimes he gets angry.
We sit down for family dinner at Gianni’s, in a booth with Moroccan-tile cushions and a waitress who calls everyone hun. We eat steak and creamed spinach and too many carbs, and then we follow our ritual: a walk along the sidewalk near the tracks. A family constitutional, my mother calls it.
My dad has had four, maybe five scotches. Could be more. He tiptoes along the train tracks like he’s walking a balance beam, one foot wobbling in front of the other, arms out, cardigan flapping in the breeze. His glasses slide down his nose, a damp curl glued to his forehead.
I laugh. I’m ten. Dad’s being funny.
Then I hear the ding.
Soft at first, like a neighbor’s doorbell, but it keeps coming, growing louder, higher-pitched.
My mother stiffens beside me. “David,” she calls, her voice sharp but quiet. Pleading without panic. She doesn’t want to embarrass him.
But he just keeps walking—left foot, right foot—wobbling, humming something tuneless. His shadow wavers under the streetlight, thin and unsteady.
I keep waiting for the punch line, for him to jump off with a ta-da and a goofy bow, but it doesn’t come.
Her hand grips mine tighter.
The bells ring louder. A second ding, closer now. The low growl of something moving fast.
“David. Get off the tracks!”
Still, he walks the balance beam. Still, he hums. His beard has grown patchy and gray. He doesn’t look like my dad anymore. It’s the beginning of what he’ll become.
“David!” Her voice cracks now and she runs to him, but she won’t get there in time.
Then the horn. That awful mechanical scream.
I feel it first—a vibration in the soles of my shoes—and then I see it: the eye of the train, a blazing white light searing through the dark.
I scream.
Praying my thin, desperate voice will break through the fog of his stupor.
He looks up, and our eyes meet. His pale-blue, bloodshot eyes, wide, burning, like he’s been swimming in chlorine, or something worse.
And for a second, he freezes.
He’s going to let it happen. Just…let it end.
Then, he calmly slides off the tracks.
The train screams past us, a monstrous blur, wind howling, metal shrieking, horn blasting.
He pivots toward me, smiles, raindrops squinting.
Like it was a joke, like he’d meant to all along.
But even at ten, I see it: the cracks behind his grin, the wreckage, a man grieving his own life.
The here and now crashes back as a locomotive blurs down the tracks. But the fear remains; a throbbing scar. I flinch and shake off the memory, reabsorbing my surroundings.
Perched right on the lake is a Hamptons-style restaurant clad in white-wood panels and royal-blue shutters. Just my mom’s style. Hopefully, it will help me forget.
As I enter, I’m struck by how, unlike the town, this restaurant has changed.
It used to be called Sunsets and was more of a sleepy village joint.
Cov is a scene. Middle-aged singles crowd a white-wood bar that looks out on a devastating view of the lake.
The sounds of upbeat jazz music and mingling fill the air, blended with an intoxicating scent of grilled meat and fish.
The dinner crowd is a perfect balance of couples on dates and affluent parents and kids having forced family fun. It’s a long way off from Maguire’s.
I’m greeted by four platinum-blond teenage hosts who look like they were pulled straight from the movie Mean Girls.
One host flashes me a uniquely teenage smile—warm on the surface, but hollow underneath.
The kind that says they’ll be mocking you the second you’re out of earshot. “Welcome to Cov. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m—” I spot my mom sitting on the outdoor patio, linen-clad and radiating her typical stylish confidence.
She removes her oversize Audrey Hepburn glasses and waves a long, bony arm, her strawberry-blond bob blowing in the wind.
“Never mind.” The host shrugs and returns to her conversation with the others.
I snake my way through the inside tables, knocking into not one but two low-tops on my path to the patio. Char-klutz.
“Sweetheart. You look marvelous,” she says, the r vanishing from the word as she smiles, the freckles on her cheeks dancing with the motion. She gives me a hug and straightens the shoulder of my dress. I take a big whiff of her Ralph Lauren perfume. Ah, nothing beats the scent of Mom.
“That’s very kind, Mom, but I do not look marvelous. Not after that drive.”
“Well, I think you’re positively radiant. Come, sit, sit.”
I join her at the table and place the gift bag next to me.
She cranes her neck. “What do we have here?”
“Oh, nothing. I got a little something for the Parkers to thank them for hosting me.”
“You’re so sweet. What did you get them?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” She pouts her glossy lips.
I grab a tin of Garrett Popcorn and place it on the table. “Or am I?”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
She grabs the tin and gives it a loving tap. “Caramel-and-cheddar mix. My favorite. I don’t know if I can focus on dinner with this treat staring at me.”
“You’ll have to try.”
She leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you, dear.”
We soak in the view. The lake gleams in the golden-hour light. Even my hangover seems to pause for it.
The waiter arrives with an obscenely expensive bottle of sauvignon blanc and a basket of warm popovers with honey butter. My mom beams and gestures to the bottle. “I’m so delighted you’re here. I thought we should celebrate.”
We toast. I melt into my chair and tear into a popover, the honey butter oozing onto my fingers. The sound of lake water slapping against the docks lulls me into a trance.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back, but I’m happy I did.” I take a bite of the popover. “Mmm, so good. I haven’t had one of these since we lived here.”
“They’re just divine, aren’t they? I’ll never understand why they haven’t caught on around the rest of the country.
” She pauses to tie a scarf around her hair.
With the sunglasses and the headscarf, she looks poised to embark on a convertible ride through the hills of Monaco.
“Why were you unsure about coming to Minnesota?”
I straighten my napkin so that it’s aligned with the table edge and place my wineglass in the dead center.
“I don’t know. I don’t have the fondest memories of Minnesota.
You know, with Dad, and Olivia and all that.
” As I say that, I realize I don’t have many memories of Minnesota. Only flashes and slivers.
Mom swallows hard and clicks her tightly clipped nails against the long-stemmed glass.
“Yes, there were some challenges here.” A storm crosses her face, but she clears it with a practiced smile.
“But whenever I come back, I block out those negative thoughts and focus on the good times we had together here. Those days on the lake. All the friends we made.”
“You mean all the friends you made?”
She raises a disapproving eyebrow.
“I’m kidding. Yeah, this is pretty unbeatable,” I say, gesturing to the water. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—why did we move to Boston, anyway? I thought you loved it here.”
She squints. “You don’t remember?”
I shake my head.
She takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes drifting away from me and toward the horizon.
“Oh, it was nothing, really. Just…a job opportunity came up. Fleet Bank. They made a generous offer. The school year was about to start, and we figured it was better to move quickly than uproot you midsemester. And, well…your father wasn’t exactly thriving here.
I thought a fresh start might help. For all of us. ”
We stare at the lake contemplating the irony of that sentence. The server stops by to take our order, and once she’s gone, my mom starts up again. “Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge. I’m so pleased you get to reconnect with the Parkers. You’re going to love their lake house.”
“I’m sure. So, where is their house anyway? On Wayzata Bay?”
“No, it’s on Big Island.”
“Big Island? I didn’t even know there were houses on Big Island.”
“Yes, most people don’t. Most of the island is a nature preserve, but a slice of it is private houses and cottages.
It’s actually quite an interesting history.
In the early 1900s, the island hosted an amusement park with roller coasters, carousels, the whole lot.
People used to dress up in suits and gowns and steamboat to the park.
Legend has it, a ghost still haunts the island. ” She laughs and tops off her wine.
“Ha, I will keep an eye out for that. Which bridge do you drive? Arcola?”
“Oh, there’s no bridge. You can only travel there by boat. Eric’s going to scoop us up after dinner, and we’ll motor over.”
“Seriously?” I slug my wine.
“What’s wrong with that? I think it’s quite charming.”
“I don’t know. What if I want to leave?”
“Then I’m sure Eric or Laelynn will be happy to boat you back.”
“What about my car?”
“Eric said you can park it at the bakery. I’ll move it for you.” She raises an eyebrow. “You know you don’t always have to control everything, sweetheart.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, I glimpse something out of the corner of my eye that stops me.
Inside the restaurant, standing at the bar, is Vivek.
The Winthrop partner I had my “incident” with.
My throat closes like a trap.
My fists clench.
He wears a crisp periwinkle shirt, showcasing his lithe, tanned frame, and he slicks his onyx hair to the side.
He stands with his wife and two other couples doing his typical Vivek thing: arm draped over a stool, ordering a round of drinks, telling stories, slapping backs, charming people into doing whatever it is he wants them to do.
I squint and see that he has a large bandage over his left eyebrow and a bruise running from his prominent nose to his right cheekbone.
I remember the strength of his hands, the sting in my palm.
My mom spots the blend of fear and fury in my eyes. “What is it?”
I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “Vivek’s here, at the bar.”
She scans the room and scowls as she catches sight of him. “What’s he doing here?”
“I have no idea. He works in Winthrop’s Minneapolis office. It looks like he’s out with his wife and some friends. But it’s a crazy coincidence.” I study him, those long, elegant fingers commanding attention, conjuring spells as he speaks.
“I’m going to have a chat with him.” She throws her napkin on the table and starts to stand up.
I grab her wrists like I’m going to cuff her and throw her into a squad car. Silverware rattles. She drops back into her seat.
“Mom, don’t you dare go talk to him.”
“What? He deserves to pay for what he did.”
I keep my hands on her hands. “Mom. I’m a big girl. I can handle this. I deal with guys like Vivek every day.”
She leans her head back and looks down, assessing me for a beat. “Fine. Your choice.”
I grab the wine bottle and refill our glasses. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s just enjoy our wine and popovers and forget all about him.”
We both sip. I exhale, almost convinced I can ignore him.
But then I glance back.
He’s staring at me.
I watch as his eyes narrow and slide up and down my body. Then he disappears back into his conversation with friends, like the ghost that supposedly haunts Big Island.
Dinner arrives. We talk and laugh. I tell her about Carlos—how I might’ve finally found a nice guy. She offers maternal wisdom disguised as disapproval. We eat, we drink, we pretend everything’s normal. Like we always have.
But Vivek lingers.
He’s here.
In the same restaurant.
This is not a coincidence; it’s a warning.