Chapter 8
Eric drives us through the mist, past the gloom of the forest, toward the inhabited part of Big Island.
The trees lean toward the lake as if they’re reaching for us.
Shadows slice through the water like blades.
He points to a break in the tree line that reveals a sprawling lawn running down to the lake shore.
“There it is. Casa de Parker.”
The boat swings past the elms. Through the fog, the house comes into view.
It’s a stunning gray shingle-style house with white trim perched atop a gentle slope overlooking the lake.
Dense forest wraps around it. A white bench swing and a smattering of Adirondack chairs rest on a wraparound porch.
In front sits a giant pile of firewood with an axe wedged into a chopping block.
I allow myself to briefly imagine Eric shirtless and sweaty, chopping wood, then pull back to reality. Get it together, girl.
Smoke curls from the stone chimney in soft, silvery ribbons.
A narrow wooden staircase spills down from the house to the dock, dissolving into the lake.
The only sounds are the soft splash of water and the occasional crow’s cry.
Otherwise, everything is still. I draw in a deep breath, crisp air laced with the tang of barbecue smoke, and then I catch something else.
A scent.
Faint but unmistakable.
Chrysanthemums.
They’re everywhere.
Through the fog, I spot a riot of color: brilliant blooms lining both sides of the house like a battalion, a multicolored army holding back the creeping forest. More cluster in front of the deck, anchoring it like a floral retaining wall.
The earthy sweetness of the blossoms rushes up to meet me, and suddenly, I’m eleven years old again.
At the Parkers’ old house. Olivia, grinning wide, gathering stems in both arms. She’d place them in a jelly jar by her window every August, like clockwork.
They were her favorite.
I understand now what Eric meant about Big Island being an escape. The hush. The water. The wildlife. The world beyond feels miles away, irrelevant.
And yet…
There’s something about the house that unsettles me. Set deep in the trees, flanked by those stubborn chrysanthemums, it doesn’t look peaceful; it looks trapped. A coffin in the sunlight.
Laelynn sits on the front porch with a Saint Bernard resembling a giant stuffed animal by her side.
The two are quite a pair. She wears black yoga pants and a matching tank top, revealing smooth, toned mahogany arms and rippling abs on a tiny frame.
Her jawline is cut from stone, and her legs shake with coiled energy.
A jumbo pink scrunchie holds her black braided bun, and the skin on her forehead is so tight I wonder if she can form an expression.
Her dark, almost black eyes shine with intelligence.
Her Saint Bernard, on the other hand, is warm and cuddly. He has big, floppy, sloppy jowls and soft brown expectant eyes like saucers. His face tilts up in welcome, his mouth panting with excitement at the new guests. I want to run up and give him a big hug, but then I remember my allergies.
She gives an awkward wave and marches down from the patio toward the dock with the jolly dog in tow, her back arched, chest puffed, and hips swaying.
Eric swings the boat alongside the shore, and I steal another glance at her.
She’s barely aged a day. Well-lotioned skin and jet-black hair without a trace of gray.
A beauty mark rests beside her nose, the one incongruity in a perfectly symmetrical face.
She’s still gorgeous, but there’s a weight to her now.
She used to bounce; now she strides. Reaching the dock, she waits for us, her arms crossed, toe tapping, biting her lip.
This is why I hesitated to come here. When we were growing up, there were the regular moms, and then there was Laelynn.
The regular moms were soft and bosomy, but she was lean and hard.
They baked brownies; she served fruit. The other moms allowed us to play in the street, but Laelynn insisted we stay in the backyard where it was safe.
From what? I never knew. Everything had to be perfect.
Everything had to be controlled. Just right.
Maybe she reminded me too much of myself.
I remember her expression when they loaded Olivia into the ambulance. It said, “How could you let this happen?” I see her now, and I’m struck with the same sensation. Her gaze, sharp and appraising, peels back my skin. I stiffen, as if her beady stare alone could turn me to stone.
Eric cuts the engine and drifts toward the dock.
I stir Mom from her snooze. As the boat floats closer, Laelynn grabs it and ties a rope around the cleats.
The dog jumps in the boat and sits on the back seat, slobber dripping from his brown-and-white chin, misguidedly thinking he’s going for a ride.
He’s so cute I’m half tempted to turn around and take him on one.
“Hi, babe. Look who I found wandering around Wayzata,” says Eric, pecking her on the cheek.
She offers my mom a warm smile and holds her hand out to help her from the boat. “How was dinner, Julie? Did you get those popovers you’ve been craving?” She says, not acknowledging my presence.
“It was absolutely lovely,” says my mom, greeting her with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. She points at me. “Laelynn, darling, you remember Charlotte.”
I hop onto the dock. She gives me a heavy smile and a limp hug that ends almost before it begins. “Yes, it’s good to see you. Welcome to our home.”
“Thanks for having me,” I say too loudly, trying to overpower her with cheer. I hand her a box from my gift bag.
“What’s this?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little thank-you gift for hosting me. Caramel cake from Brown Sugar Bakery. It’s a Chicago institution.”
“That’s so kind of you, Charlotte. I’m actually off sugar now, but I’m sure Eric and the girls will love it.” She turns to Eric, giving him an extended hug and kiss, one foot up in the air.
“Who’s this big guy?” I ask, pointing to the Saint Bernard.
“That’s Heathcliff,” she says, wiping the edge of her lip with a polished nail.
“He’s gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a cute dog.”
“Yeah, he’s our big baby. You can pet him if you’d like.”
“Ah, I’d love to, but unfortunately, I’m allergic.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, like I told her I have leprosy. She turns to lead us through the mist up to the house. “I hope that won’t be a problem while you’re staying here? I vacuum daily, and we don’t allow Heathcliff on the furniture, so there shouldn’t be too much dander.”
“No, I’ll be all right as long as I don’t wrestle with him.”
She ignores my joke and keeps walking ahead like Ms. Danvers at Manderley.
We dutifully follow behind past the chrysanthemums. Scouts after their troop leader.
“Heathcliff, out,” she shouts without looking back.
I watch as he drops his head, disappointed that he’s not going for a boat ride, and bounds out of the boat, panting.
As he races past me, he runs his snout along my leg, leaving a pool of snotty drool and dog hair behind on my new dress.
I can already feel my allergies perking up.
Eric glances back, sees Heathcliff’s work, and laughs his champagne-fizz laugh. “Oops.”
My face burns.
My mom smiles. “I think he likes you. Less slobber than some of your previous boyfriends.”
We both laugh loudly.
Laelynn turns and shushes us. “The girls are sleeping, so please keep it down.” She walks up the lawn toward the porch, but Eric stops her.
“Honey, let’s take the path around back, so that Charlotte doesn’t have to drag her travel bag through the lawn.”
She rolls her eyes in the way married couples do but obliges, and we head up the tan gravel path around the side, me following closely behind her. When we reach the back of the house, she stops short, and I nearly crash into her.
I scan the grounds, confused at first about why we’re stopping.
Then I see her eyes.
Wide-open, unblinking, transfixed on the house.
I follow her gaze until I spot it: a yellow piece of legal paper nailed to the soft blue door, flapping in the breeze, the whip of the sheet an unsettling disharmony.
Large, jagged handwriting covers the note, almost like a child’s.
At first, I can’t decipher it. But then the breeze pauses, and the paper rests.
The message is simple.
LEAVE. OR ELSE.