The House on Black Lake (17 page)

“Bullshit.”

“Let me talk to Jonathan.”

“So you
remember
you have another son. He got tired of waiting for your call and left with his friends. Put Sammy on the line.”

I awaken Sam and tell him to take the call, then move to the bathroom to search for the headache medicine packed in my cosmetics bag.

“Daddy cussed, so I hung up on him, Mom,” Sammy says from outside the door. “The phone rang again and now it’s some man named Mel that needs to talk to you.”

“Tell him to hold a minute,” I say, and swallow the medication with a glass of water. “Go upstairs and get some breakfast. This might take me a while.” Outside the bathroom, I take a moment to watch him climb the stairs before I pick up the receiver.

“What is it, Mel?”

“I have the order. I felt you needed to know the results as soon as possible.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“It’s not what we asked for...”

“How bad?”

“The judge gave Matt full custody. She feels he has a more stable job and living situation. You have been awarded every other weekend and one weeknight dinner. You must sell the family home immediately; it’s to be put on the market as soon as you return from your trip. Since there’s no equity Matt’s made an offer to take over the payments on the house and move in with his wife. Also, your support has been terminated. I checked with the supervisor of a low-income housing project near your former home, and he says they have a studio you can rent, since you now qualify. But, it’s too small to keep your sons overnight. Once you find a suitable job, the court might be willing to increase your time with your children, or at least allow you to pick them up from school occasionally.”

“But they are
my
children. I gave them life.”

“They are also your husband’s children and the court has the final say on where they live.”

“Appeal it!”

“It’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Private judge.”

“What difference does that make?”

“No court reporter. That’s how it works.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not in our state.”

“There must be something you can do.”

“It’s like I told you, the judge doesn’t have kids. She has dogs. National champions, for God’s sake.”

“Mel, I’ve got to go. I think I’m going to vomit.”

“There are some additional court costs and I’ll need...”

“I’m broke, Mel.”

“One more thing; this is very important. You must be on the scheduled return flight from Montreal and have Samuel delivered to Matthew at the airport. If you don’t return on time, there will be an order for your arrest.”

I hang up and rush to the bathroom where I retch until I collapse into a heap on the cold slate floor.

“Mommy, I have to pee,” Sammy says while knocking on the door.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say and splash cold water on my face. As I exit, Amanda walks down the stairs.

“Good morning,” she says in a cheerful voice.

“I’m going into St. Agathe today. I want you to make certain Samuel is watched every minute. He told me he was teased and treated badly by the children last night. They cut chunks from his hair. Mr. and Mrs. Sandeley will be very upset when I explain what happened in your charge.”

“I was with them all evening. It must have happened when I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.”

“Yes, I heard you went to the bathroom, but weren’t alone.”

Amanda flashes me a lovely smile and says, “Mum’s the word, Mrs. Brighton?” The girl uses her dimples like a priest his crucifix and it is hopeless to try and breach such an impregnable barrier. She takes Sammy’s hand as he exits the bathroom. “Come, Sammy, we are all going to a country fair today, with games, clowns, and elephant rides. I’ll fix your hair later. I’m going upstairs to help the children get dressed. Meet us when you’re ready,” she says, and turns to ascend the staircase.

“Are you coming, Mom?”

“I’m not feeling well, darling. Go along with the children and have a wonderful day at the fair. Amanda will take care of you.” A wave of sadness washes over me as I say the words and a horrible sob escapes as I begin to weep.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“I love you so much, Sammy.” I kneel down to embrace my child, and he wraps his arms around my neck and tells me he loves me too. And his words break the last thread of whatever remains of my strangled heart. I could cry a lifetime in his arms and it would not be enough to empty my well of sorrow.

My life, as I have known it, has ended.

S
T
. A
GATHE DES
M
ONTS IS A QUAINT AND LOVELY VILLAGE—AND
unusually fertile. Children are everywhere: riding bikes down the sidewalk, running through sprinklers on the lawns of cottages, and walking behind baby carriages pushed by their doting parents. The soil is rich, with abundant flowers and vegetation growing in spectacular landscapes and gardens and winding along fences and up the sides of buildings. At the end of the main street I see the town has a lake at its edge, dotted with paddleboats and striped umbrellas set along the shore, where families and lovers picnic and lounge. The air smells magical—and perhaps it is.

A brick building, taking up nearly a block of the mid-city, is oddly discordant with the architecture of the rest of the town. Near the rooftop, below the gutters, corroded bronze sculptures of fierce looking animals jut out from the structure. The predatory figures lurch from the eaves with arched necks and bared fangs. A few of the beasts have human torsos.
Est. 1928
is imprinted in copper on the building’s side. Likely, it was once a sanitarium.

On the next block I find the building I’m looking for—the city library. I plan to have a nice lunch and spend the day researching the history of Black Lake and the house on the island. If I dwell too long on the nightmare of this morning’s news, I’ll either go mad or drown myself in the lake.

As I drive into the heart of the village I see, amidst garlands of flowers, a sign outside a lovely cottage nearly hidden from the street. It says Labat’s—the name of the restaurant Ruth recommended I have lunch. I park in front of the restaurant and walk through a swinging gate into an outdoor seating area with wrought-iron tables adorned with blue and white china and cut crystal wine glasses. Above me, fragrant azaleas throw off shoots from ceramic pots and hand painted lanterns hang from the latticework arbor. There are no more than ten tables in the patio area, and only a few are occupied.

Once seated, I notice a young man with sleek black hair partially covering his face in the back of the courtyard. He reclines casually in his seat, with a package of cigarettes and a coffee cup on the table in front of him. He has a pencil in his hand and is focused on something he is drawing on a piece of paper.

“Bonjour Madame,” says a man with a friendly smile as he approaches my table. “I am Peter Labat, the proprietor. We don’t have a menu, as our specialties change daily.”

“What would you recommend?”

I notice the young man has looked up from his drawing and is watching me.

“A very tasty loin of lamb sandwich; the meat is spit roasted, hand carved, and served over a crusty French bread with pomme frites. We also have a wild boar caught early this morning.”

“You have wild boars near town?”

“Maybe two hours west; we hunt at sunrise and at sunset.”

“You hunt, cook, and serve the food yourself?”

“
Oui,
Madame, with the aid of my family.”

“The lamb dish sounds delicious.”

“I recommend it be prepared very rare since the meat is fresh,” he says, and fans away a yellow jacket.

“Not too bloody,” I say, and steal a peek at the young man.

Monsieur Labat finishes writing up my order and walks back inside the restaurant. The mysterious stranger lifts his head to meet my stolen glance, and the intensity of his eyes nearly takes my breath away. I turn away to look out to the busy street. The sidewalks are filled with pedestrians and the streets lined with cars and bicycles. Couples of all ages saunter past me, chattering gaily, enjoying the beautiful summer day. My loneliness is exacerbated by their joy, and the proximity of an enigmatic force beginning to play havoc with my lonely heart.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Monsieur Labat says, as he sets down the dish.

It doesn’t take me long to finish the sweet lamb and crispy fries, leaving an empty plate decorated with lilacs in its place. The proprietor returns, and I pay him for the lunch. As I stand and prepare to leave, the young man smiles and raises his drawing.

I walk to the table, forcing myself against the desire to flee. Up close, I see he is stunningly beautiful, yet not in a classical way. His eyes are dark slits and his nose is not quite straight. He hands me a drawing that appears to be an image of
me
reclining against a fallen tree in the woods. My hair is entwined in the twigs and leaves, my filmy gown attaches me to the trunk, and my arms and legs are spread akimbo, like broken branches.

“Do I appear to you as this?” I ask.

“
Oui
.”

“Are you a professional artist?”

“
Oui
.”

“Do you show your work in a gallery here?”

He continues to look at me, but does not answer.

“Do you speak English?”

“Sorry, I was lost in your eyes,” he says in perfect English. “I show my work in Montreal and Quebec City.” His face crinkles into a boyish smile that reveals a crooked front tooth. “Come with me,” he says, taking me by the arm. “I will show you some of my pieces.” He walks me out of the restaurant and down the sidewalk.

“I’m here to visit the library.”

“I am just around the corner.”

“But I...”

He stops abruptly and his face breaks into an enchanting smile. “I promise, only a few minutes,” and takes my arm to guide me along a side street veering away from the main district.

“What is your name?”

“Alexandra Brighton.”

“My name is André Labat.”

“Are you related to the restaurant owner?”

“I am his son and favorite hunting partner. And here we are, you see, I told you it was only a short walk.” We pass a white-washed picket fence and step through an archway covered in red carnations. A stone path leads through the grounds of a colonial home with stately pillars. Off to the side of the house, in a spacious area of lawn, sits a cottage overgrown with crawling vines and bell-shaped hyacinths intermingled with baby blue periwinkles.

“It’s lovely,” I say as we approach the charming house.

“I also have a place in Quebec City.”

The sleeve of his T-shirt lifts as he pushes open the door, revealing the coils of a rattlesnake tattooed onto his upper arm.

“Welcome to my home,” he says and I follow him into an airy room with well-worn plank floors and high-beamed ceilings. “Let’s bring some light into this scene.” He draws back curtains from the windows, and the room explodes with vibrant color. The walls are covered with canvases. They are large paintings—taller than André, who must be well over six feet—painted with bold strokes using vivid primary colors. Wild mammals are the subjects.