The Lake Season (3 page)

Three

E
rnesto! Ernesto, is that you?” Her mother's voice was distant, muffled, followed by a
clunk
and sharp barking. “Hello? Are you there?”

Iris sighed. “Mom. It's me.”

“Oh, hello, dear. I thought you were Ernesto. I sent him to the nursery and I can't imagine what is keeping him.”

Iris pictured Millie standing amid the well-tended plants in her vegetable garden, a cultivated wake of lettuce leaf and tomato vine trailing behind her. No doubt she was clad in her collared linen shirt and khaki shorts, a wide-brimmed hat set elegantly on her gray hair, as one of her rat terriers raced around the garden borders, in its usual crazed orbit.

“What's wrong, Mom?”

Her mother's pinched expression was vivid, through her voice alone. “Blight!”

“You got a bite?”

“No, Iris.
Blight!
The tomatoes have blight. I'll have to tear out the whole lot!” Her voice was shrill now, and Iris imagined the blighty vines cowering in the shadow of her mother's Wellington boots.

Millie Standish was not an avid gardener. She was a champion, a commanding presence in her local garden club and a force to be reckoned with in her own backyard. Throughout her county, Millie gave seasonal lectures about preparing spring beds, cultivating summer soil, and putting perennials to sleep for the hard New England winter. Practices that gave the cozy, if false, impression that she was a nurturing woman. Her expertise in all things growing was well known and respected in the community, though Iris could hardly call her ministrations tender. Millie Standish did not coax flowers into bloom so much as she forced them. Her lush lakeside property may have evoked English countryside images of tea among the roses to the unknowing visitor. Big mistake. Millie Standish was an evolutionist, hard bent toward survival of the fittest. There was no pity for the delicate. She plucked and pruned with a vengeance, armed with various primitive tools to clip, hedge, and deadhead. What did not thrive was ripped from its roots and discarded without thought. Iris always pitied the seasonal work staff Millie hired. Like the meeker species in the garden, most didn't survive the summer. Except for Ernesto, who for some reason returned year after year, as robust as the hedges that swelled around the family house's foundation.

“Mom, can we talk?”

There was a pause, followed by another thud. Iris imagined the tomatoes screaming. “Isn't that what we're doing?”

Iris did not bother rolling her eyes. She was used to her mother's impatient efficiency. “Well, yes. I suppose. Anyway, I was thinking the kids and I would come up there. For a couple of weeks.”

“Of course you're coming. The wedding's the first week of August. If we all survive until then.”

Iris ignored her mother's invitation to indulge her complaints. She had bigger problems than bridal favors. “Actually, Mom, I was thinking sooner. And that we might stay a bit longer. If that's okay with you and Dad.”

“Sooner? Longer?” Millie did not sound pleased by the idea. But then, she did not like surprises, even when they involved grandchildren. “What's going on?” Millie Standish's nose was sharper than her rat terriers'. She was onto Iris.

After two weeks of passing each other in their own halls like strangers, Iris had had enough with her and Paul's détente. She'd not spoken to anyone about it, except her childhood friend Trish, who'd told her to come home for a while. And soon. But after summoning the courage to call her mother, Iris could see that wouldn't be easily accomplished.

“Is something wrong, Iris?”

Iris began circling the kitchen island, picking up the leftover breakfast dishes, then setting them down again. “Not really. Paul has a law conference coming up, and he'll be busy, so I thought it would be good for the kids to come up early.”

Silence. “Good for the kids?” Millie was sniffing the air, picking up the scent. “What about Sadie's cheerleading camp? And isn't Jack going to lacrosse?”

Iris groaned inwardly. Leave it to Millie to remember. Not that Iris had forgotten. Not entirely. She'd just neglected to realize how soon next week was.

“Well, yes. But they can go to camp, and then join Lily and me later.”

“But doesn't Lily have swim team?” Suddenly Iris hated her mother's good memory. It's not like she wished full-blown dementia on the woman, but couldn't her mind wobble just a little, like so many of her friends' aging parents? She was not ready to let the cat out of the bag. Not yet.

“Mom. Yes, the kids have camp, and I'll see that they get to them.”

“So this is really about you.”

The cat was out. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

Silence. “What about Paul?”

Iris chewed her lip. “What about him?”

“What does he think about this plan?” Once more Millie sounded disappointed. Her daughter, who could not seem to remember her own kids' camp schedules, or manage a happy marriage, had been caught running away like an adolescent summer camper herself.

“Paul's especially busy at the firm this summer.” And covering his tracks, whatever he was up to.

On the other line Millie took an audible breath. “I
see.
”

The cat was dead.

“Well, the farm stand just opened last weekend. And of course, there's Leah's wedding . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Leah. Iris's sister, younger only in years, who was more seasoned and sophisticated in all ways. Leah, who'd effortlessly gotten into every top-tier college to which she applied, but ended up transferring three times anyway before going overseas for a semester in Greece, which turned into two years of spotty communication from abroad. Leah, who'd charmed every eligible, good-looking athlete their high school proffered up and also several ineligible ones; who'd had the luxury of both never being on the receiving end of a breakup as well as cultivating a handsome crowd of competent replacements on the sidelines. Who had sworn on the very morning of Iris's own wedding day, in fact, that the choice to dedicate herself to one man was not for her, nor would it ever be, as she methodically adjusted her older sister's veil and looked deeply into her eyes and whispered, “I'm just not like you.” As if there were ever any doubt.

As teenagers Iris had covered for her sister, fabricating grand explanations for Leah's empty bed in the middle of the night, or the dented fender on their father's BMW, which had been discovered parked at a hazardous angle in the front lawn after a graduation party. Iris tired of it—not so much of the covering up, but of the good luck that followed Leah through their shared adolescent world. Iris was left to struggle in her wake: the one with metal braces, poorly complexioned boyfriends, and the dull social life. How could two people who grew up under the same cedar-shingled roof, who shared not only the same genealogical blueprint but also its idiosyncrasies, be so different? As evidenced in some of the more bitter diary entries that she'd later stumbled across, Iris had envied Leah. Hated her, even. The writing was on the wall, or in this case, in the pink floral journal, penned in harried, angry sentences.
“She's going to
senior prom with Thad Turner. And she's only a freshman!”

The only explanation for her enduring efforts to protect her younger sibling, which provided no real consolation, was that Iris was also in awe of her little sister. She was no more indifferent to Leah's charm than any other unsuspecting fool lured by her sister's charisma, as much as she was burdened by it. Popular, lovely Leah needed her, and the fact of it filled her simultaneously with dread and excitement. In the least, it provided Iris with a sense of purpose. As high school wore on, she took some solace as Leah's ally, believing herself the creative mind behind the more impressive of Leah's adolescent schemes. And that fleeting sense of belonging, however intrinsic by the fact of their sisterhood, was as fundamental to Iris's own teenhood sense of identity as any other relationship she'd forged. The magnetism of Leah's easy laughter, the captivating flicker in her eyes, the air that shifted with every graceful gesture. Sure, there was the homecoming weekend when Iris took her to a party at the Cove, where Leah drank so much grain alcohol punch that she spent the night vomiting puddles of red all over the backseat of a friend's new VW, staining the pristine white leather a nauseating pink. And there was the time that some of the more popular senior girls on the varsity field hockey team spent weeks spreading hateful gossip because Leah had attracted the attention of some of their senior boyfriends. But eventually even that petered out, because Leah was a star on the JV squad and she never really cared about those boys anyway. Besides, soon most of the senior girls had included her in their tight inner circle. Something unheard-of to Iris, who was herself a largely anonymous junior at the time.

Even in college Leah had kept her family on their toes, calling home from Mexico to inform them that not only had she used Bill's credit card to sneak off on spring break but she'd been kicked out of the hotel she'd been staying in because the group she'd gone with had partied too loudly. And could he please send money? While predictable Iris was home, seated at her childhood desk dutifully studying for spring exams.

But in the end, in spite of her wrongdoings, Leah was always forgiven. And now that she'd come to her senses in adulthood, “straightened out” (or however Millie chose to explain away the facts), Leah was finally fulfilling all of their hopes and wishes. She'd found a good man and was settling down, like a good WASP daughter.

“You have spoken with Leah, right?” Millie's tone implied accusation more than inquiry.

“We've been playing phone tag,” Iris lied. The truth was, aside from the quick formal cheer over a long-distance Christmas phone call, she and her sister hadn't really talked in a couple of years.

Now, with Leah's wedding ahead, and her own marriage possibly behind, Iris swallowed hard and chose her words carefully. “Let me help with the wedding,” she offered. “Or put me to work at the vegetable stand.”

Millie's tone was impatient. “It's not as simple as selling a few ears of corn, Iris. The farm business has taken off, if you'd bothered to come see.”

“I'll figure it out, Mom. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it.” Iris cringed as she said it.

There was a painful pause, during which Iris repeated silently,
I will not beg. I will not beg.

“All right, I'll fix up your old room.”

There was a distant roaring over the phone, followed by the tinny barking of at least a thousand small dogs. “Ernesto, finally! Park the truck over there.”

Iris collapsed against the kitchen counter, relieved. She'd done it. No need to wait for her mother to come back on the line. The conversation was over.

Four

Y
ou
left
?” Trish, her high school best friend, sounded almost gleeful on the other line.

“No, Trish, I didn't
leave.
I'm just getting away for a little while.” Iris exited the highway and headed down the ramp toward a sea of tufted pines. She took a deep breath.

“Yep, you left.”

Though leaving, if that's what it really was, had been almost impossible.

“What do you mean you're going to Grandma's?” Sadie had asked Iris the night before.

She'd cornered Iris in her closet, surrounded by piles of unfolded clothes. Iris had looked up at her daughter's willowy frame in the doorway. When did she get so beautiful?

“Honey, we're all going to Grandma's. I'm just going up a few weeks early.”

Sadie's green eyes had narrowed. “Why?”

Iris tossed one last pair of jeans into the suitcase and zipped it closed. Wait—toothpaste! Whenever she traveled she always forgot the toothpaste. It drove Paul crazy.

“Aunty Leah's wedding is just a few weeks away, and they need help. Besides, you'll be at cheer camp, and Jack and Lily will be busy, too. You won't even miss me.”

But Iris had worried that they would. Certainly, she would miss them. That very morning as she said her good-byes in the driveway Jack had good-naturedly kissed her good-bye. “Have a great time, Mom. Make sure you bring a good book to read.” He frowned. “You did pack a book, right?” Jack. Always thinking of his mother, wishing her the best right down to the detail of reading material. She ruffled his hair and kissed him again, hard. Lily had placed her hands on either side of Iris's face and looked at her for a long time. She said nothing, her face serene and open, as if memorizing her mother. And then just as quickly she darted off, yelling, “I'm going to Olivia's. She got a new trampoline!”

Sadie had leaned one hip against the car, her expression accusing. Guilt inspiring. “Lily's going to cry for you, you know that, right?” The child was masterful.

“No, she won't,” Jack said from across the driveway. He bounced the basketball against the garage door. “You're just trying to make Mom stay.”

“Am not.” Sadie glared at him.

Iris reached for Sadie, pressing her hand against her cheek. “She'll be fine. And so will you.”

Sadie allowed her mother to hold her for just a moment before pulling away. “Whatever. Besides, Daddy's taking us to Chow Mein's for dinner.”

And there it was. A tiny, perfectly aimed teenage blow.

Iris didn't do Chinese. It sent her thundering to the ladies' room every time, and the family joke was that whenever Iris had a PTA meeting or appointment, Paul and the kids could sneak out for a greasy meal without her.

It was no big deal. But standing in the morning heat, notwithstanding Sadie's scowl, the mention of a family dinner without her was more than Iris could swallow. She could hear Paul now:
Really, Iris, since when is takeout food a personal affront?
But she couldn't help it. Sadie announced their dinner plans as if she were suddenly liberated from the burden of her mother's fragile digestive system.

They'd be fine without Iris. They'd eat Chinese nightly, gleefully toasting her absence with the plastic click of their chopsticks.
Thank goodness she's gone. Pass the wontons!

Ridiculous, Iris knew. But here they were, already going on without her.

“Have fun,” Iris said, swallowing hard. “I'll call you tonight.”

“Whatever.” Iris sat in the car, listening to the angry
thwack, thwack, thwack
of Sadie's flip-flops on the walkway, her heart aching in her chest as they grew fainter.

She knows
, Iris thought as she backed out of the driveway.
She knows, even if she doesn't know the details.

Now Trish's voice was firm in her ear as she drove. “This trip is exactly what you need. I'm proud of you.”

Iris wasn't sure though. Already, the guilt was grinding her down. It wasn't fair. Fathers left all the time, it seemed. For work, for golf trips, let alone for the most indulgent of male reasons: the generic midlife crisis.

“It's just for a few weeks.” Iris said the words for herself as much as for Trish. “The kids will join me at the end of July. And then, well, I don't know.”

Silence. “I wouldn't count on Paul. Forget him. Forget the details. What you need is to breathe in some of our murky lake air you love so much. And eat some of your mother's hydroponic tomatoes.”

“Hydro-what?”

Trish chuckled. “The tomatoes. They're
hydroponic.
”

“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. Even
you
know more about my mother's farm than I do.”

“Which is exactly why you need to get your rear end up here. Come eat the damn fruit, and forget the details.”

For fourteen years Iris's whole life was consumed by details: homework, playdates, soccer games, Girl Scouts. Feed the dog at four, the kids at six. What would happen if she forgot all of that? It was the worst kind of plan!

As if Trish were reading Iris's mind, her voice coursed through the static airwaves. “Whatever you do, don't even think of turning around.”

Iris laughed. “Would you drag me back to Hampstead if I bailed?”

“Worse. I'd drag you to the Jersey Shore for our annual trip with my mother-in-law, and make you sit through backgammon on the boardwalk with Aunty Ro. With all twenty of Wayne's relatives packed into that two-bedroom shanty. Two bedrooms!”

Honestly, Iris didn't think it sounded so bad. Right now she wouldn't mind someone named Aunty Ro feeding her homemade cannoli. The woman was probably soft as a pillow, and would cluck her tongue sympathetically while administering Iris copious glasses of Chianti.

Their connection began to break up, but there was one more thing. Iris twisted the wedding band on her finger as she asked it. “Tell the truth, Trish. Do you think I'm a bad mom?”

Trish didn't hesitate. “Even the best moms deserve a break. Especially in your shoes.”

Iris would have liked very much to step out of her shoes. She'd like to kick them off, throw them out, and traipse around in someone else's for a while. Maybe in a pair of hot-pink Manolos. She still had great legs. But suddenly she was tired and hungry, and she didn't want to think anymore about shoes or weddings or any of it. She just needed to get there.

It always amazed Iris how quickly the lake infused her senses. Just north of the highway, the hills began to rise before her. Surrounded by thick woodlands, the lake region of New Hampshire was a welcome reprieve for any urban dweller, especially a separated single mother on the run. Where water suffused everything, from damp beach towels hung on the brass hooks in her mother's paneled mudroom to the cool dew that dressed the wicker rockers on the stately wraparound porch. The lake was everywhere: in the air, between your toes. It even found you in sleep, rippling through your dreams, its gentle wake a soothing balm to all that ailed you. And this summer, Iris had lost track of all her ailments.

•    •    •

Trish's last words were still fresh in her head as she approached the turnoff for the farm
: Embrace the dirt.
Iris wasn't sure if she'd meant the dirt in the garden or the dirt in her life. But either way, she was determined to do both. Just ahead, her parents' pea-gravel drive was marked by a “Standish Farm” sign. Iris had plans to roll down the driveway, relishing the familiar crunch of pea gravel beneath her tires, past the old barns, and up to the farmhouse, where she could unfold herself from the car and relax on one of the many porches overlooking the lake that wrapped around the formidable New England saltbox. But instead, Iris found the driveway cordoned off with a yellow rope. She had to park the Range Rover along the road with the rest of the traffic. Was this all for the farm stand?

Millie emerged through the crowd as if on cue, trailed by a short sea of frenetic terriers whose stumpy tails kept time to their owner's hurried step.

“Where have you
been
?” Her steel-gray hair was neatly swept beneath a smart straw hat, her collared shirt crisp and elegant against her brown skin. There was no warmth to the welcome. That was left to the dogs, who yapped and snipped at Iris's feet. “Hurry, Iris. This is rush hour.”

“Hi, Mom.” To herself, she thought,
Nice to see you, too!
Iris navigated the canine wave precariously and checked her watch. It was barely ten o'clock, still a reasonable morning hour to a rational person.

“What are you doing?” Millie asked impatiently, as Iris stopped at the little umbrella stand to inspect some vegetables. “This way!”

And for the first time Iris looked up the length of the stone driveway. The red barn that led to the fields had been renovated. No longer was it the sagging old building Iris used to drive past on her way to the main house. It looked brand-new. Trailing Millie, Iris took in the clapboard siding and the cedar-shingled roof, the lush flower beds and shrubs tucked around it. Neatly arranged wooden barrels teemed with produce. Not to mention the crowd of customers milling about them.

“
This
is the farm stand?” Iris sputtered. Inside, the barn housed a counter and cash register, a half dozen tables of produce, and kitschy country decorations that lined the weathered barn-board shelves. Indeed, it'd been turned into a full-blown seasonal store.

“What were you expecting?” Millie asked over her shoulder.

“It's just so . . . big.”

“Your sister spent the last two seasons getting this up and running. Isn't it grand?” She directed Iris inside, where rows of late-season strawberries lined the homemade displays like rubies tucked into little green jewelry boxes.

Stunned, Iris ran her fingers across the fruit. So this was what her mother had been badgering her to come see last summer. “It's incredible. It's so much more than the little umbrella stand you used to run at the end of the driveway.” She spun around, taking in the crowd, the store, the sweet fragrance of summer fruit. “You and Leah did all this?”

For the first time since her arrival, Millie smiled. “And your father, of course.”

Bill Standish must have already sensed her arrival. “There's my girl!” The door to the back room creaked and Iris's father filled its frame, still formidable in both height and charm. “How are we, darling?” He held her back for a better look through his tortoiseshell glasses and grinned. It was their standard greeting that had not wavered over time, and the “we” always made Iris feel like a little girl again, in the best sense.

“We're good, Daddy.” Iris hated that she had to lie.

But there was no time to elaborate. Millie directed her away. “We need to get back to the customers. Iris, I'm putting you on strawberry duty with Naomi.”

Naomi turned out to be an intern from UNH with short, spiky hair. And a nose ring, Iris noted with bemusement—someone whose look her mother normally wouldn't tolerate, let alone employ. She was thrilled to see that the tips of the girl's hair were dyed purple. All morning Iris did her best to shadow Naomi as the customers came; she filled bags, counted change, and struggled to keep up. Before she knew it her stomach was growling and her head felt light. Couldn't she just sneak down to the house for a quick shower? She was relieved when her mother finally called for a break and handed her a bagged lunch.

“Your sister loved working the stand,” Naomi said, taking a seat beside Iris in the shade. “We've missed her this season.”

Iris turned. “You know Leah?”

“Sure. Leah took me under her wing last summer when I first got here. Was a hoot to work with.”

Iris stared into her sandwich, wondering how much of a hoot she'd been to work with so far. Probably not much. And as far as wings went, hers stretched in the opposite direction, from here to Massachusetts.

“Last year was our fledgling summer, but your mom and Leah got the farm up and running. They taught me a lot.” She took a swig from her thermos. “I'm happy for Leah, but I still can't believe she moved out to Seattle with Stephen. This farm was her baby.”

“I can't believe she's getting married,” Iris allowed now, wondering if Naomi knew much about Stephen. Hoping the girl would offer up some information.

“Yeah,” Naomi said. “It isn't the same around here without her. But Stephen's good for her.” She paused, contemplating her iced tea. “She's better now.”

It struck Iris as a strange choice of words. “Better?”

Naomi shrugged. “He balances her, you know?”

Iris did not know. She wanted to ask more. But then Millie pulled up in the truck and beeped.

“Picking time,” Naomi said, hopping up. “Got to replenish before the afternoon crowd.”

Iris shoved the last bit of sandwich into her mouth. Naomi eyed her as she held open the truck door. “You've picked before, right?”

“Plenty,” Iris said, climbing into the cab. Iris had picked vegetables in her mother's small backyard plot when she and Leah were kids. How hard could it be?

•    •    •

Two hours later, squatting beside a row of hydroponic tomato containers, Iris had her answer. Millie regarded her warily. “You look awfully red, dear. Did you put on any sunscreen?”

Iris had. But only about an hour before, when her shoulders started to sting with exposure. Now, under a tattered straw hat that Naomi had insisted she wear, she wiped the salty trails of perspiration that ran down either side of her nose. She was pretty sure her mascara had melted. At best, she probably resembled a rabid raccoon.

“Why don't you take a break,” Millie said.

“No, no,” Iris protested. “I'm fine.” She sensed, hopefully, that Millie appreciated her effort, however rusty her gardening skills. And that wasn't something Iris was about to surrender.