The Lake Season (36 page)

Mary returned with their coffees, and set one cup in front of Iris and the other before Cooper. “One decaf, one regular. Anything else?”

“The menu, please,” Cooper said finally. His eyes still on Iris.

“You don't want your regular, hon?” Mary asked.

Cooper shook his head, grinning in that boyish way that made Iris's breath catch in her chest. “I think I'd better try something new this time. It seems we'll be coming here a lot more often.”

Forty

T
he postcard showed a bird's-eye view of the farm's north field, dappled orange with fat round squash. Leah's dreamy script covered the back in one sweeping sentence.
“Come pick a pumpkin!”

Fall had spread through New England, tracing the leaves in gold and tickling the fresh-mown lawns with its detritus. Each morning the air was crisp, the scent of wood smoke thick, as Iris wrapped her neck with one of Millie's pilfered woolen scarves before walking Samson.

Now, as she stood at the counter in her kitchen, Iris set the postcard down and looked outside. Sadie stood at the mailbox, her skinny long legs once browned by the summer sun now covered in denim, like two navy toothpicks. From here, she looked so grown-up. Beside her, Jack bent over a mud puddle, dragging a stick through the water. He dropped it for a rock, which he tossed into the puddle. Iris watched as Sadie jumped back, scolding him. Lily laughed and brandished the muddy stick, and began chasing them both. The kids were okay.

It had been a long couple of months back home. Iris was thankful the kids were happily settled into their new classes at school; the routine had ferried them through the rougher days. Paul, to her dismay, had been more surprised than she'd imagined when she came home late that August afternoon to tell him it was over.

There were long October nights when Iris cried, alone under her sheets, wondering if this was all a terrible mistake. But when she stood at her window and looked up at the rich constellations dotting the darkness, she felt something lift. Remembering the sky over Hampstead Lake. The person she'd returned to that summer. And the family still awaiting her there. And then she knew they'd get through, somehow.

They'd agreed easily to joint custody, and were cognizant of allowing the kids access to them both whenever they wished. For now, Iris and the kids remained in the house. The advance for the new book had given her some cushioning, at least for the present. It wouldn't hit store bookshelves for another year. In the meantime, she had taken on two new authors, turning Paul's den into her own office, and while the work was still young, she felt promise.

As for Cooper, she kept her promise about lunch. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes once every other. They spoke on the phone before bed every night, his voice in her ear as crisp as the fall air.

In the beginning, Iris had worried so much about dividing herself, about the going back and forth, and what it meant both for herself and for the kids. But she was learning that those were only places; she already had what she needed inside. And what was missing, Cooper was gently filling in. With each word, each whisper, each touch.

Now, Iris ran her finger over the orange pumpkins on the postcard once more, and glanced up at the wall clock. The bus was coming. No time for a coat. She raced outside and down the driveway, her breath coming in short white puffs.

“Is that for me?” Lily asked, grabbing the postcard from her hand.

“The pumpkins,” Iris huffed, doubling over. “They're ready.”

Jack frowned. “For what?”

“Aunty Leah says the pumpkins are ready to pick. Who wants to go to the farm this weekend?”

•    •    •

As the school bus doors slapped shut, Iris tucked the postcard back in her vest pocket. She waved heartily as the bus heaved itself back onto the road, and away. Lily's grinning face growing smaller in the window.

In the end, it was not about Paul or Cooper, or even the new book with Trish. It was something her father had said. The words were murky now, as time tends to make things, but the sentiment remained visceral. Bill Standish had warned her about roads. The winding and the scenic, the ones that rose up over craggy hilltops and vanished down the other side. It was something that coursed inside her, a lane that led her away and back again to what mattered most. More than one road led home. It was all right to change course, as long as she kept her compass pointed in the right direction. And for the first time in a long time, Iris knew the way.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In keeping with the title, I am so thankful for all the “sisters” in my life. To those girls with whom I laugh, cry, walk my dogs, throw together recipes, share my bike, carpool . . . you know when to show up with a bottle of wine, and never question the chicken feathers in the backseat. Jennifer, Jen, Sarah, Jamie, Alexander, Dawn, Amy C., Becky, Amy R., and all the rest: you know who you are. May you also know how fiercely I love each and every one of you.

I must thank the incredibly talented and always effervescent MacKenzie Fraser Bub, of Trident Media, who first got her hands on these pages and left no room for guessing in her enthusiasm for this story. You remained steadfastly on board, from first read to completion—always checking in. I'm so grateful for our partnership. And I love that you tote a hammer in that sleek handbag! Thank you.

Thank you to my amazing editor, Megan Reid, at Emily Bestler Books, who fell in love with these sisters and eagerly took the reins. I remain in awe of your expedience, your sharp ear, and your belief in Iris. You're a sister at heart yourself; I knew that this story was in competent hands from the moment we met. Working with you has been pure joy.

To Emily Bestler, who leads a powerhouse team at Emily Bestler Books, of Simon & Schuster. I am ever grateful for your kind words, which were both generous and immensely meaningful to me as a writer. I am honored to be on your team.

Family is everything. And families make good stories. To my parents, Marlene and Barry, who first taught me the love of a good book. To my brothers, Jesse and Josh, who survived the shared stories of our childhood that delight my own children today. To my grandmother Marjorie, the real storyteller of the family, whose ebullient voice still rises in my memories. And to my grandfather Seth, who still delights in a good dog tale. Most of all to my own family: to Jason, Grace, and Finley. You are the reasons I do what I do every day. You are my reasons for everything.

OTHER BOOKS BY HANNAH MCKINNON

(AS HANNAH ROBERTS-MCKINNON)

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