The Lake Season (4 page)

When they finally climbed back into the air-conditioned cab of the truck, it was all she could do not to cry out “Shotgun!” and press her forehead to the dashboard vents.

“Can I go up to the house and shower now?” Iris asked hopefully.

In reply, Millie turned the truck back to the stand. “You didn't forget about the afternoon shift, did you?”

It was more than she'd bargained for. Back at the stand, as the customers approached with their cloth bags, Iris glared at Ernesto's and Naomi's tanned skin—thick, seemingly impervious to the heat—and at her mother's own peachy complexion. Not the sickly red that Iris imagined her own to be. As Iris weighed boxes of berries, she tried not to hate the steady stream of cars that pulled up by the farm's “Welcome!” sign. Oh, if only Iris had a brush in hand. Black would be her color of choice. In just a few fell strokes she'd paint a little message of her own: “Closed for the Day!”
Or better yet, “Pick Your Own Damn Fruit!”
The heat was getting to her, she knew. Right now the kids would be home from camp, with Paul, relaxing in the cool shade of their backyard.

“Hey, how much for the lettuce?” a woman with a thick Long Island accent asked. Iris couldn't help but notice her tacky gold sandals. Heels, no less.

Iris pointed to the sign and forced a smile.

“Three fifty?” The woman chucked the lettuce back into its bin.

“It's organic.”

“It's outrageous,” the woman replied. She laughed too loudly to her friend, and coughed. Probably a smoker as well. “We pay half that in the city. Where there aren't even any farms!”

Iris swiped at her sticky brow. “Because it's probably shipped a thousand miles from South America shellacked with pesticide. And tastes like cardboard.”

The woman scowled. “Screw you, lady.”

In an instant Millie was beside her.

“What are you
doing
?” she hissed. Iris closed her eyes. It was happening all over again. Just like the day at the soccer field with Sadie.

“I'm sorry,” she grumbled, yanking the straw hat off her matted hair.

“Why don't you work the register.” It wasn't a request.

Iris slumped on the stool behind the ancient register and eyed the tip bucket with loathing. One more hour, she told herself. She opened the till and began counting the bills inside, summoning the cool slap of lake water on her bare feet. Yes, she'd focus on that image. Not the pressing crowd or the suffocating smell of exhaust emanating from the blacktop. Or the faces that loomed too close as they thrust bills at her. Like the man beside her, who she now realized was studying her, and not the baskets of tomatoes. What was the matter with him anyway?

“May I
help
you?” she snapped, turning to face him.

“Iris Standish?”

Cooper Woods flashed the very same smile of his high school yearbook photo, the one in which he stood in the back row of the lacrosse team with the other tall, broad-shouldered boys. His skin was browned by summer and his handsome features had sharpened at the edges by the years, but his eyes still crinkled with boyish laughter.

“Cooper?” And before she could bring a hand to her melted mascara or wipe away another trickle of sweat, she closed her eyes, slipped off her stool, and slid indecorously into a display of Better Boy tomatoes.

•    •    •

Iris blinked, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “The light . . . make it stop.”

Bill Standish straddled his daughter, brandishing a large black Maglite, which he aimed directly into Iris's pupils. “They're not dilated!” he exclaimed to the small crowd of onlookers.

Then came her mother's firm hands, pressing her back down against the cold dirt floor. “For goodness' sake, lie down,” Millie commanded. “Or you'll faint again.”

Was that what had happened? Iris opened her eyes and found herself wedged between the shelves of fruit, the smell of crushed tomato acrid in her nose. The loud voices disoriented her.

“I need to sit up,” she mumbled, feeling her head. It seemed intact, though her hair was all sticky.

“Oh, not my Better Boys!” Millie clucked as Iris pulled a clump of crushed tomato from her hair.

Before she could object, a bottle of water was thrust against her lips, and a rush flooded Iris's mouth, choking her.

“You must rehydrate,” Millie said.

Iris sputtered.

And then, suddenly, there was another set of hands pulling her up onto her feet. Large, warm hands that squeezed her own.

“Let's get you up.”

It was him.

“Cooper.” Iris stood shakily, gazing up at the last thing she remembered.

“You okay?”

From the unfamiliar safety of Cooper Woods's grasp Iris surveyed the view. Her father, still clutching his flashlight like a misguided paramedic; her mother, whose crossed arms left no mistaking her exasperation; and the small group of ­produce-wielding strangers who'd congregated for a better look. As it all came into painful focus, Iris wanted nothing more than to turn and run.

Cooper leaned in. “Figured I'd better get you up before they drowned you, next,” he whispered.

“I knew you'd do this,” Millie said, wagging her head. “I kept telling you to take a rest.”

Do this
. As though heatstroke were a choice.

“Mom, I just got a little overheated,” Iris groaned, swiping tomato bits from her hair.

Naomi appeared with a chair, and to her embarrassment, they guided her to a shady corner and made her sit.

“I'm okay,” Iris insisted. But she wasn't. Not by a long shot. Propped up like a rag doll in a plastic chair, she didn't dare to think what her face looked like, all blotchy and melted. Her rear end was soaked in tomato juice.

“Well,” Millie said, “back to work, then.” She clapped her hands, dispersing the onlookers like a ringmaster sending off the clowns, before turning abruptly to Cooper. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I'm surprised to see you on your day off.”

Day off?

Cooper shook his head. “I was driving down to the lake, so I figured I'd drop off some lumber on my way.”

Iris stole a peek out of the corner of her eye, allowing her gaze to roam over his navy-blue polo shirt, his beach-tousled brown hair. Cooper's lanky teenage frame had filled out into that of a man's, but he'd maintained his athletic carriage.

Millie placed her hand on his arm. “What can I get for you? The Swiss chard is lovely this summer.”

“I'll let the expert choose,” Cooper replied with an appreciative smile, his gaze returning to Iris, who suddenly wished her plastic chair would fly her away.

“So how are you, Iris?”

Iris would have blushed if her face hadn't already been a deep shade of heatstroke red. “Great,” she said, then laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “Well, up until the last five minutes.” Or the last five months, she thought. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

Cooper's eyes were a calming blue, like the deeper shoals of the lake, and for a moment Iris felt her insides stilling. “So, you're back in Hampstead now?”

Cooper nodded, stuffing his hands into his khaki shorts. “Came back last year,” he said, shifting in his flip-flops. He did not elaborate.

“That's great. I just got up here myself, actually.”

“You picked the best season. How long are you staying?”

Iris touched her forehead. Her head pounded, though she wasn't sure it was just the heat anymore. “For the summer, actually.”

“Your family here, too?”

Iris paused. Cooper knew she had a family? She'd never spoken this many words to him in all of her high school years. “No. Not yet. My kids are coming up in a few weeks. And my sister, too,” she added hastily. Surely he'd remember Leah.

Cooper nodded. Had he guessed about Paul by her omission? Or was it pathetically obvious already: the forlorn single woman returning to her hometown, husband-less, homeless, and flailing around in her mother's perfectly good tomatoes. Oh, why had she come back here, anyway?

“Yeah, your mom mentioned something about a family reunion. You must be excited.”

“Thrilled,” Iris said, smoothing her rumpled shirt. “So, you're working here?”

“Didn't your mom tell you?”

Iris shook her head, confused. What was the lacrosse captain doing on her parents' farm?

“Your folks hired me to work on their barns. I do historic preservation.” He looked up at the wooden rafters overhead. “I restored this for them last spring, when the farm opened.”

Iris followed his gaze. “You did this? It's stunning. I barely recognized it.”

Cooper flushed. “Thanks. Your dad asked me to come back and restore the roof on the old horse barn by the main house.”

“Wow.” It was all Iris could manage. Of all the tedious things her mother peppered their rare phone conversations with, you'd think she could've shared that tidbit. Cooper had been working for them all year.

Millie returned with a large bag. “I added some rhubarb. Splendid with vanilla ice cream.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Standish.” Cooper tried to hand her a twenty-­dollar bill, which Millie refused.

“You've done enough already,” she insisted, throwing Iris an accusing look. “Feel free to drop off any materials at the barn. It's open.”

He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at Iris once more, and she wished suddenly that her mother would disappear to the register, or the scene of the crushed tomatoes, anywhere else.

“Well, I'd better get down to the barn,” Cooper said finally. “Feel better, Iris. Good to see you.”

“You too.” Iris stood, unsure if she should shake his hand or give him one of those quick hugs between old friends. But she didn't get the chance to do either. Instead, Millie placed her hands firmly on Iris's shoulders, pushing her right back into her seat.

“Sit down, dear. We don't want you fainting on us again.”

As if any of them had forgotten.

Fuming, Iris allowed herself to be chaired, watching helplessly as Cooper headed down the drive. He was already climbing into his truck when Iris realized she hadn't even thanked him.

Millie interrupted the thought. “A shower would do you good, Iris. You need to pull yourself together for dinner.”

Iris turned. “Dinner?”

“Didn't I tell you? Leah and Stephen changed their plans. Their plane lands tonight.”

Five

I
t's the runaway!” The tiny bell over the bakery door had barely chimed, and Trish was already flying out from behind her counter, untying her floury apron.

“Please stop saying that,” Iris groaned. But she allowed herself to be hugged and sank gratefully against her old friend. Even nearing forty, the girl was still a knockout, her long, dark hair swept up behind her. Iris breathed deeply. Trish smelled like baked apple and something else; coffee, maybe.

“I'm teasing. You're not a runway so much as a stray. Now come sit.” She placed a miniature tart in front of Iris. “Key lime. I want your honest opinion.”

Iris sank her teeth into the pale green cream and rolled her eyes. “You're killing me,” she said, running her tongue over the graham cracker crumbs on her lips.

Trish grinned, handing her friend a napkin. “You look good.”

“Liar.” She'd eaten poorly for weeks. She hadn't slept more than an hour or two a night either, for that matter. She ran a hand over her ponytail. At least she'd finally managed to wash the tomatoes out of her hair.

“No, you do. Thinner, but good.”

“Well, that'll change pretty quick if I come here each day.”

Trish laughed. “How's the farm?”

“It just about killed me.”

Trish smiled. “So Millie put you right to work, huh?”

Iris couldn't reply. The shower she'd finally gotten, and now the key lime dessert, were both too intoxicating to be spoiled with any further explanation.

“So how are those kids?”

“Fine, I think. I called them on the way over. Lily and Jack told me camp is great. Sadie mumbled a few syllables before hanging up.”

“What about Paul? You guys aren't talking?”

“No, we are.” But they weren't really. Aside from discussing the machinations of the day: who was on carpool, how much the new cheer uniform would cost, what to heat up for dinner. Paul had sounded distant and vaguely bored. Not missing her. Not sorry she'd gone. Iris could hear Millie's take:
Well, what do you expect? You abandoned him!
But she liked Trish's take better. “Let the bastard figure it out. Have another tart.”

“So does this wedding stuff make you want to jump off a cliff?” Trish had always harbored love-hate feelings for Leah.

“Not for the reasons you'd think.” According to Millie, Leah had chosen a wide expanse of pasture at the far end of the lake for the ceremony and reception.
An intimate affair amid a rustic setting
, Millie had informed Iris, which conjured images of hauling wooden tables and chairs across sweltering fields.

“I just can't believe she's settling down. You and me, yeah. But Leah?”

The fact that Leah had suddenly settled on one man, after a string of loves that stretched from one end of the country to the other, had come as a surprise to them all. Since college, she'd remained on the go—backpacking through Europe, landing briefly for a spell in New York, then heading out west to work in the national parks. And with each new destination there appeared a heavy new relationship that inevitably crumbled when Leah moved on. Iris never thought she'd settle down.

“So what do you know about the fiancé'?” asked Trish.

Iris threw up her hands. “Nothing. But I'll find out soon.” She checked her watch. “They're coming in tonight.”

Trish shook her head. “Just like the old Leah. Never a dull moment. Whatever you do, don't go crying through your old wedding album when she asks you to pick out bridal flowers or write out seating cards.”

“More like locate misplaced relatives at the airport,” Iris muttered. “Or pick tomatoes.” Wait till she told Trish about
that
incident. She was dying to find out more about Cooper Woods.

But Trish interrupted the thought. “Isn't the farm great? We've expanded our summer catering menu, thanks to all of their organic produce. Leah got a bunch of the local restaurants on board.”

“What? I didn't know you did business with the farm.” Iris stared into her mug. It was still happening. From a thousand miles away, Leah was already taking her seat at the table with them. Reminding her of her special spot within the family. Even in Iris's best friend's life, too, it now seemed.

“The local news channel ran a big feature on them this spring. But you probably saw that already,” Trish added.

Iris nodded. But she hadn't seen the segment. She'd heard about it, had even gotten the CD her mother had mailed her with the seven-minute recording on it. But she'd never actually taken the time to sit down and watch it. She had a fuzzy recollection of seeing it stuffed in a junk drawer in the family room. Or was it the laundry?

“I didn't realize how big the ‘farm stand' had gotten,” Iris admitted sheepishly. “I knew Leah was working with Mom when she came home last summer, but I thought it was more like Mom giving her a little charity work.” The truth was, Iris hadn't given it much thought when she heard that Leah had left her job at Yellowstone and was stealing back to New Hampshire. If anything, it had annoyed Iris that her parents still tolerated her sister's flippant approach to life.

Iris changed the subject. “Enough about my crazy family. Look at you. And this place!” The bakery was just as she'd imagined it. A cluster of vintage tables lined the picture window that looked out onto the cobblestone village street. The café walls were a rich butterscotch yellow. “Even the color is cozy!” Iris exclaimed.

“Yellow makes people hungry,” Trish confided.

“I'm so proud of you,” Iris said, peering longingly at the tidy arrangement of pastries and cakes in the bakery case.

Iris had marveled at her friend's gumption when Trish left her nursing job and threw open the doors to the Chat n' Chew. Been jealous of it, even. But secretly, she'd worried. After all, Wayne's dental practice was still relatively new. And the economy was a mess. Shouldn't Trish stick with her RN position? Wasn't that the more sensible thing to do?

But Trish had plowed ahead. She could make her own hours to be home for the kids, Josh and Michael, who were both working as counselors up in Maine for the summer. And besides, with all the sugary confections she'd sell, she'd be cultivating a slew of new patients for Wayne's practice. Iris couldn't argue with that, as she bit into another key lime tart.

“Oh, and look at that!” Trish said suddenly. She pointed to the sidewalk outside. “The view's not bad, either.”

Iris turned. Across the street, stepping out of his truck, was Cooper Woods.

Instinctively Iris ducked.

“What?” Trish asked. “It's just Cooper Woods.”

“Exactly!” Iris hissed, burying her nose in her coffee mug. “He's not coming in here, is he?”

Trish glanced out the window. “Unfortunately, no. He's headed for the post office.” She looked questioningly at Iris. “What's going on?”

“We sort of had a run-in,” Iris explained sheepishly.

“Ah,” Trish said, eyebrows rising. “So you've crossed paths.”

“You could say that.” With a friend like Trish, there was no choice but to spill, sharing every detail, however humiliating.

“You mean your mom never told you Cooper worked for them?”

Iris shook her head emphatically. For all her long-distance, one-sided conversations about soil and fertilizer, couldn't her mother have thought to mention
that
?

Trish snorted. “Well, I guess he knows you're back in town.”

“That's one way of putting it. What's he doing back here anyway? Last I heard he'd moved out to Colorado after high school.”

“He's been back for about a year now. Runs a restoration business, preserving local buildings and that sort of thing. He comes in sometimes for a coffee. And he looks pretty damn good.”

Iris couldn't disagree. Unlike Cooper and Leah, Iris had been one of those kids who was friends with everyone and with no one in particular at the same time. The kind of girl who was pretty enough and smart enough. But also quiet enough to be overlooked, certainly by the group that Cooper hung out with. Cooper was one of those enigmatic kids who was charming enough to smooth the disapproval from even the strictest teachers' foreheads when he made excuses for lost homework, but also nice enough to tell the other lacrosse players to lay off the freshmen, whom they routinely shoved into lockers. Iris could remember one incident when Cooper had whispered her name in chemistry class, asking to borrow a pencil. She'd been stunned that he knew her name. But Cooper dated the popular girls. Girls who roared up to keg parties in their Jeep Wranglers, a bevy of backup blondes packed in the backseat. Not red-faced girls who stupidly surrendered their only pencil and spent the rest of class gawking at the back of his head.

Trish grinned wickedly. “Maybe we've found you a date for Leah's wedding after all.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Besides, I'm still
married
, remember?”

“A technicality. What's a spin on the dance floor, even if it is twenty years late?”

On her way out the door, with a loaf of warm sourdough bread tucked under her arm, Iris gazed over her shoulder. Trish belonged here. Concocting sweet confections, nourishing neighbors. Iris licked the crumbs from her fingers, wondering where exactly she belonged.

•    •    •

Back in her bedroom at the farm, Iris pulled the linen shift dress over her head and turned in front of the mirror. Not terrible. Even after a second long shower, her hair still held a faintly acrid scent of tomato. There was a rap at the door. Millie poked her head inside.

“What do you think?” Iris asked, turning left then right in her dress.

“Nice, but what are you still doing here?”

“Doing here?”

“In this room. Why is all your stuff still here?”

Iris glanced around. Her bags had long since been unpacked, her shirts folded in the armoire, her jeans tucked into the antique dresser drawers.

Millie pointed across the hall. “Didn't your father tell you? I'm putting Stephen and Leah in here.”

“But this is my room.”

“This room has a queen. And there are
two
of them.”

Iris knew her mother didn't intend it that way, but the reference to her singleness caused her to bristle.

“So I'm being moved out?”

Millie scowled. “It's not personal.”

Across the hall, Leah's bed was a single canopy, fairylike and girlish under its lace overhang. Iris couldn't help but notice that little had changed in her sister's room since childhood. While Iris's old room had been stripped of its boy-band posters and rearranged to accommodate guests, Leah's remained the same old teenage living space, a sort of high school mausoleum. She caught herself looking up at the doorway as if a young uniformed Leah might stride through at any moment with a gaggle of friends and her field hockey stick.

Iris dumped her suitcase on the bed and allowed herself a good sulk, indulged by the adolescent decor around her.

Outside, the farm rolled out in front of her, a sight that caused Iris's chest to suddenly ache. It wasn't just the rural beauty of the barns and garden plots, but the thought of all that life within; each plant carefully tended and nurtured. Attention Iris feared she herself might never feel again.

As she stood looking out, a silver truck rolled up the drive. It stopped in front of the large red barn.

Iris pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Cooper Woods exited the cab. With a rush in her chest she watched him lower the tailgate and pull lumber from the bed of the truck. She still couldn't believe he was here, working for her parents, no less. How strange time was: in high school she'd dreamed of stealing a single moment with Cooper Woods. Now, twenty years later, here he was in her own backyard. She admired the competent ease with which he carried the materials, the swift pace at which he worked. And then, just as quickly, to her dismay, he drove away.

Downstairs, Iris sought relief on the porch, joining her father for drinks.

“Feeling better, my dear?”

It was a relief to see Bill fretting over olives, rather than her pupils. He handed her a gin martini, another love the two shared, which she gratefully took a deep sip of. The cool liquid slipped easily down her throat, and she sank into a wicker chair. “I am now.”

From out front came the crunch of gravel in the drive.

“They're here!” Millie shrieked.

Without warning, Iris's stomach filled with dread.

“Come,” called Bill excitedly as he strode to greet them.

Iris stood. But she couldn't bring herself to follow. Instead she slipped into the dark privacy of the back hall, pressing her back against the cool plaster wall.

Iris took another sip of her martini, imagining the scene unfolding in the driveway. Her mother's air kisses, the exclamations over the happy couple's arrival. Her father would shake hands with Stephen, and the two would playfully argue over who would carry in the bags. Iris was exhausted by the mere thought of it all.

The voices grew louder, followed by the thump of footsteps ascending the porch stairs.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour!” Millie's voice carried down the hall, and Iris sank a little lower against the wall.

“I'll bring the bags up,” Leah answered, and suddenly, hearing her sister's voice filled Iris with a soft and familiar guilt.

Around the corner, in the butler's pantry, came her father's lighthearted whistle, followed by the clink of bottles; he was probably searching for the champagne he'd stowed earlier. And then the slap of the screen door, which meant they'd gone back out to the porch for drinks. Iris pressed a hand to her temple. She really should go out there. She stood, just as the patter of light footsteps approached.

“Hand it over!” Leah swept around the corner and flattened herself against the wall, beside her older sister. She reached for Iris's martini, tipped her elegant chin, and downed the remains. “Much better.” She closed her eyes dreamily.