The Lost Women of Lost Lake (11 page)

Within a year, he was doing far more than simple janitorial work. He'd become the community center's part-time handyman, periodic set designer and stage manager, and was beginning to take over the ordering for the gift shop. Tessa had no doubt that he'd be running the place sooner rather than later.

Wincing at a stab of pain in her ankle, she jerked her head up to see the clock above the mantel. She had to get this over with before Jill came home to take her to her doctor's appointment. She was actually looking forward to the walking boot. Mobility was crucial. If she didn't start walking, and fast, she would be an easy mark for anything Feigenbaumer wanted to pull. She had to push through the pain, no matter how much it cost her.

“I need to ask a favor,” she began.

“Anything.”

“There's a man in town. Arrived a few days ago. His name is Steve Feigenbaumer. I need to know where he's staying. All I can tell you is that he's middle-aged, medium build, dark hair, and has been seen wearing a White Sox cap—black with white letters.”

“Okay.”

“If you can locate him, I'd like you to follow him, see what he's up to, and then report back to me if you learn anything.”

“That's all?”

“For now.”

“He some kind of threat to you?”

“Possibly.”

“I'm sure I could find a way to convince him to leave.”

If it was only that simple. “I wish you could.”

“Just say the word.”

“He won't go. And if you could convince him, he'd come back with the police in tow.”

Fontaine frowned.

“This is serious. I can't really say any more.”

Standing, he nodded. “No need. I'll find the information you want.”

She reached for his hand. “You're saving my life.”

“Just returning the favor.”

*   *   *

Tessa was practicing with her crutches on the steps down to the garage when Jill strolled up the paved driveway holding a pie. “What are you doing out here?” she demanded. “You're supposed to rest, keep your leg up.”

“Not every minute,” said Tessa, thumping down the last step. “You're early. We don't need to leave for another half hour.”

“This is crazy. You could fall and hurt yourself.”

Tessa was winded, but pleased to see that Jill had remembered the pie. “What is it? Blueberry?”

“Strawberry rhubarb.”

“Awesome, as Jonah would say. Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Jill rolled her eyes.

“No, really,” said Tessa, turning all the way around to face her. “You … make my life worth living.” The sentiment was way too Hallmark card. Probably residual effects from last night's pain killers. Tears filled her eyes.

“Are you crying?”

“At my horrific use of clichés.”

Jill leaned forward and cupped her hand under Tessa's chin. “Earth to Tessa. I don't want anything bad to happen to you.”

It was amazing that the touch of Jill's hand could still cause her heart to speed up. “I'm so sorry.”

“Good.” Clearly thinking there might be more to the apology, she said, “For what?”

“The way I've been behaving. I've been taking all my frustration out on you.”

“I wasn't sure you'd noticed.”

“Am I that thick?”

“Sometimes. You took some of your
frustration
, as you call it, out on Jane and Cordelia last night, too.”

Tessa caught the amused gleam in Jill's eye. “I know. I'll apologize. Do you forgive me?”

“I'll consider it.”

When they kissed, Tessa lost her balance and ended up sitting down somewhat askew on the steps.

“See,” said Jill. “You shouldn't be outside alone.”

“I'm not. You're here.”

“I'm going to throw the pie at you.”

Waiting a beat, Tessa asked, “What do we do with Jonah?”

Jill's shoulders drooped “I called my brother this morning.”

“And?”

“We had a long talk. Apparently Jonah was suspended from school a couple of times last year. Once for smoking pot. Once for getting in a fight. It sounded like it was a bad one. Jonah completely lost his temper. Gavin says he's been doing it a lot lately. He thinks he's acting out because of all the problems at home, which is why he agreed to let him spend his senior year here with us.”

“Score,” said Tessa, thrusting her fist in the air. “He's a good kid with a great heart. He just needs to get away from all that strife.”

“My brother wasn't happy that Jonah left the way he did or that he lied and then hitchhiked all the way up here. It sounds like things have gotten pretty rocky between him and Shannon. They're seeing a marriage counselor.”

“A good idea.”

“I don't know. Gavin said that marriage counseling made him feel like they were one step closer to divorce.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Keeping Jonah away from the worst of their problems is a good start. I think he should move into the downstairs room. We should probably take out the couch and buy a bed.”

“I'd like him to stay up in the loft, just for a few more days.”

Twisting the gold band on her finger, Jill said, “Look, I know you don't like it when I push, but you have to tell me what's going on. Who is this Feigenbaumer? Was he the man outside your study window last night?”

“I can't say for sure. I've never met him.”

“But you're afraid of him.”

Tessa covered Jill's hand with hers. “Give me some time to work this out.”

“Are you in physical danger? I mean, do you think he'd hurt you in some way?”

“It's nothing like that. I overreacted last night. I feel so vulnerable because of this ankle.” More lies. She hated herself because they flowed so easily.

“I wish you'd let me help. All this secrecy makes me feel like you don't trust me.”

Tessa's eyes softened. “I trust you with my life.”

“But not with whatever this is.”

“Please, honey, let me work this out in my own time and in my own way.”

In a halting voice, Jill said, “I guess I don't have a choice.”

“You do have a choice. You can give me the space I need or you can be angry or hurt, which will make everything ten times worse for me.”

“Oh, all right. We'll leave it at that. For now.”

Tessa eyed the pie. “Do we have any vanilla ice cream?”

“Vanilla and cinnamon.”

“Let's have dessert first tonight.”

“I knew there was a reason I married you.” Jill kissed Tessa tenderly, then leaned back and ordered her up the stairs to change her clothes before the doctor's appointment.

“I love it when you get all militaristic.”

“I know.”

12

Wendell Hammond had never been in a stage play before, although he believed he had a natural talent for acting. As a professional portrait photographer, he had to be a good actor to get people in the right mood for a photo shoot. This was especially true of children, his primary focus. One minute he would do his Barney impersonation, the next he would get the kid laughing with jokes or make balloon animals, a speciality of his. If all else failed, he'd bring out his dog, Boomer, a Jack Russell terrier. Boomer usually put a gleam in a kid's eyes. That was before the fire, of course. Before his life changed forever.

Wendell thought of himself as a wizard with kids. It was funny, too, because he didn't much like them. His wife had wanted at least two, but they had never been able to conceive. She had to make do with animals—six cats and eight dogs over the course of a twenty-two-year marriage. Mary Jo was gone now, as was Boomer. Both had died before the fire, thank God. Wendell had to admit that until he'd met Ruth Jensen, he'd been a lonely man. In a short time, he'd grown to care about Ruth a great deal, and yet nothing would ever fill the place in his life that his wife—and their collection of the sweetest animals on earth—once had.

During Mary Jo's final illness, he'd done everything in his power to make her happy. The fact remained, however, that what she wanted most—a trip to Italy, to the spot where they'd first met—had never happened. It all came down to money. Even with medical insurance, the bills the company refused to pay had plunged them deep into debt. One thing led to another. When Mary Jo couldn't continue working, they fell behind on their mortgage. The bank foreclosed on them the year before she died. They'd bought the house shortly before she was diagnosed—bad timing, of course, though their finances at the time had been solid. Their final lifeline—two credit cards—had been maxed out when he paid the last of the funeral expenses. That was two years ago. He'd felt like a failure then and he felt like one now.

As far as Wendell was concerned, the American Dream was nothing but a sophisticated scam. He'd done everything right and yet he could never get ahead. After years of fading into the woodwork, of being the kind of guy who had a hard time catching a waitress's eye because he was so forgettable, so dreary and colorless and boring, he'd made a decision to turn the page. He'd stood at his wife's gravesite on a windy March afternoon and promised her that he would start over, that he'd become the man he'd always wanted to be. Life
had
changed for Wendell, although his dream of becoming a new man was turning out to be much harder than anything he'd attempted before. He wasn't sure he had the steam, the grit, or the stamina to stick with the program. Perhaps he'd set his sights too high. After all, it was hard to imagine Pee Wee Herman turning into Clint Eastwood overnight, especially when it was so much easier to simply stay home and watch TV.

The only part of his life that was going well at the moment, other than Ruth, was the play he was in at the community playhouse. His first glimpse of the dressing room at the theater, however, had been a disappointment. Because he'd watched too many movies about great actors in private dressing rooms being attended to by a staff of hairdressers, makeup artists, and other assorted minions, he hadn't expected something quite so grungy. The long narrow room was meant for both the men and women in the cast, and contained one long Pepto Bismol–colored Formica table facing mirrors surrounded by bright lights.

Making himself comfortable on one of the beat-up chairs, Wendell leaned toward the mirror and studied his face. He decided that the thin mustache he'd grown for the part was a good touch. It made him look raffish. Cosmopolitan. At forty-five, his hair remained thick and blond, although his hairline was beginning to recede. When he thought about being directed tonight by the legendary Cordelia Thorn, his palms grew clammy. He wanted desperately to do a good job acting the part of the wolfish Philip. He needed to succeed at
something
.

Feeling the cell phone in his pocket vibrate, he fished it out and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Frank,” he said. “Anything new on the insurance front?”

“I should have some good news for you soon,” came Frank's friendly voice.

“Great. Appreciate your returning my call.” Emily came in though the door on the other side of the room. He nodded to her. “Talk to you soon then?”

“In a day or two.”

Returning the phone to his pocket, Wendell rose and walked over to where Emily had taken a seat. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he said, “Are you ready to be touched by greatness?”

“Excuse me?”

“Cordelia Thorn.”

“Oh, yeah. Ready as I'll ever be.”

“This could be a big break for you. You're the one who wants to become a professional actor.”

“All I can do is my best, Wendell.”

“True. Still, a lucky break for you, her turning up here.”

She began to apply her stage makeup.

“You should be more excited.”

“You can be excited for both of us.”

“You're jaded. Nineteen years old and you're jaded.”

Her jaw set.

“I'm seeing your mom tonight after rehearsal. I'm taking her over to Thunderhook for dinner.”

“Kind of pricy.”

“I'm not completely broke. Besides, she's worth it.”

Emily glanced up at him. “You really mean that?”

“I do. I think she's wonderful. Not as beautiful as her daughter, of course.”

“You're a sleaze, Wendell.”

“Why? I'm merely stating the obvious. I'm not coming on to you, if that's what you think.”

“Right.”

“I'm not.” He was hurt that she would jump to such a ridiculous conclusion.

“Look,” said Emily, running a comb through her hair. “My mother's a grown woman. She makes her own decisions, just like I do. Now why don't you go bother someone else?”

“Am I bothering you?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, jeez, sorry for living.” He pressed a hand to his stomach, sucked in his gut and walked away, feeling sulky and misunderstood. So what else was new?

*   *   *

“Stop! Cease! Halt!” Taking a deep breath, Cordelia hollered one last command. “Desist, dear ladies and gentlemen.” Under her breath, she whispered, “I can't take another second.”

Jane had been sitting next to Cordelia, five rows up from the stage, all through the early part of the second act. Every so often, Cordelia would start to quiver, cover her mouth and clear her throat. Jane had no idea why she was behaving so oddly—that is, until she burst out laughing right before erupting out of her chair and calling for an end to the proceedings.

“Did Tessa provide you with a dialect coach to help you with your English accents?” she asked, having trouble keeping a straight face.

“No,” said Wendell. Jane recognized him as Helen Merland's house guest.

“Do we need help?” asked Camilla Strom, Wendell's wife in the play, the confused and slightly ditzy Sheila.