Paradox Lake Read online

  In the wake of my husband’s suicide and Allison’s passing, it was just the two of us. Anna was my world and I was hers and nothing could interfere with it. Nothing could threaten it. Nothing could break our impenetrable bond. Nothing, that is, except the pubescent years, I should say. But then, I was a preteen once too, so I guess I should have seen all this coming.

  She tries to text again and again, but it’s fruitless. She slaps the phone down in her lap. For a few minutes, I gaze out the window onto the lush forest that flanks us and the rugged mountains that loom directly ahead. I gently set my hand on her thigh.

  “Tell me a story, Anna,” I say. “What’s on your mind other than hating me right now?”

  She clams up for a long beat or two. But then she finally exhales a long, deep breath.

  “Nicky is like so freaking happy now.” Her tone is more than sarcastic. It’s positively toxic.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “Isn’t Nicole still your best friend?”

  You might think as a good, if not overly doting, parent I would be well aware of just who my only child’s best friend is. But trust me when I say, at her age, the best friend tends to change with the weather.

  “Does a best friend steal your boyfriend when you’re not around?” she asks.

  OMG boys!

  Anna is only twelve years old. Is she already into boys? How is that possible? I try to recall the first time I actually looked at the opposite sex as anything other than an annoyance. I guess I must have been in junior high. Anna is in junior high. So I guess therein lies the answer to my question.

  “What boyfriend?” I ask, one eye on the road, the other on my, let’s call her, perturbed daughter.

  “Jake Walls,” she says.

  “Little Jake Walls?” I say. “He’s even shorter than Tony, Anna.”

  I can’t help but laugh, but I quickly get the hint that this is no laughing matter.

  “I’m tall for my age,” she says. “Boys sprout later on.”

  “You don’t say,” I say, like my daughter is telling me something I don’t already know. “How long have you been in … ummm … like with Jake?”

  Stealing a glance at her, I can see that she can’t help but smile and blush.

  “I don’t know,” she says, cocking her head over her shoulder. “Maybe like two or three weeks. A long time anyway.” She turns to me. “Long enough that he should be paws off with Nicole, that bitch.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth, like I’m shocked at her choice of adjective.

  “Such language for a nice young lady,” I say. “Where ever did I go wrong in my child-rearing abilities?”

  “Cut the crap, Rosie,” Anna says. “We all know you swear like a truck driver.”

  She’s back to calling me Rosie again … We’re making progress.

  Just then, a fire-engine-red Mustang blows by us in the right lane. It scares the daylights out of me. How did I not see him in the rearview?

  “Passing in the slow lane,” I say, punching the horn. “That shit will get you killed.”

  “I rest my case, Rosie,” Anna says.

  “Fucking A,” I say.

  Forty-five minutes later, we’re pulling into the sleepy town of Paradox Lake. It’s not much of a town. Just a small main street that’s got a sheriff’s headquarters with a small jail attached to it. There’s a white clapboard church, a library, and a bar called Bunny’s. Next to that is a combination general store/diner/gas station. The long sign that’s attached to the exterior of the two-story wood building reads FERGUSON GENERAL STORE in green lettering. Since the Mini Cooper needs a fill-up, I pull up to one of the pumps, kill the engine, and get out. Anna does the same.

  I hand her a ten-dollar bill.

  “You hungry, honey?” I say. “Why don’t you grab us a couple hot dogs and Diet Cokes.”

  “What if I feel like a cheeseburger?” she says, brushing her hair back over her ear.

  She’s got her round sunglasses on, and taken along with her tight shorts and Doors t-shirt, I’m sure she’s feeling very much the city glam girl around the country folk who inhabit these parts.

  “Then get a cheeseburger,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “Be right back, Rosie,” she says. “Unless, of course, I decide to walk back home.”

  “Very funny,” I say. “You have your dad’s sense of humor.”

  “Dad killed himself,” she says. “How funny could he have been?”

  Her words are like a small jab in the gut.

  “He was a funny guy once upon a time. And a talented architect. I wish you could have known him, honey.”

  “Me too,” she says. Then, pursing her lips, “I shouldn’t have said that about him. Sorry I’m being such a jerk, Rosie.”

  We are indeed making progress.

  “Apology accepted,” I say.

  After Anna heads into the store, I start on filling up the tank. When the job is done, I grab my receipt, stuff it into my jeans pocket. Where the hell is Anna already? How long can it take to grab something to eat? Getting back in the Cooper, I start it up and pull into a parking space in front of the diner/general store. Shutting off the engine once more, I get out and enter into the store. To my right is the diner portion of the place, and to the left is the grocery. That’s when I spot Anna. She’s holding a paper bag that’s no doubt got our lunch stored inside it. She’s also staring at a metal rack filled with books. Paperbacks mostly, from what I can see. I approach her.

  “Something strike your fancy?” I ask.

  She turns quick.

  “Oh hey, Mom,” she says. “They sell these really cool old editions of all those old nursey rhyme books you used to read to me when I was a child.”

  “Oh,” I say, “way back then, huh?”

  In her free hand, she’s holding a copy of Little Red Riding Hood. The edition is so old it’s protected in a plastic freezer bag. The cover art is terrific—take it from a visual artist. It’s a lush depiction of Little Red Riding Hood walking in the woods in her red cape and hood. She’s carrying a basket of food to her grandmother’s house. The woods are dark and foreboding. Stalking her from behind is the Big Bad Wolf, with his big bad eyes, sharp teeth, and thick black fur. He’s walking on his hind legs, the claws on his two forelegs poised like he’s about to dig them into the sweet little girl’s neck.

  “God, Mom,” Anna says, after a time. “You remember how much this story used to frighten me?”

  “I do,” I say. “But that didn’t stop you from insisting I read it to you every night, now did it?”

  People are coming and going from the store. Locals I can only assume. Maybe some late-season vacationers too. I see a young family checking out their purchases at the counter. A little boy and a little girl in bathing suits are annoying one another.

  “He’s touching me,” the little girl keeps whining. “Make him stop.” But of course, her complaints only egg him on all the more. The sight of them brings back memories of me and my big brother annoying the crap out of one another during our weeklong summer vacations in Cape Cod back in the seventies and eighties. An entire lifetime ago.

  The young mother and father are also wearing bathing suits and flip-flops. Sunglasses cover their eyes. The husband wears a red New England Patriots baseball cap and the wife has her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. They’re buying beer, snacks, and assorted junk for the kids. They seem to be having a great time and it makes me sad.

  There was a time my family was whole. A time when we consisted of a mom, a dad, a daughter, and one in the oven, so to speak. But leukemia took our Allison from us before she made it to the second grade, and in his grief, my husband shot himself in the head only weeks before Anna was born. If only he could have coped with the loss.

  I try my best not to dwell on the past and the situations the good Lord had in store for me, for us. How does the tired old saying go? The Lord only dishes out what we can handle. In my husband’s case, he most definitely could not handle it
. It shattered him. Now I am mother and father to Anna, and a huge part of me doesn’t want to see her grow up. An even bigger part of me wants to see her stay a child who I can protect and fuss over for the rest of my days. But then, that’s an impossible dream.

  What do you think, Allison? You’re eighteen now.

  Am I being overprotective of Anna?

  You can never be too overprotective, Rosie. Anna’s all you got now. She’s a great kid. Twelve is a tough time, not that I ever got to see it. She’s becoming a young woman. Stay close to her. It’s a dangerous world out there. Even more dangerous than when I was living there. Don’t let her out of your sight.

  Thanks, Allison. I love you.

  Love you too, Rosie. Hang in there.

  I see the man out of the corner of my eye. He’s so quiet, his sudden presence startles me. He’s a short, but very thickset guy. He’s bald, his scalp covered in scars, like someone took a knife to it. His round face is covered in stubble. His blue eyes are wide. They don’t see us so much as glare at us. He’s wearing an apron like a butcher would wear. The apron is stained. He’s holding a push broom with both his thick hands. Hands covered in black hair. Anna must notice him too because she takes a step back, pressing herself into me.

  “Mom,” she whispers, “why is that creepy man staring at us?”

  I try and do the polite thing. Work up a nice, friendly smile. But he’s just staring at us, his granite, scarred face expressionless, emotionless. But when another man appears, this one tall and good looking, Creepy Man is suddenly broken out of his trance.

  “Ed,” the salt-and-pepper-bearded tall man says, “I need you to get started on unpacking those boxes in back. We’ve got shelves that need to be filled.”

  Creepy Man/Ed nods and makes a sound that’s best described as a grunt.

  “Okay, Mr. Ferguson,” he says in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

  He’s about to walk away when he locks eyes on Anna and me once more. But this time, instead of issuing us an emotionless expression, he works up a smile. I smile back while Anna presses herself tighter into me. I find myself wrapping my arms around her. When Creepy Ed turns and heads for the back of the store, Mr. Ferguson offers up a friendly face while approaching us.

  “I hope my employee didn’t frighten you kind folks,” he says while fingering the bottom of his full beard with the tips of his fingers. “He’s getting on in years and he’s also a little bit slow, if you know what I mean. But he’s harmless.”

  Now I feel foolish and sort of bad for the poor man. I kind of agreed with Anna when she called him creepy. But then, I guess it’s human nature to prejudge people.

  “No worries,” I say. “No harm done, isn’t that right, Anna?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “No harm, I guess.”

  Mr. Ferguson is the general store owner, no doubt. He crosses his arms over his chest. His Levi’s jeans are clean. His denim work shirt looks like it’s been professionally cleaned and pressed. His brown cowboy boots are polished. He’s a man who takes pride in his appearance and pride in his family business. Or so it seems, anyway.

  “Are you a fan of rare editions?” he asks Anna.

  At first, she’s not sure how to respond, because it’s the kind of question that’s never been posed to her before.

  “Use your words, Anna,” I say.

  She’s still holding the plastic-encased edition of Little Red Riding Hood.

  “Oh,” she says. “I was just showing this to my mom. We used to read it every night a long time ago.”

  “Back when she was just a kid,” I say, along with a wink.

  Mr. Ferguson gets it and he returns my wink.

  “I see,” he says. “Would you like to buy it? Introducing rare editions to the store was one of the better ideas I’ve come up with in recent years. The tourists love them. The ones who appreciate books anyway.”

  Anna immediately replaces it on the rack.

  “Oh no,” she says. “I’m over Little Red Riding Hood these days.”

  “It’s a fine collector’s item,” he pushes. “You’re never too old for that. Tell you what, I’ll knock a couple bucks off.”

  “Maybe next time,” I say.

  He smiles and looks not at me, but into me, in a good way.

  “Jeez,” he says, “where are my manners?” Holding out his hand. “I’m Tim Ferguson. I own and operate the general store. It was my dad’s before me, and my grandpa’s before that. Back when you could hitch your horse to the place.”

  I try to imagine a time when horses were the main mode of transport in the little lakeside town of Paradox. It must have been a far simpler time. Imagine no smartphones, no internet, no texting, no YouTube, no Facebook or Twitter. People must have actually had no choice but to talk real sentences to one another.

  “I’m Rose Conley,” I say. “This is my daughter, Anna. We’re staying on the lake for a few months. I’m on sabbatical from my college in Albany.”

  He smiles broadly. “You don’t say. Which house did you rent?”

  I’m suddenly speechless.

  “Good question,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking my saved emails.

  When I see the one I want from Airbnb, I click on it. A photo of a two-story country bungalow nestled among the pines comes up along with an address. I show it to Tim Ferguson.

  “This ring a bell?” I say.

  He nods.

  “Most definitely,” he says. “That’s the old Moore place. It’s been a year-round rental for more than three decades since the family moved away. You’ll be happy there. It’s secluded and it’s on the lake. It’s even got its own dock.” He pauses for a second and picks at his beard again, like it helps him to think. No, that’s not right. More like it helps him to remember something. “If you like, I can show you how to get there. GPS can be a bit funky up here, and you need to navigate more than one back road to get there.”

  I glance at Anna and she glances back at me. We don’t need to speak to one another to know what we’re both thinking. Can Tim Ferguson be trusted? Is he leading us into a trap? But that’s nonsense. I’m just being paranoid as usual. He seems like the nicest guy. A sweet general store owner who’s willing to help out a couple of out-of-towners. I guess we must be city folk to him.

  “That would be great, Tim,” I say. “I’ve just got to gather a couple of supplies and we’ll head out to the Moore place. Does that work for you?”

  He smiles warmly and makes his way over to the wine rack.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “Are these the kind of supplies you’re talking about, Rose?”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Tim,” I say, “I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE WOLF UNCRATES the boxes. The arrival of the little girl and her mother has sparked something inside him. The girl, with her long dark hair and her tall build … it’s amazing how much she resembles Sarah Anne. And her mother … it’s amazing how much she resembles Mrs. Moore. Could it be that Sarah Anne and her mother have returned from the dead? Has his Little Red Riding Hood returned to Paradox?

  He smiles and dives deep into his memory bank.

  He follows Sarah along the trail until she arrives at a small, secluded section of beach. He doesn’t expose himself quite yet. Instead, the Wolf hides himself in the bush, his big eyes watching her every move, his big ears listening to her gentle humming and breathing, his big nose smelling her sweet lavender scent, his big teeth gnashing in his mouth.

  He wets his lips with his tongue.

  The wolf is carnivore incarnate are the words he recalls from the rare edition of Little Red Riding Hood that rests on the store’s book rack, and he’s as cunning as he is ferocious; once he’s had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.

  He watches Sarah Anne Moore as she pulls off her t-shirt exposing her red bra and the small, pale, peach-shaped breasts that fill it. He feels his heart pounding against his rib cage,
and the blood that rushes to all the right parts of his body.

  “What big teeth I have,” he whispers. “The better to eat you with, Sarah.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “YOU’RE SURE THIS is a good idea, Rosie?” Anna asks while we drive the curvy lakeside road towards what will be our home in the woods for the next three months. “Mr. Ferguson seems awfully friendly. Maybe he’s just trying to hook up.”

  I shoot her a wide-eyed look.

  “Are you kidding me, young lady?”

  Giggling, her face is covered in what can only be described as a shit eating grin. Or so my husband, Charlie, would put it, back in his better days.

  “Hey,” she says, “I’m just being honest. And I do have to say, he’s not all that bad looking for an old dude.”

  “That old dude isn’t much older than me, kiddo,” I say. “And what about my boyfriend, Tony? Remember him?”

  “Tony’s a tool, Mom,” she says, “and you know it.”

  I focus on the road and the green Ford F-150 directly ahead of me. Both the driver’s-side and passenger’s-side doors bear the name “Ferguson General Store” in big white letters. From behind the wheel of the Mini Cooper, I can see Tim’s baseball-hat-covered head. I have to admit, it’s a pleasant sight.

  “Okay, I’ll admit, Tony gets on my nerves from time to time. But he’s been good to us. And he means well. He’s been like a dad to you.”

  “Nothing will ever replace Charlie, Mom.”

  “You never knew Charlie, sweetie. But that’s nice of you to say.”

  She presses her fist against her chest. “Maybe not, but I feel like I know him and he knows me. Like he’s watching out for us, you know?”

  I feel the oxygen suddenly exit my lungs, because it’s precisely the way I also feel about my late husband. I guess you could say I’m haunted by ghosts. But they’re friendly ghosts. Ghosts I love with all my heart. My eyes fill with tears, but I do my best to swallow them. That’s when I see the red brakes lights on Tim’s pickup engage and his right directional go on.