The Caretaker's Wife Read online

  “Guess who?” I said.

  It was impossible for me to see the smile on her pretty face, but I could feel it all right. She turned, stood, and wrapped her arms around me. She hugged me like nobody’s business. I kissed her neck and smelled the sweet lilac scent on her skin and her smooth, clean hair, and I swear, I felt her beating heart.

  “Just now,” I said. “Today.”

  She released me and took a step back.

  “Let me get a look at you, Kingsley,” she said. “You’ve lost some weight. And my God, where’d you get all those muscles?”

  “Lots of time on my hands,” I said. “I put it to good use.”

  She was wearing her tight black Lucy’s Bar outfit, and her eyes were big and wet, and one of them was black and purple. She’d done her best to make-up the hell out of it, but I could still make it out. I gently touched it with my thumb.

  “What happened?” I said. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

  She wouldn’t admit it, but then, she didn’t deny it either. “He’s my husband,” she said. “I probably deserved it.”

  “Nobody deserves that,” I said, feeling the rage enter into my bloodstream. I had to watch it, or else I’d begin shaking, and that would scare her.

  “Let’s not talk about that,” she said. “How are you now that you’re free again?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  Her smile got lost.

  “Where? You only just got home. What about your wife? Your daughter?”

  “They left me. Or haven’t you heard?”

  Her smile returned, ever so slowly. She wrapped her arms around my neck and laid the sweetest kiss ever on me. It was all I could do to come up for air.

  “I want you,” she said. “Take me right here. Right now. I don’t care.”

  “We can’t,” I said. “And you know it, Theresa.”

  “Why is it always, ‘We can’t’? Why doesn’t that ever change? Your wife cheated on you, and now she’s left you.”

  “I wouldn’t cheat then, and neither will you now, no matter how we feel about one another.”

  “But your wife is gone.”

  “But you’re married now, remember?” I touched her eye again. “Even if he is an asshole.”

  She was quiet for a bit.

  “How’s your boy?” I asked.

  “He’s okay.”

  I pictured the scruffy-haired, chubby little guy in my head. He must have been four or five by now. She had him with her now husband back when they were just dating. Like his mom, the little guy had it rough, whether he was aware of it or not. I dug into my pocket, pulled out the cash, and peeled off a fifty.

  “This is for your son,” I said. “Don’t let Brian take it away from you.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek, nodded, and took the cash. I knew it was way more than she would be taking home in tips. I also knew her husband wasn’t working. Or if he was, he was fast on his way to not working anymore. His was a life of cheap beer and time-sucking video games and abuse. Oh, but ain’t love grand.

  I kissed her again like I meant it.

  “I’ll be checking in on you from time to time, Theresa,” I said. “I promise not to disappear entirely.”

  She turned. “Wait,” she said.

  I stopped. “What is it?”

  “What if I divorce him?”

  “Leave Brian?” I said. “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes,” she said. She wiped another tear from her good eye.

  “I’ll be seeing you, kid,” I said, and then made my way back up the stairs.

  When I went back into the bar to finish my beer, Lucy was standing at the entry.

  “Oh no you don’t, Kingsley,” she said. She opened the door. “Out you go.”

  Lucy was a small woman with salt and pepper hair. But she was still a force to be reckoned with. I nodded at Stan and the others at the bar. They nodded back. I wondered if I’d ever see them again. I wondered if it mattered all that much. There was nothing left for me here.

  I walked out.

  “Don’t let the door slap me in the ass, Lucy,” I said.

  “And don’t come back, you here?” she said.

  3

  Driving. Highway 87. Northbound.

  The road was empty this time of day, and the cool air felt good slapping at my face while the Jeep radio blared some classic rock. The Eagles. Reminded me of high school. Drinking and smoking pot in some kid’s basement. Hiding the bong as soon as the folks came through the door after work, them pretending not to notice our red eyes or the pot smoke when they came down to check on us. Those were the days, my friend.

  I thought about Leslie and Erin, and I also thought about Theresa, and I wondered if I would ever get it right with women. I wasn’t getting any younger, but the women were becoming more and more of a mystery to me. They were made of solid granite, and I’d become a dull chisel. I might have carved out some serious muscles on the Sing Sing weight platform, but when it came to women, I didn’t stand a chance at carving out a life of love, fulfillment, and happiness. That’s how I felt anyway.

  “…what a woman can do to your soul,” sang the Eagles. Having just spent almost two full years behind bars, I had no idea what it felt like to be with a woman anymore. Leslie had moved out of the bedroom long before I got sent up to Sing Sing. During my trial, she would hardly look at me. If she did look at me, it was with a scowl on her face. It reeked of hatred. It was a tough thing to swallow. She had been the one to cheat on me. She alone made the decision to sleep with the carpenter and yet, while I was going through the trial and watching what had been a substantial bank account rapidly fall into the red, I felt like I was the one who had wronged her. Leslie was a master at turning the tables on you. When she was mad at me, then Erin would be mad at me. It was a house of horrors because life became me versus the women I loved with all my heart.

  By the time I was convicted in a court of law, handcuffed, and escorted out of the courtroom by two burly Albany County sheriff’s deputies, I almost felt relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer Leslie’s sneers anymore. But then, as I made my way past her and Erin on my way out the courtroom door, I didn’t notice any tears streaming down their cheeks. I didn’t see any sadness on their faces. I didn’t see scowls or frowns. Instead, I saw something else. I saw smiles. My wife and daughter smiled at me as I was dragged past them on my way to a maximum security prison.

  I drove into the sunshine, and unless I had to, I avoided the rearview mirror entirely. With each passing mile, I felt the weight of Sing Sing—its iron bars, concrete, and razor wire—disappear. In my head, I might have been picturing the faces of my wife and daughter, but the more miles I placed between them and me, the better I felt. An hour and a half later, I exited the highway for Loon Lake Road. It was exactly the way I remembered it from a few years ago when I had the girls with me in the Jeep. The road was winding and narrow, and I took in the good smell of the tall pines that lined both sides of it. As I drove the narrow, winding road that followed the perimeter of the lake, I breathed in the fresh air, and I felt happier and freer than I’d felt in years. Soon, I came upon a sign that advertised Loon Lake Inn. It was the same sign I’d come upon years ago, only it had been given a fresh coat of paint and a new look.

  Below Loon Lake Inn was a black on white sketching of the tavern and the cottages, complete with smoke billowing from the chimneys. Below that it read, Peaceful cottages and fine dining. Like the old sign, there was a black arrow that pointed the way. Written above the arrow were the words, one-half mile.

  I couldn’t help but smile. I recalled the pleasant voice of the woman who spoke to me on the phone just a few hours before. Maybe she was as attractive as she sounded. I already knew she was friendly. Never before had I slept in one of Loon Lake Inn’s beds, but for some reason, I felt like I was going home. I felt as if all the roads I’d traveled in my life up to this very
point in time led here.

  The long, two-track had been updated with a well-maintained gravel drive. But the trees that bookended the road were just as thick and damp as they were the first time I drove through here. This time when I came upon the clearing, I didn’t get the sense that the inn had been abandoned. Instead, I got the feeling of it being very much alive.

  I parked the Jeep beside an old blue Ford F-150 pickup and got out. Smoke was rising up from the tavern’s stone chimney. From where I was standing, I could smell something good coming from the kitchen. It smelled like home cooking. After twenty months of prison food, you have no idea how good the smell was. I took a quick look around. Some canoes were parked on the beach for whoever wanted to use them. The lawn had been freshly cut and the cabins, although rustic, looked well maintained with new green asphalt rooves on each of the eight units. The swing set and the kid’s jungle gym had been given a fresh coat of paint. The place was old and probably dated back to the 1920s or ’30s, but to me, it looked brand new. It made me wonder why there weren’t more guests. Or any guests for that matter. But then, it was still very early in the season. Even the lake would be too cold for swimming. The guests would be coming as soon as the weather turned hot.

  I made my way over a small stone path to the tavern, climbed the steps up onto the porch. The wood door was open and made to stay that way with a big rock placed at its bottom. A screen door separated the interior from the exterior. The hinges squeaked when I pulled it open and stepped inside.

  To my left was a dark wood counter, and mounted to the wall behind it were a bunch of small wooden boxes that held the keys to the cabins. By the looks of it, there was an office located beyond the desk.

  To my right was the tavern. It had a long old wood bar, and multiple shelves of bottled liquor took up most of the space on the bar back wall, and there was a dining area that supported four round tables. Behind those, four more booths were pressed against the wall. Past the bar was the kitchen. Even though it smelled like something good was cooking, the place was empty.

  I went to the wood counter, rang the bell. It was strange because even though I didn’t notice any closed circuit TV cameras mounted to the ceiling or ceiling corners, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was something you developed in the joint. The feeling of constantly being watched. If nothing else, prison was a fishbowl, and you were the little goldfish trying to steer clear of the hungry sharks.

  When she emerged from the back office, I felt my stomach cramp up. She was of average height, maybe in her late thirties or early forties, with thick dark if not black hair that was parted over her left eye and ended at her shoulders. Her face was long, but not too long, and her eyes were like big brown pools. Her nose couldn’t have been more perfectly sculpted if Michelangelo had carved it out of the best Italian marble. She was wearing a loose-fitting denim button-down that was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of her black bra, and she wore two sterling silver necklaces, one of which contained a cherub pendant. Her Levis jeans were tight and fit her hips like a second skin. Her cowboy boots were brown and worn and the perfect accent to the rest of her outfit. And yes, I was able to capture all this in the time it took her to walk the ten or so feet from her office to the front counter.

  Here’s the thing: not only was she a knockout in every sense of the word, she reminded me of Leslie. Not the same way in which Theresa bore a vague resemblance to her. But more like the resemblance was uncanny. Maybe the woman standing before me wouldn’t have qualified as Leslie’s twin sister, but for certain, she could have passed as her younger sister. She must have noticed me staring at her because she shot me a curious look.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she said. Her voice was as pleasant as it had been over the phone just a little while ago.

  I guess it took me a while to form my words because she scrunched her brow and pursed her lips.

  “Sir,” she repeated. “Can I help you?”

  I shook my head, and quickly got my shit together.

  “Yes,” I said, clearing my throat and taking a step forward. “I spoke with you earlier on the phone.”

  “Excuse me,” she said like a question, pulling up on her shirt sleeves so that her sterling silver bracelets clanged together.

  “On the phone,” I said. “I called about a reservation.” She giggled then.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “What did you say your name was?”

  I told her my name, then pulled out my wallet and showed her my credit card just to prove it. She then told me her full name, and when she shook my hand, I wanted to hold onto hers forever.

  “Oh yes,” she said, taking back her hand. “I remember speaking with you, Mr. Kingsley. You’re early in the season. Most of our customers don’t arrive until next month when it gets hot and all the schools get out. But if you like seclusion, you’ll love Loon Lake Inn.”

  “Yes, Cora,” I said. “I plan on getting some writing done.”

  Her face lit up then. I was hoping it would light up. Some women are suckers for writers. They romanticize them. I wanted her to be one of those women.

  “So you’re a writer?” she said, her voice and face filled with wonder. “How cool. I’ve always wanted to write a book, but I can’t even spell my own name.” She giggled sweetly. “What kind of writing do you do?”

  “Mysteries mostly,” I said. “Hard-boiled ones.”

  “Anything I’ve read?”

  That was always the distressing part about telling people what I did for a living because most people hadn’t heard of me. But I was hoping to change all that with the book I would write up here. I told her the name of a couple of paperback books I had written, and she slowly shook her head at each title. But then she told me she would look up my name online and order something. If she liked it, she’d order a few copies for the tavern.

  “People tend to gather in here to drink coffee and chill by the big fireplace on rainy days,” she explained. “Be good to have some thrilling reading material to keep them occupied.”

  “Great,” I said, truly loving the idea.

  “So, how long are planning on staying, Mr. Kingsley, if you’re planning on writing a book here?”

  “I don’t really have a departure date in mind,” I said. “I don’t have a place to live at the moment, so I was sort of hoping we could maybe make a deal for an extended stay.”

  For a long beat, she looked not at me, but through me. Like she was trying to figure out how my insides worked. Like the clockmaker who’s peeled back the metal backing on a pocket watch, she was trying to see what made me tick.

  “Well, it just so happens we have one cabin that contains a galley kitchen that’s located just a little off campus, if you will.”

  “Off campus?”

  “Meaning it’s not clustered with the other eight. It’s a short walk via a narrow path through the pine woods to the north. We usually advertise it for honeymooners for obvious reasons, but so far you’re the first bite.”

  “God knows I’m no longer a honeymooner,” I said, not without a laugh.

  “Yes, time does fly by,” she said. “Are you married, Mr. Kingsley?”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Rather, I’m going through a divorce. Or about to be anyway.”

  For another long moment, she just looked at me. Looked into my eyes. I couldn’t tell if the expression on her face was one of happiness or confusion. All I knew was that it was beautiful.

  “Like they say,” she said after a beat, “it’s complicated.”

  “Exactly,” I said. Then, “And you, Cora? You mentioned on the phone that you were married.”

  “That she is,” barked the gruff voice behind me.

  I turned quickly. The man standing there four-square in a long food-stained apron had a scowl on his face. Or what I interpreted as a scowl anyway. He had to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He wasn’t tall, but he was thick in the shoulders, bar
rel-chested, and his round gut was no stranger to beer. His face hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, and his salt and pepper hair was receding rapidly.

  “I’m Sonny, Cora’s husband, and Loon Lake Inn owner and caretaker.” He wiped his meaty hand off on his apron. “Sonny Torchi is the name, and I aims to please thee.” He smiled when he said that last bit, like it was his standard corny rhyme.

  “Nice to meet you, Sonny,” I lied, taking his hand in mine.

  Unlike his wife’s hand, I couldn’t wait to release his. He was one of those guys who’s older than you, but tries to assert his dominance by squeezing your hand so hard you feel like your bones are about to get crushed. It was a hand that knew the importance of hard, physical labor. Also a hand that wanted to hurt mine. But my hand was just as strong, and I let him know it by squeezing even harder.

  When I finally pulled my hand free from his, he grinned.

  “You’re a strong one,” he said.

  “I try to keep in shape,” I said, recalling the countless bench presses I performed in the rec yard.

  “Did you have lunch?” he asked, his tone suddenly pleasant and welcoming. “Plenty leftover.”

  The smell coming from the kitchen was damn good. I hadn’t eaten much of anything since my release from the joint early this morning. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to digging in to one last prison breakfast. Lunch sounded like a fine idea.

  And what the hell, maybe Cora would join me.

  “Sure,” I said. “That would be terrific.”

  “I’ll be seeing you in the tavern, Mr. Kingsley,” Sonny said.

  He turned and left. That left me alone again with Cora. I wasn’t much for fantasizing about women. It was one of those things you avoided in the joint. Because the more you thought about them, about their nakedness and their perfect titties and trimmed pussies, the lonelier you got. Also, the hornier and more frustrated. Being horny inside the joint was a dangerous thing. Sure, you could always find a quiet corner to relieve yourself, but some poor souls resorted to putting it in a man. I resisted that kind of temptation, and I was proud to say that, although I was nearly beaten to death once, no one ever violated me. In that sense, I was as pure and innocent as a newborn baby.