Paradox Lake Read online

  “What the hell,” I whisper to myself. “It’s got to be five o’clock in Europe, anyway.”

  I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of beer from the GE refrigerator, and pop the top on—get this—a wall-mounted, solid metal bottle opener that’s got the words Coca Cola embossed in it. I grab a sip of the cold beer while I head for the back door. Now that I’m covered in sweat and pottery dust, the beer tastes especially good, not to mention refreshing.

  Taking the beer out onto the back property with me, I steal a moment to gaze out onto the still lake. A fish breaks the calm when it jumps out of the water, snatching an insect in its mouth, and immediately splashing back down into the very same hole it made in the lake surface. It’s an amazing thing to behold. I wonder what kind of fish it was. Trout. Perch. Bass. My outdoorsmen dad and brothers would know.

  Another long, refreshing sip of beer. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and breathe in the fresh mountain air. Is there anything better in life? Then, something vibrating in my back pocket. My cell phone. Pulling it out, the digital screen reads, Tony. He’s already calling. I guess I can’t blame him. He must miss his girlfriend. Do I miss him too? Admittedly, not as much. That’s not to say I don’t love Tony. But I like to think of myself as more independent than he is. He’s a writer, and a sensitive one at that, and he wears his heart on his sleeve. Although he’ll try and tell you how tough he is and how he really doesn’t even need a woman in his life, he can’t go more than a few nights alone before he gets as lonely as an abandoned puppy dog.

  My eyes lock on the phone. I want to answer the call, but I don’t want to answer it at the same time. What’s my gut tell me to do? Ignore it, let him leave a message. Better Tony learn now that I’m not going to be available to him 24/7 for a while like I am back in Albany. This sabbatical is as much about my art as it is about my independence and my time with my only surviving daughter. The phone stops ringing. I can breathe again. Setting the phone back into my jeans pocket, I make my way to the picnic table.

  Can you blame me for keeping Tony at a distance, Allison?

  At least for now?

  Do what your heart and soul are telling you to do, Rosie.

  Tony is wicked needy, you ask me. Nice, but needy.

  Thanks for that sweetheart. I love you.

  Right back ’atcha, Rosie.

  But I don’t take a seat atop the table right away. Instead, I find myself strangely attracted to something beyond the woodpile. It’s not something I might have noticed had the late afternoon sun not been shining on it. It’s an old, rectangular tin trail marker that’s nailed into an old pine tree. It’s so old I can barely make out the words, “Paradox Lake Trail.” Although I strain my eyes to make out a path hewn through the woods, it’s impossible to see anything other than the thick vegetation. That doesn’t mean a trail didn’t exist at one time, however. Is this what Tim was staring at earlier when, for a few brief moments, he seemed to be caught up in a trance?

  Curiosity gets the best of me. Coming around the woodpile with the beer bottle in hand, I make my way to the marker. I’m wondering if this is indeed the trailhead, or if there are many more markers like this one scattered along the perimeter of the lake. One thing is for sure, the trail is no longer being maintained and hasn’t been maintained in many, many years. That is, judging from the overgrown vegetation on both sides of the long, winding path.

  The trail has become so narrow over the years it almost looks like a deer trail. My curiosity is further piqued. Show me a trailhead, I want to see where it leads. Welcome to Rose Conley’s world.

  Pushing back some of the brush, I step onto the trail. Naturally, that’s when my phone vibrates again. Pulling it out of my jeans pocket, I see that once again it’s Tony. I press the ignore icon while making a silent promise that I will call him back as soon as I am done exploring. Returning the phone to my pocket, I make my way deeper into the woods, following the narrow path through thick foliage and trees so old, so tall, and so large, they block out the late afternoon sun almost entirely.

  The deeper I go, the more I feel blanketed by the cold. It’s summertime still. It’s hot out, even if it is late summer. But these woods are so thick, the temperature drop inside them makes them more than cool. They are downright cold. It’s a bone-deep cold. A lonely cold made all the lonelier by the shadowy darkness. Still, I feel the need to move on.

  Soon, my beer is gone, and I’m holding onto an empty bottle. I’m not sure how long it takes … ten minutes or a half hour … but I eventually come upon a clearing that abuts a small, sandy beach. I make my way over the clearing and step onto the beach. It’s lit up in the late-day sun, which warms my body. Under the thick canopy of trees and brush, I felt cold and lonely, but now I feel warm and happy. By the looks of it, I’ve discovered my own little oasis. A private beach in the middle of nowhere.

  A thought enters my head. A somewhat naughty thought.

  “Go for it,” I whisper to myself, a smile painting my face.

  Pulling my t-shirt over my head, I then reach around my back, unclasp my bra, set them both onto a log that’s fallen on the edge of the beach. Seating myself on the log, I then remove my boots, socks, and jeans. Then I remove my panties. With everything I own now set on the log, I go to the water’s edge, and dip my foot into the clear, cold water. Walking into the water, I am surprised to find that the bottom quickly drops off, so that before I know it, I’m bathing up to my breasts in the lake. That’s when I go for it completely, ducking my head under the water and swimming farther out towards the open lake.

  Rolling onto my back and gazing back onto the shore, I can actually make out my little rustic house maybe three- or four hundred feet to my left. It looks like a nice peaceful little slice of heaven. If only my little girl were happier.

  “We’ll make her happy,” I whisper while treading water.

  I take in the clear sky, the thick woods I’ve just hiked, and the little piece of secluded beach and I truly feel like I’ve never been happier.

  “Don’t forget to call Tony,” I say aloud, as if this simple act will help me remember.

  That’s when I shift myself forward and start swimming for shore. As soon as I can stand, I wade my way to the little beach and allow the still hot sun to dry me off. Getting redressed, I grab my empty beer bottle and head back onto the trail. I make my way back home through the cold, dark forest.

  CHAPTER 8

  HE WATCHES HER through the trees, the same way he watched Sarah all those years ago. It was a day just like this one. Hot and bright. A day for a beautiful woman to take all her clothes off and swim into the cold, clear water.

  What big eyes you have.

  The better to watch you.

  Having followed her through the thick woods, maintaining a far enough distance behind her, he ducked down when she came to the little patch of hidden beach. He then watched her undress. He savored every bit of clothing she removed, every piece of red satiny underwear. When she was fully naked, he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen. If this woman is that attractive, imagine how beautiful her daughter must be underneath her clothing and underpants.

  The Wolf so badly wished he could snatch her up with his big hands.

  What big claws you have.

  The better to tear you to shreds.

  He wished he could sink his teeth into her, like he did to Sarah Anne Moore.

  What big teeth you have.

  The better to devour you, my love.

  When it’s time for her to get dressed again, he makes sure he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t make a move. There’s no need to make his move quite yet. The Big Bad Wolf must be patient. The Wolf must wait until he is entirely famished before he feasts.

  CHAPTER 9

  AS THE SUN goes down on Paradox Lake, I open another beer and start a fire in the outdoor firepit. I also fire up the charcoal cooker. I cook some boneless chicken breasts, which I serve with a salad and some ears of fresh corn. Anna is quiet th
rough most of our first dinner on Paradox Lake, even though I do manage to get her to laugh a few times over some silly jokes. I also tell her all about the trail that starts at our backyard and that leads to a small private beach.

  “Maybe you can help me clear the trail tomorrow,” I say. “Give you something constructive to focus on. Then we can have a little picnic lunch on our very own private beach and do a little swimming. Whaddya say?”

  She nods half-heartedly and cocks her head over her shoulder.

  “Sure, Mom,” she says. “If it will make you happy.”

  Kids … the great mystery.

  When we’re done, we each pitch in to clean up. That’s when Anna goes back upstairs—to look at her phone again and stew, no doubt—and I retire to the firepit, this time with a mug of Chianti—I couldn’t find a wineglass. It’s then I remember I haven’t called Tony back. He’s got to be absolutely apoplectic by now.

  Going to my contacts, I speed-dial his number. Curiously, as the phone is ringing, I can’t help but picture Tim Ferguson. His gray-black beard, his musky smell, and his muscular and agile body. His gentle smile and selflessness. Holy crap, what am I doing? I’ve only known the man for maybe a couple hours and already I’ve asked him on a dinner date—if that’s what you wanna call it—and he’s officially taking up space in my brain.

  “Hello,” Tony says.

  Already I can tell he’s angry. I can’t say I blame him.

  “Hi, Tim,” I say, my spell suddenly broken. But then, realizing what I just said, panic sets in.

  “Hi, Tony, I mean,” I add, correcting myself.

  My face feels like it’s suddenly on fire. I’m blushing that much.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid …

  “Who the hell is Tim?” Tony asks, his tone toxic.

  How exactly do I answer this? When in doubt tell the truth. Rather, tell a version thereof.

  “Oh my God,” I say, “I’m sorry, honey. It’s been such a long, tiring day. The house we rented by the lake took a lot more preparation than I thought. A fellow by the name of Tim helped Anna and I get set up. Nice man.”

  “Tim,” he repeats. “Tim who?”

  I can tell he’s fishing. Listen, he’s not fishing because I’m a notorious flirt or anything like that. I’ve never cheated on Tony, nor have I ever wanted to—it’s hard enough trying to keep one man happy. If he’s fishing, it’s because he’s the possessive type and that’s all.

  “Tim Ferguson,” I say. “He owns the general store in town. He showed us where to find the house and he helped us with the firewood. He even turned on the water for us. Stuff like that. He’s lived here his entire life.”

  “Why didn’t you answer when I called?” he pushes. “I called a couple of times.”

  “I was walking a trail, honey,” I say. “It leads to a little beach so I decided to take a swim. Then, by the time I got back, it was dinner hour. So Anna and I made dinner and sat down to eat.”

  He exhales a long, drawn-out breath.

  “How is Anna doing?” he says. “She still moping?”

  I hear people talking and laughing in Tony’s background. Glasses are clinking and some music is going on the jukebox. He’s hanging at Lanies, his favorite bar where he holds court every afternoon after putting in his daily word count. He’ll be sitting in the corner in what he considers his personal stool, and he’ll be wearing his standard uniform of ratty bush jacket, worn Levi’s jeans, cowboy boots, and Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses. The fact that he likes to think of himself as a local celebrity is no secret.

  “She’s been up and down all day,” I say. “It seems her best friend, Nicole, is making a move on Anna’s shrimp of a boyfriend.”

  “Anna’s boyfriend,” he says like he’s shocked. “Since when does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Jake Walls. It’s just a boy she likes from a distance. You know how kids are.”

  “Give me a shot of Jameson, babe,” he says to what I assume is a female bartender. Then, “Sorry, just making a drink order, Rosie. And no, I don’t know how kids are these days. When you and I were young, we might sit next to one another at lunch and maybe hold hands on occasion. That was being boyfriend and girlfriend pre-internet. But today they have cell phones and Snapchat, and WhatsApp video. Who knows what they’re doing behind closed doors.”

  I feel my pulse elevating because my boyfriend has a point. But didn’t Anna and I come up here for a while, in part, to escape that kind of anxiety? Suddenly, I just want to get off the phone.

  “I’ll just have to keep a close eye on her for a while, Tone,” I say, my eyes staring into the fire. “Look, I’m gonna have to go now and check on Anna. It’s getting dark and this is our first night.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You be careful up there. Lock all the doors, you hear me?”

  “Yes, boss,” I say. “I’ll make sure the hatches are battened down.”

  He hesitates for a few beats.

  “Love you,” he says after a while.

  “Love you too,” I say.

  “Tim Ferguson, huh?” he adds.

  “Just an acquaintance, Tone,” I say. “Goodnight and don’t drink too much.”

  I’m waiting for a goodnight in return, but all I get is a hang-up.

  For a time, I sit there, staring into the fire, feeling the good warmth of the heat against the cool breeze that comes off the lake in the night. The moon is just about full, and I can see its long white reflection on the water. It’s so beautiful and so peaceful it almost takes my breath away. For certain it makes me wonder why anyone would ever move away from such a gorgeous place. Sipping wine, I suddenly get the urge to inquire about buying the place so we can live here full-time. But then, this is only our first night, so best not to get ahead of my skis.

  “Mom,” I hear suddenly.

  I look up towards Anna’s bedroom. Grabbing hold of the flashlight I pulled out of the kitchen junk drawer, I shine it on her face, which is framed inside the open window.

  “Jeez, Mom,” she says, squinting her eyes in the bright white light.

  “Oops,” I say, shifting the flashlight. “Sorry, honey. What is it?”

  “I’m going to bed,” she says. “Are you coming up soon?”

  It’s a reasonable question. But I know what she’s really asking me is this: Are you coming up to sleep with me tonight? Because I’m too scared to sleep alone.

  “Come to think of it, honey,” I say, “I’m really tired. I’ll be right up.”

  “Good,” she says. “Don’t forget to come in and say goodnight, Rosie.”

  “Would you like me to read Little Red Riding Hood to you?” I ask.

  “Oh God, Mom,” she says. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I forgot. Yes, I’ll be in to say goodnight. Just let me finish my wine.”

  “Whatever,” she says, disappearing from view.

  Disappointment taints her voice, like I’m putting wine ahead of my daughter. Okay, maybe I am putting off my daughter just a tad while I relax in front of the fire. But this is as peaceful I’ve felt in quite a long time, and I intend to enjoy it, damnit. Just me, the lake, the cool breeze, the warm fire, and this constant vision of Tim Ferguson running through my brain.

  When the shadow of a figure scoots behind the woodpile and onto the Paradox Lake Trail, I nearly drop my wine mug.

  CHAPTER 10

  CORRECTION. I DO indeed drop my mug. Here’s what else I do: I don’t head for the back door off the kitchen. I sprint for it. Heart beating in my neck, I stare out the screen door at the trailhead. I don’t see a thing in the moonlit night. Reluctantly, I shine the flashlight on the area just beyond the woodpile. The hand I hold the flashlight in is trembling. My mouth has gone so dry, it hurts to swallow.

  “Who’s out there?” I whisper.

  It’s useless to whisper, of course, but I don’t want to shout because I don’t want to alarm Anna unnecessarily. What if I was merely seeing things? What if I’m just not used to
the shadows that are created in the moonlit woods? I mean, even a tree branch moving in the breeze can cast a strange shadow. Let’s face it, I’m a suburbanite. I’m not used to things that go bump in the woods at night.

  I eye the campfire through the screen door. I’ll be damned if I left my wine mug out there.

  “Come on, Rose,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t tell me you’re too afraid to go out there and get it. Be real.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I slowly open the door and step back out onto the first of the three descending wood steps. Why does it feel like I’m stepping down into hell on earth? But this is crazy. Just moments ago, I was basking in the beauty of Paradox Lake, feeling the cool breeze and the warmth of the open fire and the calming effects of a good bottle of red. Now, just because I happen to make out a moving shadow, I’m scared to death. Clearly, I’ve got to get out more.

  Inhaling and exhaling a breath, I descend the final two steps and quickly make my way to the firepit. Bending, I take hold of the mug. The wine has spilled out of it, but there’s more in the house. My eyes can’t help but gravitate towards the trailhead. In the moonlight, I can barely make out the opening. My mouth goes dry again and my pulse elevates. Peeling my eyes away from the trailhead, I start walking back to the house. I’m not halfway when I hear the howl. It’s a high-pitched howl that seems to be echoing across the lake surface. It stops me cold in my tracks.

  How do I describe it for you? It’s a long, lonely, high-pitched drawn-out noise like something a cat might make. Saaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr … Saaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr … Saaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr … It’s the craziest thing. Spooky, but sad at the same time. I’m not sure what to make of it other than to remind myself that the forest surrounding Paradox Lake must be filled with all sorts of wild animals. What the hell do I know about animals other than your garden variety dog or cat? I’m just an art professor from Albany who barely leaves her studio when she isn’t teaching a whole bunch of rich kids how to paint, draw, or make clay sculptures (they are always particularly bad at the latter).