I rang Levade from the Minneapolis airport, and she picked up the cabin phone immediately.
“I made a mistake,” I said quietly. “Already I can’t stand to be away from you.”
“I miss you so much,” she said. “I wish you could have stayed.”
“I want to turn around and come back, but now I’m obligated in New York because Ramona has set up a promotional—”
“There are no mistakes, Taylor. We are all doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing in this moment. I love you.”
“My plane is boarding,” I said.
“Go,” she said sweetly, and she hung up. I ran to catch the plane, slung my duffel into the overhead bin, and slouched in my first-class seat, unable to hold back the tears that flooded my eyes and rolled down my cheeks and onto my shirt. I took out a mirror to fix my makeup and realized I looked like I’d been on a three-day drunk, so I put on my sunglasses and assumed people would think I was in mourning, which in fact I was.
By the time I landed, my head hurt from the air pressure in the plane, reminding me that I had residual pain from what I’d been through, but my head was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
I rang Levade again to tell her I had arrived in one piece, and she picked up the cabin phone. Standing in the chaos of LaGuardia, I could barely hear her. She said she knew I would be safe, and she was happy for me regarding my book.
“I just wish you were with me,” I said.
“Taylor, you have things to do, and things to understand about yourself. It will be easier if you focus on that now and not on me. I love you so much.” She hung up, clearly no longer expecting “I love you” in return.
* * *
That night I rang her from my apartment that now looked completely alien to me, as if I’d never lived here, as if I were no longer the person who slept in that wrought-iron bed, or stared up at the tall, dusty bookcases, or out at the traffic through the wall of windows. I had no nostalgia for any of the apartment’s kitschiness, no connection to its being my home, and no desire to stay here.
Levade didn’t answer. I called her from taxi cabs and lunch counters and my bed late at night. I called multiple times every day, ringing her cabin phone, then her cell phone. I got nothing. And it stayed that way. She never answered again. In desperation, I called Helen at Muskie Market and Marney in the white cabin, and they both said she was still there. I was relieved that nothing had happened to her, but distraught beyond words that she was blocking me out of her life.
* * *
The book signing was for my last novel, Twelve O’clock, and an excuse to tease my upcoming release. It took place in It’s Only Words, a large, popular bookstore in Soho. I smiled, thanked each person who stood in line to praise my work, then requested a name. “Mandy. M-A-N-D-Y?” I confirmed the spelling and then wrote, “Mandy, the time is now! Enjoy the read.” I signed the book Taylor, then handed it to her.
I was working numb, on autopilot, not from feeling so little, but from feeling so much. I’d cried so long over Levade that I was physically and emotionally spent. We’d had those two phone conversations on the day I flew back to New York, and then, over the past two weeks, she’d stopped answering the phone altogether. I left messages, but she never returned my calls. I teared up thinking about that, and thus the punk sunglasses to hide my bloodhound eyes and make me appear cool rather than heartbroken. Beyond that, I just smiled and signed.
After six hours, the book signing ended, and the last book I signed was for Kay in Muskie, the bartender who had an affair with Frank’s wife. I decided to send it to her on a whim, thinking maybe she’d enjoy it. The bookstore manager, glad the event had gone well, offered to mail it to her. I wrote, “Kay, love will find you. Taylor.”
Several reporters had come in late and wanted to interview me about what happened on Muskie Lake. One young reporter aggressively intercepted me.
“Ms. James, I wanted to find out firsthand what happened to you in Minnesota. Local papers said you were attacked by a man who tried to kill you.” He was obviously new at his job, because his question contained the answer, so I tortured him for that mistake.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, you were attacked?”
“Yes,” I replied.
An older, more experienced female reporter jumped in. “Can you describe the experience for us, and why you think it happened?”
“The man was deranged. He had given me a guided tour of the lake, and that’s the context in which I knew him. He ambushed me and kidnapped me and tried to beat me to death in his boat and nearly succeeded. Coming that close to death makes you determined to live life more fully. Thanks for your time.” I walked away, directly into Ben, who was standing there waiting for me, as the female reporter shouted a follow-up question. “How do you intend to live more fully?” I ignored her. That was for me, not the entire world, to know.
I focused on Ben. My old reaction, adrenaline shooting through my body and creating a desire to run, had evaporated; nonetheless just seeing his face in such close proximity increased my heart rate. You’re in a public place and you’re mentally stronger than he is now. Relax.
He looked like an older, chubbier meme of himself, wearing a three-piece suit and a big grin.
“So, the famous author returns. Just came by to say congratulations and ask if I could buy you dinner. I’ve had a few years to think about this, and I’ve decided you and I were the best together.”
“I’ve had years to think about it too, Ben. You were a dumb-fuck.” I said the words, remembering how Levade had shocked me when she used that particular expletive on the dipshit deputies at the sheriff’s office. “I put up with you, Ben, which speaks to how disempowered I was. But I’ve changed, and this much I know—I don’t want to have a relationship with you, or anyone like you.” Fatigue had enabled me to speak in a calm, disinterested manner. Something to be said for lack of sleep.
“So sounds like you’re all cocky because you think you’re somebody.”
“Yes, I am somebody. Everybody’s somebody,” I said wearily, recognizing the old pattern, the way he used to build to a raging fight, beginning with him attacking who I thought I was and ending with a barrage of reminders about how I was nothing…nothing without him and his money and his contacts. A knot started gathering in my neck, and I moved my head around to try to loosen it.
“So you’re seeing someone, obviously.”
“I’m seeing everyone. In fact, I’m seeing myself for who I am. I’m the woman who put up with your insecure, vicious, abusive, sorry, sack-of-shit behavior.” I was aware I was repeating words I’d shouted at Frank, and somehow it felt appropriate. I turned suddenly and took a step forward, invading his personal space. “And just so you know, Ben, the last man who tried to destroy me was found dead in a lake with a knife in his chest.”
I walked past him and heard him say, “Medication, seriously!” His nervous tone made me smile.
Ramona appeared, gave me a hug, and offered to buy me a drink next door, at a quaint little pub, rescuing me from further conversation with Ben.
The pub was so dark it acted as sunglasses, so I took mine off and hooked them in my shirtfront.
“Seems like it went well. Big crowd. Lots of good comments.” She spotted a private corner and headed in that direction. “Wish you were as bright-eyed as the color of that suit. What is that color?” She feigned ignorance.
“Gold is the new black,” I said.
“Only if you’re Aretha Franklin.”
We slung our bodies into the lounge chairs and ordered a drink. “Good coverage in the Times. Great anticipation for your upcoming lesbian mystery-romance.” Ramona rolled her eyes. “A genre I had to create since I’d pitched a hard-core murder-mystery. Anyway, they think it will be an interesting departure from your past work, greatly anticipated, yada-yada. Did you read the article?”
“I don’t read the press comments. Even when you think the review is nice, I always consider it marginal.”
“Listen to this.” She pulled two clippings out of her bag. “‘Mystery writer bringing home a real-life murder mystery.’” And “‘Taylor James back in our lives—’”
“Levade isn’t talking to me anymore. The landline reception sucks, and now she’s not answering it anyway. I don’t understand why she won’t talk to me.”
“I bust my balls to get you great press, and you are incredibly ungrateful.” Ramona’s outburst was unlike her. It was clear I was trying her patience.
“I’m sorry. Thank you, for everything you do.” I felt tears gathering. All I fucking do is cry! “I sent you a sneak peek of the new manuscript. It’s in your email. You should read your email occasionally.”
Her eyes widened in apparent surprise. I took the cabin key out of my pocket and pushed it across the table in her direction. “You see, it wasn’t all for nothing. Thank you.”
There was silence between us, during which I sipped my wine, and Ramona belted down a vodka martini. I panned the room, checking out the pretty women and important-looking men, all of whom were meeting and greeting and socializing, and I felt completely disconnected—as if I were an extra in a big motion picture and had been told to appear to be interested, but not too interested.
I snapped back when Ramona moaned, “Go there when the tour is over, in the spring when it starts to get warmer. You can’t use the cabin now anyway. It’s not winterized.”
“I have never felt this way about anyone. What’s wrong with me. I can’t stand it!” My voice was shaky.
Ramona let out a long sigh, “You’re in love for the first time in your life.”
I stared at her. “Is this how bad being in love feels?”
“In your case, apparently. It might have a late-in-life intensity.”
“What if she finds someone else?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Ramona seemed to fret about what to say next and finally uttered, “Marney’s red cabin is winterized. Just do the five book signings, the press interview, and then go.”
“You’ll call Marney?”
“She’s got Sam on standby. She thinks it’s ‘Oh, for sweet’ that you’re in love.”
I grabbed her and hugged her close.
“Easy,” she said. “Marney tells me this lesbian thing can ‘rub off’ on people.”
“You should be so lucky.” I winked at her.
I was happy again, with renewed purpose—seeing Levade. I continued to call her cell and the cabin, but she didn’t answer. I got phone numbers for Sam at the sheriff’s office, and Gladys at the hardware store, and anyone else I could think of to ask about her. No matter who I talked to, I felt they knew more than they were saying, and they were basically saying nothing. Levade might be odd, but she was theirs, and I was just another summer tourist. When it came down to it, the town might gossip about one another, but they never gave up one of their own.
So I counted the days between book signings, and the hours between press interviews, and I was once again the bubbly, cooperative author Ramona had hoped “summer at the cabin” would resurrect.
* * *
When the last PR event was over in November, I headed for the airport. As I was waiting to board, I glanced over at the gift shop and spotted a ceramic salt-and-pepper shaker of a giant ape kissing the Empire State Building. Marney, I thought. I ran over and told the clerk I would take it. She raised an eyebrow, and I knew she was questioning my taste.
“It’s a gift,” I said, then realized that explanation made it sound worse.
“Forty-five dollars,” she said.
“For this cheesy little tchotchke?”
She turned the Empire State Building upside down, and salt poured out. She tilted the gorilla, and pepper came out of his penis. “And a lovely gift for that special someone.” She smirked.
I love New Yorkers, I thought, and forked over the forty-five bucks. Then I dashed to catch my plane to Minneapolis, all bundled up and flying in bumpy weather to the Northwoods, with King Kong and his pepper dong in my pocket.
Normally, flying anywhere in bad weather, I would fear for my life, but having Frank nearly kill me, and then knowing Levade could be waiting for me, I was unafraid, even when I had to take a puddle jumper the last two hundred miles because the roads were bad.
I landed at the tiny airport outside Muskie and rented one of two sedans available, not the best vehicle for snowy roads, but it was all they had. I found Ramona’s lip liner in the seat. This was the car she’d driven to come to the cabin, and no one had used it since. I tucked her makeup into my jacket pocket to take to her.
My drive to the woods was cold, twenty-four degrees, with six inches of snow on the ground. Winter had just begun. I skipped cabin #1 and went to #3, the red cabin. The lake was gray and foreboding, the cabins like a ghost town. I lifted the frozen-stiff doormat as Marney had instructed and found the key underneath it, along with a note from Sam, who was caretaking.
Welcome! Heat and electric are on. Dock’s been pulled for winter, so don’t use the lake.
I’d forgotten that the long boat docks are put in the lake each summer by men in waders wielding sledgehammers, who pound the posts into the clay and sand, and then nail the dock on top. Winter ice would push the posts over, so docks are removed in late fall. The shoreline looked nude without them.
No one was around, which was a bit frightening for a city person. No light on at the Point or any sign of inhabitants. Even Marney and Ralph had taken a few months off.
I tossed my luggage onto the bed, selecting the larger bedroom in order to forget the tryst with Judith in the smaller one. I turned on the lights and the heat, which was more modern than in Ramona’s cabin, boasting an electric thermostat on the wall. If they could modernize the heating, why couldn’t someone tackle the hideous decor? Then I set the pair of gorilla salt-and-pepper shakers in the center of the dining-room table. Probably the most interesting item this cabin has ever seen, with the exception of the flying dildo.
I’d brought a few essentials to get me through until stores were open, so I brewed a pot of coffee, sat down in a rocker, and stared at the bleak landscape—all the golden colors gone, the crystal-clear lake now gray, reflecting the sky, and ice coating the limbs of every tree where leaves used to be.
Ramona rang the cabin phone to make sure I’d arrived and that Marney had arranged for a key. The sound told me the phone lines were working, so clearly Levade had ignored my calls.
“Is she there?”
“The place looks boarded up,” I said.
“So what’s your plan?”
“I just have to find her.”
“You can’t sit there like a mother bird on a dead egg. She might not be coming back. You need a better plan than sit and wait.”
“You’re just making me crazier. Do you mind? Give me a day or two to figure this out.”
“Taylor, did you ever consider that this might have been a summer fling for her? After all, she’s not the crazy psychic with the white horse everybody thought she was. She obviously has a life beyond the lake. And how would it work for the two of you, I mean, after you find her? Do you live up there in the woods and write? It sounds wonderful, the idea of having a dog, feeding the chipmunks, watching the fish jump—but look out the window, sweetie. It’s Fargo. It’s Frozen. ‘Winter is coming!’ It’s so cold your tits fall off!”
“I’ll call you later,” I said and hung up. The sound of my own voice had been oddly comforting, and now I was alone in the silence.