Chapter Six

Rose Lake, Minnesota – Tuesday, June 20, 1995

Bryce woke to find sun framing the drawn windowshade in a rectangle of gold, and realized that the rushing waterfall from her dream was in fact a rippling chorus of birdsong. She curled into herself in the downy bed, hugging her arms tight around her body, trying to recapture the feeling from her dream, a warm, good one, but it shredded as her other senses caught hold of the day. The roses beside the bed had dropped a few of their petals, some of which curled pink and soft as feathers atop the pillow she hadn’t used. The fragrance was as sweet as honey, and she breathed deeply.

She had slept like the dead last night, limp beneath the white quilt. She tried to move it from her over-warm body now, and was surprised to find the huge orange cat curled near her feet, watching her with steady golden eyes.

“Hello there,” she whispered, reaching to offer her fingers. He smelled them delicately and then proceeded to wash his paws in a leisurely fashion. In the next second her door was thrown open and Bryce tugged the covers to her neck with a small shriek as Emma popped her head around the door and said, “Breakfast’s ready downstairs.” Seeing the cat she added ironically, “You’re not supposed to be in here, Nunu.”

“Emma! What’s the matter with you?” Evelyn yelled at her from down the hall. “You have to knock on the door before you open it, you ding-dong.” Bryce, who was almost smiling by this point, did as Evelyn called, “Sorry, Bryce!”

“Hey, it’s fine,” she told Emma, whose bottom lip came out belligerently. “I’ll be right down.”

But instead of retreating, Emma entered the room fully, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit with a cheery rainbow pattern and a little flared skirt. She was chewing gum and her blond curls were in a messy ponytail. She plopped on the bed near the cat and said, “Your mom is my auntie Michelle. I want to meet her sometime.”

No, you don’t, Bryce thought, but said in an attempt at pacifying her, “You probably will someday.”

But Emma plowed ahead. “How come she’s not coming to Grandpa’s funeral? Wasn’t he her dad?”

Bryce studied the little girl’s soft profile a moment; how the hell to respond? Emma stroked the cat’s spine without looking at Bryce. Shit, a pat answer was not going to work in this situation. “My mom has some…issues about coming back here.” It sounded stupid even to her own ears.

“What issues?” Emma asked, more curious than accusatory. Thankfully at that moment Evelyn rounded the door like an avenging angel. Emma darted out of her big sister’s grasp with a squeal and pounded down the hall; the cat bounded after her, moving faster than Bryce thought something that round possibly could.

“Sorry,” Evelyn said again, and closed the door with a bang, yelling, “Em, get back here! You have to ride with me! Uncle Matty is bringing Bryce!”

Shit, shit, shit! She was not prepared to deal with stress like this so early in the morning. Her face torched with blood as she fully appreciated the fact that Matthew lived here. In this very house, under this roof, for a long time. Memories were built into these walls for him and Bryce wanted to run her fingers over everything he had touched here, to see every picture of him, to take it all in like a heavenly drug. Mother, I could kill you for these secrets, she thought viciously. Or fate, destiny, as though these were concrete entities whose throats she could put her hands around. Whatever she should call the malevolent chance that had put her and Matthew into each other’s paths and caused them to react so strongly to each other. Alone in a room in the house her young half-uncle had called home for years, she wrapped her arms around her bent legs and held tight for a moment, fortifying her nerves to face this week.

It’s only a week, she reminded herself. After this you can go home…or at least back to Oklahoma…and forget you ever met this man, forget that he ever touched you…you can marry Wade like he’s been hinting and raise a dozen of his babies in his mother’s basement…

She cut herself off because her future all at once seemed utterly mapped out before her third eye, as dull and ashy as the landscape beyond Wagon Box Court; she stared into this imaginary rendering with a chill in her gut, seeing herself flopped on a sofa in a trailer like her mother’s, listlessly smoking as the blue glow of a television set flickered over her face. Growing older and grayer, her body unkissed and uncaressed, her soul slowly withering away.

I could have done it, could have lived with it, if not for the other night. She knew this to the bottom of her heart and for a moment the feeling hollowed out her very soul.

***

She crept out of her room and down the stairs 20 minutes later into what appeared to be an empty house. Her heart was slapping her ribs almost painfully; she was conscious of nothing but the fact that Matthew may appear around any corner, with those beautiful eyes that seared right into the center of her. She had dressed in cut-offs and the only other top she had with her, barring the funeral outfit: a plain apple-green t-shirt with two daisies growing up from the hem. It was a ridiculous shirt, with a small rip along one seam, but she had been in a hurry on Sunday, and there was no time to get to the laundromat before her bus left, courtesy of Michelle. A quick shower, a splash of make-up, and she’d wound her long hair up into a heavy knot on the back of her skull.

She edged around the corner from the dining room to kitchen and there he was, calmly sipping a mug of coffee. He had of course heard her creeping down the stairs like a spy in his house. He pinned her with his incredible eyes for a second too long before saying, “Morning.”

“Morning,” she returned. She noticed the coffeepot on the edge of the stove and moved towards it gratefully.

“In the cupboard right above you,” he told her in response to the unasked question.

She grabbed a mug and poured herself a steaming cup, smelling the lilacs out the open windows beyond the small round kitchen table. She joined him at the table, feeling raw and sickly vulnerable. With every ounce of her being she wanted to be held tight against his chest right now. She wanted it so much she could hardly even look at him.

“No one’s here,” he told her for no particular reason. “The girls just left for the Pull Inn. I volunteered to drive you down there, I hope you don’t mind.”

She gave in and stared back into his eyes, both of them acutely conscious of their night together in Oklahoma…when they had kissed like lovers about to be parted indefinitely, when he had held himself still and deep within her, just marveling at the way their bodies fit. She would never force the memory of that night from her mind, even if she lived to be a thousand. No one else in the world would ever touch her like that again, she was deadly certain. Even with the truth of their relationship looming like a third person in the room, Bryce couldn’t stop herself from taking him in, studying his face as thoroughly and wordlessly as he studied her own.

He was so handsome he was beautiful. It killed her to realize that she would never be able to kiss him again. His jaw was clearly freshly shaved, but still retained a hint of the dark whiskers that by evening would be all sandpapery and irresistable. He braced his strong forearms on the table before himself, cupping both big hands around the coffee mug, sliding his thumbs slowly up and down its ceramic length. Was he doing that on purpose or unconsciously? Because it was making her half-crazy with desire. Her heart was lashing her insides, but she wouldn’t be the first to look away, goddamn it. Let him.

“I don’t mind,” she whispered at long last, breaking their gaze, and he leaned back a fraction.

“I work down there, too, we all do,” he said. “I’ll show you around today.”

“Did you know about me before last night?” she asked him suddenly, aggravated by bullshit. He lowered his eyes and breathed out through his nose for a moment, as though trying to compose himself.

“Yeah,” he said at last, quietly, looking back at her with an open, earnest expression. “I did. I thought your name was Elizabeth.”

“It is. Elizabeth Bryce Mitchell.”

“Mitchell must be your dad’s name?”

Bryce traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her index fingers. Seconds later, with no trace of self-pity, she informed him, “I’ve never met my father. I don’t even know his name, if you want the truth.”

Matthew didn’t offer any comment on this, just kept gazing so seriously at her.

“Do you remember my mother?” she asked next, unable to bear the silence, sliding the mug of coffee out of the way; there was no way she could relax enough to drink it right now anyway. “When did she leave Minnesota?”

Matthew looked up toward the ceiling for a moment, back into time. “I remember her a little. I was only about three or so when she left. She would sometimes play with me, hold me on her lap. I wouldn’t recognize her in a crowd now, though. I’ve never seen so much as a picture of either of you.”

Bryce flushed and closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, Matthew was looking at her with something on his face that she didn’t fully understand; it was as though he wanted to crack her open and know every last secret she had, too.

“I’ve been going over and over in my mind what happened that night, Bryce,” he said, low and intent, and her heart swelled just hearing her name from his lips. “And I wouldn’t change it for anything. I want you to know that, and I don’t want you to feel ashamed about it.”

It touched her deeply to hear those words. “I wouldn’t change it, either,” she told him, crazy for any little excuse just to touch him. He curled his fingers into his palms for the same reason, afraid to let himself make contact with even the back of her hand.

“It’s killing me right now,” he admitted, unable to stop the words. “Before Wilder called me that night…when you fell asleep and we were lying there in that room…I wanted to take you and run away with you.”

Joy splashed through her.

“I wish we were there again,” she said, hurting inside. “I can’t believe that we’re related.” But somehow she couldn’t make herself believe it would have mattered to her that night, had she known. She said, softly, “When I woke up and you were gone…”

“I’m so sorry,” he told her again, shaking his head side to side. “I had to leave after I talked to Wilder…I felt so guilty for being away when Dad died…”

“No, you did what you had to,” she told him. “I understand that now.”

“My dad…he was such a good man,” Matthew said, quietly. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye to him, and now he’s gone.”

“Matthew, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, aching to touch him. But they couldn’t do that anymore, not ever again. And it struck her to the bone to realize this.

“It’s all right,” he said, rising to his feet abruptly. Standing, he towered over her, making her feel at once utterly protected. If she had stepped forward and placed her nose against him, it would have touched the center of his chest. “You didn’t eat any breakfast,” he observed, changing the topic.

“Here, I’ll grab a banana,” she said, noticing the bunch hanging from a hook under the cupboards. “I don’t usually eat much for breakfast, anyway.”

“You’ll build up an appetite at the campground,” he told her, hardly conscious of what he was saying, leading the way outside and to his big old rusting truck. He actually paused and opened the door for her, then closed it firmly behind her and rounded the hood. She was certain he was naturally polite that way, and not putting on a show for her. He was tender. She knew that from making love with him, knew the gentleness in his big hands, and how he could hold himself so still inside of her…so sweetly…

Stop this, she told herself. You can’t think like that anymore.

But as he climbed inside and flashed her a grin, that effortless grin that he’d given her just before their first kiss back in Oklahoma, she was stunned again at how right it felt to be near him. She dragged her eyes away and asked the first thing came to her mind. “So your dad bought the campground when?”

“In 1980,” he told her, driving with his right hand hanging at the bottom of the wheel. “It was about a month before I turned 10, and Wilder and Dad were tired of running the farm, and this place came up for sale. Dad brought me out here in this truck, actually, and we sat and looked at the main office, which looked pretty shitty and rundown back then, and Dad said, ‘How’d you like to go camping every day this summer?’ Of course I said that would be great, and he handed me a key and told me my wish was granted, just like that. Wilder and Erica were going to help us run it, he said. They’d been married for about two years by then, but they’ve been together forever, since junior high.”

Bryce smiled at the slightly wistful tone in his voice. “They seem really happy, those two.”

“They are. Erica would probably slap me for saying this, because she’s not that old, but she’s been more like a mother to me than anyone I remember. And I just love those kids more than anything in the world.” Or did until now, he almost said. He couldn’t believe the strength of what he was feeling, and for a second he thought of a conversation he’d heard between his older brother and Erica, when he was about 12 or so.

“I worry about Matty,” Erica had told Wilder; they had been on the big couch in the living room, a fire burning that chilly winter night back when. Matthew paused upstairs at hearing his name and crept to the top of the steps to listen. “He gets himself too attached to things. He’s so soft-hearted, Wilder.”

“That ain’t exactly a bad thing,” Wilder said back, his voice low. “Dad’s the same way; Matty got that from him.”

“Well, you sure aren’t in any danger of soft-heartedness,” she teased her husband in a different tone, and Matthew had crept back to his room that night to ponder what Erica meant, and why she would worry for him.

He thought he knew a little bit better now. The campground appeared through the trees seconds later, and Matthew slowed to a crawl around the familiar turn, seeing Riley’s truck parked beside the two green golf carts the kids used. Bryce smoothed hair behind her ears with both hands, and his heart went all crazy again just seeing that gesture out of the corner of his eye.

Can it, he warned himself. You’ve got to be stronger than this. It’s up to you…you’re older and wiser, for fuck’s sake! Besides, what sane man felt this way for his half-sister’s daughter? You never knew her before the other night, he reminded himself. But that doesn’t matter. She is no-man’s land for you, Sternhagen.

Except that she wasn’t. Because, goddamn it, he knew how she tasted and how amazingly thick her hair felt clutched in his jealous hands, and sitting there with the sun creeping towards midday a mere 72 hours after he had come inside of her countless times…he would torment himself the rest of his life with this. His heart ached with desire and something far more sobering as Bryce smiled at Riley, coming to open the truck door for her, grinning back at her with a look Matthew recognized. Clenching his jaw, he shouldered open his own door and tamped down the urge to shove Riley, his best friend of nearly 15 years, roughly away from the door handle.

“Hello there, sleeping beauty,” Riley joked, and Bryce rolled her eyes at him. But she flushed a little, and Matthew upgraded his idea to include smashing Riley’s freckled face into the hood of the truck.

“We’re ready to put you to work,” Riley went on, taking her by the elbow, and then added to Matthew, “Sterno, there’s a shitload of people waiting for you to open the boathouse.”

“Great,” he muttered, as Erica met her little brother and Bryce at the entrance, smiling widely, too. Bryce threw a look at him over her shoulder and he gave a little wave, admitted momentary defeat, and then headed off through the woods to the beach, where he had spent every moment of every summer until now content as a cat dozing in the sun.

The hike through the woods to the lake was one he enjoyed with every fiber of his being. The mingling scents of the blue spruces, evergreens, Norway and Jack pines were as sweet and familiar as a longtime lover. His waterproof sandals crunched over the loose gravel, which had, one summer past, been edged with rough-hewn logs by Wilder, Riley and himself, creating a crisp, orderly look to the paths that his father had preferred. Sun warmed his shoulders as he walked, breathing in the early-summer air, catching sparkling glimpses of Rose Lake through the trees as he neared the beach that curved like a clamshell out into the water, a lovely beach covered over with what the kids called “sugar sand” for its pale softness, courtesy of the native limestone ground to powder centuries ago. The lake was shaped roughly like a kidney bean, this eastern side serving the campground’s swimming area and two massive docks, while the western swell lapped the Sternhagens’ smaller, private dock a half-mile away, where he had taken Bryce just last night at sunset.

A shitload of people were waiting indeed, over-nighters and day-passers, kids screeching and running everywhere, most already out in the water amongst a host of beach balls, inflatable toys, water noodles, and yelping dogs. Although Matthew knew basic first aid and CPR, there was no lifeguard on duty at their beach, which was the same for most of the local campgrounds, and rules were posted but often disobeyed. Riley and Erica’s younger sister Debbie worked the beach with Matthew; Debbie sold soda and popsicles from an umbrella stand near the changing rooms, which she also kept clean, while Matthew supervised the canoe and paddle-boat rentals. Together they kept a lid on the major rule-breakers, most of whom commited such crimes as toting glass bottles or not cleaning up after their dogs; little annoying things that could potentially make any beach a shithole. Once a drunk dude threw a punch and started a fight with two other guys, but Matthew had simply walked into the fray and ordered, “STOP,” and even in their inebriated states of mind, the three took one look at the dead-serious face towering above them and stopped almost politely.

Debbie saw him now and waved. He waved back, pulling on his sunglasses and battered army-green sunhat and digging the keys from the right pocket of his swim trunks. He smiled a greeting at the people waiting to rent boats, and in no time had signed off on half of their 10 canoes and two of the five paddle boats. He distributed life vests and waterproof seat cushions, oars and pleasantries, all the while thinking of Bryce, wondering what she must be doing at this moment, if Riley was making her laugh – which made him clench his jaw a little – wondering if her hair was still piled on her head or if little soft strands of it were drifting down her neck…

“Uncle Matty!” he heard behind him, and moments later a body hurled itself against the back of his knees with a jolt.

“Hey there, buddy,” he returned, as Cody detached himself and grinned up at his huge uncle. “You find any good snakes today?”

“No, Mom told me I better quit doing that or I’d get spanked.” Cody pouted for an instant, but then brightened again. “You won’t tell her if I find one, will you?”

“Hey, I know better than to get on your mama’s bad side,” Matthew returned, grinning down at his freckle-faced nephew. Since the kids had turned eight, they’d run wild all over the campground, which comprised a good hundred acres. They surely knew every last little inch of the space, as he knew it from his own childhood. Memories he would not trade for a millon dollars. He asked Cody, “You need more sunblock?”

“Naw, Mom just sprayed me with some a minute ago. I was up at the office looking for Em.”

“Yeah?” Matthew tried for casual, not that Cody would have noticed anyway. “Was Bryce around up there?”

“No, Uncle Riley is showing her all around the campsites in a golf cart—” And here his face turned stormy again. “And Evelyn got the other one, even though I wanted it first!”

Riley, you rat bastard, Matthew thought uncharitably. To Cody he said, “Why don’t you go and grab a popsicle from Auntie Deb?”

“Okay. See ya later, Uncle Matty!” And he bounded off.

“Hey, Sternhagen, you in there?” called a man, coming up to the boathouse from the main path. It was hardly more than three-sided shed, with hooks for the canoes and jacks for the paddle boats behind a crude desk. Matthew had just settled into a lawn chair, but rose immediately to his feet, hearing the familiar voice.

Bartholomew Taylor, Jr., almost as tall as Matthew, ducked under the striped awning and shook Matthew’s proffered hand. He clapped the younger man on the back and said, “I sure am damn sorry to hear about Daniel.”

Matthew nodded his thanks and offered Bar a seat.

“Thanks, but I can only stay a minute,” the older man said, though he sat and stretched out his khaki-clad legs in the manner of someone who wants to relax. Bar removed his expensive sunglasses and looked over at Matthew, his expression somber. “I wanted to come out and see you guys, pay my respects. The Lodge is yours for Wednesday, you know. I spoke to Wilder already.”

“Thank you, we appreciate that,” Matthew responded automatically. “It’s been a tough week for everyone.”

“Wilder told me he figured that Daniel would have wanted the business to stay up and running, this being such a busy season,” Bar commented. “Knowing Dan, I think that’s a pretty damn good assessment.”

Matthew pulled his own sunglasses from his face, let them hang against his bare chest on the green cord around his neck. He leaned forward and braced his forearms against his thighs, letting his hands dangle, and squinted out at the shimmering water where people were living it up the way you’re supposed to in the summer. He heard himself admitting, “I miss him, Bar. It all happened so damn fast, and I was…on a route for Marsh. It doesn’t seem real yet.”

Bar crossed his ankles, knocked the tips of his loafers together once. He said, “I know what you mean. When Dad died a few years ago, it was real fast, too. Rae almost didn’t make it back for the funeral. Ma had kittens over that,” he added with a hint of affectionate malice.

Matthew, uncomfortable discussing his own father any longer, seized on the new topic. “I hear Rae is moving back this summer.”

“Yeah, that’s the story. She’s been in Chicago for so long now, said she needed a change of pace.” Had Matthew been his usual observant self, he would have detected the over-casual tone of Bar’s next question, but he was still studying the rippling blue expanse of Rose Lake and missed it entirely. Bar leaned forward himself, stared out in the same direction as Matthew and asked, “Will Shelly be back for the funeral?”

Matthew shook his head, and Bar refused to acknowledge the sharp disappointment in his gut. “No…she won’t be.”

“Erica told me her little girl came up, though. I can’t imagine Michelle old enough to have a girl that age.

Matthew’s heart pounded very hard for a moment. “She got here yesterday.”

“Well, that’s good,” Bar said, and rose reluctantly to his feet. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hello while I was out here. Damn, it’s pretty by the water. I can see why so many local girls want to get married on Rose Lake beach.”

Matthew stood too, shook Bar’s hand one more time, and said, “Hey, thanks again.”

“You know it, Sternhagen. Listen, you take care and we’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Matthew watched as Bar retreated back the way he’d come, thinking for a moment that his shoulders seemed a little slumped, but probably it was just his imagination. It was a hot day.

Debbie came wandering over two hours later, fanning herself with a glossy magazine. “Hey there. You about ready to head up for lunch?”

Matthew nodded, catching sight of the twins on the far edge of the beach. He cupped his mouth and yelled, “Emma, Cody! Lunchtime!”

“Look at all those girls checking you out,” Debbie teased him as they made their way across the hot sand. “Angie Stickland better watch out.”

Matthew threw his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. “Ange and I haven’t been together since last Christmas!”

“Whatever you say,” Debbie said, reaching to tousle Emma’s curls as the two of them came flying up, breathless and fighting about something. Cody landed a punch on Emma’s bare shoulder, and she howled, going at him with both fists. Debbie grabbed for her as Matthew caught Cody around the waist and hauled him up onto his left shoulder, where Cody flailed and knocked the hat from Matthew’s head.

“Hey, simmer down, buddy,” he warned his little nephew, stooping to retrieve his favorite piece of clothing. “It isn’t nice to hit girls, you know.”

“Bet God didn’t know about Emma when he made that stupid rule!” Cody blurted, and Matthew almost laughed, but bit it back, knowing it had been a hard week for the kids especially. They had loved their grandpa tremendously, and there would be a huge hole in their lives now. Matthew breathed in sharply as he understood that, the realization slowly sinking into his own soul. He hadn’t allowed himself much of a chance to think about it since he’d arrived home in a state of grieving exhaustion on Sunday. Now, walking the path he’d walked with his father a millon times in years past, his throat felt jagged. He wrapped one big hand more securely around Cody’s skinny legs; the little boy now perched more or less motionless, and Matthew found himself imagining all the times he had followed in his father’s wake, how many times he’d seen the light in Daniel’s sky-blue eyes as he told a story or taught a lesson, or helped his youngest son better perform some task. The loss seemed incredible, impossible. Hell, Daniel had barely even been 60 years old.

The main lodge came into view through the trees. Matthew pulled himself together and lowered Cody to the ground. Debbie was carrying Emma braced on one ample hip as though Emma were a baby and not almost as tall as Debbie herself. Emma clung to her auntie’s neck, her forehead bent on Debbie’s plump shoulder, and Matthew felt a renewed surge of anguish. He wished for a moment that they’d taken the funeral director’s advice and closed the campground for the week. What the hell were they thinking, anyway, with all this false bravado? It was fucking stupid to carry on as usual, when things couldn’t be farther from.

Matthew entered the main lodge, with its stacks of brochures, maps, lot rental forms, vending machines and Minnesota souvenirs, his gaze immediately finding Bryce among the others. His entire body flushed at the sight of her and she looked up from far across the space suddenly, her dark eyes landing on him with a warmth that made his lips curve in a small smile. He wanted nothing more in the wide world than to shove aside the racks of sweatshirts between them and sweep her into his arms, and then run. Just run, anywhere. Dangerous game…that was exactly what he was playing.

“Hi, honey,” Erica said to Cody, and then to Matthew, “Would you mind swinging into town and getting the kids some lunch? I just haven’t had a chance to make anything here. Take Riley with you…he’s been making a fool of himself, fawning all over poor Bryce all morning.” Erica rolled her eyes heavenward. “Ev! Emma! Uncle Matty and Uncle Riley are going to take you guys for burgers, and Deb, would you mind sticking around here while I drive over to the cemetary with Bryce?”

“No, of course not,” said Deb, and then brightly to Bryce, “Hi, you must be the niece.”

Matthew tried to breathe normally as Bryce came within a few feet of them. He had been right about her hair: it had come down her neck over the past few hours, and she looked lovely, soft…for a moment he couldn’t tear his gaze from the spot where he’d pressed his lips so many times that night, where he’d licked the salt from their lovemaking…

“Yes, hello,” she was saying. “So Riley is your twin? I’m sorry,” she told Debbie in a teasing way, and Riley, across the room with Wilder, called, “I heard that!”

Riley rounded up the girls on his way over, and Emma looked mollified as she rode piggyback on her redheaded uncle. “Giddy-up!” she commanded him, and Riley waved farewell as he galloped out the front door, yelling, “Hurry up, Sterno, I’m starving!”

“Bye, Mom,” Evelyn added, pausing to peck Erica’s cheek, and Matthew collected Cody again, while Bryce tried not to stare at his insanely gorgeous shirtless torso. She felt the heat from her lower body rising up and into her arms and cheeks and nipples, and as he turned to head out the door, he said casually, “See you later.” She thought, Please oh please let that be a promise.

It was beyond reason, she knew, a game she was playing, letting herself feel these crazy things because there was no chance they could actually act on them…could we? For a moment she imagined what people might say if anyone were to ever know what had happened between them…Jesus Christ in heaven. This was something she would never even so much as breathe a word of to Trish, who knew every last thing that had happened to Bryce since the dawning of their friendship. Trish would skin her alive for even continuing to admit to her desire for him. Put a goddamn cork in it, Bryce! she heard her best friend snap at her. This went way beyond messing around on Wade, which was a forgivable offense, as both girls were quite certain Wade hadn’t always been faithful. Trish’s voice again came into Bryce’s memory, asking for the hundreth time, What are you doing with Wade, anyway? But even dear, forgiving Trish would have trouble accepting Bryce’s feelings at present. Because despite everything, Matthew was her uncle, her relative, no matter how very much she desired him. Trish would kill her. Matthew’s family would kill him.

“Bryce, honey, you don’t mind riding out to the cemetery with me, do you?” Erica was asking her, and Bryce snapped back to attention, praying her aunt hadn’t noticed the way she had been staring out the window at Matthew as he loaded the kids into the truck.

Minutes later Erica was driving south of town, Bryce in the passenger seat, a cold soda balanced between her legs. Erica promised they would grab something to eat on the way back. Bryce didn’t mind. The air felt good rushing into the cab of the small red Ford that Erica drove, and she wasn’t exactly hungry anyway: the grand tour of the campground, courtesy of Riley, had included no shortage of stories about past escapades the family had faced owning the place, including a tipped outhouse that Riley had gone into great detail about.

“Bryce,” Erica suddenly said, in a tone that made the younger woman sit up straight on the seat. “May I ask you something?”

Oh Jesus, oh shit. But Erica went on, “Tell me about Michelle. Is she okay these days?”

Bryce almost blew out a sigh of relief, and slumped her spine slightly against the tan vinyl. How to respond to that? “She’s the same as she’s ever been,” she finally said, staring out the window into the sun-drenched landscape, but seeing the Wagon Box Court before her eyes, the interior of the trailer she’d called home for as long as she could recall. She decided not to sugar-coat things, certain Erica was not fan of bullshit, and could probably smell it a mile away.

“How has she been as a mother to you?” Erica went on, staring down the road. She’d reserved this conversation for a moment like this, when Bryce was trapped beside her but not forced to make eye contact, a trick Erica had learned over the years.

Bryce plucked at the neck of her t-shirt, which felt suddenly damp and clingy. She swallowed the excuses, then found that she couldn’t bring any words forth. Erica said softly, “That bad, huh?”

Bryce shook her head mutely; how could she possibly explain to this woman how it felt to see your mother’s blood gushing onto the floor of the kitchen, or filling the bathtub? How it felt to be disregarded, untouched and certainly never praised, ignored or screamed at through a blue-gray haze of cigarette smoke? For the first time all day, Bryce craved a smoke so badly her fingers twitched. Erica couldn’t possibly understand: she loved her children deeply, that was obvious.

Erica let it rest and they drove for another 10 minutes in silence, until she made a right-hand turn through a wrought-iron gate someone had painted white. Rose Lake Cemetery was written in scrollwork across the top, and the older woman slowed to a crawl as they entered the tree-filled space, which seemed populated only by dust motes this lazy afternoon. Bryce hung her right arm out the window, studying the acres of gravestones, some of which appeared to be older than this century. Moments later Erica stopped the car and climbed out, headed without words towards a plot of graves under an enormous weeping willow, a tree so massive Bryce doubted she and Erica together would be able to reach around its trunk. The delicate green branches swept the air like curious fingers, and Bryce hurried after her aunt, parting the swaying tree limbs with her hands.

Ahead of her, Erica paused and then bent carefully beside an old, rose-tinted headstone. Bryce crept to her side, reading the words with a small start of surprise: it was a name she recognized. Margaret Evelyn (Bryce) Sternhagen, beloved wife and mother. And beneath these words, her dates: 1937-1960.

“This is your grandma’s grave,” Erica said unnecessarily, her voice low, as though they were in a library. Bryce bent to her knees too, and wanted to touch the headstone, but held her hands in her lap instead. Erica spoke again in a hushed voice. “Can I tell you something? Wilder wants Daniel, your grandpa, to be buried here, by his mother. But he won’t go through with it, because of how Matty might feel. He loves Matthew enough to think of that kind of thing.” Erica brought her folded hands against her lips for a moment. “I wanted to bring you here today, before the funeral tomorrow, Bryce. I wanted you to know that you are loved here, and that—” For a moment she paused and gulped a little, and Bryce moved her left hand and touched her aunt’s back timidly, gently. Erica pressed her lips together hard, but then continued. “I wish Daniel had been able to see you again, honey. He loved you very much, even if you didn’t know it. He was a damn good man, and my husband and Matty looked up to him very much. This is going to be hard for Matty especially…it hasn’t sunk in for him yet, that his daddy’s gone for good.” Erica reached and touched Bryce’s knee lightly; in the tree above them, some kind of bird was chirping and chirping at them, as though begging them to listen. Bryce thought of Matthew being hurt in any way and her insides curled over on themselves.

“Erica, I’m sorry,” she whispered in response, unable to express how she felt in any better way. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Bryce, it’s not your fault,” Erica said, sounding a little more in control. She swiped at her sunburned cheeks with her knuckles, then sat back on both heels. “Wilder loved his mother so much. I wish I’d’ve known her. I was only two years old when she died.”

“Where will he be buried?” Bryce asked then, still keeping her own voice low. The air here seemed almost unstable, as though to speak louder would disturb some terribly fragile balance. Bryce breathed through her nose and smelled the greenery, and lilacs, blooming some distance away in a splash of showy dark-purple, but close enough to spice the air with their wonderful perfume.

“Oh, here in the cemetery. But by Lydia, his second wife. Matty’s mother,” Erica added. “She’s about 20 yards that way.” Erica gestured, and Bryce suddenly twitched as a chill darted up her back.

“I forgot, I’ve been here before,” she whispered. “But it was raining that day.”

“Yes, it was. I’d forgotten that. It was an awful day. It was the last time I saw Shelly…or you.”

Bryce recalled the icy rain on her arms and scoured her memory for any other glimpses of Matthew. It had been his mother’s funeral, and now tomorrow he would have to bury his father…and he was not even 30 years old. She saw him in her mind then, small and slim, no traces yet of the man he would become. Crying hard and not trying to hide it, as most boys of his age would have done. She twisted the hem of her faded t-shirt and closed her eyes, not wanting to remember him grieving.

“Here, I meant to leave her something,” Erica said then, and stood abruptly. She jogged back to the silent car. She leaned in and produced a cluster of wildflowers, while Bryce studied her grandmother’s name chisled into the smooth stone surface and thought about the picture of this very woman in a drawer in Oklahoma. A picture that meant something to Michelle; how would her life have been different if not for this headstone? What had happened?

Erica placed the bouquet as gently as someone laying down a sleeping baby. She kissed the fingertips of her right hand and touched the stone for an instant, whispering, “Thank you for my Wilder,” and then turned and walked quietly back to the car. Bryce knelt in her wake for a long moment.

Tuesday, June 29, 1971 - Rose Lake

From the middle row of the station wagon Michelle glared at Lydia’s profile, curling her spine away from the molten vinyl, her toes pressed against the floor in a vain effort to keep the skin on her thighs from sticking to the seat beneath her. On her left Wilder sat with his sweating face tipped to the open window, listless, staring out at Main Street as it baked silently under the noontime summer sun. Between them, strapped into his carseat, tiny Matthew dozed, his head lolling along at every bump in the road. Michelle glanced at him for a moment, her gaze softening a little. He was sweet, even if his mother was a troll.

Lydia braked abruptly, cranked the wheel into an open parking space, then looked back at the three of them in the rearview mirror. She was wearing more make-up than normal, town make-up, Michelle thought, and her hair was piled up on her head with bobby pins.

“I’ll be right back,” she told them, glancing away from Michelle and into her own eyes, fussily running a finger under one. “Shelly, you keep an eye on the boys.”

“No shit,” Michelle muttered, and Lydia’s sharp gaze darted back to her stepdaughter’s. Her irises looked dark enough to swallow light.

“Watch your mouth,” Lydia hissed, and Wilder turned his gaze to his sister, hoping she’d let the troll have it, but it was hot, and Michelle slouched back against the seat in momentary defeat, regreting it the moment her shoulder blades met the scorching fabric. Lydia didn’t spare another word for them, nor glance, and slammed the car door in her wake, startling Matthew enough to wake him. The baby blinked in the bright sunlight, disoriented, and let out a howl of protest, rubbing his brown eyes furiously with both fists.

“Now lookit,” Wilder grumbled, jerking a thumb at the baby.

Michelle bounced the edge of his carseat.

“It’s okay, buddy,” she murmured, but he wasn’t satisfied with that, and although Lydia must have heard him wailing through the open car windows, she disappeared into Ryan Law Offices without a peep back in their direction. Michelle bit the insides of her cheeks and kept bouncing Matthew’s carseat, while Wilder clapped his hands over his ears and tilted low on the seat, his bottom lip protruding slightly.

The baby didn’t let up for the next 10 minutes.

“I’m gonna run away!” Wilder declared for the third time, and Michelle caved.

“I’ll go get Lydia,” she told her little brother, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the red-faced squalling of the baby.

“Hurry!” he yelled at her, and then to Matthew, “Shut up!”

“Don’t yell at him!” she scolded, shouldering the creaky door to budge it, climbing out into the sun. She hurried up the curb and over the sidewalk, smelling purple petunias, wondering what the hell was taking so long. Lydia informed them at breakfast that she had an errand to run, and when Michelle pressed the matter, Lydia told her that she had to stop and see a lawyer about her mother’s will.

“What’s a will?” Wilder had asked, but Lydia was through answering questions.

Michelle pressed against the heavy wooden double doors and entered a cool dim hallway with more doors all along either side. She glanced around in frustration before noticing one open about a foot and anxiously pushed through. It was a small room, carpeted in forest green, windowless and stuffy. No one was seated behind the huge wooden desk and Michelle wanted to sit down and cry in aggravation, hating her stepmother more than ever, but suddenly she heard a muffled voice leaking from another door behind the desk. Her tongue had flicked between her teeth to form the word Lydia before she stopped herself and swallowed the name whole. What motivated her to creep silently forward, she would never know – Nancy Drew, maybe, or just a feeling in her gut – but she did, and gingerly tipped her right ear against the heavy door that smelled faintly like cigar smoke.

“…just want you to see him,” Lydia was saying, and Michelle bit her bottom lip, because it sounded like she was crying.

“What good…that…do?” replied a man, speaking low, difficult to hear. Who was it? One of the lawyers, probably. Was Lydia’s mother’s will making her so upset? Michelle pressed closer, straining.

“He’s going to grow up in this town!” Lydia said then, her voice louder, more shrill. Michelle pictured the way her stepmother’s eyes must look right now, wide and frightening, eyebrows forming high archs over them. “You’ll see him eventually, you bastard! Will you ignore us on the goddamn street?”

What?

The man sounded angry now, and his voice rose, too. “What the hell do you want from me, Lydia?”

“I want decency from you, you son of a bitch!” she shrieked. No denying the rage now, and Michelle clapped a hand over her own mouth, afraid, but too stunned to go back outside. Lydia sounded unhinged, not that this was anything new, but why? Who were they talking about? Then something breakable smashed against a wall in there, shattered to bits. Michelle dropped instinctively to a crouch, her stomach curdling.

“Goddamn it, Lydia!” the man roared. “What are you trying to prove?”

“I wanted you to marry me!” She was screaming now and Michelle stared in open-mouthed shock at the door, totally forgetting her brothers wailing in the car, forgetting everything but this incredible statement that she would bet the contents of her entire piggy bank her father didn’t know anything about at all.

Go, go, go! Her brain was screeching at her but Michelle’s legs wouldn’t budge. Her thighs were trembling but somewhere deep inside, a part of her was dying to hear this to the end. I knew it, I knew it! Lydia doesn’t love Dad. She never did.

“I loved you!” she heard next, Lydia’s voice chuffing out between hysterical sobs. “I still do, John, goddamn you! I can’t bear to live with it day after day!”

OhmyGod, ohmyGod, Michelle thought. John…John Ryan, from church? OhmyGod.

“Lydia, you have to go,” the man said, his voice deadly. “Never come back here. I can barely face Daniel when I see him, after what you did to him.”

Lydia laughed then, and it was a terrifying sound. “After what I did to him? That’s rich, John, that’s rich. I bore your son! I could kill you right now!”

OhmyGod!

“Go, Lydia,” she heard again. “Get out of here.”

“John, please—” Lydia’s voice rose, high and keening.

There were sounds of scuffling then and Michelle frantically thought, Should I call the police? A beige phone was perched not 10 feet from her. But in the next second the door was flung open, revealing John Ryan, a tall and very formidable man in a dark suit, a man Michelle knew but who looked at present utterly unfamiliar: his chest was heaving with hard breathing, his face was red and pinched, his mouth invisible beneath the thick black mustache. She noticed things the sickening way one did in nightmares, snail-paced, in great detail. He had Lydia’s upper arm clenched in one big hand. Lydia’s hair was wild, coming down from her scalp in chunks, and her eyes, too, were feral, glistening, her cheeks streaked with black mascara. John shoved her roughly out the door, not noticing Michelle, who wanted to die on the spot. All of the air left her lungs. Like a child younger than 15 she covered her eyes just as her stepmother stumbled over her and fell to the green carpet, landing hard on her hands and knees. Michelle curled into a ball, unable to look up. A crippling silence filled the room.

“Jesus Christ in heaven,” John Ryan said in a strangled voice. “Jesus Christ.”

Lydia scrambled to her feet then, yanked Michelle up by her arm. All of her impotent rage was now directed at her stepdaughter and she shook her viciously, until Michelle’s teeth clacked together. “You little bitch! What are you doing in here?” she screamed, her face nearly purple. Lydia let go, wound up and cracked Michelle across the face with her right palm, nearly knocking her to the ground. Sobbing now, Michelle knelt at Lydia’s feet and buried her face in her hands.

“Get out of here! This minute!” John yelled in a furious hiss at Lydia. And he closed the inner door behind himself.

“Coward!” Lydia screeched at the sudden emptiness, wishing she had a gun. She whirled back to Michelle, yanked her to her feet again, brought her lips to within an inch of Michelle’s right ear. “You listen to me,” she hissed, and her breath was hot and stale against the side of the girl’s face. “You will never tell anyone what you heard in here today. Do you hear me? Never! You do and I will make you regret it the rest of your life!”

Michelle nodded, could do nothing but nod. Lydia’s hair fell in scraggly clumps to her shoulders. She scraped it up with shaking hands, inadvertantly releasing Michelle, who turned and bolted. Moments later Lydia followed her into the silent hallway, filled only with dust motes on this slow-paced Tuesday afternoon. She splashed her face with water from the drinking fountain and then made her way back outside, to the station wagon where her stepchildren and screaming bastard son waited for her.