He let the door slap shut behind him with a loud creak. Upstairs and finally free from Julia, the shower had never felt so good. Wendell turned the knob until it ran cold and tipped his head back. Even behind his closed eyes, he could see the look on Scooter Dunham’s face. And on Julia’s. Maybe he should sell thishouse and get out of Saybrook. Maybe he should start fresh somewhere else, doing something new. It was a terrifying thought that he toyed with only in times of great stress. Likely, he could never go through with it. But now he wondered.
When he’d toweled off and dressed, he peered out the window in the direction of the barn. The horse was grazing quietly. The kids were gone.
Later, when he’d finished dinner and a second beer, he went to the kitchen to clean up and let Trudy out one last time for the night. He was standing on the back patio waiting for her to get her business done when he heard the sound of hammer on board. The barn lights were dim but on.
“Christ.” Slowly, he made his way up the hill to the red barn. In the doorway, he paused. Julia was standing in the corner of the barn, her back to him. She’d nailed up one side of lateral boards to a corner post. Even from a distance, he could see they weren’t exactly level, but as he stepped closer and examined her work, he noticed the nails were sunk tight. She spun around, hammer in hand. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said gently. Her face was sweaty, and there was a smear of dirt across one flushed cheek. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, well, after you kicked my friends out, I had to do this alone.” She turned back to her work. “But I’m doing it.”
“I can see that.” He looked around the stacks of wood and tools, then at Radcliffe, who stood with his head low in the corner, as if waiting for his bed to be made. Wendell felt bad. “Look, I’m sorry about before.”
Julia said nothing but resumed her hammering. He winced as she missed and struck the edge of her thumb. The hammer fell to the dirt floor, and she gripped her nail. “Dammit!”
“You okay?” He stepped forward, but she spun around, eyes flashing.
“I’m fine!”
“Oh, okay. Sorry.” But he could see her thumb was red, if not bleeding. “You’re going to need some ice on that.”
“It’s not my thumb. It’s this. It’s… everything.” Then, without warning, she spun his way. Wendell feared she might lash out, and he started to hop back, but instead, she fell against his chest. His breath escaped him as she wrapped her arms tight around his waist. The muffled sobs were hard, and she shuddered against him.
Wendell did not like to see other people cry. It was too private, too intimate. It wasn’t that he found them weak but, rather, the opposite; it made him feel helpless. “It’s okay,” he said. He held his arms out from his sides awkwardly, afraid to touch her but just as afraid not to.
Pressed against his chest like that, Julia Lancaster was so much smaller than she seemed in life. Or maybe she always had been; it was that she seemed larger because she was so fierce. But now, her face buried in his arm, she felt as fragile as a bird. Not unlike the one they’d rescued together all those summers ago, in the orchard. Wendell was tired of thinking. Of escaping memories, of chasing clarity. This time he did not wonder what to do. He let his arms fall around her gently. He let her cry against his chest until she was all cried out. When she was done, he reached into his back pocket and handed her his blue bandana.
After, when her tears had stopped, she pulled away and looked up at him, suddenly bashful. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her nose and looked away.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Then he picked up one of the boards from the floor. “Let’s get this stall done,” he said.
Twenty-SevenGinny
Wendell had every right to be upset with her, but there were things he didn’t understand. At least that was what she told herself at first.
What she later realized what that she was wrong. Nobody understood better than Wendell Combs.
Wendell knew exactly what it was like to watch your parents struggle with their health. The poor man had lost both of his. And he knew too well what it was like to fear for your career. His position at White Pines was soon to end, and she was the one working to make it happen.
What an idiot she’d been. She cursed herself as she navigated the log steps down the steep hillside to the lake. Ever since she’d arrived, she’d sat on the back deck staring at the water, wishing she had a spare minute to jump in. Wishing it were a little warmer. Or the path less rocky. What it really added up to was that she was afraid to jump in. Candlewood Lake was one of the best parts of growing up in Saybrook during her childhood. And right about then, she needed a good dunk.
The water’s edge was rocky, as she’d known it would be. Ginny kicked off her flip-flops and tiptoed across the stones that bordered the grass before the sand took over. Where the shorelineevened out, her feet sank into the soft earth, and Ginny gasped as she stepped into the water. It was cold but not freezing, and she scanned the horizon as she allowed herself to enjoy the refreshing coolness against her skin.
So much had happened so quickly. She tried to focus on the lone power boat across the lake. Her cottage was nestled along a strip of shoreline that was densely wooded, with no immediate neighbors. To the left was a narrow peninsula of rock outcropping and cedar trees. To the right, a spit of sand and rock jutted out into the lake, creating a small cove. The water was too shallow for a dock or boat but perfect for what she needed: privacy and peace of mind. It felt so good. Without hesitating, she waded in and dove under, allowing the lake to envelop her.
Ginny kicked to the bottom, touching the sand with her fingertips for good luck, just as she had as a kid. When she burst to the surface, she scanned the lake. The motorboat was gone, the only sound the faint quack of ducks around the edge of the peninsula. She rolled onto her back and floated, letting the gentle bob buoy her. This was everything she needed.
If Wendell had not been happy, her parents had been thrilled. So much so that it scared her when her father popped out of his chair and leaped up to hug her. “Careful!” she’d laughed, wrapping her arms around her dad and inhaling the familiar scent of Old Spice. “Oh, stop,” he’d said, holding her at arm’s length, a delighted smile on his face. There was color to his cheeks, and he was looking more like his old self. “This calls for celebration. Nina, break out a beer.”
“But the cardiologist,” her mother began.
“Pshaw. What he doesn’t know.”
They’d toasted on her parents’ deck: white wine for Ginny and her mother, and a lone bottle of beer that she noticed her father savored.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she warned them. “We’ve got the listing for a few months. Now we need to sell it.”
They’d been in the business long enough to know. But even her mother, the more pragmatic of the three, seemed lighter. “This is good news. I’ve already put out the word to a few colleagues in Westchester County who have clients with deep pockets. I have a feeling we can wrap this up by summer’s end.”
