That’s where I was sitting this afternoon when I first spotted Katherine flailing in the water.
And where I was sitting last night when I was too drunk to notice the arrival of the famous couple that now owns the house directly across the lake.
The other half of my family’s lake house is set back about ten yards, forming a small courtyard. High above it, on the house’s top floor, a row of tall windows provides a killer view from the master bedroom. Right now, in mid-afternoon, the windows are hidden in the shadow of towering pines. But at night, I suspect the glow from the master bedroom is as bright as a lighthouse.
“The place was dark all summer,” Katherine says. “When Tom and I noticed the lights last night, we assumed it was you.”
She tactfully avoids mentioning why she and her husband assumed it was me and not, say, my mother.
I know they know my story.
Everyone does.
The only allusion Katherine makes to my recent troubles is a kind, concerned “How are you, by the way? It’s rough, what you’re going through. Having to handle all that.”
She leans forward and touches my knee—a surprisingly intimate gesture for someone I’ve just met, even taking into account the fact that I likely did save her life.
“I’m doing fantastic,” I say, because to admit the truth would open myself to having to talk about all that, to use Katherine’s phrasing.
I’m not ready for that yet, even though it’s been more than a year. Part of me thinks I’ll never be ready.
“That’s great,” Katherine says, her smile as bright as a sunbeam. “I feel bad about almost ruining that by, you know, drowning.”
“If it’s any consolation, it made for one hell of a first impression.”
She laughs. Thank God. My sense of humor has been described as dry by some, cruel by others. I prefer to think of it as an acquired taste, similar to the olive at the bottom of a martini. You either like it or you don’t.
Katherine seems to like it. Still smiling, she says, “The thing is, I don’t even know how it happened. I’m an excellent swimmer. I know it doesn’t look that way right now, but it’s true, I swear. I guess the water was colder than I thought, and I cramped up.”
“It’s the middle of October. The lake is freezing this time of year.”
“Oh, I love swimming in the cold. Every New Year’s Day, I do the Polar Plunge.”
I nod. Of course she does.
“It’s for charity,” Katherine adds.
I nod again. Of course it is.
I must make a face, because Katherine says, “I’m sorry. That all sounded like a brag, didn’t it?”
“A little,” I admit.
“Ugh. I don’t mean to do it. It just happens. It’s like the opposite of a humblebrag. There should be a word for when you accidentally make yourself sound better than you truly are.”
“A bumblebrag?” I suggest.
“Ooh, I like that,” Katherine coos. “That’s what I am, Casey. An irredeemable bumblebragger.”
My gut instinct is to dislike Katherine Royce. She’s the kind of woman who seems to exist solely to make the rest of us feel inferior. Yet I’m charmed by her. Maybe it’s the strange situation we’re in—the rescued and the rescuer, sitting in a boat on a beautiful autumn afternoon. It’s got a surreal Little Mermaid vibe to it. Like I’m a prince transfixed by a siren I’ve just plucked from the sea.
There doesn’t seem to be anything fake about Katherine. She’s beautiful, yes, but in a down-to-earth way. More girl-next-door than intimidating bombshell. Betty and Veronica sporting a self-deprecating smile. It served her well during her modeling days. In a world where resting bitch face is the norm, Katherine stood out.
I first became aware of her seven years ago, when I was doing a Broadway play in a theater on 46th Street. Just down the block, in the heart of Times Square, was a giant billboard of Katherine in a wedding dress. Despite the gown, the flowers, the sun-kissed skin, she was no blushing bride. Instead, she was on the run—kicking off her heels and sprinting through emerald green grass as her jilted fiancé and stunned wedding party watched helplessly in the background.
I didn’t know if the ad was for perfume or wedding dresses or vodka. I really didn’t care. What I focused on every time I spotted the billboard was the look on the woman’s face. With her eyes crinkling and her smile wide, she seemed elated, relieved, surprised. A woman overjoyed to be dismantling her entire existence in one fell swoop.