“This isn’t a business call,” she announces when I answer.
“I assumed that,” I say, knowing there’s no business to call about. Not now. Maybe not ever again.
“I just wanted to know how the old swamp is doing.”
“Are you referring to me or the lake?”
“Both.”
Marnie pretends to have a love-hate relationship with Lake Greene, even though I know it’s really only love. When we were kids, we spent every summer here together, swimming and canoeing and staying up half the night while Marnie told ghost stories.
“You know the lake is haunted, right?” she always began, scrunched at the foot of the bed in the room we shared, her tanned legs stretched, her bare feet flat against the slanted ceiling.
“It feels weird to be back,” I say as I drop into a rocking chair. “Sad.”
“Naturally.”
“And lonely.”
This place is too big for just one person. It started off small—a mere cottage on a lonely lake. As the years passed and additions were added, it turned into something intended for a brood. It feels so empty now that it’s just me. Last night, when I found myself wide awake at two a.m., I roamed from room to room, unnerved by all that unoccupied space.
Third floor. The sleeping quarters. Five bedrooms in all, ranging in size from the large master suite, with its own bathroom, to the small two-bedder with the slanted ceiling where Marnie and I slept as children.
Second floor. The main living area, a maze of cozy rooms leading into each other. The living room, with its great stone fireplace and pillow-filled reading nook under the stairs. The den, cursed with a moose head on the wall that unnerved me as a child and still does in adulthood. It’s home to the lake house’s sole television, which is why I don’t watch much TV when I’m here. It always feels like the moose is studying my every move.
Next to the den is the library, a lovely spot usually neglected because its windows face only trees and not the lake itself. After that is a long line of necessities sitting in a row—laundry room, powder room, kitchen, dining room.
Wrapped around it all, like ribbon on a present, is the porch. Wicker chairs in the front, wooden rockers in the back.
First floor. The walkout basement. The only place I refuse to go.
More than any other part of the house, it makes me think of Len.
“It’s natural to feel lonely,” Marnie says. “You’ll get used to it. Is anyone else at the lake besides Eli?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. Katherine Royce.”
“The model?”
“Former model,” I say, remembering what Katherine told me as she was getting out of the boat. “She and her husband bought the house across the lake.”
“Vacation with the stars at Lake Greene, Vermont!” Marnie says in her best TV-pitchwoman voice. “Was she bitchy? Models always strike me as being bitchy.”
“She was super sweet, actually. Although that might have been because I saved her from drowning.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“If the paparazzi had been around for that,” Marnie says, “your career prospects would look very different right now.”
“I thought this wasn’t a business call.”
“It’s not,” she insists. “It’s a please-take-care-of-yourself call. We’ll deal with the business stuff when you’re allowed to leave.”
I sigh. “And that’s up to my mother. Which means I’m never leaving. I’ve been sentenced to life in prison.”
“I’ll talk to Aunt Lolly about getting you parole. In the meantime, you have your new model friend to keep you company. You meet her husband?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure yet.”
“I heard he’s weird,” Marnie says.
“Weird how?”
She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Intense.”
“Are we talking Tom Cruise jumping-on-a-couch intense? Or Tom Cruise dangling-from-an-airplane intense?”
“Couch,” Marnie says. “No, airplane. Is there a difference?”
“Not really.”
“Tom Royce is more like the guy who holds meetings during CrossFit sessions and never stops working. You don’t use his app, do you?”
“No.”
I avoid all forms of social media, which are basically hazardous waste sites with varying levels of toxicity. I have enough issues to deal with. I don’t need the added stress of seeing complete strangers on Twitter tell me how much they hate me. Also, I can’t trust myself to behave. I can’t begin to imagine the nonsense I’d post with six drinks in me. It’s best to stay away.