Daughters of the Lake(76)

“This is the street where Addie lived,” Kate whispered to Alaska. “But in which house?”

Front Street was just three blocks long and so named because it ran directly in front of the lakeshore. The houses along both sides of the street were definitely old, but were they old enough? A century old? Kate wasn’t sure. All the houses were wooden and of the same basic style, two stories with big bay windows on the main floor and generous front porches. Most of the houses were white, differentiated from one another only by a picket fence here, a flourishing garden there. One had a porch swing.

To Kate, it was an idyllic setting for a home, with the lakeshore in every backyard. She was wondering what kind of king’s ransom it would take to own one of these houses today when she remembered that Canby Lines had built several houses in town for its upper management workers. It was a nice perk for young families—common a century ago but unheard of in modern times. Kate was proud that her great-grandfather had taken such good care of his workers, but she wasn’t sure if these were the houses he had built or not. It made sense, however. One could see they had been constructed by the same builder.

She disappeared from their Front Street home. The line from the newspaper rang through Kate’s mind again. Was Addie murdered in one of these houses?

Just then, she felt Alaska tug hard on her leash. She was staring in the direction of the house at the very end of the block. Kate had long admired that house because of its large sloping corner lot that ran down to the lakeshore. Alaska tugged again on the leash and growled low in her throat.

“What is it, girl?” Kate’s voice trembled. She looked up and down the street. No lights shone from any of the houses. Everyone was asleep. Everything was still. But Alaska’s growl told her there was a danger somewhere, hidden.

Being here on the street where Addie had likely disappeared—the reality of standing so near where the event had surely occurred—sent a shiver through Kate. What was she doing wandering around outside at this time of night? It was foolish to be out here when every other living soul was in bed. She wanted to turn and walk up the hill toward home, but Kate’s feet were frozen into place. Why was Alaska growling? Why was she staring at that house?

“Quiet,” she whispered to Alaska, not wanting to disturb the people who were, no doubt, sleeping inside the house at that very moment. She looked this way and that, and seeing nothing, felt compelled to look further. Kate stole into the backyard. She followed a path down to the lakeshore, where she found a small dock. Alaska’s increasing growls told Kate to stop right there and not go any farther.

As she was standing there on the water’s edge, a sense of knowing engulfed Kate. This is the spot. This is where she died. In that moment, Kate felt a sharp pain in her back. And then another, and another. She cried out in a whisper as she fell to her knees, bent in half. She whirled around on her knees, but nothing was there. Nothing but an empty yard on a deep, dark night. Then she heard it, clean and clear: A male voice, horrified, anguished, stricken. “Good Christ, what have you done? Addie, oh my God—” It was an otherworldly sound, a tinny, scratchy echo reverberating in the emptiness, as though it was a recording being played on a gramophone. The words hung in the air as heavy as fog on a damp afternoon.

Kate scrambled to her feet and began tugging at Alaska’s leash, but the dog didn’t want to leave this spot—she was transfixed, growling. Kate pulled harder and Alaska finally responded. They sped out of the yard, around the house and onto the street and didn’t stop running until Kate had put several blocks between her and whatever hung there in the air of that backyard.

She slowed to a jog and then to a walk as she headed up the hill toward the house. All Kate wanted was to be back inside, in her bed, under the fluffy down comforter. She bent low, aching from the pain that still radiated in her back, panting as though she had just run a marathon, her heart beating as though she had just seen a ghost.

Back in her room, Kate pulled the comforter to her neck as Alaska curled up at the foot of the bed. She was relieved to feel the security and safety of being here, in this room, in this bed. Kate stared out the window until the first rays of dawn slivered across the dark sky.





CHAPTER THIRTY

Wharton, 1910

“This trip is very ill timed,” Jess complained, hurriedly packing his suitcase. “I do not like leaving you right now.”

Addie was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of their white bedroom on Front Street, turning her silver hairbrush over and over in one hand, rubbing her enormous belly with the other.

“I’ll be fine, darling.” She smiled. “You are such a worrier. Women have been having babies for a while, you know. There’s no mystery to it. It’s not as though I’m giving birth to an ostrich.”

“I just wish your mother could’ve come to stay with you while I’m gone,” Jess said, disregarding his wife’s attempt at humor. “This trip came up so quickly. There was simply no time to send for her.”

“Again I tell you, I’ll be fine.” Addie rose with great difficulty, waddled over to her husband, and put her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and there they stood awhile. She listened to his heartbeat and wondered if the baby could hear it, too.

“I’m not going,” Jess said.

Addie laughed. “You’re going to tell Harrison that you can’t lead the meeting in Chicago because your wife is going to have a baby? I don’t think so.”