Daughters of the Lake(90)

“Marcus and Gene Cassatt,” he said, pointing to one of the photos. “They were known in these parts as the best fishermen to ever set their nets on this lake. Legend had it they never came up empty-handed, never had a bad day, never were in danger. Of course, that was before all of the . . . unpleasantness of the trial and such.”

Kate looked from the grainy photograph to Simon’s face and back again. “I can see the resemblance,” she said.

Then she had a thought. “What happened to him after the trial? He shot Jess Stewart in cold blood on the courthouse steps. Did he go to jail, too?”

The man nodded. “Would have if not for the stroke. Had it right after the shooting. He was in the hospital for a bit but finally died.”

The curator continued, pointing toward a glass case. “His wife, Marie, donated something as well. My father told me about her coming in here that day. She was an old woman then, her daughter and husband long dead.

“She handed my dad a book and said that at some future time and place, people would come here and be interested in what it had to say. Said she had seen it in a dream—I’ll never forget that.”

Kate shot Simon a look. A dream?

“It made an impression on me as a young lad, you might say,” the curator continued. “She wanted us to be the guardians of the book, until the time came. And then we were to hand it over to its rightful owners. I’ve worked here my whole life, and you’re the first people to ask about the Cassatts. So I guess the people she was talking about are you, and I guess that time is now.”

He shuffled over to the glass case, opened it, and reached inside. He handed Kate a slim volume with a leather cover. She read the title aloud: “Daughter of the Lake.”

“It’s quite a good story.” He smiled. “You’ll enjoy it. We took the liberty of copying it and adding it to the book of ancient lore we’re putting together about this area.”

On the way back, Kate stopped the car, and she and Simon walked down the rocky embankment toward the water, where they sat, staring out into the Great Lake. They had no way of knowing that, more than a century ago, Addie Cassatt had been born at that very spot. Just a few hundred yards away, Jess Stewart had seen baby Addie for the first time and plucked her from the watery embrace.

Back in those days, the lakeshore was a mystical, holy place, full of legend and lore. A place where water spirits could come to life, where ancient gods and goddesses swam freely among the salmon and trout, confounding unworthy fishermen and boaters and singing out in mysterious voices to children and mothers and murderers on foggy days, luring them to come, come to the water’s edge. The lakeshore was magical then, in those days, and so it remained. But people had grown too noisy, too preoccupied, too sophisticated to listen to its song.

Kate and Simon sat on the shore and watched as the waves crashed against the rocks, over and over again, covering them with spray. Instead of stinging their faces, as the tiny shards of water should have on that cold, blustery day, it felt to them, for all the world, like velvet.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Wharton, 1910

Sally Reade couldn’t believe her good fortune as she walked through the fog to the Cassatt house. The lake, the weather, even God himself seemed to be conspiring to help her do what she had to do! Oh, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, she knew that outright. But it had to be done. Jess Stewart had made her the fool a second time. For the same woman, no less.

When they were younger, reliable, stable Jess had always been there, waiting for her to attend the next cocktail party. After graduation, he was clever enough to secure a wonderful job with a large firm. A solid foundation on which to start a life, her father had said. Sally agreed. It was all going so well. She was expecting his proposal any day. That was why it was such a shock when Jess returned from that visit to his hometown with the unthinkable news that he had become engaged. Engaged! Sally did not take the news well. Who would? She sank into a melancholia deeper than she had ever known.

Years passed before they saw each other again, as Sally had always known they would. She made it happen by traveling to Wharton for a party at the Harrison Connors’. So many old friends were there! Just like old times. And then, there was Jess. As handsome as ever. As charming as ever. Sally could tell that he still cared for her. Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t everyone see it? The way he laughed so easily. The way he touched her shoulder when he spoke. Sally felt it then, the whole world vibrating with energy and life. Did everyone else feel it, too? She led Jess up into the turret—the perfect place for a clandestine fling!—threw her arms around him, and kissed him. He did not object. Yes, he had been drinking, perhaps too much, anyone could see that. But it didn’t matter to Sally. Why should it?

That wife of his. What a country mouse she was. None of their old friends could quite believe he had married her. None of the women, anyway. The men seemed entranced, fools that they were. It was true, she was beautiful, but beauty only took one so far. No matter. Sally’s plan was progressing, wife or no wife. That was the important thing.

After that night, Sally arranged to be in Wharton to see Jess whenever she could. A quick trip on the train from the city, no trouble at all. She was confident in her power to lure this man away from his wife. Sally would have what was rightfully hers. Didn’t he love her? Hadn’t he always loved her? Wasn’t he hers?