Daughters of the Lake(92)
The singing was louder now. Sally squinted out into the fog and thought she saw the outline of a creature in the water. An otter, perhaps? A beaver? What was it? Was this creature making the sound? Whatever it was, it locked eyes with Sally in that moment, and she was frozen there, at the end of the city dock, held captive by the intensity of the creature’s gaze. Like prey in the sights of a cobra.
Sally did not have children, so she did not understand the fury of a grieving father. She could simply not foresee the blinding, vengeful rage that she had elicited with her actions that night. Poor Sally was so captivated looking into the eyes of the creature that she did not see the enormous wall of water moving toward her until it burst out of the fog and engulfed her, smashing the dock into pieces with its wrath.
The lake plucked Sally off her feet in its fury and twisted its tentacles around her as tight as a noose, plunging her body under the surface, forcing so much water into her lungs that they burst apart, killing her in an instant. It carried her lifeless body for miles to a faraway, desolate shore and spat her out in disgust.
To this day, on that faraway beach, where her bones had been picked clean and carried away by wolves, an aura of madness remains. Animals other than the fearless wolves stay away, sensing danger and destruction. But humans aren’t as in tune with nature as animals are. Families congregate on that beach to take a dip in the cool water on steamy summer days, armed with picnic baskets and blankets.
But something is just not right about the place. Their otherwise well-behaved children always seem to run wild on that beach with a kind of frantic energy that gives parents pause, sending a shiver down their spines even as they resolve to limit the sugary treats in their children’s lunches the next time. Friends and lovers argue, the anger seemingly coming from nowhere. Wives grow testy and annoyed with their husbands, who seem withdrawn and depressed, despite the blue sky and clear water.
And nobody lingers there too long, for fear that the madness is catching.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Readers ask me if I base my characters on real people, and usually the answer is no, not entirely. Snippets of someone’s conversation here, a description there. And that’s true with this book, too, but as I was writing Simon, I couldn’t get the voice of my darling friend Ken Anderson out of my head, as though he demanded to be written into the story. (He’d totally do that, by the way.) Simon has a whole lot of Ken in him. It was so gratifying to hear my agent and my editors, the first readers of this book, say: “Simon is so much fun! I love him!” I do, too.
Speaking of my agent and editors . . . I am profoundly lucky to have my wonderful, delightful agent, Jennifer Weltz, and her amazing team at the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency representing me. Jennifer has been my invaluable sounding board, champion, lioness, and friend throughout the years. Plus she makes me laugh every single time we talk. Jennifer, I adore you.
To my stellar team at Lake Union: Danielle Marshall, Faith Black Ross, Kelli Martin, Alicia Clancy, Gabriella Dumpit, Ashley Vanicek, the amazing copyeditors (I bow to your superb attention to detail), and everyone else who works on my behalf, thank you for your faith in me, for your hard work, and for loving this story as much as I do.
To the independent booksellers who carry my books, get them into the hands of new readers, and graciously invite me into your stores to meet them, you have made my career, and I am eternally grateful to you.
And to my readers. Thank you so very, very much for coming along for the ride. Get in touch, send me an email with your thoughts, follow me on Instagram or Facebook and let me know how you liked this tale.
Finally, readers of my last book, The End of Temperance Dare, may have picked up on the fact that I set this story in the same community of Wharton, a small portside town of my own invention on Lake Superior. Wharton exists in my own imagination, and now, yours, but a real place is the inspiration for it. Bayfield, Wisconsin.
To me, Bayfield is a mystical, magical place steeped in Lake Superior legend and lore, overlooking the magnificent Apostle Island National Lakeshore, a string of twenty-one islands of indescribable beauty in my beloved harsh, powerful, and awe-inspiring inland sea.
Every summer I make sure to get to Bayfield at least once, most often for my birthday in August. For a very significant birthday, I rented out my favorite place, a Victorian inn called Le Chateau Boutin, and hosted my closest friends and family for a weekend none of us will ever forget. Le Chateau is the inspiration for Harrison’s House—if you google it, you’ll recognize it from my descriptions. It’s not similarly haunted . . . that I know of . . . and there are no dark secrets lurking in any of the corners. It’s simply wonderful and relaxing and lovely, and I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to experience Wharton for real.
About that inland sea, Lake Superior. It’s a character in this book, much more so than in any of my others. You should know a few things if you’re a newcomer to the greatest of lakes. Lake Superior, the largest freshwater lake in the world, is an ancient, powerful, vengeful, and, by turns, peaceful, calming, healing body of water unlike no other on the face of this planet.
The native peoples who lived on its shores called it Gitche Gumee (a rough translation) and believed that the lake itself was a great spirit, to whom the people gave offerings and gifts before setting out on any journey by boat. They knew the lake could be protective and welcoming and also murderous and sly, and they knew the lake was fickle. Best to appease it at the outset.