The House Across the Lake(18)

“Bad memories are already here,” I say. “They’re everywhere I look.”

“Then maybe—” Eli pauses. It’s brief. Like the tentative halt a firewalker makes just before stepping onto pulsing-hot coals. “Maybe I thought you wouldn’t be the best influence on him.”

There it is. The ugly truth at last. Even though I suspected it, it doesn’t mean I like hearing it.

“Says the man who just brought me a case of booze,” I say.

“Because you asked me to,” Eli says, bristling. “I’m not judging you, Casey. You’re a grown woman. The choices you make are none of my business. But Boone Conrad has been sober a year. You—”

“Haven’t been,” I say, mostly so Eli doesn’t have to.

He nods, both in agreement and in thanks. “Exactly. So maybe it’s best if you keep away from each other. For both of your sakes.”

Despite being rankled by what he said, I’m inclined to agree with Eli. I have my reasons for drinking, and Boone has his for not. Whatever they are, I’m sure they’re not compatible with mine.

“Deal,” I say. “Now give me a hand. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and hurt feelings left unexpressed.

We finish cooking.

“How was the summer?” I ask while plating the fish.

“Quiet,” Eli says. “Nothing to report. Here or elsewhere in the area. Although they still haven’t found that girl who drowned in Lake Morey last summer. No sign of the one who went missing two years ago, either.”

I empty my glass of wine and pour another.

“That storm’s probably heading this way,” Eli says as we eat.

“What storm?”

“That hurricane that hit North Carolina. Don’t you watch the news?”

I don’t. Not lately.

“A hurricane? Here?”

The last time something like that happened here was Hurricane Sandy’s long, slow march through the Northeast. Lake Greene was without power for two weeks.

“Trish,” Eli says. “That’s what they’re calling it.”

“That’s a perky name for a hurricane.”

“It’s just a tropical storm now, but still plenty strong. Looks like it’ll reach us by the end of the week.”

Eli has another glass of wine.

I have two.

After dinner, we retreat to the porch and plop into rocking chairs while sipping from steaming mugs of coffee. Night has fully fallen over the lake, turning the water into a blue-black surface shimmering with starlight.

“God, that’s lovely,” I say, my voice dreamy because I’m slightly drunk. Just one step past tipsy. The sweet spot between numbness and being able to function.

Getting there is easy. Remaining that way requires planning and determination.

It begins around noon, with my first real drink of the day. Mornings are reserved for coffee, which sweeps away the cobwebs of the previous night, and water. Hydration is important.

For the day’s inaugural drink, I like two large shots of vodka, downed quickly. A strong double punch to dull the senses.

The rest of the afternoon is devoted to bourbon, sipped over ice in a steady dose. Dinnertime brings wine. A glass or two or three. It leaves me feeling mellow and fuzzy—on the precipice of full-tilt intoxication. That’s when coffee reenters the picture. A strong cup of joe pulls me back from the brink without completely dulling my buzz. Finally, before bed, it’s another hard hit of whatever strikes my fancy.

Two, if I can’t fall asleep immediately.

Three, if I can’t sleep at all.

Even as Eli sits next to me, I think about what I’ll drink once he leaves.

Across the lake, a light flicks on at the back door of the Royce house, flooding the patio in a warm white glow. I lean forward and squint, seeing two people emerge from the house and make their way to the property’s dock. Soon after, there’s another light, this time in the form of a spotlight at the front of their boat. The low rumble of an outboard motor echoes off the trees.

“I think you’re about to have more guests,” Eli says.

He might be right. The spotlight grows larger as the boat cuts straight across the water toward our side of the lake.

I put down my coffee. “The more the merrier,” I say.

The Royces arrive in a vintage mahogany-paneled powerboat that’s both sporty and elegant. The kind of boat I’m certain George Clooney rides around in when staying at his palazzo in Lake Como. Watching it approach my family’s scuffed and faded motorboat feels like sitting at a stoplight and having a Bentley Continental pull up next to your Ford Pinto.

Which the Royces also have. A Bentley, not a Pinto. Eli told me all about it at dinner.

I greet them at the dock, tipsier than I initially thought. To keep myself from swaying, I plant both feet on the dock and straighten my spine. When I wave, it’s a little too emphatic.

“What a nice surprise!” I call out once Tom cuts the boat’s motor and glides it toward the dock.

“I brought your blanket!” Katherine calls back.

Her husband holds up two bottles of wine. “And I brought Pauillac Bordeaux from 2005!”

That means nothing to me except that it sounds expensive and that I will definitely not be waiting until Eli leaves to drink more.