Stranger in the Lake(74)
My cell lights up on my lap with another call from Paul. I hit Ignore, then pull up his contact card and tap Block. I don’t ever want to talk to him again.
Except I have to, don’t I, because of our baby. A baby attaches me to Paul until the end of time. It tangles us up in a bond so much more complicated than marriage. My throat goes thick, burning with coming tears.
Micah sits silent, watching me across the dim space, and his expression makes my stomach hurt. He doesn’t think the baby is good news, either.
“Maybe I should take you to Dr. Harrison, let him check you out just in case.”
“No, I’m fine. Really. I just need Chet.”
Micah’s phone buzzes in the cup holder. I know who it is long before he shows me the screen. Paul’s face jiggles in the air between us. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“Nothing. You haven’t seen me.”
“At least let me tell him you’re okay. If he gets wind of your car wrapped around that tree, he’s going to have a fit.”
“Not a word, Micah. I’m serious.”
Micah stares at me, and the phone rings and rings. He swipes to pick up right before it flips to voice mail. “Hey, Paul. What’s up?”
My husband’s voice comes through the phone in fits and starts, too faint to pick out anything other than speed. Paul is in a hurry, the words rushing out of him.
“No, sorry. I haven’t talked to her all day. Is her car there?”
A long pause. Micah gives me a reassuring smile.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. She probably just ran into town or something. I’m sure she’ll show up soon. Hey, listen, I’m kinda in the middle of something here. Can I call you back in a little bit?” Another pause. “I know, but try to chill out, will you? I’m sure everything’s fine. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
He hangs up, tosses his cell on the console. “So what now?”
“I don’t know. Take me to town, I guess? That’s where Chet went earlier.”
“Let’s stop at my place first.” With a quick glance over his shoulder, Micah puts the truck in gear, pulls onto the road and points the nose toward home. “You need to get out of those wet clothes, and so do I. After that, we’ll figure out a game plan.”
32
Of all of Paul’s projects, Micah’s house has always been my favorite. Some old great-aunt’s dusty log cabin, transformed into a sleek, modern masterpiece, all wood and glass and steel. Paul scaled the place for Micah’s six-foot-two frame, the rooms and the fittings and the furniture all oversized, gargantuan tables and deep-seated couches made for large bodies and long limbs. I want to climb onto that big couch of his and sleep for a week.
He parks in the garage, then flips on the lights as we come into the kitchen, dumping his keys and bags onto the counter. He tosses me a couple of towels from a top drawer. “I’d offer you some whiskey to warm you up, but after what you just told me in the car, you’re going to have to settle for hot tea.”
I drop one under my feet and use the other to sop up the worst of the rain from my hair, biting down on my molars to stop my teeth from chattering. “Tea would be perfect. Thanks.”
He fills an electric kettle at the sink, flips on the switch. “Bags are in the cabinet above the microwave. Make yourself at home. I’ll go see what clothes I can scrounge up.”
He disappears upstairs, and I select a box of green tea, then wander into the living room with the dish towel, bypassing the matching leather couches for a spot at the back window. Like Paul’s, Micah’s house is perched high on a hill, flush with the treetops for spectacular views of the water. Tonight there’s nothing but blackness where the lake should be, but that’s not the direction I’m looking. I’m looking through the trees, staring at the house I’ve called home for the past year.
It’s lit up like a bonfire, golden light pouring from every downstairs window, the kitchen and the living area and Paul’s study. Paul must be home, looking for me. Even the sides of the house I can’t see are glowing, the wet trees and grass glittering with reflected light. I stare through the branches, trying to pick up movement behind the glass, but I can’t tell if the motion is coming from inside the house or from the wind shaking the trees.
The ceiling squeaks above my head, bare feet moving across an uncarpeted portion of the floor. The low hum of his voice, worming its way through the wooden planks. It probably wasn’t fair to Micah, asking him to lie to a friend, but I didn’t know what else to do. I just pray he’s not up there talking to Paul.
I slide my phone from my pocket and text Chet. I’m at Micah’s. If you talk to Paul, do NOT tell him where I am. And freaking call me asap. I need you.
I turn at Micah’s footsteps on the stairs, a thick stack of clothing balanced on an arm. He’s changed into fresh jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but his hair is still damp. “Here,” he says, handing me the pile. “Something in here should fit.”
“Thanks.”
I carry the clothes into the bathroom and select the least gigantic pieces from the pile. A shrunken pair of sweats I roll up at the ankles, a light blue sweater that once belonged to a female. I fold my things and leave them on the sink to dry.
“Whose sweater is this?” I say, coming back into the kitchen.