Chapter 1 Sample

Anne inhaled tart winter air deep into her lungs, savored the sensation, and leaned on her walking sticks. Everything at the cove was just as she would have arranged it if she had been in charge of the world.

Old white pines, bare red oaks, and leafless ash trees lent the hilly lakeside that primeval look she loved. A ribbon of rosewood-colored mountains skirted the distant western shore. Across the water, a gray loon leaned into the breeze and called for its mate. Snow spiraled onto the lake’s frozen surface, mirroring the cobalt sky.

Contemplating whether she had the nerve to walk out on the ice, Anne spotted a dark shape hovering at the water’s edge. “Is that a bear?” The tremble in her voice embarrassed her as she slipped behind a winterberry bush. “Better safe . . .”

It’s a figment of your imagination.

Anne ignored her dead husband’s remark and peered at the shape again to assess her situation. Whatever it was, it didn’t know she was there. She could still enjoy her moment, although now she’d been cheated of the tranquility the two-mile tramp to the beach at dawn usually provided.

Watching the sunrise always put the hurly-burly of her life into perspective. Some days the sun’s steady ascent above the mountain was the only thing she could count on. On the worst days, she couldn’t acknowledge the morning light and instead burrowed into the cave of blankets on her bed. She hoped today wouldn’t deliver more trouble than she could handle.

Images of a bear lumbering toward her raced through her mind. She would freeze in her tracks and pee her pants in fear. She couldn’t decide which was more awful, being mauled to death or having to walk all the way home in cold, wet pants.

“I’ll stay right here. Far enough away from whatever it is, just in case.”

As usual, you’re creating drama out of thin air.

“Poor Howard,” Anne retorted. “Dead five years and you still get everything wrong.” This is what she got for being married for fifty years—a never-ending conversation with a man she despaired of ever silencing. Pushing back the hood of her parka, she straightened her back and sidled closer to get a better look at what the interloper was up to.

Usually, the solitude in the cove fortified her for the chaos of the newspaper office. There, tapping keys, the nearly constant drone of simultaneous telephone interviews, intermittent squawks from the police scanner, and endless consultations or demands from reporters drowned out her thoughts.

At home, the five sons and one husband who’d once lived with her had left an everlasting hum, like contrails hanging in the sky long after the jet has passed. And now, out of the blue, the serenity she’d hoped for was shattered by an intruder standing in her exact spot and waiting for God knows what.

“Not promising at all,” Anne muttered.

The sky lightened, the snow picked up, and the shape stepped onto the ice. That’s a woman! What on earth is she doing? She must be a tourist.

“Hey, wait.” Anne’s voice caught in her throat. Her mind whirled like the snow swirling around her, unsure whether to tell the woman the ice was dangerous this time of year or ignore what was happening right in front of her. She had never been one to shirk the obligations of good citizenship, even if that meant other people thought of her as a busybody.

Whatever she’s doing, it’s none of your business, Howard said.

Anne shuffled closer to the shore. I should be careful. After all, what kind of person would be here at this hour of the day?

You. A person like you.

“Be quiet, Howard. I’m thinking.”

She flinched as snow crunched under her boots. A branch snapped. The woman, completely unaware of her, took another step as if testing the solidity of the ice. Anne felt some relief at the stranger’s caution. At least she wasn’t running willy-nilly out into the center of the cove.

“What if she’s dangerous?”

A quick retreat was impossible. It was two miles to Anne’s house, she was alone, and she had no way to defend herself except her walking sticks. She’d have to confront whoever this was on her own. And yet, instead of sneaking quietly away as any prudent person might, she was anchored to the spot by curiosity.

The last thing she wanted this morning was to waste time chatting with a stranger. Yet, something was happening here that she needed to pay attention to, even if she didn’t want to. Anne leaned over to fend off a sudden bout of dizziness.

The woman slid farther out on the ice. “What’s she doing? Doesn’t she know the ice won’t hold?” Everyone in Queenscove knew that Lake Champlain’s southernmost shore froze in December, particularly in the coves. This early in the winter what looked like solid ice could fracture beneath a person’s weight and plunge a body into frigid water. The sign on the beach proclaimed the risk.

An image of her son, Luke, barricading himself in a distant motel blew through Anne’s mind—the pitted grout around the tub, the peeling linoleum, the moldy shower curtain wrapped around his body. She’d studied pilfered crime scene photos for clues of what had gone wrong, desperate to understand what she could have done or said before it was too late.

Anne closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. When she opened them, the stranger had flung out her arms and lifted her face to catch the light spilling over the horizon. Bare tree branches transformed from black to gold as light slid across the lake and illuminated the woman.

Luxurious sable-colored hair draped her shoulders; a teal scarf flapped steadily in the breeze; the pockets of her slim coat bulged. The woman edged closer to the point where the lake abruptly deepened.

Anne squinted to improve her vision. “Do you see that, Howard? She has rocks in her pockets.”

You’re jumping to conclusions for which there’s no evidence.

“You’re right. Those bulges in her pockets could be anything—a wallet and phone, a jumble of keys, a leftover bagel wrapped in a napkin.”

You’re overreacting, as usual.

Anne waved Howard off, but he was right. This time. She didn’t know anything about what was happening. The woman should be left to her ritual. Maybe this was her one moment of awe in a long boring year. She had expected to be alone here at sunrise. No one was supposed to be her witness.

But the ice might break, and apparently, she didn’t know that. “Or does she? Should I warn her?”

You should mind your own business.

The woman took a step closer to peril. Anne imagined her crashing through the ice, submerged and flailing beneath the surface—hair floating, eyes wide, mouth open in regret—ice reforming above her head as she drowned.

“Oh, for God’s sake, if I were young, I’d race across the lake to stop her. She’d thank me for the warning. We’d laugh at my officiousness.”

Assessing the distance between them, Anne knew she wouldn’t make it to the woman in time. At seventy-five, she didn’t have the strength to run across the frozen lake to pull anyone from a break in the ice. They would both fall in. The metallic taste of fear thickened her tongue.

Drowning was not on her agenda today, but she couldn’t leave the woman to die, and if she didn’t stop her now, it would be too late. After all, she wouldn’t just drive around a woman lying in the street. On the other hand, the woman’s choices were none of her concern.

After fifty years of making dozens of decisions a day, this question was impossible to resolve. Her mind couldn’t hear itself think, and her indecision was exhausting. “What if she were my child?” Anne turned the question around the way her philosopher husband taught her. “She’s someone’s child.”

Veering off the path, Anne scurried as fast as her walking sticks could pull her across the narrow wooden footbridge onto the snow-covered beach, closing the distance between her and the woman. Cold wind churned her breath into steam. The stranger took another step. Anne’s chest constricted as she quickened her pace. Her legs wobbled. She couldn’t go any farther.5

Waving her arms, she yelled, “Hello there. Wait up! Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Her words hung in the air like smoke. “I’m a tug hooting at an elegant sloop,” she muttered.

The woman’s shoulders jerked. She glanced up, edged another foot out on the lake as if that were the safer direction, and then stopped, hugged herself, and stared.

Anne, imagining how she might look to someone else, slowly lowered her arms. To catch the sunrise, she’d bolted out of the house in a red down parka, yellow wool cap with a happy face embroidered on the rim, green wool scarf, and purple gloves. At least her red boots matched the parka, and she was warm.

Her sons laughed at her getups but otherwise she often forgot that the young woman she used to be—happily oblivious to other people’s opinions—no longer navigated the world, replaced instead by the wrinkled dumpling she’d become.

Age changed her topography, as proved by her shocking image in new photographs. She’d stopped looking at all reflective surfaces since the person staring back at her had become a stranger. From this distance, though, the woman couldn’t see her face, only the crazy quilt of an outfit that might give anyone pause.

“I must look like the madwoman of Queenscove.”

Anne dropped her walking sticks and held her arms out, hands open, to show she was harmless. “You know it’s dangerous out there, don’t you?” she bellowed.

The stranger’s body stiffened as if only now she realized she was in danger. Glancing over her shoulder at the wide lake opening beyond her, she slid gracefully over the ice back to shore and picked her way across the rocky beach. Without a backward look at Anne or a wave, she sprinted up the wooden stairs that led to the gravel parking lot.