On Mystic Lake

He couldn’t seem to draw his eyes from the stain. “Those are the papers, Annie. . . . ”

She didn’t move, didn’t answer, just stood there with her back to him.

She looked pathetic, with her shoulders hunched and her fingers curled around the table’s edge. He didn’t need to see her face to know what she was feeling. He could see the tears falling, one after another, splashing on the stone like tiny drops of rain.

Chapter 3

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. ” Annie hadn’t meant to say anything, but the words formed themselves. When he didn’t answer, she turned toward him. Sadly, after almost twenty years of marriage, she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “Why?”

That’s what she really wanted to understand. She’d always put her family’s needs above her own, always done everything she could to make her loved ones feel safe and happy. It had started long before she met Blake, in her childhood. Her mother had died when Annie was very young, and she’d learned how to

seal her own grief in airtight compartments stored far from her heart. Unable to comprehend her loss, she’d focused on her grieving father. It had become, over the years, her defining characteristic. Annie the caretaker, the giver of love. But now her husband didn’t want her love anymore, didn’t want to be a part of the family she’d created and cared for.

“Let’s not rehash it again,” he said with a heavy sigh.

The words were like a slap. She snapped her head up and looked at him. “Rehash it? Are you joking?”

He looked sad and tired. “When did you ever know me to joke?” He shoved a hand through his perfectly cut hair. “I didn’t think about what you’d . . . infer from my phone call this morning. I’m sorry. ”

Infer. A cold, legal word that seemed to separate them even more.

He moved toward her, but was careful not to get too close. “I’ll take care of you. That’s what I came to say. You don’t have to worry about money or anything else. I’ll take good care of you and Natalie. I promise. ”

She stared at him in disbelief. “February nineteenth. You remember that date, Blake?”

His million-dollar tan faded to a waxen gray. “Now, Annalise—”

“Don’t you ‘now, Annalise’ me. February nineteenth. Our wedding day. You remember that day, Blake? You said—you vowed—to love me till death parted us. You promised to take care of me on that day, too. ”

“That was a long time ago. ”

“You think a promise like that has an expiration date, like a carton of milk? God . . . ”

“I’ve changed, Annie. Hell, we’ve been together more than twenty years; we’ve both changed. I think you’ll be happier without me. I really do. You can focus on all those hobbies you never had time for. You know . . . ” He looked acutely out of his depth. “Like that calligraphy stuff. And writing those little stories. And painting. ”

She wanted to tell him to get the hell out, but the words tangled with memories in her head, and it all hurt so badly.

He came up beside her, his footsteps clipped and harsh on the stone flooring. “I’ve drafted a tentative settlement. It’s more than generous. ”

“I won’t make it that easy for you. ”

“What?”

She could tell by his voice that she’d surprised him, and it was no wonder. Their years together had taught him to expect no protest from Annie about anything. She looked up at him. “I said, I won’t make it easy for you, Blake. Not this time. ”

“You can’t stop a divorce in California. ” He said it softly, in his lawyer’s voice.

“I know the law, Blake. Did you forget that I worked beside you for years, building the law firm with you? Or do you only remember the hours you put in at the office?” She moved toward him, careful not to touch him. “If you were a client, what advice would you give?”

He tugged at his starched collar. “This isn’t relevant. ”

“You’d tell yourself to wait, spend some ‘cooling off’ time. You’d recommend a trial separation. I’ve heard you say it. ” The words tripped her up in sadness. “Jesus, Blake, won’t you even give us that chance?”

“Annalise—”

She kept tears at bay one trembling breath at a time. Everything hung on the thread of this moment. “Promise me we’ll wait until June—when Natalie gets home. We’ll talk again . . . see where we are after a few months apart. I gave you twenty years, Blake. You can give me three months. ”

She felt the seconds tick by, slicing tiny nicks across her soul. She could hear the even, measured cant of his breathing, the lullaby that had eased her into sleep for more than half her life.