On Mystic Lake

“The worst thing is you don’t see it coming,” she said. “You don’t even suspect that Monday will be the last time you’ll ever come up behind him and kiss the back of his neck . . . or the last time you’ll sit watching television and rub the soft skin just below his ankle. And you think you’d remember something like the last time you made love, but you can’t. It’s gone. ”

She gazed up at him, surprised at how easily the words had come to her. In the weeks since Blake’s confession, she’d trapped the pain inside her heart and kept it there, fanning the hot coal with dreams and nightmares and memories. But now, all at once, the fire of it was gone. In its place was a dull, thudding ache.

She still had the hurt; probably that would never completely heal. Like a broken bone that was badly reset, the wound would always be a place of weakness within her. When the cold weather hit, or she remembered a special time, she would recall the love she had had for Blake, and she would ache. But the raging fire of it had burned down to a cold, gray ember.

Nick didn’t know when it happened exactly, or who moved first. All he knew was that he needed Annie. He reached for her. His hand slipped underneath her flannel collar and curled around the back of her neck, anchoring her in place. Slowly, watching her, he bent down and kissed her. It was gentle at first, a soft mingling of lips and breath. But then she moved toward him, settled into his embrace. He felt her hands, so small and pliant, moving across his back in a soothing, circular motion.

He deepened the kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting, caressing. He kissed her until he was light-headed with longing, and then slowly he drew back.

She stared up at him. He saw sadness in her eyes, but something else, perhaps the same quiet wonder he had felt. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, even though it wasn’t true. “I had no right—”

“Don’t be,” she whispered. “Please . . . don’t be sorry. I wanted you to kiss me. I . . . I’ve wanted it for a long time, I think. ”

She opened the door to intimacy, and he couldn’t walk away. He didn’t care if he was being stupid or careless or asking for trouble. He only knew that he wanted her, heart, body, and soul. He curled a hand around her neck and urged her closer, so close he could feel her rapid breathing against his mouth. “I want you, Annie Bourne. It feels like I’ve wanted you all my life. ”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and in that glittering bead of moisture, he saw reflections of all the distance that separated them. She still looked amazingly like the sixteen-year-old girl he’d first fallen in love with, but like him, the life she’d led and the choices she’d made lay collected in the tiny network of lines around her beautiful face.

“I know” was all she said in answer, but in the two simple, sadly softened words, he heard the truth: that sometimes, the wanting wasn’t enough.

He reached down and took hold of her hand, lifting it. In the glittering silver moonlight, the diamond ring seemed to be made of cold fire. He stared at the ring a long time, saying nothing. Then he turned from her. “Good night, Annie,” he said softly, walking away from her before he made a fool of himself.

Back in his room, Nick peeled off his clothes and crawled into his unmade bed. He was surprised to realize that he was shaking. And for once, it wasn’t an absence of alcohol that was playing hell with his body. It was a woman.

Don’t think about her . . . think about AA and their advice. No new relationships when you’re getting sober. . . .

Thinking about the Twelve Steps didn’t help. He closed his eyes and pictured Annie. She was probably to town by now. He wondered what song was playing on the Mustang’s radio, what she was thinking.

It had taken every bit of strength and honor he possessed to walk away after that kiss. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms and ravish her on the spot. Lose himself and his past in the sweet darkness of her body. But it wasn’t right, and he didn’t dare . . . for so many reasons. And so here he lay, alone.

It occurred to Annie that if she were smart, she would leave right then. But all she could think about was Nick, and the way he’d kissed her. The way he’d touched and held her had swept her away. And when it was over, when he’d said, I want you, Annie Bourne, she’d known that she was lost.

She glanced up at his bedroom. A shadow passed in front of the glass, then disappeared. He thought she’d gone home—and she knew that she should.

Instead, she glanced down at the wedding ring on her left hand. The diamond glittered with color in the lamp’s glow. The ring she’d worn for years. Blake had placed it on her hand beneath a shower of romantic words on their tenth anniversary.

Gently, she pulled the ring from her finger. “Good-bye, Blake. ” It hurt to say the words, even to think them, but there was a surprising freedom in it, too. She felt unfettered, on her own for perhaps the first time in her life. There was no one to guide her choices or determine her path. No one but her.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried back into the house and up the stairs. Outside Nick’s door, she paused. In the time it took to draw a breath, she lost her nerve. All the reasons for being here scurried away, cowards leaving a sinking ship. Suddenly she didn’t feel sexy; she felt vulnerable and alone. A middle-aged woman begging for sex from an old friend . . .

She was just about to turn away when she heard the music. Beyond the door, a radio was playing, a scratchy old rendition of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable. ”

It soothed her ragged nerves, that song, and even more the fact that he was listening to it. Nick wasn’t some inexperienced teenager; he was a man, her age, and as ravaged by life and love as she was. He would understand why she was here. He would ask nothing of her except the simple, uncomplicated act of sharing.

She rapped sharply on the door.

There was a pause. The music snapped off. “Come on in, Izzy. ”

Annie cleared her throat. “It’s me . . . Annie. ”

Another pause, a scuffling sound. “Come in. ”

She pushed on the door; it opened with a slow, creaking noise.

Nick was in bed.

She swallowed hard and moved toward him. Anxiety was a rattling jangle inside her; she felt as gawky and awkward as a teenager. She thought about the weight she’d gained in the past weeks, and wondered if he’d find her attractive. Blake had always made such cutting remarks whe

n Annie gained a pound. . . .