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Return to Willow Lake
“You should have looked,” he said churlishly. “It might have been important. Maybe it was a cry for help and you just ignored it.”
“Maybe it was some teenager’s angsty poetry and I did her a favor by getting rid of it.”
“Right.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the dock jutting out into the lake.
She pulled back. “Wait a minute. Now what are we doing?”
“I told Wendela I’d take the boat over to the boathouse.”
Wendela was the wedding planner, and Zach did most of the videography work for her. In addition, she often enlisted him to do other odd jobs at events. In a small town, it was a way for him to cobble together a living, Sonnet supposed. He was talented at what he did; during the reception, Wendela had told her he’d won some prestigious awards for his work. But like all artists, he struggled. Awards didn’t translate into a viable income.
“You’re here as a wedding guest,” she protested. “Wendela wouldn’t expect you to work tonight.”
“What, driving a boat is suddenly work? Since when?”
“You have a point. What is it with guys and boats?”
“There are some things that cannot be resisted.” He slipped off his bow tie and opened the collar of his tuxedo shirt, his Adam’s apple rippling as he sighed with relief.
Good Lord, had he been working out? She didn’t ask, because everyone knew that was just code for “I think you’re hot.”
And she didn’t. How could she? He was Zach—as familiar as a lifelong friend, yet suddenly…exotic.
“I shouldn’t have done those Jell-O shots,” she murmured. Pulling her attention elsewhere, she stood on the dock and looked out at the moon-silvered water. The sight of the lake never failed to ignite a rush of memories. She had been here before, many times through the years.
During her junior high and high school years, when Camp Kioga had been closed down, she and Zach used to sneak onto the premises with their friends on hot summer days, swimming and reliving the glory days of the resort, which dated back to the 1920s. And every once in a while, the two of them would slip into the boathouse and pretend to be smugglers or pirates or stuntmen in the circus. Sometimes, even as youngsters, they would fall so deep into the fantasy that they’d lose track of time. She remembered talking with him for hours, seemingly about nothing, but managing to encompass everything important. When she was with Zach, it never felt strange that she didn’t have a dad, or that she was biracial, or that her mom had to work all the time to make ends meet. When she was with Zach, she just felt…like herself. Maybe that was why their friendship felt so sturdy, even when they almost never saw each other.
An owl hooted from a secret place in the darkness, startling Sonnet from her thoughts. “It’s getting late,” she said softly. “I’m leaving.”
He gently closed his hand around her wrist. “Come with me.”
A shiver coursed through her, and she didn’t resist when he drew her close, slipping his arm around her waist and edging her toward the boat moored at the end of the dock. It was a vintage Chris-Craft runabout, its wooden hull and brass fittings polished to a sheen so bright it seemed to glow in the moonlight. The old boat had been used in the wedding, mostly for a photo shoot but also, and most romantically, to transport the bride and groom to the floatplane dock, where they’d been whisked away to their honeymoon at Mohonk Mountain House. A Just Married sign was tied to the stern.
“Hang on to me,” Zach whispered. “I don’t want you falling in.”
“I won’t fall—whoa.” She clung to him as the boat listed beneath her weight. The open cabin smelled of the lake, and the flowers that had been used to decorate it, and the fresh scent made her dizzy. The second wave of champagne was kicking in.
“Take my jacket,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Chilly tonight.”
She took a seat in the cockpit, feeling the peculiar intimacy of his body heat lingering in the folds of the jacket. She reveled in the slickness of the satin lining, which smelled faintly of men’s cologne and sweat. Oh boy, she thought.
There was an open bottle of champagne in the cubby by her knees, so she grabbed it and took a long, thirsty swig. Why not? she thought. Her official duties for the wedding were done, and it was time to relax.
Zach untied the boat and shoved off. He turned on the running lights and motor, handling the Chris-Craft with expert smoothness. He’d always been good with his hands, whether handling a vintage motorboat or a complicated video camera. As they motored across the placid water toward the rustic wooden boathouse, Sonnet admitted to herself that although she loved living in New York City, there were things she missed about the remote Catskills area where she’d grown up—the moon on the water, the fresh feeling of the wind in her face, the quiet and the darkness of the wilderness, the familiarity of a friend who knew her so well they didn’t really have to talk.
She had another drink of champagne, feeling a keen exuberance as she watched loose flower petals fluttering through the night air, into the wake of the boat.
She offered the bottle to Zach.
“No thanks,” he said. “Not until I moor the boat.”
She sat back and enjoyed the short crossing to the boathouse, which was bathed in the soft golden glow of lights along the dock.
Over the buzz of the engine, he pointed out the constellations. “See that group up there? It’s called Coma Berenices—Berenice’s hair. It was named for an Egyptian queen who cut off all her hair in exchange for some goddess to keep her husband safe in battle. The goddess liked the hair so much, she took it to the heavens and turned it into a cluster of stars.”
“Talk about a good hair day.” She was beyond pleasantly tipsy now. “I’d never cut off my hair. Took me years to get it this long.”
“Not even to keep your husband safe in battle?”
“I don’t have a husband. So I’ll be keeping my fabled locks, thank you very much. Berenice’s hair. I swear, your mind is a lint trap for stuff like this. Where do you learn it?”
“The internet. Yeah, I like geeking out over trivia on the internet, so sue me.”
“I’m not going to sue you. Whatever floats your boat, ha ha.”
“You can find out anything online. Ever watch that video of the Naga fireballs?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Too busy overachieving?”
“Since when is that a crime?”
“Never said it was.” Zach guided the boat inside, cutting the engine to let it nudge its way into the moorage, gently bumping against the rubber fenders.
“There,” he said, taking the champagne from her, “I’ve done my good deed for the day. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
“Too dark in here to see,” she pointed out. “Oh, right. That’s a movie reference. I forgot, you’re a walking movie encyclopedia.”
“And you’re movie illiterate.”
“No wonder we bicker all the time. We have nothing in common.”
He handed back the bottle and rummaged around the console of the cockpit. Then a match flared and he lit a couple of votive candles left over from the photo shoot. Taking the bottle again, he said, “Now here’s looking at you.”
She looked right back at him, unsettled by feelings she didn’t understand, feelings that had nothing to do with the amount of champagne she’d consumed. Like Willow Lake, and the town of Avalon itself, he was both deeply familiar and, at the moment, unaccountably strange. There had been a time, many times, when they had truly been best friends, but after high school, their lives had diverged. These days, they saw each other infrequently and when they did, their visits were rushed, or they were busy, or one of them had a train to catch, or work, or…
Not tonight, though. Tonight, neither of them had anywhere they had to be, except right here in the moment.
She fiddled with a dial on the boat’s dashboard. “Is there a radio?”
“It’s a stereo.” Leaning forward, he hit a switch. Sonnet recognized an old tune from the days of her grandparents—“What a Wonderful World.”
“What’s this?” She pointed out a small screen.
“A fish finder. Want to turn it on and see where the fishies are?”
“That’s okay. And this?” She indicated a small cube-shaped object mounted in the center.
“A GoPro. It’s a camcorder, mostly used for sports.” He turned up the music. “You didn’t dance with me at the reception,” Zach said.
“You didn’t ask me.” She feigned a wounded look.
“Dance with me now.”
“That’s not asking.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh and offered her his hand, palm up. “Okay. Will you dance with me? Please?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She stood up and the boat rocked a little.
“Careful there. Maybe ease up on the champagne.”
He drew her up to the dock next to him. She was a full head shorter than he was. It hadn’t always been that way. She remembered the year of his growth spurt—junior year of high school. They’d gone from seeing each other eye to eye to her getting a crick in her neck from looking up at him. He’d been skinny as a barge pole, and she’d taken to calling him Beanstalk.
He wasn’t a beanstalk anymore. As her mother had pointed out, he’d finally grown into his looks. In the candlelight, he looked magical to her, Prince Charming with a boyish smile. She kept the surprising thought to herself, knowing instinctively she didn’t want to go there.
He held her lightly at the waist and they swayed to the music, their movements simple and in sync. At the wedding reception, she had danced with a few guys but dancing had never felt like this before.
“You’ve been wanting to do this ever since our glory days in seventh grade,” he said softly.
“Oh, please. You were short and obnoxious, and I had a mouthful of metal.”
“I know. But I remember wanting to stick my tongue in there several times.”
She shoved him away. “I’m glad you never told me that. It would have meant the end of a beautiful friendship. You’re still obnoxious. And I wouldn’t have let you, anyway. I’m sure you would have been a terrible kisser.”
“You don’t know what you missed out on, metal mouth. I was good. I am good. Let’s hope you’ve honed your skills.”
“Oh, I have mad skills,” she assured him, then realized that she was flirting, and whom she was flirting with. Extricating herself from his embrace, she said, “I want to get back to the pavilion. I missed out on wedding cake.”
“You’re in luck.” He reached down into the boat’s hull and took a large domed platter from under the dash. The music changed to “Muskrat Love,” a tuneless horror from the seventies.
“Zachary Lee Alger. You didn’t.”
“Hey, it was going to go to waste. A cake from the Sky River Bakery. That would be a federal crime.” He picked up a hunk with his fingers and crammed it in his mouth. “Oh, man. I just died a little.”
He held out another piece and she couldn’t resist. The chocolate slid like silk across her tongue. She closed her eyes, savoring it along with the bits of hazelnut that had been kneaded into the buttercream icing. “Oh, my. Are you sure this is legal?”
“Would you care if it wasn’t?”
“Nope.” She helped herself to another bite. “And how cool is it that the Sky River Bakery did the cake?”
The old-fashioned family bakery had been a town institution for generations. It was also the place where Zach had worked all through high school, dragging himself to town before dawn to mix the dough and operate the proofing machines and ovens.
“You used to bring me a pastry in the morning,” she reminisced.
“I spoiled you rotten.”
She washed down a bite of cake with a slug of champagne. “It’s surprising I didn’t get as big as a house.”
“Not surprising to me. You could never sit still for more than ten seconds. Are you still that restless?”
She considered this for a moment. “I guess I was really eager to get going on something.”
“Always the overachiever. Always striving.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when it takes you away from what’s important.”
She frowned. “Such as…?”
“Well, let’s see. Such as this.” With a gentle tug of his hand, he pulled her against him, planting a long, hard kiss on her surprised lips. She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—the kiss itself or the fact that it was coming from Zach Alger. Equally shocking was the fact that he hadn’t been lying about his expertise. Holding her with gentle insistence, he softened the kiss and touched his tongue to a secret, sensitive place that took her breath away. It struck her that this might be the best kiss she’d had in ages. Maybe ever.
The biggest surprise of all was that she was kissing Zach Alger—the same Zach Alger whose apple she had stolen from his lunchbox in kindergarten. The one who had tormented her when she was in the fourth grade. The boy who had pushed her off the dock into Willow Lake innumerable times, with whom she’d shared homework answers and after-school snacks, repeat viewings of Toy Story and Family Guy, and on whose shoulders she’d cry each time her heart was broken—and the first one she called with good news, whenever good news came around: “I got into college. My mom’s getting married. The internship program in Germany accepted me. My birth father finally wants a relationship with me. They’re making me a director at UNESCO.…”
Their points of contact over time were innumerable. They’d shared big moments and small, joy and grief, silliness and seriousness. He was the friend who had been there through all the moments of her life, yet the present moment felt entirely different, as if she were meeting him for the first time. Now she was with him in a way that felt completely new, and the world seemed to shift on its axis.
Through the years she had known him every way it was possible to know a guy and yet…and yet… Now there was this. It was some crazy emotion more intense than she could fathom, brought on by the champagne but by something else, too—a need, a craving she had no power to resist.
She fought herself free of the intensity and pulled back, though both of her fists stayed curled into the fabric of his dress shirt. “I had no idea you had that kind of kiss in you,” she whispered in a shaky voice.
“I’ve got more than that in me,” he replied, and bent down to kiss her again, lips searching and tasting, his arms holding her as if she were something precious.
Lost in sensation, she simply surrendered. She was melting and it was confusing because this was Zach—she had to keep reminding herself it was Zach, the very essence of the boy next door, as familiar as an old favorite song coming on the radio. But suddenly she was seeing him in a way she hadn’t noticed before. Particularly when he started doing what he was doing now—holding her arms above her head and whispering, “You taste delicious. Kissing you is like eating a fresh peach pie,” which made her laugh, and then they would start again. Tucked away in the back of her mind was the knowledge that this was a supremely bad idea that could turn out very badly for her. But all the standard objections stayed tucked away, hovering at the far edges of consciousness.
“We’re making a huge mistake,” she said, “but I’m too…I don’t know how to stop it,” she said.
“Then quit trying,” he said simply.
“Zach, I don’t think—”
“Exactly. Don’t think.”
He made it easy to drift away from rational thought. There was something about the soft night and the lush leather bench seat of the vintage boat, and him, and the two of them together again after such a long time. His kisses tasted of champagne and chocolate cake and memories so old she couldn’t tell if they were memories or dreams.
He pulled back and parted the coat he’d wrapped around her, sliding it away. His hands glided over the form-fitting dress as he whispered, “I want to take this off.” Without waiting for her to respond, he reached for the side zipper of the silk dress.
Somewhere, floating amid the mind-fogging kisses and the champagne and Jell-O shots, a tiny no formed, waving its arms like a drowning victim. Then the no floated away and disappeared, and what was left was something she had never before said to Zach Alger in this situation, even though she’d known him all her life.
“Yes.”
Part Two
MUST-DO LIST (REVISED)
Achievement brings its own anticlimax.
—MAYA ANGELOU
(BORN MARGUERITE ANN JOHNSON, APRIL 4, 1928)
Chapter Three
If there was such a thing as a better day than this, Sonnet Romano couldn’t imagine what that might look like. Brighter sunshine? Clearer air? Theme music playing as she crossed Central Park en route to 77th Street subway station? Street performers scattering flower petals as she passed by?
She didn’t need any of that, not today. Her own news was good enough. The beautiful spring weather was the icing on the cake. New York City was at its best, crisp and clear and lovely as a fairy tale. Great things hovered over her head like air traffic over LaGuardia.
She took out her mobile phone, because the only thing missing at the moment was someone to share her good news with.
Great Thing #1: Her father was taking her and Orlando to dinner at Le Cirque. Time with her father—whose senatorial campaign was now in full swing—was precious, and she was eager to catch up with him and share her news.
Great Thing #2: Orlando. The ideal boyfriend, the kind of guy who seemed too good to be true. Everyone said she and Orlando were great together, and they were only going to get better. Just this morning, he had given her the key to his apartment. Correction: the key to his stunning East Side pre-war co-op, which had closets bigger than Sonnet’s entire studio. Orlando was not the kind of guy who gave out keys lightly. He’d told Sonnet she was the first, and that had to mean something. Also, he was proof that she’d moved on from the Zach incident, that singularly bad decision she’d made at Daisy’s wedding last fall.
So why then, she wondered, did her finger hover over his name on the screen of her phone, like the planchette of a Ouija board? Why, even now, did she think of him first when she had big news?
The big news was Great Thing #3: Perhaps the greatest—the fellowship. Out of a field of thousands of candidates, she—Sonnet Romano—had been chosen for a Hartstone Fellowship. It was probably the biggest personal news she’d ever had, and she was dying to share it with someone. She quickly scrolled past Zach’s name—and why, pray tell, asked a little voice inside her, have you not deleted him from your contact list?—and went to her mother’s name—Nina Bellamy. As usual, her mom’s voice mail picked up. During the workday, Nina was too busy running the Inn at Willow Lake to take a call. Sonnet didn’t bother leaving a message; her mom tended to forget to check. They’d catch up later.
She called Daisy next, and Daisy, bless her, picked up on the first ring. “Hey, you,” she said. “How’s my wicked stepsister?”
“Good. So good. In fact, Mrs. Air Force Babe of Oklahoma, you need to stop me from making a fool of myself. I’m in the middle of Central Park and I’m tempted to burst into song about what a Great Day this is. I’m about to become a one-woman flash mob. Stop me because I’m supposed to be cooler than that.”
“You’re a New Yorker. You know you’re cooler than that. But it does sound like you’re having a good day.”
“I’d say so. The best.”
“That’s good. So, you’ve got news? What’s going on?”
“God, just…everything. I got the fellowship, Daze. I got it. Out of everyone they could have picked, they picked me.”
“That’s great. So what does it mean? Besides more laurel wreaths being laid at your feet? You know you’re making the rest of the family look bad, right?”
“Hardly.” She knew Daisy had to be kidding. A talented photographer, she’d been given a citation as an emerging artist, and her work had been in a special show at the Museum of Modern Art. She’d set the bar high. Sonnet was just glad the two of them worked in completely different fields. “What the fellowship does is put me in charge of a program to give indigent children a chance in life. It’s incredible to think I could really make an impact. I don’t know yet whether I’ll be assigned to a domestic program or overseas, although it doesn’t matter. There’s need everywhere.”
“Wow, that’s really something, Sonnet,” Daisy said. “There was never any doubt, not in my mind, anyway. You’re amazing. So, uh, will you be traveling somewhere far away?”
Despite the enthusiastic words, Sonnet heard something in Daisy’s tone. “You sound funny,” said Sonnet. “What’s up? Is Charlie doing any better in school?” Daisy had the most adorable son, but the kid was having a hard time with school this year.
“It’s a process,” Daisy said. “So hard to see him struggle, but we’re working on it. It’s just… Hey, have you talked to your mom today?”
“I tried calling her but she didn’t pick up. She never picks up. Why do you ask?”
“Oh. You should call her. She…”
“God, is Max in trouble again?” Daisy’s younger brother, now in college, had always been something of a challenge.
“It’s just…call, okay?”
“Don’t be going all cryptic on me. I—”
“Hey, you’re breaking up.”
“Oh, you big faker—”
“Sorry. Can’t hear. And I need to check on Charlie—”
The line went dead. Sonnet instantly tried her mother again, and then the Inn at Willow Lake, but was told Nina was out. Frustrated, she glared down at her phone. There was Zach Alger’s name, at the top of the contact list. Prior to the night of Daisy’s wedding, he would have been one of the first people she would call with her news, good or bad. That had all changed, though. She’d never call him again, not after that glorious, sweet, impossible mistake she’d made in the boathouse six months before.
Stop. It was a known fact that ruminating on regrettable past events was an unhealthy habit. Better by far to accept what had happened, set it aside and move on. Ruminating kept the incident alive in one’s head, meaning the hurt, anger, humiliation and regrets felt like fresh wounds, even after time had passed.
Sonnet knew these things. She’d read the self-help books. She’d sat through college courses in human psychology. She knew the drill. Knew how to protect her own heart. Therefore, it was disconcerting to realize she hadn’t been able to push past what she’d come to refer to in her head as the Zach incident.
Having sex with him had been a moment of madness. The sex had been outstanding, but she couldn’t let herself dwell on that. In his arms, she’d felt protected and adored and special…and she couldn’t think about that, either. Because no matter what sort of crazy connection they’d found that night, there was no chance for a romantic relationship for the two of them, and they both knew it. The fellowship and her career were just too important to her; she couldn’t compromise everything she’d worked for just because skinny little Zach Alger had morphed into a sex god.
Particularly in light of what had happened after. The humiliation still made her cringe. After their mad lovemaking, they’d been lounging on the bench seat of the boat, speechless with the lush saturation of sexual fulfillment. Finally, Zach had tried to say something. “That was…that…God, Sonnet.”
