In Your Dreams

Then again, he’d had that same thought hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.

None of that ever happened, but the instinct—to watch over, pay attention, be alert, be ready—was a reflex. His rational brain knew how unlikely it was that what he feared and watched for would come to pass.

But he looked up the hill anyway. In another few seconds, he’d be able to see the car as it came down the curve on Lake Shore Road, thirty feet up the hill from Keuka.

Later, when people heard about the accident, how Jack of all people happened to be there at that exact moment, they said the usual things—everything happens for a reason, it was a miracle, God works in mysterious ways.

To Jack, however, it was more of a statistics thing. All these years not being there had to end eventually.

Almost automatically, he processed what might happen: the car swerving off the road as the driver tried to handle the curving road, the vehicle rolling over and over into Blue Heron’s chardonnay vines, which were closest to the road. Or the car would smash into the same telephone pole he himself had scraped when he was sixteen.

Worse, the car would hit the big maple at the base of the entrance to Blue Heron. The driver was a teenage boy, Jack guessed, because there was no one on earth who believed in his driving skill and immortality more than a teenage boy.

Hopefully, everyone in the car was wearing a seat belt. The windows would be closed, since it was January, so no one would be thrown from the car. Going that fast, though, even with air bags...

The engine screamed with a downshift as the hotdogging kid played with his life.

And here it was. The screech of brakes applied too late. Jack tensed for the crunch of metal as the car rolled or hit a tree, the subsequent, constant blare of a horn.

The sound came, but it wasn’t what Jack expected.

Instead, there was a sharp, oddly clean noise, and Jack felt his mouth drop open as the car burst through the guardrail, snapping off the topmost branches of the hillside trees. It sailed over his head, its engine still revving, tires spinning. Jack had a detailed view of the chassis.

And then there was a tremendous whoosh as the car hit the water nose-first—the lake wasn’t frozen; it was too deep for that. There was a massive slosh, and a crow screeched from a tree and Jack saw the white, terrified faces of two boys. Yep, teenagers.

The car was a silver coupe. An Audi. The nose started to sink almost immediately, the headlights shining down into the lake. The sky was red and purple, helluva sunset, his boots were off and he was diving. He much would’ve preferred to do this in August, and holy mother of God, the water was cold.

For a second, the frigid shock slammed all other thoughts from his head as every muscle in his body contracted in shock even as he was cutting through the water (thank you, United States Navy; they’d trained him to act first and think later).

His bones already hurt from the cold.

The boys were screaming, their voices muffled by the closed windows. Damn. The best thing would’ve been if the windows were already open, giving them an exit. One boy was pounding it with his fist. Pointless, since that wouldn’t break anything except a bone in his hand. The electrical must’ve already gone out, if they couldn’t get the windows down by pushing the button. Or they were just panicking and not thinking of it.

Now the boy was hitting the door with his shoulder. Also pointless with several tons of water pressing against the doors. No, they’d have to break the windows and get out that way, or let enough water in to equalize the pressure and then open the door.

But they don’t teach that in high school, and, yes, Jack thought he recognized one of the boys as a classmate of his niece, Abby. Seniors or thereabouts.

The thoughts shot through his head rapid-fire.

The water would be flooding in through the front of the car.

They maybe had five minutes before the car was submerged. Maybe eight, but that’d be pushing it. That is, eight for hypothermia. Obviously less time if they couldn’t breathe.

Jack’s arms already felt heavy and dead. Not good. No, strike that, no negative thoughts permitted. Just move. He made it to the car, which was now halfway into the lake at a forty-five degree angle, the water up to the middle of the windows. Four boys, two in front, two in back, one with blood on his face. The driver was slumped over the wheel.

“Help us! Help!” the bleeding boy pleaded, and it wasn’t like Jack wasn’t trying.

He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the window breaker he had on his key chain. Ten bucks on Amazon, and not only did he have one, but every member of his family did, too. His dexterity was off, thanks to the cold, his fingers clumsy and slow.

One of the kids had his iPhone out. Good. Help would be on the way. Then again, by the time the fire department got here, the boys would be drowned. They’d all drown, Jack included, or die of hypothermia. How many minutes had he been in the water? One? Two?

The car was slipping deeper.

There. His numb fingers closed around the little device. Pressed it against the window, his hands shaking hard, and it slipped right off.

“Hurry! Hurry!” the bleeding boy screamed.

“You can do this,” said another, oddly calm, voice muffled behind the glass.

Jack positioned the tool again, pushed hard and the window shattered, water rushing in.

The car immediately began sinking faster, but already, one boy was wriggling through the window. Jack grabbed the collar of his coat and hauled him out. Did the same with the second, the calm one, Sam Miller, that was his name. “Get to the dock,” he said. They were already swimming. They’d make it.

The driver, on the other hand, wasn’t moving, which was not good, and the bleeding boy was screaming. Should’ve been out by now.

The tail of the car slipped underwater with a gurgling sound.

And then it was quiet.

Jack grabbed on to the roof and went with the car, the water gripping his face and head with a fist of ice. Through the window, the boy grabbed on to his arms. Jack pulled him free, but it was hard, the car was tipping in the water, nose down, the headlights shining into the eerie dark water.

The boy was free, and Jack kicked his numb legs, hoping they were moving upward. His lungs burned; the rest of him was dead. Then they surfaced, and the air was so cold it hurt, but damn. The kid choked and gasped, still clutching Jack.

“Relax and kick,” Jack said, his lips hard with the cold, his breath clouding the air. The boy just grabbed Jack harder, so Jack looped his arm around the boy’s neck and swam.

The dock was sixteen, twenty feet away, maybe. He could make it.

How many minutes had it been? Three? Five? More?

Sam was on the ladder of the dock, reaching out for them. He and the other boy grabbed their friend by the arm, silent with shock and shivering with cold.

Jack was already swimming away.

“I can help!” Sam called.

“Stay there,” Jack ordered.

He was also shivering. No, shuddering. This wasn’t good. This was Hypothermia: Stop Fucking Around edition.

Still...what was the word? Still...survivable.

The last boy, the driver—probably dead. Drowned, if not killed on impact. Jack himself would probably...what did they call it? Oh, yeah. Die trying.

It was getting hard to think. Advanced hypothermia.

So quiet now, the red sky above, the frigid water all around.

The cold didn’t hurt so much.

The car’s headlights were still on. Jack wasn’t sure why.

A deep breath, a hard exhale, a deeper breath, and he was under again, swimming as hard as he could and still too slowly.

The car rested on the driver’s side on the bottom of the lake. Ten feet deep, give or take. A fish swam in front of the headlights, then was gone into the darkness.

Jack tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked or jammed. But the window was smashed. The dashboard was still lit up. The clock said 4:41.

He reached in for the driver, who looked oddly peaceful, arms drifting, hair waving in the current. Eyes closed. Almost certainly dead. Not wearing a seat belt, a huge gash visible on his forehead, black against the white of his skin, blood trickling up in a dark, lazy swirl.

No bubbles, meaning he wasn’t breathing.

Jack reached for the boy’s arm and pulled.

The kid didn’t budge.

Soon Jack would have to surface again or die down here. Which maybe wouldn’t be so bad. Nice that he could see. Deep blue all around.

He pulled again. A little movement now, but Jack’s chest was working, wanting to breathe, and if he didn’t go up now, now, he’d drown, navy or no navy.

His niece was eighteen, too.

He’d want someone to try one more time for Abby.

He pulled as hard as he could, bracing his legs against the car, all the air in his lungs leaving in a bubbling rush.

And then they were moving, heading up, and how they were doing it, Jack didn’t know because he couldn’t think anymore, but they were making it, a centimeter at a time, and then there was the sky, red and purple and violently beautiful, and full of air, like icy needles in his lungs, but so, so good, the sound of his gasps tearing through the cold.

His gasps. Not the kid’s.

He held on to the boy and tried to keep going. It wasn’t pretty. It was hard and sloppy and weak.

A siren screamed, then another. Police and firefighters, on their way.

The dock was still so far away. Jack closed his eyes, his head slipping again under the water. Shit. Kicked harder, his legs really just flailing now.

The boy was still and quiet. No breath, no coughing. No resistance.

Jack’s labored panting rasped in and out of his aching lungs.

The water splashed, over and over, a hopeless, wet sound as his arm smacked lifelessly in a sorry imitation of swimming. He held on to the boy with his other arm, and God, it was hard.

Still not there. Still not there. In between each stroke, Jack’s face dipped a little lower in the water. He choked on some water.

Still not there.

Then someone grabbed his arm. Sam Miller, clinging to the dock ladder, reaching out for him. God bless Sam Miller.

The other boys reached down and grabbed on to their unconscious (dead) friend, hauling him up the ladder, ice in their hair now. One of the boys was sobbing.

Sam reached down for Jack, pulling him up, which was good because Jack was not going to be able to make it out himself. Water streamed off him, and he fell onto his knees. “On his side,” he managed, and they obeyed, turning the limp boy onto his left.

“Oh, shit, Josh,” the sobbing boy said. “Josh, please.”

Josh. Right. Josh Deiner. A troublemaker.

It was now too dark to see if any water had come out of Josh’s mouth, up from his lungs. Jack pushed him on his back and started chest compressions. He couldn’t feel his hands, but this was a brutish job, just push, push, push, elbows locked, fast and hard.

The sirens were louder.

Sam breathed into Josh’s mouth.

One...two...three...four...five...

God, he was tired.

And then there were red-and-blue flashes, and footsteps thudded down the dock.

“Jack, we got this,” said a voice. Levi. Emmaline Neal was there, too, another cop, a good hockey player. They knelt down and took over compressions.

There was a clattering, and Jessica Dunn and Gerard Chartier were running with the stretcher.

“Dry him off!” someone ordered. “He has to be dry if we’re gonna shock him.”

There was a whole crowd now. The three boys were being wrapped in blankets and hustled away, their faces white in the gloom.

The sun was still setting. How could that be? It seemed as though hours had passed.

Someone put a blanket around Jack, too, then led him down the dock, arm around his waist, holding him when he staggered. The three boys climbed into the back of one of the town’s two ambulances.

The other would be for Josh.

“Let’s get you out of the cold,” said the person at his side. It was Emmaline. Huh. He thought she was back with Josh. She opened the door of her cruiser and gently pushed him in.

“Is he dead?” Jack asked.

She glanced down the dock. “He’s not dead till he’s warm and dead. You know that. Let’s worry about you right now, okay?”

She was about to close the door when Sam Miller came over. His face was ruddy now—he was warming up. “You saved us,” he said, his voice cracking. “You saved us all.”

But Jack hadn’t, because Josh Deiner’s body was still on the dock, Levi and Gerard on their knees next to him as if in prayer.

* * *

THE MEDIA CALLED IT the Midwinter Miracle, going for alliteration over accuracy. And for a few days, it was big news. Anderson Cooper, among others, came to town and interviewed the three boys—Sam Miller, Garrett Baines and Nick Bankowski, who were tremulous and fine, save for a broken nose on Nick. Their parents wept and called Jack a hero, an angel, the hand of God. A former navy SEAL was interviewed and attested that it was a “helluva rescue.”

As police spokesperson, Levi gave a statement, as well, and when Anderson asked if Jack was indeed his brother-in-law, Levi said, yes, he was. When asked to characterize Jack, Levi said, “He’s a good guy.” That was it, and Jack was grateful.

He himself was asked for interviews by fifty-seven media outlets. He didn’t give any.

That night in the E.R., Jack’s father hugged him for a long, long time. Pops’s voice broke as he told Jack how proud he was. His sisters fussed over him and his niece wept, and his nephew got teary-eyed, as well. Mrs. Johnson made him his favorite dinners every night for the next week, as did his grandmother, not to be outdone. So there was a lot of food. Jack tried to eat it.

Josh Deiner was unavailable for comment, since he was in a coma. There was brain damage. He was on a ventilator.

At night, when Jack couldn’t sleep, it was Josh Deiner’s still, limp body he saw, lying on the wooden dock, ice forming on his eyelids since there was no heartbeat to keep him warm. The face of Josh’s girlfriend as she sobbed on Anderson Cooper’s shoulder. And the words Josh’s mother had spat at him in the E.R. ran through his brain, over and over and over.

You left him for last. The one who needed you the most, and you left him for last.

CHAPTER SIX

EMMALINE SAT IN front of the computer with Carol Robinson, who tapped the screen. “That one’s cute. He has beautiful eyes.”

It was true. “Yeah, but look. Aggravated assault.”

“That rules him out?”

“It does, Carol.”

“You’re so fussy. All right, who’s next?”

They both flinched at the next photo—no teeth.

“This is so much fun,” Carol said. “So much more interesting than real estate. Oh, that one’s a hottie.”

Emmaline clicked for more information. “Currently in federal prison. Damn! All the good-looking ones are behind bars.”

“What are you doing?” Levi asked. Both women glanced at him, then looked back at the screen.

“We’re looking for a man for Em to take to the wedding,” Carol said.

“Did you input that report like I asked you to?”

“Not yet,” Carol said blithely. “And don’t give me that look, Levi. I changed your diapers.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But I could have. I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“Grandmother, even.”

“How dare you!”

Levi gave them a tolerant look. “Em? Is Manningsport so free of crime that you have time for this?”

“It’s after five, and yes,” Emmaline pointed out. “This hellish wedding is in eight days, and I still don’t—”

“Feel free to keep your personal life private, Em,” he said. “Like I do.”

“Yeah, right. You call Faith twenty times a day—”

“I call Faith three or four times a day, as she’s my wife and expecting a baby and it’s the middle of winter and I want to make sure she—”

“This one! This one,” Carol exclaimed. “If you don’t go out with him, I will.”

Em looked. Yep, the guy was gorgeous, all black hair and green eyes opened a trifle too wide.

“He looks a little psychotic,” Em said.

“Yeah, well, who looks good in a mug shot?” Carol asked. “Don’t be so picky. Even Robert Downey Jr. didn’t look so hot, and please. That man could be eating a can of cat food and I’d still want to sleep with him.”

“Inappropriate talk for the workplace, Carol,” Levi said. “Besides, Officer Neal, I thought my brother-in-law was going with you.”

“Who? Jack? No.”

“Faith said she was asking.”

“Why?” Emmaline yelped. “How did she even know?”

Levi gave her a martyred look. “It was announced at O’Rourke’s the other night. And it’s all you talk about.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Sure it is. Also, I may have mentioned it in the hope that you’d get your mind back on work.”

“Oh, please. Who went on seven calls yesterday, huh? It wasn’t Everett, let me tell you, Chief.” Levi raised an eyebrow and waited. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t want to go with Jack.”

“Why not?” Carol asked. “I’d go with Jack. Jack’s adorable. Those eyes!”

“Thanks, Carol,” came a new voice, and, shit, it was Jack himself. “Hey, Em.”

“Hi,” she grumbled.

Sure, he spoke to her. Of course he did. He was nice. They played hockey together (along with ten or twelve other people). When he came into the station, which he did every once in a while to talk to Levi, he always said hello (and goodbye). If she saw him at O’Rourke’s he’d say hello (and goodbye).

And, of course, the day of the Midwinter Miracle, he’d asked if Josh was dead.

But now, as her potential date, it was different.

Jack folded his arms and looked down at her. “Faith said you were looking for a date for a wedding.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t just sit there like a lump,” Carol hissed. “Smile at him. Who else are you going to take? A convict?”

“You didn’t have a problem with that ten seconds ago.”

“Smile!”

Emmaline tried to obey. Carol waited. Levi waited. Jack waited.

Had she mentioned he was extremely gorgeous?

“Okay,” Em said. “Maybe we could discuss this over a beer.”

“Sure.”

“Meet you at O’Rourke’s around six?” That way she could get home, walk the puppy and give herself a pep talk.

“Sounds good,” he said. “See you, guys.”

“Go!” Carol said. “Change into something feminine. Wear perfume. Men love that. Don’t they, Levi?”

Emmaline left, glad for the brief drive home, which gave her time to think. She rolled down the window and let the frigid air cool her cheeks.

Yeah, fine. She’d take Jack. Of course she would. When a Greek god said he’d go to a wedding with you, a wedding where you desperately needed to appear over the groom, you didn’t say no.

Even if it meant the loss of your dignity. Even if this was one cash transaction short of prostitution. The truth was, she’d rather take a stranger, because, for some reason, that seemed like it’d be easier to tolerate than a person who was so...nice. Who might (perish the thought) pity her.

She wondered why Jack was game. He sure as hell never asked her out. She wasn’t even sure he knew she was female, for all the interest he’d ever shown before.

But the day she’d moved back to Manningsport, her heart raw and scraped by Kevin, a floating, terrified feeling enveloped her as she lugged boxes into her little house. The whole thing was surreal. Could this really be happening? She was moving here? Instead of getting married? It had been a wet day in April, cold rain pelting her, mocking the brave little pink buds on Nana’s magnolia, and Em felt like she’d never be warm again. She’d never have Kevin next to her in bed again.

It was shocking.

No crying, she told herself. Just buck up. Big deal. You were dumped. Happens all the time.

Didn’t stop the hot tears from sliding down her cheeks.

Then a pickup truck stopped, and a man got out.

“Need some help?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a box and carried it inside the little bungalow. “I’m Jack Holland,” he said. “My family owns Blue Heron Vineyard.”

“Emmaline Neal,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Welcome to town.” He smiled, kindly ignoring her tears (because if he was a serial killer, he wouldn’t care about that—he’d just kill her and wouldn’t that serve Kevin right), and went back to her Subaru for another box.

She remembered the Hollands; she’d been a year ahead of Faith in school. Jack probably wasn’t a serial killer. She would’ve told him that she’d lived here for four years, that she once played at his house as a kid. But heartbreak was swallowing her whole, and it was all she could do not to sob. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in Michigan with the love of her life. Her wedding was supposed to be in seven weeks.

Jack and she unloaded the rest of the boxes in silence. “Take care,” he said, then drove off.

Every time she saw him from then on, Jack Holland said hello. She briefly entertained a revenge fantasy in which he fell for her, and Kevin would be wild with jealousy and dump that horrible Naomi. But no. Jack got engaged shortly after Em moved to town, and then married.

He stayed nice. His wife was very friendly, too; Jack introduced them once at O’Rourke’s. Hadley seemed to be the epitome of girlie-girl—she bought foamy coffee drinks, always wore a skirt or dress. When she was in O’Rourke’s she drank pink cocktails and nibbled lettuce leaves.

The town gossip said she wasn’t good enough for Jack.

Turned out, it was true. When his marriage imploded, the gossip machine ran red-hot. Hadley had cheated on him, people said. Took up with the stockbroker who owned Dandelion Hill, who died (in the saddle, according to the rumors) shortly thereafter.

Even so, Jack stayed Mr. Nice Guy. Didn’t get drunk, didn’t pick up the many women who hit on him, didn’t put his fist through a window.

As for Em, she just thought he was...nice. And, yes, beautiful. She checked him at hockey one night, a full-body slam, and for a second, they were tangled together, and it had been so long since Kevin, a full year and a half, that Emmaline had forgotten how it felt to be pressed up against a man, even if they were both clad in bulky protective gear and fighting for a puck. Then she was free, sailing down the ice again, wondering if Jack had felt anything, too.

He didn’t. Or if he did, he treated her as romantically as he treated Levi or Jeremy or Gerard, which was to say, nada.

Em walked the dog, smooched his cheeks, fed him and then walked to O’Rourke’s.

This was so embarrassing.

Jack was waiting just outside. “Hey,” he said, opening the door for her.

The pub was about half-full: Colleen was kissing her husband; the Iskins were there, Lorena as loud as ever, Victor silent. The Meerings ignored each other, as usual. Cathy Kennedy and Louise Casco were deep in conversation. There were Bryce and Paulie, arm-wrestling at a table. The Knoxes waved—Em had been out to round up their chickens from the road just that morning.

Emmaline went to a booth in the back and took off her coat. Crap. She’d forgotten to change. Most nights, she went from her uniform to her pj’s. Well, it didn’t matter. Besides, she loved her uniform. Especially her weapon. And Taser.

“Hey, guys. What can I get you?” Hannah O’Rourke asked.

“I’ll have a beer. Cooper’s Cave IPA?” Em said.

“Same for me,” Jack said.

“You got it, kids.” Hannah waltzed away.

Jack didn’t say anything. Smiled at her, which made her stomach hurt. “Um, do you want dinner?” she asked. “I’m buying.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Great,” she said.

Hannah returned with their drinks. “Anything to eat tonight?” she asked.