Stillhouse Lake

  I wasn't trolling for a testimonial, but I got one. Well, some part of me says, quite reasonably, the roof still has to get fixed.

  "Thanks," I tell Javier. He waves his spoon at me to dismiss that.

  "Us outsiders got to look out for each other," he tells me. And I think he believes it . . . that he and I are the same kind of outsiders. We're not, of course. But it's a little comforting to imagine.

  I leave him to his pie and go back to mine--chocolate meringue--just in time, because Lanny and Connor have started shaving bits off the side of the slice and hoping I won't notice. They've already finished theirs.

  "Do not touch the pie," I tell them sternly, which gets me a shared look and eye roll. Lanny licks her fork. "That's a crime."

  Back in the old days, I would use the words hanging offense. I wonder if they've ever noticed that I stopped.

  I eat my pie, and we head back to Stillhouse Lake.

  That afternoon, I take a short walk up the hill to the neat little rustic box of Sam Cade's place and knock. It's 3:00 p.m., which around the lake seems a reasonable time to come calling, and sure enough, I catch him in the cabin.

  Sam seems surprised to see me, but he manages to keep it polite. He hasn't shaved, and the golden stubble on his chin glints in the light. He's got on a lightweight denim shirt, old jeans, and waffle-stomper boots, and he waves me inside as he heads back toward the kitchen I can clearly see over a pass-through counter. "Sorry," he says. "Close it, will you? I've got pancakes to turn."

  "Pancakes?" I echo. "Seriously? At this hour?"

  "Never too late or too early for pancakes. If you don't believe that, you can turn around and go, because we are never going to be friends."

  It's a funny, quirky thing to say, and I find myself laughing while I'm closing the door behind me. The laugh dies as I realize I've stepped inside a cabin with a man I hardly know, and the door is closed, and anything can happen now. Anything.

  I take a quick look around. It's small, and he doesn't have much: a couch, an armchair, a laptop parked on a small wooden desk that fits in the corner. The laptop's lid is up, and the display shows one of those northern lights wavy screensavers. Sam has no television that I can see, but a nice vinyl stereo setup, with an impressive record collection that must be hell to move with. Bookcases on one wall, crammed full. Not the lifestyle I've developed, where nothing is cherished or necessary. I get a real sense of him having . . . a life. Small, self-contained, but real and vital.

  The pancakes smell delicious. I follow him into a small galley kitchen and watch as he teases one loose from the pan and flips it in the air with the showmanship and dexterity of someone who's practiced that move a lot. It's impressive. He puts the pan back on the gas fire and gives me an unguarded smile. "So," he says. "You like blueberry pancakes?"

  "Sure," I say, because I do, not because of the smile. I am immune to the smile. "That offer you made about helping me out with the house--is that still on the table?"

  "Absolutely. I like working with my hands, and that roof needs replacing. We can negotiate a good price."

  "If the blueberry pancakes are your negotiating move, it might not work. I ate pie today."

  "I'll take my chances." He watches the pancake that's on the fire and removes it when it's perfectly toasted. It gets added to a pile of three already done, and he hands me the plate.

  "No, no, you made those for you!"

  "And I'll make some more. Go on, eat. They'll just get cold while I make the next set."

  I use the butter and syrup set out on the table, and when he says it's fine, I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot that's on the warmer. It's strong, and I add a swirl of sugar.

  I'm halfway through the pancakes--and damn they are warm, fluffy, and tasty, with sweet/tart bursts of flavor from the fresh blueberries--when he pulls up a chair across from me and gets his own coffee. "They're okay?" he asks.

  I swallow the bite I've taken and say, "Where the hell did you learn to cook? These are amazing."

  He shrugs. "My mom taught me. I was the oldest, and she needed the help." Something comes across his face when he says that, but he's looking down at the pancakes, and I can't tell if it's wistfulness, or a sign that he misses her, or something else entirely.

  Then the moment's gone, and he digs in with real appetite.

  Works with his hands, loves to cook, decent to look at . . . I start to wonder why he's on his own out here at the lake. But then, not everybody conforms to the love/marriage/baby life path. I don't regret my kids. I only regret the marriage that produced them. Still, I can understand the lonely, solitary life better than most.

  And how harshly others can judge it.

  We eat in companionable silence for the most part, though he asks me about the budget for the roof and discusses the possibility of putting a nice deck on the back of the house, which is something I've been thinking of in my rich fantasy life. It's a big step--not just repairing the house, but actually improving it. It sounds suspiciously like putting down real roots. We haggle easily over the roof repair pricing, and I balk at the deck.

  Commitment is not my strong suit. Nor, I suspect, is it Sam Cade's, because when I ask how long he's going to be around, he says, "Not sure. My lease is up in November. I might be heading on. Depends on how I feel. I like the place, though, so we'll see."

  I wonder if he's including me in the place. I scan him for signs of flirting, but I don't read any. He seems like a human dealing with a human, not a man sniffing around after a maybe-available woman. Good. I'm not looking for a relationship, and I can't stand pickup artists.

  I finish my pancakes before him and, without asking, take my sticky plate and fork and cup to the sink, where I hand-wash them squeaky clean and put them on the drain board. There's no automatic dishwasher. He doesn't say anything until I reach for the cooled pan and the batter bowl.

  "No need," he says. "I'll take care of that, but thanks."

  I take him at his word and turn to look at him as I dry my hands on a lemon-yellow dishtowel. He seems perfectly at ease, focused on his pancakes, which are on the verge of disappearing.

  I say, "What are you really doing here, Sam?"

  He arrests the motion of his fork and leaves the pancake bite dripping syrup in the air for a few seconds, then deliberately finishes the journey to his mouth. He chews, swallows, takes a deep swig of coffee, and then puts his fork down to push back in his chair and meet my gaze.

  He looks honest. And a little pissed.

  "Writing. A. Book. I think the question is, what are you?" he asks me. "Because damn if I don't think you've got a hell of a lot of secrets, Ms. Proctor. And maybe I shouldn't get involved, even if it's just climbing all over your roof for money. Your neighbors don't know much about you, you know. Old Mr. Claremont 'round the lake, he says you're skittish. A little standoffish. I can't say I disagree with him, even if you did sit like a good guest and eat my pancakes and make decent conversation."

  His response, I think, is a marvel of deflection. I feel defensive, when just an instant ago I was on offense, hoping to score some kind of telling reaction in the event that Sam Cade isn't who he claims to be. Instead, he's turned the mirror on me and put me on my back foot, and I . . . admire that. Don't trust it, per se, but oddly enough I give him points for it.

  I'm almost amused as I say, "Oh, I'm standoffish, all right. And as to why I'm here, I guess it's none of your business, Mr. Cade."

  "Then let's just keep our mysteries, Ms. Proctor." He scrapes up some syrup and sucks it off the fork, then carries his dishes toward the sink. "Excuse me."

  I step aside. He washes things with efficient motions, takes on the batter bowl and the pan and spatula. I let the running water fill the silence, cross my arms, and wait until he shuts the tap off, slots items in the drain board, and picks up the dish towel to dry off. Then I say, "Fair enough. I'll see you tomorrow about the roof. Nine in the morning all right?"

  His expression, still calm and mobile and u
nreadable, doesn't shift much when he smiles. "Sure," he says. "Nine it is. Cash the end of every day until I'm done?"

  "Sure."

  I nod. He doesn't make an effort to shake my hand, so I don't offer, and I let myself out. I walk down the steps of his cabin and pause on the downhill winding path to take in a slow breath of thick lake air. It's muggy and heavy out here in the slow Tennessee heat. When I let my breath out, I still smell the pancakes.

  He really is an amazing cook.

  The kids only have another week of school left, which brings with it the stress of last-minute tests. Connor stresses, that is. Lanny doesn't. I see them off on the bus at 8:00 a.m., and by nine I've made some coffee and put out a box of store-bought pastries, since I can't hope to compete with Cade's pancakes. He knocks promptly on the hour, and I let him in for coffee and crullers, and we work out what he'll need to do the repairs. He takes cash up front to get supplies, and heads back up to his cabin; I see him go past fifteen minutes later in an old but powerfully built pickup whose primary color is Bondo gray, with patches of faded green.

  I check the Sicko Patrol while he's gone. Nothing new presents itself. I count the number of posts, and it's down again . . . I keep a frequency chart in Excel, tracking the interest our names have online, and I'm pleased to find that as Melvin's atrocities are outdone by others--by lust killers, spree killers, fanatics with a cause, jihadists--some of our stalkers seem to be losing interest. I hate to use the phrase getting a life, but it's possible they are. That they're moving on.

  Maybe, someday, we can, too. It's a faint hope, but any hope at all is a new feeling for me.

  Cade returns just as I'm printing off the slender list of new stuff and filing it away; I have to leave a couple queued to the printer, which always worries me, but there's no choice. I close and lock my office door and go out to meet him.

  He's already setting up a ladder against the roof, making sure it's safely anchored in the grass. He's got a load of tar paper, shingles, and a tool belt that he's securing around his waist, dangling tack hammers and bags of nails. He's even got a battered trucker hat on to keep the sun off, and a bandanna trailing out the back to cover his neck.

  "Here." I hand him a closed aluminum water bottle with a carabiner clip. "Ice water. You need any help?"

  "Nope," he says, looking up at the rise. "I should be able to get this side finished before dark. I'll take a break around one."

  "I'll have lunch for you," I tell him. "Then . . . I'll leave you to it?"

  "Sounds good." He clips the water bottle to his belt and picks up the first load, which he's fitted with a rope carry that he fits over his shoulders like a bulky backpack. I hold the ladder as he swarms up it, moving as if he's carrying a load of feathers, and step back to make sure he's surefooted up there. He is. The pitch of the roof hardly seems to faze him at all.

  Sam waves, and I wave back, and as I turn to go back inside I see a police car cruising by, moving slow with tires crunching gravel. It's driven by Officer Graham, who nods to me when I lift a hand in greeting and speeds up to head up toward the Johansens' cutoff, toward where his place sits farther back. I remember that he sort of half invited me to join him one evening for shooting practice, but I also think about the fact he's going to have his kids with him . . . and I don't want to bring mine. So I make myself a mental promise to drop by with a tin of cookies or something that makes me seem more . . . peaceful. But not interested.

  By lunchtime, I've completed two client jobs and posted for more work; one pays by the time I've made the spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and Sam Cade comes down to eat with me over the small dinner table; the other client pays by the end of the day, which is a welcome change. I have to chase a lot of payments. The sound of Cade up on the roof is weirdly comforting once I get used to it.

  I'm a little surprised when I hear the alarm sound its sharp repeated warning beeps, and the punching of the code to stop it. "We're home!" yells Lanny from down the hall. "Don't shoot!"

  "That was mean," Connor tells her, and then I hear an oof, as if she's thrown a sharp elbow at him. "It was!"

  "Shut up, Squirtle. Don't you have nerd things to do?"

  I leave the office and head down to greet them; Connor pushes by me without saying a word, face dark, and slams the door of his room firmly. Lanny shrugs when I meet halfway to her room. "Sensitive," she says. "What? It's my fault?"

  "Squirtle?"

  "It's a Pokemon. They're kind of adorable."

  "I know it's a Pokemon," I tell her. "Why are you calling him that?"

  "Because he reminds me of one, with his hard shell and soft underbelly." It's a nonanswer, and she shrugs, all loose shoulders and rolling eyes. "He's just pissed because he blew his test--"

  "I got a B!" Connor shouts through the door. Lanny raises one eyebrow in a sharp arc. I wonder if she's practiced that in front of a mirror.

  "See? He got a B. Clearly he's losing his edge."

  "Enough," I say sharply, and as if to punctuate it, there are three percussive raps on the wood overhead. Lanny yelps, and I realize that Cade is now working at the back of the house, and she and Connor wouldn't have seen him from the front as they came in.

  "It's all right," I tell them, as Connor throws open his door, eyes gone wide and blank with panic. "That's just Mr. Cade. He's on the roof replacing shingles."

  Lanny draws in a deep breath and shakes her head. She pushes past me to go into her room.

  Connor, on the other hand, blinks and shifts to something quite different: interest. "Cool. Can I go help him?"

  I consider that. I consider the risk of my son tumbling off the edge of a roof, falling off a ladder . . . and then I weigh that against the hunger I see in him. The need to be around an adult male, one who can show him things I can't. Who can represent something other than the pain, fear, and horror his father does now. Is it smart? Probably not. But it's right.

  I swallow all my worry and force a smile as I say, "Sure."

  I won't lie, I spend the next few hours outside, clearing up all the mess that Cade and Connor are cheerfully throwing down and watching for any sign that my son might get overconfident, overbalance, and get himself hurt--or worse.

  But he's fine. Nimble, well balanced, having the time of his life as Cade shows him the science of how to create a solid, overlapping roof pattern. It heals me a little inside to see the fierce, real smiles that Connor flashes, and the genuine pleasure he's taking in doing the work. This, I think. This is a day he will remember: a good day. It's one of those memories that will pave the way to better things for him.

  I hate it, just a little, that I'm not the one to share in it directly. My son doesn't look at me with the same hero worship, and I think he never will. What we have is real love, but real love is messy and complicated. How can it not be, with our history?

  It's easy for him to be with Sam Cade, and for that, I'm grateful. I shut up, clean up, and while the heat's a bit much for me, the work's good and healthy.

  We eat dinner together around the table, though Cade insists he's not fit for company as is; Lanny has taken over the kitchen and sternly commands him to go home, get cleaned up, and come back, and I can tell he's amused by having this fierce goth child ordering him around while wearing a flowered apron. He leaves and returns, freshly showered. His hair's still damp and clinging to his neck, but he's in a clean shirt and jeans. Deck shoes, this time.

  Lanny has made lasagna, and we dig in with real hunger, the four of us; it's delicious, layered with explosions of flavors, all fresh except for the pasta, which she's conceded to buy from the store. Connor is incredibly voluble about all that he's learned today . . . not at school, but how to hammer in a nail straight with one sharp blow, how to line up shingles, how to keep your balance on an incline. Lanny, of course, rolls her eyes, but I can see she's happy to see him in this mood.

  "So Connor did okay," I say when my son takes a breath, and Sam, his mouth full of lasagna, nods, chews, and swallows.

/>   "Connor's a natural," he says. "Great work today, pal." He offers a hand, and Connor high-fives it. "Next time, we tackle the other side. Barring wind or rain, we should be done in a few more days."

  Connor's face falls a little at that. "But--what about the wood? Mom? The wood on the side of the house where it's rotted?"

  "He's right," I say. "We've got some rot. Probably need to replace trim that's gone bad, too."

  "Okay. Three days." Sam forks up another healthy mouthful of lasagna, dangling strings of cheese. "Might be a whole week if you want to spring for that deck on the back."

  "Yes! Mom, please? Can we do the deck?" Connor's look is so earnest that it hits me like a tide, and washes away any last, lingering disquiet I have. I'll still trade Javi for the van, but if I was looking for a reason to stay, it's here. Here in my son's eyes. I've been worrying about his introspection, his solitary nature, his silent anger. For the first time I'm seeing him open up, and it would be cruel and wrong to cut that off purely for a what if.

  "A deck would be nice," I say, and Connor raises both arms in a victory pose. "Sam? Would you mind doing the work late, after Connor gets off school?"

  Sam shrugs. "I don't mind, but it'll go slower. Might take a month if we only put in half days."

  "That's okay," Connor rushes to say. "I only have another week of school. Then we can work all day!"

  Sam Cade lifts his eyebrows and sends me an amused look, and I raise my own and take a bite of my food. "Sure," Sam says. "If your mom says it's okay. But only when she's here."

  Sam's not a stupid man. He knows how touchy I am, how guarded. And he knows a single dude barging into a family is likely to be suspect of many unpleasant things. I can read it in his face that he's well aware, and has no trouble playing by whatever rules I set up.

  I have to admit: it's to his credit.

  Dinner's a complete success, and while the kids are happily clearing up the mess, Sam and I take our beers out to the porch. The heat of the day is finally giving way to a cooling breeze coming off the lake, but the humidity's something I might never quite get used to. The beer delivers a crisp, autumnal note, even though we're not even to deep summer yet. A few boats are skimming the lake as the orange sunset fades out--a four-person sculling craft, a fancy cabin cruiser, and two rowboats. Everyone's heading for shore.