Kris nodded, accepting the challenge. A few new bolts, nice and tight. A good sanding for the seats. An overnight vinegar bath for the rusty chains.
What else you got?
Behind the deck, tallgrass rippled like the tails of irritated cats.
A weed whacker. Yes, she thought, imagining the catharsis she would feel slicing through the tallgrass like the grim reaper.
She imagined it all cut down, and in her mind, the backyard revealed itself. At the bottom of the back steps, a line of stones wove a crooked path away from the house and through the overgrowth until they disappeared over the slope’s edge. The stones became stairs, carved into the side of the slope, making for an easy descent down to the shore. The white sliver of a wood dock stretched out over the water. She remembered sitting on the shore as a child and watching her father, shirtless in ripped jean shorts, as he sank the first piling.
And then it became more than a memory. She could see it. The place beyond the weeds. An expanse of sun-kissed water.
The lake.
Or at least their section of it. Their lake house was perched on a bluff overlooking one of several coves pressed like thumbprints into the earth around the outer edge of Lost Lake. It was easy to think this was the entirety of the lake; this cove alone was nearly a quarter of a mile across and twice that in length. But a glance to the far end of the cove revealed an even greater body of water stretching out for what seemed like forever. The tiny gray dots of fishing boats bobbed out there, disturbed periodically by an arrogant speedboat pulling a water-skier behind it.
“We should go into town,” she realized suddenly. “We need groceries.” She nodded toward an ancient charcoal grill in one corner of the deck. Silky strands of spiderweb zigzagged between its grimy legs. “We can get some things to grill.”
Sadie shot a look at the grill.
Kris smiled and gave Sadie’s shoulder a gentle pinch. “We’ll clean it first. We’ll clean everything.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A LITTLE OVER a mile after the intersection of River Road and Center Street, the first building appeared: Hope Church, a simple square chapel with white wood siding, pale blue shutters, and a small bell tower atop its steeply pitched roof.
Soon after was a house, then another, and another, until Center Street—technically Kansas Highway 44—became an official part of the town, lined on both sides by well-maintained one-story homes and lush trees shading redbrick sidewalks. In more than one yard, American flags flapped gently atop metal poles, their colors faded by the sun, their edges frayed by the wind.
Cross streets began to intersect the main road, all named after local trees. Elm Street. Oak Street. Walnut Street. Surprisingly, Pacington seemed to have avoided the economic hardships that plagued nearby communities. There was not a brick out of place on the sidewalk, not a single overgrown lawn, not the slightest hint of a pothole along Center Street. Here in the river basin between the gypsum hills, Pacington was untouched by the outside world. Kris loosened her grip on the steering wheel and sank back slightly in her seat. She breathed in a lungful of artificially cooled air and slowly exhaled, feeling her tense muscles relax, just a bit. The condition of the lake house may have been a shock to her system, but at least the town was as she remembered it. Maybe there was hope after all.
They needed cleaning supplies. There was no way she was going to move her daughter into that house until they had at least removed the grime from the kitchen, swept the spiderwebs from the rafters, and wiped the dust from every reachable surface. Only then would she begin to unpack the things they had brought with them from Black Ridge.
But there was something more pressing, as their growling stomachs had abruptly reminded them: they needed food. They hadn’t enjoyed a real sit-down meal since stopping for dinner at an Applebee’s outside Pueblo the night before. Sadie wasn’t eating much these days, but Kris hoped the change of scenery would at least inspire her to pick at a short stack of pancakes or nibble on a few strips of bacon. Regardless, Kris required coffee—a lot of coffee—if she hoped to get through an afternoon of scrubbing floors and counters.
At Sycamore Street, the residential neighborhoods abruptly ended, giving way to, as the ornate sign at the corner of Sycamore and Center proclaimed: “Historic Downtown Pacington.” It was true, the history of the town was on full display—three and a half blocks of buildings constructed in the late 1800s, each a different shade of brick and stone, each with its own unique cornice above rows of tall, narrow windows. Streetlights designed to look like nineteenth-century gas lamps rose elegantly over the sidewalks. Even the names of the businesses—Patty’s Plate, the Daily Grind, You Old Sew and Sew, the Dairy Godmother, the Book Nook—harkened back to a simpler time.
Kris pulled into an open parking spot in front of Patty’s, with its yellow painted brick and forest-green window frames, sliding the Jeep between two dented and rusted pickup trucks. Both trucks had a gun rack in the back windows, one displaying a modern pump-action shotgun with a faux wood stock and the other a tarnished rifle that looked like it would have been more at home in Wyatt Earp’s saddlebag. Inside the first truck, a rosary hung from the rearview mirror.
She reached for the door handle of the restaurant, and then paused, looking back over her shoulder. Sadie had not moved.
“We’ll get breakfast, stop by the market, and then you can help me clean the house. That sounds fun, doesn’t it? Helping Mommy clean?”
Kris offered a playful smile, but Sadie’s expression remained unchanged—furrowed brow, downcast eyes, pursed lips. Without a word, she unbuckled her seat belt, slid out of her booster seat, and opened the rear passenger-side door. Kris watched as her daughter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting to be led wherever her mother wanted to go.
Because you dragged her here, that echoing voice taunted from her mind’s abyss.
For her own good, Kris told herself.
Against her will, the voice insisted.
She’s eight, Kris responded coldly. I am her will.
There was no reply. Shadow Kris had retreated to a darker corner.
Kris sighed, suddenly feeling as though the gravity holding her firmly to the ground had doubled. It was pulling her down, as if invisible vines had wrapped around her wrists, her biceps, her ankles. She was bombarded by the realization that she had not slept in over twenty-four hours and probably wouldn’t sleep for at least another twelve thanks to the decrepit state of the house.
“Shake it off,” she whispered to herself. She did exactly this, giving her arms and legs a small shake to free them from the phantom bindings. She made a deal with herself: push through the rest of the day, get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she could relax. She knew this was bullshit, but for the moment it worked its magic, the vines loosening, the force pulling her down easing.
Okay, she thought. Okay. One step at a time.
She crossed around the hood of the Jeep to where Sadie stood. She took her daughter’s hand, and together they moved forward.
The moment they entered Patty’s, Kris was yanked off her feet and whisked back to her childhood: the smell of salty bacon and sweet, syrupy waffles; the rustic country décor featuring nursery rhyme scenes hand-painted on crosscut slices of pine; the mismatched tables and chairs; the checkered plastic tablecloths, quickly wiped down with tattered rags by waitresses as old and comforting as the furniture.