“You’ve known Mrs. Haviland your whole life,” I say, without noting that Paul and Andrea are about the same age. If he wants to call her old, he can say the same of himself. “Can’t you get her to chill out?”
“Andrea hasn’t chilled out since she emerged from the womb. And the two of us haven’t been close for a long time. But the trick is to redirect her focus. She has a soft spot for you, Charlie. Get her to try banning Jet Skis on the lake or something similar.”
Paul, Mrs. Haviland, and my father were all friends growing up. As the three of them approached adulthood, each chose a different path: Andrea married Seton’s father, Isaac, another local, and stayed in Hero. My father met my mother, and even though they lived in the bungalow during the winter, in a way, he became one of the lake people, rich and privileged, or seemingly so. Paul fled town as soon as he could. He went to college and law school in New York and hit up the well-heeled families he’d met on the lake to find new clients. For the last decade,his most important client has been an actress who lives in New York, too, and who he works for as a lawyer and manager.
To Paul’s credit, ever since my father disappeared—I can’t bring myself to saydied—he’s done what he could to serve as a sort of surrogate father, especially to Reid. He encouraged Reid to go to NYU and helped him navigate his transition into the professional world as an architect.
“I listened to your radio show,” Paul says to me now. “The one about the Boston Strangler. It helped with the trip here from New York.”
“That’s our goal,” I say. “To get you through those long drives.”
“What’s next?” he asks.
Now would be the time to confess to making a podcast about what happened on the lake, but if Seton’s reaction to the news is indicative of how others might respond, I’ll hold off. “My producer and I are batting around ideas,” I say as my mother and Reid join us. “I’ll tell you about them later.”
“What will you tell us about later?” my mother asks.
“Charlie has a new project,” Paul says. “Top secret, apparently.”
Reid gooses my arm. “No secrets. Not at the lake.”
I shove his hand away. My brother is thirty-seven now, nearly twelve years older than I am, and his role in my life sits somewhere between brother and uncle. Protector, too. I suspect a part of him hasn’t ever left that rowboat he used to save us from our father.
My mother snakes an arm around Reid’s waist and pulls him close. The two of them have a bond, one they forged the night they managed to survive. It’s a strong enough bond to keep others on the outside looking in, even me. I wonder if it’s the reason my mother sent me to boarding school while Reid attended public school here in Hero, or why I often feel as if I’m visiting relatives when I come home.
“Charlie,” my mother says, “don’t think I didn’t see what you did there with Andrea, sweet-talking with her about hockey and waterskiing.”
“Mrs. Haviland’s not so bad,” I say.
“Try dealing with her at a zoning-board meeting,” Reid says.
I glance toward the half-built structure on the point. “Lake houses are supposed to blend in with the shoreline,” I say. “You could practically see this one from space.”
“Anyone who can afford the lake wants a showpiece,” my mother says.
“And Freya Faith’s lined up to buy,” Reid says.
Freya Faith is the actress Paul works for. I haven’t met her in person, though Paul’s talked about knowing her for as long as I can remember. She grew up summering on the lake, and nearly everyone in town has a story of meeting her or seeing her perform even though she hasn’t stepped foot in Hero for decades.
Freya played Agent Gina Shock on a series calledScene of the Crime, a police procedural. The show ran for years, and reruns still air nearly twenty-four hours a day, including an episode from season 2 based on what happened to my family. It was set on a lake and begins with a father who tries to kill his entire family with a chef’s knife when he learns his wife is having an affair. I’ve watched it about fifty times.
“You convinced Freya Faith to move to New Hampshire?” I say to Paul.
“I haven’t convinced Freya to do anything,” Paul says. “And Reid, stop with the hard sell. What would Freya do up here in the middle of nowhere? She’s a city girl.”
Reid takes off his hard hat and runs a hand through his blond hair. I have a sudden flashback to being young, five or six, and sneaking into Reid’s bedroom at the bungalow, where the walls were covered with images of Freya he’d torn from magazines and tabloids. Most were publicity stills fromScene of the Crime, but a signed headshot, one that Paul probably got for him, sat in a frame on his bedside table. I’d overheard my mother whispering with Hadley about the photos. “Freya plays a cop,” my mother had said. “The photos ... they probably make Reid feel safe after what happened.”
I look at Reid now and wonder what he remembers about his teenage bedroom, whether he really believed a fictional TV cop could protect him from the terrors of the world. Maybe I can get him to sit down with Freya for the podcast and talk about the intersection of fiction and true crime, or what it’s like to see his teenage fantasy in the flesh. Those are angles Julian would appreciate.
“You talk to Freya about the house, then,” Reid says to Paul. “We need the sale.”
“We need to line upotherbuyers,” Paul says. “Freya will think nothing of stringing you along before leaving you high and dry.”
Right then, a hundred yards down the shore, a truck pulls into the parking area beside my Volvo.
“Vance Moodey,” Reid says. “What do you bet a little bird named Andrea Haviland told Vance the construction site has been shut down and he’s here to make us settle our tab? The vultures’ll be out in droves soon enough.”
“I’ll deal with Vance,” my mother says. “Reid, Paul, stay here and don’t make trouble. Charlie, walk with me.” She pulls me with her off the dock and onto the shoreline path. “We have other projects in the works,” she says, “including a lease for an outdoor mall in Finstock that Reid’s managing, but losing Burkehaven would be a setback.” We pass the remnants of the rustic cabin that once was the only structure in the cove. “Every time we build one of these monstrosities, the lake changes,” my mother says with an air of remorse that surprises me.
