Page 1 of Barefoot Lake

CHAPTER 1

Alice

Idrive with the front windows down and can feel the very start of fall the further north I go. I should call my best friend Piper and tell her what happened but decide to wait until I get to the lake house. This drive — this escape — is just for me. I put the reason for my departure and my brief stop along the way out of my mind.

I turn on the radio and find a station that loves 90s and early 2000s hits as much as I do.

I know I’m getting away from any big cities when the speed limit kicks up to seventy-five miles per hour. Both sides of the highway are lined with lush green trees, and I can only imagine how gorgeous the drive will be once the leaves have changed in a few weeks. I smell damp earth, and my lungs can finally expand fully.

I’ve spent all of my adult life in a city. Before that, Mom and I lived in a condo in a suburb just far enough outside of Boston to not be hit with the full price hike of a New England city. I love the accessibility of everything in the city, the countless places to just wander and sit. I don’t even mind public transportation — sitting on the T and reading can be nice. Of course, I won’t deny the downsides. Sharing walls is the pits, not all parts of the city are pleasant, and sometimes the T is full of unruly passengers who sneeze without covering their mouths (among many other disgusting habits). But all in, Boston has been good to me.

At the same time, I’m excited when I exit the highway and slip further away from civilization with each turn. The little town center for Wilcox Grove is about fifteen to twenty minutes from the house, but in between is quiet. Roads get narrower and more winding. Streetlights disappear, and trees arch over the road like a canopy.

I’m driving under a sheet of confetti with the way the sunlight flashes between the leaves overhead. I even pass a house with chickens in the unfenced front yard. I notice the birds stay far back from the shoulder, even without a barrier keeping them in. I guess they learned about the dangers of the road the hard way. Yikes.

I know I’m almost at the house as soon as I turn off a paved street and find myself bumping along on a dirt road, the ping of pebbles tapping against the underside of my car echoing around me in the quiet. I’ve only been here once: when I picked Mom up for her move down to Boston and dropped some of my things off for storage. She had already sold her car in anticipation of moving in with me, and I was happy to come get her. I slow down to avoid missing the turn into the driveway.

I miraculously spot the narrow gap in the trees and crunch along the gravel toward the house on the right. At Barefoot Lake, the houses are paired off, with two in each opening around the lake. Mom’s (my) house and the one to its left look similar. They’re both two stories and have dark brown exteriors, so they blend with the trees around them. While the “front” of each house technically faces the gravel lot I’m currently in, there isn’t much flourish on this side of either home. Each has a small grass lawn (mine is chaotically overgrown) but nothing more. All the excitement is around back, between each structure and the glistening water.

I park in front of my closed garage, situated on the far side of my house and set back from the gravel lot, so my car is tucked next to the house. The neighbor’s garage is to the left of their house and there is an open gravel area between the houses that leads straight back to a ramp at the lake, presumably to allow for vehicle access if either of us needs to take our boat out of the water. I make a mental note to figure out what to do with Mom’s boat during the winter before it gets too cold.

I didn’t meet Mom’s neighbor — I guess my neighbor, now, who I’ve now affectionately named “Neighbor” — last time I was up here, but I’m grateful nobody comes out of the house when I arrive today. I’m not in the right headspace for any introductions right now. I check my phone again. Still nothing from Reid, but there’s a text from Piper.

Piper

I love you. Call if you need anything.

There’s another from a number I don’t have saved but recognize nonetheless.

1 (617) 555-0910

It was good of you to come see him today.

I sigh and slip the phone into my pocket, getting out of my car.

As I approach the side door to the home in an opening by the front of the garage, my throat is suddenly thick. I know Mom will be present all over this house.

I take a deep breath before I unlock the door. I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge. I’m sure I turned the key in the right direction for both locks, but I try again, jiggling the handle, rattling the door, and throwing my body against it with all my might. It still won’t budge.

Come on, house. Don’t be like that.

I dramatically groan as I walk around the home and across that overgrown little lawn to the front of the house to try another door. I climb the few wooden steps up to the door, frantically grabbing the banister as the plank of wood on the second step lifts on the opposite side from where I plant my foot. It noisily slaps back down as I right myself, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet woods.

Smooth, Alice. Well done.

With my heart now racing from the near-fall, I say a silent prayer before unlocking the door. It opens. Praise be…

My excitement melts away and is replaced by a solemn feeling as I step inside and close the door behind me. I toe off my sandals and slip them under the bench behind the door. Most of the first floor of the lake house is one open space with the living room toward the front of the house and the kitchen toward the back, and a table sitting between the two spaces. Off to my left are a small bathroom, which also houses a washer and dryer, and Mom’s library. I know the upstairs has a full bathroom and two bedrooms.

I sigh quietly as I look around. The couches are covered in sheets, and the countertops are bare. Mom meticulously cleaned everything before she left. The space is more sparsely decorated than I remember, but I hadn’t been here very long last time. Some things are exactly how I remember them, though, including Mom’s extensive collection of Disney movies in her TV stand and a couple of pictures of us throughout the years. She was adamant about printing out her favorite ones, even once everything went digital. There are some more recent pictures, too, of her and people I don’t recognize.

I trail my fingers across the back of the big sofa and gather up the sheet. I drop it in a pile on the floor and quickly check the side door to see what was wrong with it. The cheeky thing swings in with ease.

I see how it’s going to be.

I set my purse on the table, intending to go out to my car and unload it before I lose whatever motivation I’m pretending to have, when I spot a folded piece of paper with my name on it. There’s no question as to who it’s from. I’d recognize Mom’s handwriting anywhere, and my eyes immediately fill with tears.

I fall into a chair and slide the page toward me.