Prologue
[Zack]
July
Ben was dead.
There was no easy way to sugarcoat the truth. Our best friend had died after a short life and a brief struggle with pancreatic cancer. I’m still dressed in my funeral attire, minus my sports coat. My tie is loosened, and I gawk out the second-floor bedroom window into the yard next door. Anna’s family calls this place Lakeside Cottage, but for the past year, it was the permanent residence of one of my oldest friends and his family. I used to live next door—once upon a time.
Swiping a hand through my hair, I sigh. The past eleven months have been hell. Just shy of a year ago, Ben told us about his diagnosis. He’d already been through treatment without success. Ben Kulis. Clueless Kulis, we teased him in college. The nickname came about because he only had eyes for one woman. That woman would become his wife, Anna. They were sickly sweet, madly in love, and now she was a widow too young. Ben was the best of men. Loyal to a fault, he saw the good in most people even when they didn’t recognize it in themselves. Having been Anna’s friend first, being Ben’s pal happened second but was no less important.
Staring out the dark window, I’m distracted when a light from the house next door illuminates a portion of the yard. A yard that was mine once upon a time. My childhood dreams were built there until everything shattered when I was a teenager.
I hate this room. I hate that it faces what I once had. I hate that facing what I once had reminds me of all that I’ve lost.
A house. A home. A wife. A friend.
Ben would have told me to let it go regarding that house next door. I’m certain he said something similar to that before the phrase—let it go—became so popular. It was only a house, he probably said, but it had been my house. My home. As a landscape designer who loved plant metaphors, he might have added, “Home is where you plant your garden and sow your seeds.” Instead of that house being a special place, I was uprooted as a teen and forced to bloom elsewhere.
Regarding my ex-wife, he told me to let her go as well, and I did.
Suddenly, a woman enters the yard, distracting me from my thoughts of shattered dreams and broken homes. Her hair appears golden in the dim light, flowing behind her like a mystical creature from a child’s bedtime story. Her light dress covers her from shoulder to ankle yet leaves nothing to the imagination. In profile, I see the outline of her form. Pert breasts. Long legs. And that hair like a veil drifting behind her in the light wind.
She looks like an angel.
And I must be losing my mind.
This must be the neighbor who arrived around the time we visited last summer. Anna and Ben claim they never formally met her, only passed friendly hellos through the tall shrubbery between the homes. Anna’s best guess is she’s roughly our age. We all turned forty the year of the great reunion when Ben dropped the bomb about his situation. Now, we are forty-one.
Roughly loosening the remainder of my tie, I continue to stare into the mostly dark yard. The patio is illuminated by the soft glow of light coming from the house. The kitchen. I recall my mother cooking there, my brother doing homework at the oval table, and my father’s laughter. Tonight seems to be a night of memories. My childhood home. My best friend’s passing. And this woman is invading them both.
With my room on the second floor and steeped in darkness, I remain submerged in my dismal mood but mesmerized by her presence.
Why tonight? Of all the times I’ve visited this home in the past year, why am I seeing her tonight? And why does she look so beautiful, so peaceful, just standing in my yard—her yard—facing the lake off in the distance? Her head tips back, and I imagine her closing her eyes, allowing the soft breeze to coast over her face, caress her skin, kiss her lips.
I’m not a romantic at heart, but I’m definitely turned on. The idea of being the one to touch her cheeks, stroke down her nose, and stare into eyes I cannot see from this distance overwhelms me. And that hair. I want to comb my fingers through that spun gold and curl a fist in the silky threads. My mouth waters at the possibility of kissing the column of her throat, visibly on display with her head tilted backward, face aimed upward. Heaven is calling her.
Ben.
My eyes prickle, and my throat tightens. If I were a man who believed in something mystical, I’d think Ben placed this angel in my old yard just for me.
Mine whispers through my thoughts. Why?
I can’t seem to turn away from the window when I know I should. Staring down upon her makes me feel like a voyeur, witnessing something private, almost intimate. I want to stand in that yard with her. I want to rub my hands over her shoulder where the edge of her dress slips downward, exposing the curve of muscle at the top of her arm. I want to kiss her there.
My reaction doesn’t feel appropriate—watching her, wanting her—on this day, when I buried a friend. Still, I stare out the window at the stranger next door. My fingers curl into a fist on the window’s trim, balancing me upright, holding me in place. I can’t seem to look away.
Then she looks at me.
Her head swivels so quickly, I remain caught in eyes I can’t see as her face angles toward the second floor, toward this window, toward me.
What does she see? The miserable man that I am. The shitty husband I once was. The poor father I’ve been.
I don’t want to be any of those things, but I don’t know how to change. I don’t know what to do or what I want. I only know I want to be better. I want to feel better inside.
Staring down at her, I’m certain she sees me until I remember I’m covered in darkness. The lights remain off in my room, and I’m at the edge of the window. She can’t possibly see me. I’ve been so good at pretending I’m something other than who I am. I don’t think anyone knows the real me.
Not even me.
1
[Zack]
August
“Hello?” I call out as I enter Lakeside Cottage, nearly trampled by my own two children who race around me to find Ben’s teenage sons.
“In here!” Anna hollers back, her voice strained. Crossing the large entryway, I enter the open concept sitting area and kitchen combination filled with bright sunlight. It’s been a few weeks since Ben’s passing, and we’re here for happier times. One final promise we made to Ben was to return every summer for the first two weeks of August. On the cusp of Ben’s death, I worry the annual tradition is a little too new. I don’t want Anna to be stressed about our return.
Standing beside the kitchen island is our friend who lived here during Ben’s last year—Mason Becker. The two of them appear as if they’ve been fighting. Watching Mason swipe a hand aggressively through his perfect hair, I approach Anna first.
“Hey.” I greet one of my oldest friends with wide-open arms, and she collapses against my chest. Anna’s mother and mine were best friends. Anna’s father was considered a sausage king in Chicago, and when this house came on the market, her parents purchased it as a second home. My childhood home was next door. Our mothers were thrilled to be neighbors for at least part of the year. We spent entire summers together. Anna and I grew up with the maternal hope we would one day marry and join our families. As I consider Anna like a sister, a romantic interest never arose between us, but she’s been one of my best friends our entire lives. Our older brothers were friends when they were younger as well. The only hope of joining the Weller-McCaryn families would be her youngest sister, Amelia, and my older brother, Noah. But the chances of that happening are slim to never in a million years.