Liz wasn’t an artist—she would never stoop so low as to call herself that—but she was artful. In her kitchen, in her garden, in her bedroom. When Quinn eloped and Liz could hardly breathe for the disappointment, she mustered up one piece of advice and handed it to her daughter like an ill-suited gift.
“Never say no,” Liz whispered, hugging her daughter stiffly, pretending that all was well and would be well when she knew that it would not.
“What?” Quinn tried to pull away but Liz held tight, bony arms pressing the lush curves of her youngest close.
“If he . . . wants you, don’t ever turn him down.” It was advice her own mother had given her, and Liz followed it with religious fervor. If her daughter was disgusted by the sudden intimacy of her counsel, Liz didn’t care. She knew how to keep a husband happy—in a dozen different but equally important ways. And though she doubted the unfortunate union between her baby and that artist would last long, she couldn’t entirely abandon her offspring.
It was this singular dedication to the fruit of her womb that absolved Liz of any guilt she felt when she bowed her head over the telescope and peeked in on Quinn and Walker from her vantage point across the lake. From what Liz could tell, Quinn had taken her advice to heart—even if she had blushed crimson and hurried away when Liz had given it. Not that Liz needed or even wanted to know details. She was no voyeur and quickly took up her dust rag, her vacuum, her apron at the slightest indication that things were turning romantic across the lake.
If only she could peek in on Jack Jr. and Nora as easily as she looked after Quinn. Liz had never exactly been the mother-hen type, but she did love her kids. And she liked to offer her advice when necessary.
Besides, it wasn’t all mere observation. Liz had learned something from her surveillance and it justified what others might consider untoward. It seemed, after just a few months of haphazard examination, that her daughter and son-in-law had two settings: together and apart. Together was cover-ups abandoned on the deck, doors half-closed, hair disheveled. Apart was Walker in the boathouse and Quinn, alone.
They would never last.
What would Jack say if he could peer through the telescope? What would he think of Liz’s impetuous decision to offer the unlikely couple the swankiest lake rental they owned? Most important, what would Jack do? But though she fretted over this question at night, propped in the very middle of her now practically obscene king-sized four-poster bed, night creams and wrinkle emollients making her skin as slick and shiny as an oil spill, Liz was baffled.
She had spent three-quarters of her life with him, but she had absolutely no idea what Jack Sr. would do.
Besides, of course, keeping tabs on his daughter through the antique telescope that was ostensibly purchased for bird-watching.
In some ways, Liz thought of the telescope as her husband’s legacy. It was more meaningful than the rental properties that were scattered around the lake or even the contents of Jack’s safety deposit box. Liz had always known the box existed, but never officially saw it until the week after the funeral when she entered the Key Lake Union Bank as the newly widowed Mrs. Sanford, key to the mysterious repository in hand. There wasn’t much inside. A copy of their will, Jack’s father’s class ring set with an emerald that Liz was sure was authentic. But at the very bottom, Liz was shocked to find a letter that she had written nearly forty years before. It was a love letter of sorts, though Liz wasn’t sure it could be called that since it lacked the usual frippery of such correspondence. She did not dot her is with hearts or tell Jack that she loved him. It was really quite matter-of-fact, a note passed in their senior world history class that informed him of a party that weekend and her wish that he would attend. With her.
It was the beginning. Liz had forgotten that she had been the one to start it all.
How bold.
Liz liked herself a little more, remembering.
And she liked the way she felt when she put her eye to the telescope for the very first time, less than a week after Jack had passed. Liz hadn’t bothered with it before, but now that her husband was gone it felt like something that she should do. After all, Jack had once spotted a house fire through that telescope. He’d called 9-1-1 before anyone else even realized what was happening. Another time he spied a stranded boat that had dropped a propeller, and then rescued the family himself. Their telescope was a service to the lake. Their telescope. But now it was hers.
Liz took to it quickly. In fact, she rarely walked through the living room without pausing for a gander, a tiny hit that strengthened her ties to the small lakeside community. She was just a part of the tapestry—much like a paisley flourish on the expensive fabric she designed—doing what she could to ensure the peace and stability of the place that she called home.
And Liz was performing this important task late one evening as she headed to bed, wrapped in a silk robe embroidered with trailing orchids and sipping an herbal tea that her nutritionist swore would erase crow’s-feet while she slept. It was just a teensy peek, a moment of curiosity that should have yielded nothing more than the faint glow of bedside lamps between the drawn shades of nearly every home around Key Lake.
But instead of being greeted by the orange flicker of the occasional bonfire on the rocky shoreline, Liz found her gaze yanked to the A-frame where Quinn and Walker lived. All the lights in the boathouse were on (not unusual) but the cabin was black (very unusual). Even more alarming was the flicker of headlights through the trees as a car pulled down the long gravel driveway away from the house. It was that ridiculous purple Kia Quinn and Walker owned.
Apart.
Liz glanced at the clock above the mantel. Almost 10:00 p.m. She didn’t know whether to be happy or concerned that Quinn was leaving her husband at such an odd hour, but she did know that something had taken root in her chest. It was a fledgling thing, a hope or a wish or a fear so thin and gauzy it didn’t yet have an object or even a name. Liz straightened up quickly and smoothed her silky robe. Smiled.
Something was about to change.
QUINN
QUINN LEFT WITHOUT telling Walker where she was going.
Nora could do that to her. They weren’t close, hadn’t been for years. Or ever, for that matter. And yet, one word from her sister and Quinn was all too happy to go.