Laura Bishop is a different story. I find ample stories about the woman who killed her husband and then blamed someone else. She almost got away with it, too — if it weren’t for the witness statement provided by her own son, she just might have.
For a few minutes, I click through the articles, devouring images of the Bishop home, police tape across the door. Laura Bishop’s mugshot — an art-world socialite caught without makeup, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her eyes dark and vacant. So different from the posed shots that would follow in longer news stories about the murder. I snap the laptop shut.
This is crazy.
I take the laptop from the kitchen island and bring it back into the living room, set it on the desk overlooking the front deck and the lake beyond. The three of them are down there, sitting in the Adirondack chairs, talking. Joni tosses her head back, laughing.
I’m being ridiculous. The odds of my daughter’s fiancé being the grown-up version of a boy I treated fifteen years ago are astronomical. But while a Facebook search yields plenty of Michael Rands, none look like the young man on my front lawn. Still, it doesn’t mean anything. My daughter’s fiancé is a millennial, and lots of millennials eschew Facebook.
I try Instagram and Snapchat, but no luck.
I’m overtired; maybe that’s the problem. Paul and I drove up to the lake house on Thursday, hoping to beat the traffic but not succeeding. Apparently a few thousand other people had the same idea. A four-and-a-half-hour drive under optimal conditions took us more than six. And I didn’t sleep well last night. It’s been hot and aggressively humid, and the house has no A/C.
“First-world problems,” Joni would call these concerns. And she’d be right. But on top of everything, I had to leave several of my active patients behind, including one of them who’s been especially troubling. Maggie Lewis. A bright and beautiful young woman stricken with chronic depression and anxiety. When she’s off her meds, she’s a wreck. When she’s on them, she’s lethargic and gaining weight. Recently, she’s threatening to stop them again. I fear she might have already. So that’s bothering me, if I’m honest.
It’s always hard to break away in August. But Paul and I both work a lot — probably too much — and it’s vital to escape. And now, with our two kids grown, it’s some of the only time we all get to spend together. Still, it’s never easy.
As I gather the ingredients to make four mimosas — one of them a virgin, meaning just orange juice, since I don’t have any non-alcoholic sparkling wine — I realize I’m not just tired: I’m exhausted.
I’m a fifty-three-year-old woman who’s been going nonstop for thirty years. Paul and I have been discussing this. It’s time for both of us to slow down. At least, a little.
I mix the drinks, have a taste-test of mine, then end up drinking three-quarters of it. Oh well. I add more orange juice and a healthy splash of dry sparkling wine and pick up the tray. Halfway to the door, I stop. Though Joni just dropped the marriage bomb outside on the front lawn, they’ve really only been here a few minutes. They came into the house upon arrival and set down their bags. Right there, in the entryway.
I know Joni’s suitcase — she’s had it for years: a battered purple bag on wheels. The dark leather bag beside it must be Michael’s. And it’s partly unzipped.
CHAPTER THREE
Just a quick peek. Just to see if there’s anything obvious on top. Like a wallet.
There’s not. I start digging past folded shirts and pants. My hand bumps something hard and plastic, like a deodorant stick. I grasp what might be a toiletry kit. A little more rummaging, and now I’m sweating and feeling like a criminal. This isn’t right. The way to understanding Michael’s identity — or my conflation of his identity — is not by sneaking around and being underhanded. The way is conversation, direct interaction.
I pick up the drink tray off the floor and am about to stand up.
“Help you with that?”
The voice is so close I let out a little yelp. The main door is open and Michael is standing behind the screen that keeps out the bugs. He pushes it open as I stand with the tray. “Sorry,” he says, “I thought I’d come up and see if I could give you a hand. Here, let me take it.”
“Thank you. And that’s okay. I just didn’t hear you.”
I almost drop the tray it as I hand it over.
Come on. For God’s sake, Emily . . .
After a smile, I push my bangs aside and run my hands through my shoulder-length hair.
“You all right?” Michael looks concerned.
“I’m good. Thanks for your help.” I gesture for him to back out through the door as I push it open.
Together we walk along the flagstone walkway, then to the sloping yard. Partway to the dock, a flagpole pierces the earth, the United States flag gently rippling in the humid breeze high above. At the bottom of the lawn, three docks form a U-shape. The two-bay boathouse sits to the left of the U. In it are our sailboat and small rowboat with a trolling motor.
Michael is admiring it all as we walk. “This place is just gorgeous.” He’s handling the drink tray well, like a waiter would, up on his fingers, his other hand gripping the edge.
“Have you ever been to Lake Placid before?”
“No. Always wanted to, though.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve read about it. The tuberculosis, the cure cottages. Joni drove me around a little bit this morning so I could see some of the houses. The big porches and everything.” He pauses. “It’s just fascinating. Thinking of all these city people coming here for the fresh air. Hoping it would cure them. Or at least help them.”
I don’t have time to respond or ask questions since we’re almost to the dock. But my mind is running in multiple directions. Lake Placid is a long ways from where Joni is living. How early did they have to start their journey if Joni had time to give Michael a tour this morning? When did my daughter ever show any interest in, or knowledge of, the history of Lake Placid? More importantly, where did she meet this man and why are they rushing into marriage?
“Ah, they’ve returned with refreshments,” Paul says. He’s leaned back in one of the wooden Adirondack chairs. My husband is quite like you might picture an architect in his mid-fifties from Westchester County who owns a lake house in the Adirondacks. He’s in white slacks and a navy polo T-shirt. His legs are crossed and he’s dangling one of his boat shoes from his big toe. If anything, he’s acting extra casual. Working a bit to exude calm.
Joni is dressed atypically — for her. The khaki shorts are preppy, the white top is a button-down blouse. She wears pretty sandals on her feet, toes painted lavender. She wants to appear responsible, given this sudden and overwhelming announcement. She’s laying it on a bit, too.
Michael looks for a place to set the drink tray, but there’s no small table handy.