Forever Wife (2 page)

Vidar crossed the room to gaze at the architect’s drawing of the casino resort he hoped to build.  The foundation
would be laid with local granite, just the way houses had been constructed in the past, although currently cement was generally used as it was more cost-effective.  Then thick white pine logs were notched and laid in traditional fashion to try to blend in with the environment, rather than appear like a blister on the heel of the flagging economy. 

He loved New Hampshire, especially the Scrimshaw Lake area.  All his fondest memories were there – which was precisely why he had to do this.  He just couldn’t
bear to return, knowing that the three people he cared about most in the world were dead to him.  Mr. and Mrs. Shelburne had been the kindest, most loving mortals he had ever known.  They’d welcomed him into their hearts and home and treated him more like a favorite son rather than the pariah he was. 

And how he’d loved the daughter that came to them late in life!  He had been named her godfather, and proudly held the precious infant
during the religious ceremony, which was definitely one of the high points in his long life and one he had never thought to experience.  They named her Elizabeth Dagmar Shelburne. Elizabeth, after the maternal grandmother, and Dagmar for his own beloved mother who had passed from this earth so long ago that he could barely recall her countenance.  It was a lovely name, a beautiful name… and then in true mortal fashion, they had ruined it by calling that precious child “Liz”!

Not him.  He had always called her “Beth”. 

Vidar clenched and unclenched his fists, giving himself a good shake.  That road was closed to him now, there was no point in revisiting what could never be.  He would go visit old Mr. Edgar Holcombe in person and find out what it would take to buy him out.  Hopefully, when Camp Birches was bulldozed and six feet under the new casino, he would be purged of the painful memories. 

“Karen,” he called, pressing the button for his secretary’s desk.

“Yes, Mr. Gulbrandt?”

“Schedule a flight to Portsmouth for me this weekend.  I’d like to leave after my last meeting on Friday.”

“England, sir?”

“No!”  He rubbed the back of his neck and he forced himself to calm down.  “No, Karen,” he said again, more politely this time.  “New Hampshire.”

“And when would you like to return,” she asked feebly, perhaps wary of incurring his wrath yet again.  She was not incompetent.  He was just out of control where this casino was concerned.  He needed a vacation.  And he would take one, just as soon as the deal went through.

Liz blinked blearily as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.  There it went again – the sound that had awakened her!  Someone was knocking on the door.  She sat up, wincing as usual until the injured ligaments and tendons settled into place and allowed her to get out of bed. 

She smiled at the familiar surroundings, her pink and green childhood bedroom, thrilled to be back home… even if it didn’t actually belong to her.  And that’s when it hit!  Panic!  Could it be the new owner? No, why would he knock
? He would just use a key, or more likely, call the police if he suspected someone was trespassing.

The knocking grew more insistent, accompanied by a woman’s voice.

“Lizzy!  I know you’re in there!  Come on, wake-up, this is important! It’s Tracy!  Remember me?  Liz!”

A grin spread across Liz’s face and she flew down the stairs, nearly toppling over the last three in her haste.  “Tracy!” she screamed.  “Wait up! I’m coming!”

She threw open the door and embraced her childhood friend whom she hadn’t seen since her parents’ funeral.  Tracy wrapped her arms around Liz and squeezed.  Liz blanched, emitting a gasp of pain.

“Oh my gosh!” Tracy said, releasing her immediately.  “I read about your injury.  I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

Liz shook her head.  “I’ll be okay,” she lied.  “Gee, it’s good to see you.  But what brings you here so early in the morning?”  She glanced at the bird clock that hung above the door – the one that chirped bird songs on the hour, and saw that it was well past noon.  She grinned sheepishly.

“That’s my girl,” Tracy said, laughing. “Just like our college days!” 

Liz wandered into the kitchen, running her fingers through her tangled hair in an attempt to make herself more presentable.  “I’d offer you coffee, but I just got here, so I don’t know what I have,” she said.

“I figured as much.  Get dressed, and I’ll take you out for breakfast. My treat!”

“You don’t have to do that,” Liz started to protest.

“Of course I do.  You’re my best friend and I haven’t seen you in forever.  Now hurry up!  I’ll make a shopping list for you while you’re gone.
”  She turned Liz around and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs.  “It’s so good to see you, Liz!  Scrimshaw Lake just isn’t the same without you.”

Liz hurried up the stairs, feeling that her luck was about to change.  She could thank Tracy for that.  They had met the summer Liz turned thirteen.  Tracy’s dad had bought one of the smaller
year-round homes across the lake.  It was several miles by road, because the gravel driveways snaked and meandered through the woods in a labyrinthine tangle, but it was just a few minutes away by boat.  Liz had begged and bargained with her parents – it hadn’t taken much – until they bought her a rowboat.  Then the girls invented a special signal – they would hang a pink scarf out their bedroom window. When the other saw it, she would promptly row over for a visit.  A black scarf meant it was urgent, but call first.  

From that summer on, the girls were practically
inseparable.  Except, of course, for the long school years in between, when Liz went back to St. Mary’s private school in Boston and Tracy returned to the local high school. They’d remained friends through the college years, being roommates first in the dormitory, and later when they’d elected to move off campus and share an apartment.  But they’d lost touch after Liz’s parents died.  Liz shuddered.  That was probably more her fault than Tracy’s.  Liz had lost touch with everyone during that dark period.

She rummaged through her closet, grateful the new owner hadn’t cleaned it out yet.  She hadn’t changed much in size
or shape since college.  Her shoulders were a bit broader and stronger – a most unfeminine change – as a result of years of slinging hay bales to her horses.  She’d lost some muscle tone, thanks to the accident that had put her out of work, but her college shirts would still fit a little snug.  She grabbed a plain white sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, changing quickly.  Her stomach was rumbling and she was nearly dizzy with hunger.  As long as Tracy was paying, Liz planned to stock up.  She didn’t know where her next meal would come from.

Her brush was almost useless when it came to working on her hair.  Tracy’s hair was long and silky-straight.  It was the enviable kind of hair that never looked out of place.  If the wind blew it around, it fell again instantly in a satin sheen of pure black.  Tracy claimed not to have any Native American in her ancestry, but Liz figured that somewhere in the
way back, it must be there. 

Liz’s hair was honey-colored blond.  Not a bad color, with natural golden highlights.  But it was baby-fine and wavy.  Not even a bottle of hairspray could contain it.  She could brush and brush, and five minutes later, it would be a tangled mess again.  Liz gave up, trapping her ma
ne with an elastic into a sloppy ponytail, added a dash of blush and lipstick so she didn’t look quite so gaunt, and hurried back downstairs.

“I can see I came in the nick of time,” Tracy said, closing the refrigerator door.  “What did you do – wake up one morning and just decide to come home – without packing or shopping or anything?”

“Pretty much,” Liz replied, surprised at how close to the truth Tracy had guessed. 

“Well, we’ll get you fixed up right away. Let’s go.  I’ll drive – I’m probably blocking you in,” Tracy babbled. 

Liz closed the door behind her, not bothering to lock it up.  They never had locked their doors in the summers. Only when they closed for the winter, and even then, several neighbors had keys in case they needed to check on the house after a storm.  Liz hoped that hadn’t changed in recent years.

She climbed
into the front passenger seat of Tracy’s white Ford Escape.  It was several years old, judging by the spots of rust, the ding in the rear bumper, and a small crack in the windshield.  “So, what happened to what’s-his-name?  Robert?”

“Old news,” Tracy said with a sigh.  “That didn’t last long.  Are you seeing someone?”

Liz shook her head.  “Other than my physical therapist?  No.”

“
I was so sorry to hear about your accident.  How long until you can ride again?”

Tears filled her vision, quick and unbidden.  “Can we talk about something else?  Please?”

Tracy was silent for a moment.  The old Tracy would have realized she’d hit a nerve and she would have picked at it, pressing and pressing for more details until they were both a crying puddle, but this new, more mature Tracy respected her wishes.  A moment later, Tracy struck up a conversation on a totally different topic. 

“So, Old Man Holcombe is holding out.  He turned down that fancy dude who offered him too much money for his hovel.  He figured that the guy was hiding something when he offered him nearly double what his place is worth.  Stupid guy.  If he’d really wanted that place, he would have offered less than resale value, and let Holcombe counter with a fair price.  It would be a done deal.  Lucky for us,
that guy doesn’t know shit about real people.  He’s trying to buy up lake front property left and right!  He owns a good share of it now.”

“Huh?” Liz interrupted.  She hadn’t been paying attention at first, and now she was totally lost.  “What guy are you talking about?  What’s happening to the lake?”

“Didn’t you get my letters?”

“What letters?”

“Argh!” Tracy exploded.  “I’ve been writing to you ever since your accident!  I wondered why you didn’t respond. I just figured that you were to busy for your old friend.”

“Tracy, I swear on a stack of Bibles, I haven’t had a letter from you in years.”

“Then how did you know to come back?”

“I didn’t,” Liz whispered.   “I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Tracy’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line.  Then she squeezed Liz’s knee.  “It’s magic, honey.  I need you. Scrimshaw Lake needs you.  We called you here, and you came.  End of story.”

“Beginning of story,” Liz said, laughing to break the solemn mood that had settled around them.  “Why do you need me?”

“Some guy – I don’t remember his name, but it’s foreign sounding – is buying up the lake.  Although he owns a lot already, they aren’t all connecting.  He owns one here and there… and the places he has bought, some of them he’s bulldozing!  Rumor has it that he’s a big land developer and he plans to put in a humongous resort or casino or something.  For rich folks.  He’ll run all of us little people out of here.  This is our home, Liz! We have to stop him!”

Liz was shocked into silence.  She hadn’t been back long enough yet to notice any changes, in fact, she’d been thrilled to see how little had changed at Camp Birches.  Humbled, she wondered which of her neighbors
this had affected.  “Holcombe is holding out?  He’s been complaining for years how much he hates the snow.”

“Go figure!  But he’s shrewd.  I mean, if someone offered you a ton of money for your cabin, would you take it?”

Liz didn’t have to think twice.  Not that it was even her cabin.  “Never.”

“Exactly!  It might make you suspicious – like maybe the guy knew something you didn’t know – that your property value was going to go through the roof, and he’s cheating you out of it.”

“I doubt that’s the case.  Holcombe’s place should have been burned to the ground years ago.  It’s not just an eyesore.  It’s unsafe.”

“Well, the guy tried to convince my dad to sell.  Dad turned him down.  The guy offered him more and more, and Dad refused.  But at some point, the money
will be so much that Dad will have to consider it.  Retirement ain’t cheap, you know.”

Tracy’s dad had owned a small chain of grocery stores.  Not a big-name chain, just a bunch of little stores in half a dozen towns around the area.  They sold gas, drinks, kerosene, camping supplies, and had laundry facilities. They catered mostly to the summer vacationers, and to a lesser extent, the winter outdoorsy types.  The local economy had never been what one could call “booming”.  The soil was too rocky, to
o poor to raise crops.  The woods had been logged for years, so that the standing trees were no longer fully-grown.  They were too far from the ocean for fishing, and nothing worth mining lay in these hills.  There were teachers, preachers, and retirees, but the rest of the working public had to scrape by on small, organic farms raising mostly sheep and goats with a few beekeepers in the mix. 

“Can’t you buy your dad’s place?” Liz asked.

“On a teacher’s salary? Doubtful. He lets me stay there rent-free, although I pay the taxes and utilities.  He moved into a retirement community after mom died.  He likes the social aspect, and that they have a dining room where he can get a hot meal.”

Tracy pulled into the parking lot of one of her dad’s former stores. It had been remodeled and
expanded, for now it had several buildings and a large playground with picnic tables.  It was too early in the spring for eating outside, but Liz could imagine come summer that it would be a popular place among the summer campers.

“That’s a gam
e room,” Tracy said, pointing to a white outbuilding with garage doors.  “And there’s the dining room – slash – rental hall.  Locals can rent it for birthdays or anniversary parties.  Otherwise, you can order your take-out at the window and go in there to eat, if you don’t like the flies outside.”

“I’m impressed,” Liz admitted. 

“Wish Dad had thought of it.  This is all the new owner’s idea.  And I got first dibs on him.”

Liz laughed, as Tracy had intended.  Back in their college days, whenever they saw a cute guy, whoever called “dibs” first, had exclusive rights.  The other was honor-bound to turn him down if he ever asked her for a date.  It had been more silly than serious, for neither of them had dated much.  Tracy was a jerk-magnet.  Only the really creepy guys ever asked her out  - although Liz could never understand why.  And Liz had only been in love with her horses.  Sort of.
As a child she’d had a wicked crush on her godfather.

They walked up to a window that had an impressive menu displayed above, listing breakfast, lunch, and dinner entrées – mostly deep-fat fried – and a long list of ice cream delights.  The man at the window was awfully cute, if a little young for Liz’s taste.  “What can I get you?” he asked politely.

They placed their orders.  Liz got the country breakfast – eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon, juice, and pancakes.  Tracy ordered a burger and fries. They both had an ice cream shake.  Carrying the Styrofoam containers precariously stacked, they made their way to the dining room that still had a few of the lunch crowd lingering over coffee refills.

All through lunch Tracy kept up a steady string of conversation, probably trying
to repeat everything she would have told her in those letters Liz had failed to receive.  She wondered where they were now.  Her stables had gone into foreclosure, her horses auctioned off.  To her knowledge, the property was still empty.  Maybe the letters were piling up in the mailbox, although by now the postal carrier should have realized that no one lived there. 

Tracy talked about her younger brother, how he got married and moved to California.  She hadn’t seen him since.  Small loss.  Her brother was more than a little strange
; Liz never had liked him.   Tracy talked about school politics and told a few funny stories about her third graders.  Liz nodded and agreed or disagreed whenever there was break in the conversation, but mostly she just enjoyed her meal.  It was the first full meal she’d had in some time.  It felt good not to be hungry.