Page 11 of Lake Hollow Curses

Maybe he doesn’t realize it yet, but I already drowned in his depths weeks ago. Wherever life takes me beyond this summer, whatever I spend my days doing-he will be a part of it.

Under the midday sun, standing in the dark waters of Lake Hollow, I realize the extent my heart has dived fully into the burgeoning love I have for Grady Marlow, trusting that I’m safe there.

Carlotta Marlow’s little blue bungalow sits on a corner in the northside of Lake Hollow. Blocks from St. James Cathedral, perched at the top of the hill overlooking the lake. Her flower beds and gardens appear well cared for like the home is currently being lived in. I can’t help but admire the lawnsculptures of birds done in a mosaic of shimmery tiles gracing the bed of her hydrangeas.

Looking over at Grady, who has stopped short of her ornate wood door, I inquire again, “Are you okay?” I’ve asked him variations of that all the way here in the Prius, whose steering wheel pulls to the left. Like it’s not enough his borrowed car rattles like it’ll blow, now it’s got a mind of its own. I tried to convince him to walk, but between the heat and the boxes he’s grabbing, my argument didn’t stand up.

The news that Carlotta left her home to Mitchell Gibson stunned me. Then I reminded myself that she suspected Grady of horrible things. Maybe her choices would’ve been different, had she known the truth. “I haven’t been here in years.” He sighs looking over the yard once more, before pulling the set of spare keys he had from his shorts pocket. “Last time I was here, I’d helped her plant those.” He nods his head at the line of white lilac bushes next to the cobblestone driveway.

We make our way into the warm space, her little touches everywhere. Nothing opulent in the cozy rooms, but all of it tasteful. Splashes of deep color mixed in with cherry-stained wood, her framed photographs of Lake Hollow, and carvings of animals. “He said the boxes are on the back porch.” Mitchell spent several minutes trying to spit out the reason he called Grady before he had gotten to the point. Carlotta had boxes with his name on them.

The hallway walls are adorned with pictures that I scan over on the walk to the backside of the house. My eyes catch sight of one taken at the Funpark. In it, Carlotta looks younger, surrounded by a group of boys’ and girls’ middle school aged. I recognize Cal and Charlie immediately; their smiles haven’t changed. They’re standing on the dock that surrounds the bumper boat pond next to a telescope that looks just like the one in the gazebo at Lakeside Park.

“This telescope isn’t there anymore.” I tap the picture. “I wonder when it was removed and why?”

The brass plate base and big bolts remain on the dock. I had thought it was a utility cover, often griping to myself when I’ve stubbed a toe on it, or others have tripped over it. It’s a hazard really, making the absence of the telescope even more bizarre.

Grady leans in to look at the photo. “I never spent time there, I wouldn’t know,” he says, sadness saturating his tone.

The way his dad’s grudges colored his adolescence makes my heart break for him. It put a wedge between his beloved aunt and him, it kept him from his classmates, and from enjoying the activities other kids his age were involved in.

Two cardboard boxes are sitting on a white shag rug near the doorway. A weathered black hard leather guitar case leans against them. Grady crouchs next to it, his hand on the case, with his head bent. His voice is strangled by tears when he says, “I used to lie to myself all the time. Tell myself that I would’ve loved music regardless of her influence on me. That her getting close to Mitch and Charlie didn’t sting.” His eyes are red, cheeks wet when he looks at me. “She made me who I am. Everything I am. But she preferred them.”

Chapter Eight

Grady Marlow

Against my better judgment, I drove to Cal’s rental townhome, still not sure what his intentions were inviting me over. The clunker I swapped my yellow Pontiac Firebird Trans Am for to keep any nosy media people away, sits idling outside his place. Pulling my cellphone out, I scroll to his message again. It simply says,Stop by if you have time 533 Dunbar Dr, thx.My guess is that he wants to pry about Remi.

I pass Sara’s last message and video. After years of opening, it daily, I realize I haven’t watched it for a couple of weeks. Clicking on the video after making peace with Wilder, changes the context. The angry look on his face while hugging Sara doesn’t seem directed at her, or even me, but at Cal who is standing on shore pointing at something with irritation on his face. For years I’d built a narrative in my head surrounding the toxic relationship between Sara and Wilder, but honestly, she and Cal fought just as much.

“I’d undo it all. I’d go after you, if I could do it all over again, Sara. There will never come a day I’m not sorry about that. It’s time to let this go,” I say to her, to myself, and the powers that be. “I need to get rid of this video now.” Before I can stop myself like I have so many times over the years, I delete it.

There’s finality in it. Admission to myself that holding grudges against Wilder, torturing myself watching it… none of it fixes anything. She’s gone. We lost her six years ago.

It doesn’t take Cal long to open the door after I press the tinny sounding doorbell. “Hey, man.” He gives me a one-armed bro hug, with a slap to my back. “Did you walk all the way here? Where’s the hotrod? Did Remi finally convince you that none of us are meant to have our bodies jostled around in machines?” He smirks to himself at the mention of her.

It only took him five seconds to do it. Here I thought I was getting obsessive about her, seems I’m not alone there.

I tell him the arrangement I made over the vehicle swap, while we settle in his living room. Then he’s up to grab a couple bottles of beer from his empty looking fridge. Tossing me one, he asks, “We’re friends, right?”

Are we? I hesitate because even if we’d been friendly years ago, we’ve never moved in the same circles. But Remington has changed all of that. Now, we have her in common, not just the tragedy of the past. Shrugging, I clear my throat and respond, “Yeah, I guess?”

That sounded noncommittal of me, but he continues anyway, “Did Remi tell you she’s going back to Florida for art school soon?”

“It’s a good move. You’ve seen how talented she is.” He half turns to lean against the counter gazing out the patio door while I continue, “It’s not forever, she’ll come back.” I need reassurance myself that the end of the summer doesn’t endus.

He closes his eyes and sighs. “She hasn’t said a word to me about it. She hasn’t really said anything to me since the night we burned her mom’s trunk.”

“Oh? How did you hear about it then?” Sheisavoiding him. She’ll share about it if she wants to, no prodding will bring it about like Wilder had tried. Not that I’m going to tell him she’s doing that. “Ahhh… her cousin the world class yapper probably.”

“No. Charlie mentioned it.”

She’d tell him, but withhold it from Cal?

“Mmm, could it be that she hasn’t had a chance yet? She’s been busy at Hidden Treasures and volunteering with Ceily.” I play it off, because I don’t have the heart to admit I’ve seen her every day. “What does Charlie say?”

“What I want to hear, like he always does.” Finishing his second bottle of beer, he grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels off the fridge along with shot glasses. “Want one?”

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