Page 21 of The House Across the Lake

“Because his wife died,” Eli says instead.

Surprise stills the knife, stuck deep within the squash. “When?”

“A year and a half ago.”

Because Boone told me he’s been sober a year, I assume the six months after his wife’s death were a self-destructive blur. Not quite the same situation as mine, but close enough to make me feel like shit for the way I behaved earlier.

“How?” I say.

“I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer the information,” Eli says. “But I guess I thought it would be best if you two didn’t cross paths. I was afraid it would dredge up bad memories. For both of you.”

“Bad memories are already here,” I say. “They’re everywhere I look.”

“Then maybe—” Eli pauses. It’s brief. Like the tentative halt a firewalker makes just before stepping onto pulsing-hot coals. “Maybe I thought you wouldn’t be the best influence on him.”

There it is. The ugly truth at last. Even though I suspected it, it doesn’t mean I like hearing it.

“Says the man who just brought me a case of booze,” I say.

“Because you asked me to,” Eli says, bristling. “I’m not judging you, Casey. You’re a grown woman. The choices you make are none of my business. But Boone Conrad has been sober a year. You—”

“Haven’t been,” I say, mostly so Eli doesn’t have to.

He nods, both in agreement and in thanks. “Exactly. So maybe it’s best if you keep away from each other. For both of your sakes.”

Despite being rankled by what he said, I’m inclined to agree with Eli. I have my reasons for drinking, and Boone has his for not. Whatever they are, I’m sure they’re not compatible with mine.

“Deal,” I say. “Now give me a hand. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and hurt feelings left unexpressed.

We finish cooking.

“How was the summer?” I ask while plating the fish.

“Quiet,” Eli says. “Nothing to report. Here or elsewhere in the area. Although they still haven’t found that girl who drowned in Lake Morey last summer. No sign of the one who went missing two years ago, either.”

I empty my glass of wine and pour another.

“That storm’s probably heading this way,” Eli says as we eat.

“What storm?”

“That hurricane that hit North Carolina. Don’t you watch the news?”

I don’t. Not lately.

“A hurricane? Here?”

The last time something like that happened here was Hurricane Sandy’s long, slow march through the Northeast. Lake Greene was without power for two weeks.

“Trish,” Eli says. “That’s what they’re calling it.”

“That’s a perky name for a hurricane.”

“It’s just a tropical storm now, but still plenty strong. Looks like it’ll reach us by the end of the week.”

Eli has another glass of wine.

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