He walked around the lake once more. His shoulders had begun to sag, and each step grew slower than the last. Raindrops seeped through the tiny holes in the old umbrella, speckling his beige coat and dark brown hat. His flannel scarf had slipped loose from his neck and nearly brushed the ground. He stepped into the water…
She deleted another sentence.
Draining the last sip of coffee, she looked out the window. The mountains had disappeared behind the fog. Heavy raindrops struck the porch.
She glanced at the clock. It was past ten. She had lost track of how long she’d been sitting there, trying to finish the final scene.
When she stood, stiffness gripped her legs. After only a few steps, the room began to spin, and she sank onto the living-room sofa.
She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.
The lamp was still on. Its light seemed to blend with the curtains, the pale daylight filtering through the window, and the painting on the wall.
With her eyes closed, the next scene suddenly came into focus.
She returned to the table, feeling as though the floor might disappear beneath her feet, then sat down at the computer and kept writing.
He stopped at the edge of the lake. Crouched. Reached toward the water. Slipped. His knees struck the rocks. His hands sank into the mud. The umbrella fell from his grasp and drifted into the lake.
A car horn broke the silence.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Martha inside a green 1952 Cadillac.
“Carlos, it’s starting to pour. Come on.”
He looked away.
Martha watched him, lightly tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. She switched off the engine, slipped off her high heels, and lined them up neatly on the floorboard. She shivered as her bare feet touched the cold, wet ground. Gathering the hem of her burgundy satin dress, she started toward him. Even so, the hem grew damp and picked up streaks of mud along the way.
“Carlos.”
He kept staring at the lake.
“Come,” Martha urged.
Only then did he turn.
Their eyes met.
Nothing needed to be said.
Careful not to lose his footing in the mud, he stood and made his way to her, wrapping his arms around her and leaving muddy handprints on her pink crocheted cardigan.
She stopped again, as though the words had slipped out of reach.
Outside, the fog was beginning to lift. The lake was coming back into view, with a few ducks settling onto the water.
She took a few slices of toast from the cupboard and reached for an old jar of jam. For a moment, she considered not eating. Then she took a bite, but the dry crumbs caught in her throat. A glass of water washed them down before she returned to the table.
The story was nearly finished.
She reread the chapter.
The ending still wasn’t right.
She rewrote the final scene countless times, then deleted it once more.
She buried her face in her hands. Through her fingers, the letters blurred together on the computer screen.
The phone vibrated on the side table. She ignored it. Maybe another cup of coffee would help.
On her way to the kitchen, she picked it up. A missed call. Her editor.
His message was brief and curt. He was waiting for her manuscript. The deadline was by the end of the afternoon.
She tossed the phone onto the sofa, turned on the coffee maker, and went back to the table.
Sweating and shivering at the same time, she let her restless fingers drift across the keyboard.
She typed a few words. Still not right.
Clenching her fists, she slammed them onto the desk. A sharp pain shot through her fingers. She bit her lip and lowered her head onto the keyboard.
The doorbell rang.
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
In fact, she hadn’t told a soul she would be spending the weekend at the cottage.
She stayed where she was, with no intention of answering the door.
The doorbell rang again, followed by insistent knocking.
She sighed, pushed herself to her feet, and made her way to the door, steadying herself against the walls. Rising onto her toes, she peered through the peephole.
A chill ran through her.
The same beige coat.
The same dark brown hat.
The same flannel scarf.
And the open umbrella, still dripping.
She took a step back.
Her eyes remained fixed on the door.
Slowly, she shook her head, as though refusing to believe what she had just seen.
The doorknob turned. She should have locked it.
Another step back. Searching for her phone.
Before she could reach it, the door swung open.
She froze.
The old man in the beige coat, dark brown hat, and flannel scarf stood before her.
He closed the umbrella and rested it on the floor. Water dripped onto the entry rug.
Slowly, he raised his head.
Their eyes met.
His brow was furrowed. His lips were pressed tightly together. He looked terrified.
“I need your help,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“What happened?”
“You have to come with me.”
“Where?”
“Please…”
She picked up her phone.
Should she call the police?
Or follow?
“Hurry,” he said, turning and walking away.
“Wait!” she called, pulling on her boots.
He walked ahead.
She followed, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that she recognized the man ahead of her.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
He beneath his umbrella.
She growing wetter with every step.
In the distance, she saw the lake.
He stopped and pointed ahead.
She came to a stop beside him.
“He… he can’t swim.”
“Who?”
“Him!” he shouted.
He pointed frantically toward the lake with both hands.
Then he dropped to his knees and broke into uncontrollable sobs.
She ran to the water’s edge. Narrowing her eyes, she searched the water. She kicked off her boots and waded into the lake. She dove under. Nothing.
Minutes later, she could no longer feel her fingertips in the freezing water.
A car approached.
She swam back to shore.
The old man was still kneeling there, bent over himself, his head buried in his hands.
The car stopped a few yards behind him.
The same green 1952 Cadillac.
She climbed out of the water, shivering, and walked toward him.
At the same moment, a woman stepped out of the car. She hurried to the old man and knelt beside him.
The woman was wearing a burgundy satin dress and the same pink crocheted cardigan Martha had been wearing.
“Come with me,” the woman said, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“No.”
He brushed her hand away.
Her eyes were wide. She trembled, not only from the cold. She could barely process what was happening.
The woman looked at her without speaking.
“What’s happening?” she finally managed to ask.
“I’m sorry if my husband frightened you.”
“He asked me for help…” she said, pointing toward the lake.
The woman urged him to stand.
“Come.”
This time, he let his wife help him.
They walked slowly back to the car.
He climbed into the back seat.
The woman turned to her.
“We lost our son in this lake many years ago. He was five.”
She raised her hands to her mouth. No words came. She looked toward the lake.
“I need to take him home,” the woman said as she got into the car.
Before closing the door, the woman looked back at her one last time.
The green Cadillac slowly disappeared down the road.
Rain fell against her face as she walked back to the cottage.
Her soaked clothes weighed heavily on her body.
She left her mud-covered boots by the door.
Changed into dry clothes.
Made coffee.
Then sat down in front of the computer.
He walked around the lake once more. His pace had slowed beneath the steady rain. Raindrops seeped through the tiny holes in the old umbrella, speckling his beige coat and dark brown hat. His flannel scarf had slipped loose from his neck and nearly brushed the ground.
He stopped at the water’s edge. He waved to his son on the opposite shore. Then he resumed his walk.
A scream shattered the silence.
He turned and saw the boy struggling in the water.
He threw the umbrella aside. His coat and scarf fell behind him. He ran. Slipped. His knees struck the rocks.
Then came only silence.
He hurled himself into the lake.
Within seconds, the cold consumed his body.
At last, he caught sight of two small hands sinking beneath the surface.
He dove.
He reached his son, wrapped one arm around him, and swam back to shore.