Her whole body trembled. “The HELOC—which house did you use for that?” But she knew—of course she knew.
“Tell me you didn’t just lose my family’s lake house. Tell me, you son of a bitch.”
Christian crumpled in his chair, the final admission like a weight he could no longer shoulder. His obvious remorse meant little to Julia at this point.
“How could you?”she shouted, her cheeks burning. “You took out a line of credit onmy family homewithout consulting me first?”
“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“Damn straight, I wouldn’t,” she snapped.
“I just needed a cash infusion to keep the business alive until things turned around. And then I would pay off the other loan, and we’d be fine. You wouldn’t have even known about it. The projections looked so good. It was low risk. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Jules.”
She hated him using her nickname. It made her skin crawl.
Now the call from the Purdy School made much more sense. She couldn’t believe it. In all their life, despite all the drinking, the affair, and his streak of poor choices, she’d never even considered that he could do something this deceitful and hurtful.
“What have you done to us, Christian?” she said.
“Please forgive me, Jules.”
Julia coughed out a disbelieving laugh. “Forgive you? Christian, I can’t stand the sight of you.”
“Please, I’ll figure this out, I promise. I love you so, so much.” His desperation only made Julia feel more out of control. Her entire body thrummed with fury.
“I am beyond devastated,” she said. “I am so angry I’m scaring myself. This is a betrayal on a whole different level than what you did before. I certainly can’t address this when you’re drunk, and Idon’t want to see you after you sober up, either. This might be my last two weeks on this lake formy entire life,and I don’t want you here anymore. You make me so sick I could scream. You can sleep in the guest room. And keep away from Taylor. I don’t want her finding out right now that you tossed your sobriety and my home in the trash. After you sleep it off, you can get in your precious Land Rover and get the hell out of here.”
Without giving Christian a chance to respond, Julia stormed out of the kitchen. She could hardly hold back the tears that poured out as soon as she reached the bedroom, where she slammed the door and locked it behind her.
Chapter 22
Izzy
One moment, I’m lost without hope. The next, I’m having a warm cup of tea in Grace Olsen’s home. My leg is elevated with a bag of ice draped over my ankle. The swelling frightens me, but I think the ice is helping. My ankle is big, misshapen, purplish, and so unfamiliar I can’t bear to look at it. It’s like I have someone else’s body part attached to me.
Grace assures me it isn’t broken. She seems certain, so that’s a relief.
Her home itself feels healing. It’s as though I’ve stepped into some kind of fairy-tale apothecary. There are exposed wood beams throughout and a few old-fashioned windows with lots of small panes that let in plenty of natural light. Herbs hang drying on the walls. The room smells of lavender and lemongrass. From the living room I can see into the kitchen, which is stocked with mason jars full of dried goods—beans, barley, lentils, and an assortment of loose teas, nicely displayed on wooden shelves that are as misshapen and varied as the trees they came from.
I’ve concluded Grace is some kind of naturalist. She uses a large mortar and pestle to create an aromatic-smelling herbal poultice (her word, not mine), which she rubs all over my injury. Whatever it is, it smells delightful, like it came from an exotic spice shop. Perhaps there’s turmeric in the mixture, for the whole paste has a yellowy-orange tinge.
Grace lists the ingredients: “It’s made of onion, ginger, dandelionroot, garlic, turmeric, and several other herbs I can’t name because they’re part of an ancient family secret.”
Turmeric! I enjoy a sense of pride. I try to guess what the other mystery ingredients might be. My mind goes to something witchy: small toads, eyes of newts, things I’ve read about in storybooks. Whatever she’s applied, it seems to be working. I take a peek, and the swelling is down considerably.
Grace trades her hiking clothes for a billowy patchwork skirt and white top. She’s accented her outfit with a colorful string of beads and dangling earrings that plink ever so slightly as she moves about, tending to her patient. I wonder where she acquired her skills. I was impressed with her quick thinking in the woods. She fashioned a splint from two sticks latched together with a belt, then used her teal fleece to pad the injury. That’s what enabled me to walk out of the forest. I should return the light jacket to her, but it’s keeping the ice bag from freezing my skin.
It took us an hour to reach her small house hidden in the woods off the main road. If I had been uninjured, the trek would have taken half that time; that’s how close I was to the house before Lucas left me for dead. I can’t count the thank-yous I uttered on our way back, but it was plenty.
The decorative lamps scattered throughout the room are perfect for reading, as is the worn and weathered couch, with a multicolored afghan draped over the back. She has a cozy little book nook stocked with paperbacks and hardcovers, inviting me to settle into one of her comfy chairs and get lost in a story. Several nice rugs, a few of which are the classic farmhouse oval design, are scattered about, but nothing is upscale. It’s all very modest, with signs of wear and tear, which is how I’m accustomed to living. It’s homey.
But it feels lonely, too, despite the orange tabby cat purring at the foot of my chair. Winston, her feline companion, appears to be the only other inhabitant of the house. I mean, yeah, the cat-lady trope can definitely paint a picture of isolation, but it’s something more. The knotted pine walls are filled with framed pictures of Grace’sfamily, all from so long ago. They’re photos from her childhood, and this woman must be in her seventies, judging by her gray hair and kind, but wrinkled face. The images look aged as well, like vintage postcards, yellowing, and set inside tarnished frames. It’s a family of five. I remember the brother, Tom, from theGlobearticle I sourced, and I’m certain the beaming girl in the bikini decorated with gingham checks must be Anna. She’s standing next to her younger sister, who’s looking at me from the photo with the same bright eyes I saw when she saved me in the woods. The sisters appear radiant, like they’re living their best lives.
But there are no recent pictures on display. If Grace never had a family of her own, maybe she’s clung to the one she once knew, from a time before sorrow swallowed joy, back when her beloved sister was a fixture at the lake.
“More tea, dear?” Grace asks, preemptively heading to the kitchen to heat the kettle.
It would feel rude to decline.
