Page 113 of The House on Sunset Lake

‘You can still write to him,’ said Marion softly. ‘Just because he’s going home doesn’t mean you can’t see each other again. I hear London is beautiful in the fall,’ she chuckled.

‘I won’t be going to London,’ said Jennifer quietly.

‘Oh,’ said Marion more awkwardly.

Jennifer pulled away and used every ounce of her self-control to stay strong.

‘Do you have paper and a pen?’ she asked.

Marion nodded and went to get them. She put them on the small dining table in the corner of the room, then discreetly left Jennifer alone to write her note.

In the woods, Jennifer had been so confused that she hadn’t known what to do, how to proceed. But now she had some clarity. There was only one way out of this mess, and however much it broke her heart, she knew it was the only thing she could do.

She kept it simple.

Jim,

It’s been a wonderful summer but you should catch the plane to New York. Tonight. I love Connor. We are engaged, and last night should never have happened. Just go back to England, Jim. If you are truly my friend, you should do what is right for all of us and not contact me again.

Jennifer

She folded the paper in half, ashamed of her lies, sickened at the thought of Jim’s bewilderment when he read them.

‘Marion. Could you do me a favour?’ she asked simply.

‘Of course.’

Jennifer handed her the letter.

‘Can you drop this off at the Lake House? It’s for Jim.’

Marion looked at it.

‘I’ll fetch an envelope and go as soon as the rain dies down,’ she nodded.

Storms came and went quickly in this part of the world. Jennifer gave the towel back to Marion and said her goodbyes. The Wyatts’ housekeeper didn’t push, didn’t question Jennifer’s melancholy mood any further, and if she had noticed that the younger woman hadn’t looked her once in the eye, she didn’t say so. Jennifer was grateful for her unwillingness to pry.

She closed the door of Marion’s cottage behind her and started walking back to Casa D’Or, across the gravel drive and the lawns that led to the house. The clouds were beginning to clear, and the rain had softened to a gentle spit. Suddenly she could smell flowers on the breeze, as if the whole world had been infused with a springtime freshness that was in contrast to her own despair.

There was only one thing she wanted to do now, and that was to shower the filth of the day from her body. She felt shivery and weak. Her stomach was grumbling but she felt nauseous, as if a pool of vomit had collected at the base of her throat.

The Wyatts rarely locked the front door to Casa D’Or – there was no need to on the Isle of Hope – and Jennifer pushed it open. The house was silent, all traces of the party gone except for the fragment of a gold balloon in one corner of the hall. She began to walk up the sweeping staircase, holding the oak banister to steady herself. Every step seemed an effort. She felt exhausted, although her mind was a frantic whirl of thoughts. She imagined Marion walking to the Lake House right now, her shoes squelching in the wet grass, and wondered if she would see him on her way over – the monster in his boathouse lair.

‘Where have you been?’

She recognised her mother’s voice instantly. The Southern inflections that were so syrupy on most people in this town sounded in Sylvia’s tones clipped and brusque.

Jennifer was a few feet from the top of the stairs. Her mother stood on the mezzanine that overlooked the hallway, holding on to the balustrade so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

‘Just out,’ said Jennifer, not looking at her.

‘Where?’ pressed Sylvia.

‘Why does it matter?’ she said, clutching the banister harder.

‘What were you doing at the Lake House?’ asked her mother after a moment.

Jennifer’s heart was thudding hard now. Her throat felt tight, her palms started to bead with sweat. She knew it was her opportunity to say something, to shout out the truth. Sylvia Wyatt was her mother. She was on her side.