The Lake House by Marci Nault Page A

fifty miles from Boston, but as a child she never saw the city. When her sixth-grade class went on field trips to the aquarium and the Museum of Science, she sat alone reading in the library. Ten dollars for a field trip had been too much for her mother’s budget.
    Boston became her Emerald City. Saturday afternoons she scanned magazines for pictures: cobblestone streets, brick ornaterow houses, Harvard University. She cut perfect squares around the images and taped them, like wallpaper, to the smoke-stained wall behind her bed. Under her pillow she kept two pictures: Quincy Market’s illuminated tree-lined walkway and a harbor view of the Boston skyline.
    The day after graduation, she left her mother’s dirty two-bedroom apartment with five hundred dollars in her savings account, a new credit card, and an envelope filled with the magazine clippings. In her backpack, she carried a toothbrush and five clothing changes. Her mother dropped Heather at the train station, hugged her good-bye and said, “Good luck.” Then she lit a cigarette, got in her car, and drove away without looking back.
    As the train pulled away from the platform, Heather looked out the scratched window. The liquor store and pizza shop disappeared behind the abandoned factories. Streets lined with apartment houses, rented by slumlords, flew past. The trees thickened and then gave way to affluent towns with boutique shops and colonial architecture.
    Her every nerve felt frayed as she stepped from the train at North Station. The boardinghouse address, folded in a pocket, was her only plan. Without a map, she followed the throng of people through Haymarket Square, where the smell of fish, meat, and produce assaulted her senses. Around the corner she came to Quincy Market, where bubbled lampposts lined the cobbled path between buildings. Heather pretended to tie her sneaker as her hand brushed the smooth stones. It was real. She was here.
    That first summer, she spent her afternoons in the Boston Public Garden. She’d sit under the giant weeping willow, next to the pond, the Globe open to the “Arts and Leisure” section. Begonias and roses scented the breeze that swayed the tree’s umbrellaof branches. Children played on the bronze ducks, their diaper-covered bums bouncing on the statues. Heather stretched across her blanket and watched the swan boats glide under the bridge.
    Those first months were like Disney World to a five-year-old—innocent and exciting. She didn’t care that she lived in a basement studio apartment that smelled like wet concrete or that she worked as a waitress. She had a real life for the first time.
    Now, ten years later, she was a successful columnist for the Globe who traveled the world. But at events like this, a part of her still couldn’t help feeling like an outsider looking in.
    Heather glanced at her reflection in the window of the Bay Towers. Everyone saw glamour and sophistication. In her purple silk dress, the curve of Heather’s collarbone accentuated her graceful neck. Her stomach had a soft bump of femininity, and her hip bone curved into long legs, but years ago Heather had lost the ability to see her beauty. It seemed every other woman wore her body with ease. In her eyes, her breasts were too small, so she wore padded bras to hide the perceived flaw. She caught the reflection of her rear end as she turned away from the window. The muscles never perked, no matter how many squats she did. Though Charlie never specifically said her backside disappointed him, she saw how he tilted his head and widened his eyes to catch a better look whenever a woman with a great ass walked by.
    Heather looked toward the bar, where Charlie had gone to get her a drink. Three perfect women sat on the stools, oozing confidence as they laughed together. They were younger, prettier, and thinner than Heather. One showcased her augmented chest and disdain for a bra in a low-cut, backless dress. For the last fifteen minutes, Charlie had