Page 13 of The Lake Escape
I started college as a psych major before switching to journalism to pursue my passion. I doubt there’s a true crime podcast I haven’t met.Bone Ranch. Dr. Dead. Crime Addict.I’ve heard them all, though I certainly didn’t put my obsession with serial killers on my nanny application.
I think my compulsion is rooted in fear. It’s all about staring down the dragon from the cushy comfort of my bed without being directly in the line of fire. According to a psychology professor I interviewed for a feature story about our cultural fascination with murder shows, controlled exposure to something frightening gives us a safe way to subconsciously develop coping mechanisms.
When I saw the story about human remains found not too far from here, I had to come and investigate. But where was I going to stay? There are not a lot of jobs that provide housing, and what I needed to accomplish couldn’t be done in a day or two. Luckily, my Google Alert for Lake Timmeny delivered the answer directly to my inbox.
This is more than a job, it’s a calling. I remind myself that I can endure anything, even a sibling squabble that amounts to two humans screeching back and forth at each other: “Am not!” “Are too!”
To halt the ruckus, I deploy a secret weapon of the nanny trade: sugar.
“Let’s make s’mores,” I say, with a clap of my hands that gets their attention.
Brody takes tremendous pleasure in turning his marshmallow into a flaming ball of burning goo. He swirls it around like he’s doing a Hawaiian fire dance, while Fiona keeps her reproachful eyes on me.Letting a five-year-old play with fire?But so be it. Fiona and I don’t have to be best friends. We don’t have to be friends at all. I’ve got a job to do.
Unfortunately, I don’t appear to be doing it very well. While Brody captivates me with his pyrotechnic skills, I completely lose sight of Becca. My eyes go to the lake and my mind to the darkest place imaginable. My panic is short-lived when David approaches with his daughter in his arms. She kicks outward in a playful struggle to free herself from his grasp as I prepare myself to be fired.
“Not to worry,” David says following my string of apologies. “This one’s quite slippery, especially when she wants her iPad.”
“I won’t let it happen again,” I assure him, knowing full well I’ve just given a piecrust promise: easily made, easily broken. That’s lifted directly fromMary Poppins.There is no better training for the nanny trade than Mary, and I think this quote is as astute as it is self-explanatory.
Becca squirms in David’s arms until he sets her down. I notice how she has a blue glow stick bracelet wrapped multiple times around her slender wrist. It makes her easier to spot in the dark. David probably came up with the idea, based on experience. Since he didn’t tell me she was a roamer, I try not to feel too bad about my slipup. But still, piecrust promise or not, Imustbe more vigilant.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “I was so focused on Brody and the hot marshmallows, I just…”
David places his hand on my shoulder. His fingers gently touchmy skin. I don’t know what to make of it, or how to respond. A tingle of apprehension zips through me. It could be benign, but it could also be totally inappropriate. I think of my predecessor who quit so unexpectedly. No wonder Fiona is on the defensive, though I suspect she may be blaming the wrong person. I guess it’s not just Becca I have to keep my eyes on.
David releases his grip. “She’s a wanderer, but doesn’t go far and knows to stay out of the water,” he assures me. He grabs a beer from a six-pack on a table, twists the top before taking a long swig. “Fiona, on the other hand—now that’s a different story.”
I perk up.What does that mean?
David can read the question in my eyes. “She sleepwalks,” he explains, and takes another drink.
“I’ve never known anybody who did that,” I say.
“I guess it’s happened off and on for most of her life,” says David. “But it’s gotten worse since she started taking Ambien for her insomnia. Her doctor lowered the dose, so it’s better now, but not entirely cured.”
I’m fairly certain Fiona wouldn’t want us discussing her medical history, and I can’t help but wonder what other boundaries David feels comfortable crossing.
He continues, as if we’re talking about the weather. “Usually, she just goes to the fridge for a midnight snack, which she later denies.” He says this with a chuckle, but if Fiona is consuming extra calories, they sure don’t show on her figure.
I turn my attention to the children. They make a great excuse for exiting an awkward conversation. Becca is trying to ride the poor dog like she’s a pony. God bless Nutmeg, who basically allows it. Before I have a chance to make my getaway, the music shuts off and Erika’s lilting voice draws all eyes to her.
“Everyone, everyone!” she calls out. In her hand, she holds a pitcher filled with glowing blue liquid, like Becca’s bracelet has been turned into a drink. “The Lake Escape cocktails are ready. Come and get ’em!” She holds the pitcher high to a rousing caterwaul ofhoots and hollers from the adults, with Fiona’s voice the loudest of all.
David leans toward me. “It’s one of our many lake traditions,” he explains. “We always kick off vacation by toasting with Erika’s famous specialty drink, the Lake Escape, served only on the first night. She invented it in the Shack.” I can hear the nostalgia in his voice. There’s a story here.
“The Shack?” I ask.
“It’s a one-room clubhouse we found in the woods,” he explains. “Someone built it before our time, but left it abandoned, so we took it over when we were teenagers. It was pretty run-down, but we didn’t care. It was a good place to party. And to make up drinks like the Lake Escape, thanks to the booze we snuck from our parents’ liquor cabinets. Turned out rum, peach schnapps, a hearty splash of blue curaçao, and Sprite made quite the cocktail.” His face lights up as he smiles at his youthful indiscretions.
“I haven’t been there in ages—don’t even know if the Shack is still standing.” He pauses. His excited look returns. “Maybe I’ll take you and the kids on an adventure to see what’s left of it,” he says. “They’ll think it’s awesome. Should be easy enough to find. It’s down the road, a half mile tops. There’s a path that leads to it, near an old knotted oak tree.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
“But no drinking—you’re on the job.” He laughs at his own lame joke, then brightens some more. “There is a nonalcoholic blue punch version of the Lake Escape if you want to try it.”
Considering that the drink reminds me of something radioactive, I pass. Though I notice that Erika fills Christian’s cup from the nonalcoholic pitcher David had offered me.
Interesting.
