Comfort & Joy by Kristin Hannah Read Free Book Online

across the black sky. I grab my camera, get dressed, and leave my room. Halfway to the lobby, I hear a voice: It’s Daniel’s soft, lilting brogue.

    I peer around the corner.

    He is at the window, staring out at the lake. His black hair is a tangled, untended mess.

    Moving quietly, I edge around the corner and I see what he’s looking at.

    Bobby is out at the lake, alone, and gesturing wildly. Even from this distance, and through the murky, unreliable dawn light, I can see that no one is near him.

    I see her sometimes.

    “God help us,” Daniel says in a broken voice.

    I know he is praying, asking God for help. Still, the words are given to me. I feel a strange binding to them.

    With a curse, he goes outside and walks down the path to the lake.

    I move cautiously toward the window, but from here, I won’t be able to hear them. If I’m going to eavesdrop, I should do it correctly. On this specious bit of logic, which I know is really only curiosity, I slip outside and step into the dark shadows cast by a Volkswagen-sized rhododendron.

    “What the hell, Bobby? I thought we agreed about this,” Daniel says.

    “You can’t stop me from talking to her.”

    “Maybe tomorrow we’ll go see Father James. He—”

    “Go back to being a stork broker. I don’t want you here,” Bobby says. Pushing past his dad, he runs back into the lodge. He is crying too hard to see me.

    Daniel stands there a long time, looking out at the lake. There’s a strange intimacy between us; I’m trapped by his presence. I can’t move from my hiding place without risk.

    At last, he turns away from the water and returns to the house, muttering under his breath as he passes me. Once inside, he slams the door shut so hard it bangs back open.

    I stand there a long moment, in the darkness, then step out into the dawning light. Behind the black trees and gunmetal gray lake, the sky is awash in layers of color—fuschia, lavender, neon orange.

    I bring the camera up and find the perfect shot, but by the time I take it, I’ve lost interest. What I care about right now can’t be put in focus or framed in a neat little viewfinder.

    Bobby and Daniel are in trouble. They are obviously drowning in a sea of what they’ve lost.

    I know about those dark waters.

    Someone needs to throw them a life ring.

     

    B ack in the kitchen, I find a pot of coffee and a plate of muffins. Blueberry, my favorite. I add one cup of coffee and a single muffin to my tab, then go in search of mementos for my trip.

    The perfect photograph. I’ll accept nothing less.

    Outside, the pink dawn has given way to a gray and yellow day of inconsistent weather: There, by the road, it’s cloudy and rainy; here at the front door, it’s shadowy and moist; down by the lake, it’s sunny.

    As I walk down the path, the air is thick with mist. Birdsong bursts forth in Gatling gun spasms with every step I take. I snap several photographs before the swing set catches my eye. This is a magnificent specimen—obviously hand-built and carefully designed. It has a slide, two swings, and a fort.

    I used to love swinging; at the house in Calabasas, Stacey and I spent hours in the air, side by side, and pushing each other. I go to the swing set, set my camera gently on a step, and wipe dew from one of the black leather seats. Sitting, I lean back and pump my legs until I’m practically flying. The lemon and charcoal sky fills my vision.

    “Grown-ups don’t play on the swings.”

    At Bobby’s voice, I stab my feet into the loose dirt and skid to a stop.

    He’s standing near the skinned log stanchion. His eyes are bloodshot from crying. Tiny pink sleep lines crisscross his face. His curly hair is stick straight in places.

    I feel an almost overwhelming urge to take him in my arms and hold him. Instead, I say: “They don’t, huh? Who says?”

    He frowns at me. “I dunno.”

    “You want to join me?”

    He stares at me for a long time, then eases toward the other