Love Stories in This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward Read Free Book Online Page A

would sleep with Aurora held to her breast, and Bill would lie awake, move onto the couch, and do the drop-off and the pickup.
    As they neared the cabin, Lizzy seemed calmer. They drove into the town of Belgrade Lakes, stopped at Day's for supplies. Bill slipped a bottle of wine into the basket, and Lizzy said, “It's for you, not me.”
    “You could have a glass. …”
    “I don't want one.”
    “Then it's for me,” said Bill. He tossed in a six-pack of Shipyard Ale. Lizzy added an apple. Bill picked out two steaks, and Lizzy found green beans. Bill got eggs and butter, and Lizzy brought the basket to the counter and placed a People magazine and a pack of gum on top. Bill paid.
    When they reached the cabin, Bill found the key under an empty flowerpot, unlocking the door and breathing in the familiar smell of the musty kitchen. He felt a rush of well-being, a sense that anything was possible. He walked to the back porch, where he could see the lake. He could also see Lizzy, who was standing amidst the trees, trying to find cell phone reception. A leaf fell from a sugar maple, landing in her hair.
    One morning, when Aurora was a year old, Lizzy had stopped packing her dance bag and sat down heavily at the kitchen counter. “Hon, coffee?” said Bill, pouring into a plastic travel mug.
    Lizzy was in tights and a leotard, her hair uncombed. Aurora wandered around the kitchen, trying out her new purple shoes. She held up one foot and then the other, delighted. “I don't want to do this anymore,” said Lizzy.
    Bill sighed. “Hon, coffee?” he repeated.
    “I won't take her to that filthy day care.”
    “We can't afford for me to leave my job,” said Bill.
    “I know,” said Lizzy, her expression sad and sure. “I'm quitting the company.”
    “That's insane!” cried Bill.
    Insane or not, she did it, returning home that afternoon with the contents of her locker and a pizza.
    In Uncle Gerry's cabin, Bill opened the bottle of wine and poured a glass. Lizzy came inside and said, “Well! Your parents say Aurora's okay, but she hasn't even had her nap yet.” She looked at Bill and his glass of wine, then went into the bedroom. “I'm going to lie down,” she called.
    “Great,” said Bill.
    It was early afternoon. Bill refilled his glass and walked down to the lake. He had hoped, without the baby and the city, that things could be different. Bill remembered bringing Lizzy to camp for the first time, expertly piloting their Whaler to Snow Island. He'd idled next to the old dock and jumped off with the rope, securing the boat and then holding out his hand for Lizzy, radiant in a blue sundress and white sneakers, her hair loosed from her usual bun.
    “Oh, I get it,” Lizzy had said, taking his hand and stepping elegantly across the narrow ribbon of water separating the boat from the dock. “This is who you are, Bill Ferris.”
    It began to rain softly as Bill finished the second glass of wine and climbed into the yellow boat. He had always loved the paddle to Ashworth Island, located at the far end of Messalonskee Lake. As a teenager, Bill had supervised all the camp trips to Ashworth, from the Minnows' first campout to the Sturgeons' Maine Woodsman Certification Exams, during which the eldest boys had to construct their own shelters, forage for and cook their food, and take exams on axmanship and fire construction.
    Thunder cracked, but Bill was undeterred. He slid the boat into the water and began to row, chanting the list of local fish: Black crappie, brook trout, brown trout, eel —he switched sides, ignoring the rain— bullhead, pickerel, chub, ale wife. Three-spine stickleback four-spine stickleback-Largemouth bass, smallmouth bass. Shiner, splake, pike, sucker. Pumpkinseed sunfish, redbreast sunfish. Smelt, salmon, white and yellow perch. Slimy sculpin, slimy sculpin!
    His father had taught him the roll long ago, though Bill wasn't even sure it was correct. He was no marine biologist. He hadn't even finished