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

his English degree at UVM. He met Lizzy, she auditioned with the Boston Ballet, she was granted a spot in the company, and they moved.
    Lizzy was an anxious mother; she could talk for twenty minutes about baby-proofing. (Sometimes, after a long day, Bill was too tired to deal with the KidCo toilet seat lock and just peed into the tub.) She seemed to have no regrets about leaving her life's work, no interest in movies or current events, no desire to put on makeup. Sometimes Bill looked at his wife and couldn't figure out what the fuck had happened.
    But Aurora: at naptime, she slept on her stomach with her diaper in the air, her feet crossed underneath her. She was curious, earnest, her teeth tiny pearls. When she ran to Bill and settled herself perfectly against him, her head smelled like sunscreen and caramel.
    He made it to Ashworth Island and climbed out of the boat, pulling it to shore. He remembered camping on the island, jamming his legs into his L.L. Bean sleeping bag. Bill missed his child-size camp bag, navy with a black stripe. He'd been asleep inside it the night his aunt went missing.
    Bill sat by the water, thinking about Aunt Renee's long-ago disappearance. Uncle Gerry had driven the roads of Belgrade Lakes, calling to check in from every pay phone he came across. When Bill's father, searching with a flashlight, realized the boat was gone, they all assumed—they prayed— she'd gotten lost out on the lake. The police dredged the water, and found Aunt Renee's body. At the funeral, Gerry sat next to the open casket, reaching inside to cover Renee's hand with his own.
    Aunt Renee had always insisted on getting up early with Bill and his sisters, letting Bill's parents sleep in. She sat by the side of the lake in her bathrobe and played the violin while they chased each other and gathered twigs. Bill remembered the smell of blueberry pancakes and bacon, Renee's bow resting on the windowsill while she cooked. She was from some Midwestern city—Chicago?—but Gerry had brought her to Maine and she had stayed. Bill's clearest memory of his aunt was when she'd run after their car as they pulled out of the driveway. It was the end of Bill's family's summer visit, and Aunt Renee made Bill's mother stop and roll down the window. “I have one more kiss for the kids,” she'd said. She blew them each a kiss and then stood alone in the road as they drove away, hugging her cardigan around her skinny frame.
    The sky was red and gold as Bill paddled back. By the time the cabin came into view, it was nearly dark. In the evening light, he saw Lizzy's faint outline. She was sitting on the deck with her magazine. Bill remembered arriving at the studio to pick Lizzy up for dinner once, seeing her in the midst of practice. Across a mirrored room, bleached with overhead lights, Lizzy had leapt and landed, the muscles in her thighs as solid as rock.
    “Bill?” Lizzy shouted. “Is that you?”
    He didn't want to reach the shore. The thought of cooking dinner and making stilted conversation before avoiding sex—it was unbearable. But the only words left to say— I don't love you anymore —were not in Bill's vocabulary. He stopped paddling and looked into the almond-colored water, understanding that Renee's death had not been a mistake.
    “Bill?” called Lizzy.
    He stood up in the boat, while she could still see him, and took off his shirt. The evening air was chilly, bringing goose bumps to his skin. He sat down, took off his sneakers and his socks.
    “Bill!” She had abandoned her magazine, and was running to the edge of the deck. He rose again, and unclasped his buckle, removing his jeans and underwear. He faced his wife, and then he dove into the lake. The cold was a shock, but he swam down, trying to touch the bottom. For a moment, he was still, and then he floated up, breaking out of the water and taking a deep breath. “Come swimming!” he shouted.
    There was no answer.
    A last time, he said, “Come swimming!” And