A Week at the Lake (15 page)

“Well!” Eve turned to look at her husband, but Rex didn't meet her eye.

Emma breathed a sigh of relief as Eve huffed out of the room. Rex came over and pressed a kiss to Emma's cheek before following Eve out the door.

“Thank God you showed up when you did,” Emma said when they were alone. “There's still a part of me that's afraid Eve will sneak in, knock me out, and drag me somewhere.”

“Not gonna happen, sugah,” Serena said in her best Georgia Goodbody accent. “No one's about to outmaneuver or get past Mackenzie, Zoe, and me.”

“But where are we going?” Emma asked.

“You promised us a week at the lake,” Serena replied. “And we are all more than ready for that week to begin.”

T
hey arrived at the hospital the next morning to find Emma dressed and seated in a wheelchair. Her face was pale, her clothes hung on her frame, but she was sitting upright. When she saw them, her lips stretched into a smile. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don't cry.” Serena leaned down and hugged Emma gently. “We're here to spring you from this place.”

“I know.” Emma raised a shaking hand to swipe at the tears. “I can't help it. It just keeps hitting me that I might never have seen Zoe or either of you again.” She lowered her hand, her movements slow and deliberate. “I'm a mess. Last night I cried through a Viagra commercial.”

There was a brief knock and Dr. Brennan appeared. Part of the nursing staff who'd seen them through the last weeks were with him. Serena felt ready to cry herself.

“Dr. Markham's in surgery. He asked me to give you his good-byes.”

“I don't know how to . . . thank you,” Emma said, her eyes tearing up once again.

“Seeing you ready to leave is more than enough,” the neurointensivist said. “Saying good-bye is always the best part.” Dr. Brennan smiled down at Emma and accepted hugs from Serena, Mackenzie, and Zoe. “This is a field where watching someone go and knowing they don't need you anymore is a reward in its own right.”

“We are all indebted to you,” Serena said in her best Georgia
Goodbody drawl. “You have met and exceeded all expectations. I'm quite relieved that I didn't need my ‘fan' even once.”

“It's been my pleasure.” The doctor smiled. “Are you planning to go out the back entrance? I had a report that a couple of tabloid photographers were caught trying to lift lab coats from the hospital laundry. And it looks like they've managed to cover all the entrances and exits.”

Emma sighed and ran a hand over her head, which was bald except for some patches of stubble. “I'm not ready for any close-ups. Or questions.”

“You don't need to be,” Serena said. “Because we have a plan.” She pointed to Zoe. “Cue the
Mission Impossible
theme music.”

“DA DA da-da. DA DA da-da, DA DA da-da . . . ” Zoe began then dropped volume, her rendition of the tune continuing under Serena's explanation.

“Our mission,” Serena intoned solemnly, “which we have already accepted, is to extract you from this hospital without exposing you to a single unwanted, and potentially unattractive, photograph or question.”

“DA DA da-da.” Zoe brought up the volume again as Serena paused dramatically.

“Really?” Emma looked doubtful. “How?”

Serena turned to Mackenzie. “Report?”

Mackenzie mock saluted smartly. “The private ambulance we're using for the operation is in position, engine idling, at the end of our ‘secret passage.'”

Zoe increased the volume again—“DA DA da-da, DA DA dahhhh”—then lowered it to background level as Serena continued. “Ethan Miller has been recruited to provide a celebrity diversion. In truth, he volunteered to carry out this most dangerous of plans.”

She cued Zoe, gave her a couple of beats, then continued. The kid was good.

“Ethan's limo is parked around the corner. When I give him
the signal he will be driven to the main entrance, exit the limo, and walk directly into the waiting pack of paparazzi. He will then pause to answer questions, mug for the cameras, and let them know that he's on his way up to see Emma, thereby giving us time to make our escape.”

“Very tricky,” Emma said. “I'm ready to blow this Popsicle stand.” Emma's voice was still rough, her face wan, but there was no mistaking her smile. Though she'd lost almost two weeks of her life and significant bits of memory, her sense of humor seemed largely intact.

“All right, then. Let's synchronize our watches,” Serena said. “Everybody ready?”

Everyone nodded. Zoe finished humming the
Mission Impossible
theme with a flourish.

“Proceed with caution,” Dr. Brennan added, playing along. “And remember, should you or any of your team be captured, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

“Thanks, again, Doc,” Serena said, putting out a hand to shake. “We're grateful, but I know we're all hoping like hell we never need you again.”

“Ditto,” he said clasping her hand in his. “My mother has already framed your thank-you note. She's even temporarily stopped asking when I'm going to get married.”

“Thank you. Thank you all.” Emma shook all of the staff's hands, her eyes once again filling with tears.

“Give yourself time to heal,” Dr. Brennan said quietly. “The physiotherapy is important. I've discussed it with Serena. And she has the number to set up a follow-up visit with Dr. Markham.”

“We don't plan to let her lift anything heavier than my fan,” Serena assured him. “Or possibly a glass of wine.”

“For the record, I don't recommend alcohol,” Dr. Brennan said. “Booze clouds the mind. Even a glass or two reduces a person's ability to make recent memories. And Emma already has gaps that may not come back.”

He noted their dismayed expressions. “I'm not in favor of drinking during a patient's recovery, but I also know there are a lot of patients who ignore this advice.” He shrugged. “I'd be careful, but I doubt if a single glass of wine would hurt much.”

“Understood.” Serena shot him a wink.

The nurse pushed Emma through the door and toward the elevator. They formed a protective ring, shielding Emma from view, and headed for the employee exit and walkway. As they left the hospital, Serena sent the text to Ethan. Ten minutes later Emma was settled in the private ambulance, they'd taken their seats around her, and the driver was pulling into traffic.

Serena's only regret was that they wouldn't be able to watch Ethan Miller's performance.

E
mma dozed for most of the four-and-a-half-hour drive up to Lake George, ensconced in a bed that sported four-hundred-thread-count linens. The mahogany-paneled “bedroom” also came with a flat-screen TV with Wi-Fi and digital surround sound as well as a sofa and chairs. If not for the unnecessary medical equipment and the boulder-sized, heavily accented nurse that Serena insisted she hadn't requested and who'd been banished to the front where she was currently riding shotgun, they might have been traveling in the stateroom of a small yacht or five-star motorhome.

Mackenzie had been put in charge of music, and the playlist included Celine Dion, Sarah McLachlan, and Natasha Bedingfield, whose voices played softly from the Bose speakers, a soothing background soundtrack as they talked quietly among themselves.

As they traveled north on the New York State Thruway toward Albany, the landscape became greener and lusher, the terrain hillier. Mackenzie thought of all the trips they'd made to the lake together, how their spirits had risen with each mile.
At first the lake house had been the place where they could shed their newly acquired sophistication and simply “be.” Later, when they'd scattered geographically, it had become the place in which they renewed their friendship, effortlessly picking up where they'd left off, strengthening the bond none of them imagined could ever break. And yet five years ago Emma had severed that bond without a word of apology or explanation.

“God, I almost can't believe this is happening,” Serena said quietly. “Not after the last two weeks. And how close we came to losing her.”

“I know,” Mackenzie whispered, her eyes on Emma. “I kept telling myself she'd wake up, but . . .” Mackenzie couldn't bring herself to admit aloud that she hadn't really believed it would happen.

Emma roused as the ambulance slowed for the Lake George Village exit then turned north on Route 9N. The two-lane road, which hugged the western edge of the spring-fed lake, was appropriately named Lake Shore Drive, and had once been known as Millionaires' Row. It wound and rolled gently beneath a leafy canopy of green on its way to the town of Bolton Landing. To their right, small, sometimes unpaved roads wended down toward the water, bisecting and breaking up the marinas, restaurants, and inns that dotted the landscape and affording the occasional glimpse at the bright blue waters of the lake itself.

Zoe pulled the curtains wider so that Emma could see the sights as they passed.

“Erlowest,” Emma said softly, noting the entrance to one of the remaining original lakeside mansions, which had been restored and was now an upscale B and B. “Read about new chef. Maybe dinner.”

“I think that's a great idea,” Mackenzie said, pleased to see Emma's eyes remaining open. “And when you're feeling up to it we definitely need to get to the Sagamore,” she said, naming the sprawling historic hotel that sat on its own island across a small bridge from Bolton Landing. “Maybe we could
do a spa day there. Or just sit out and have lunch overlooking the lake.”

“I'm in,” Serena said as the vehicle slowed to a crawl. “Although I think I could be perfectly happy stretched out in a hammock or on a chaise on the boathouse deck.” A long line of cars heading south passed on their left. “Wow, look at all this traffic.”

“It's . . . end of June, right?” Emma asked sleepily. “Season. It'll be packed for the Fourth.” She spoke slowly and with effort, but Mackenzie detected a note of happiness rather than complaint. “Did you call Martha?”

“I had a text from her a half hour ago saying the house has been aired out, the refrigerator is stocked, and everything's good to go,” Mackenzie said. “And she said she left something in the oven.”

“I hope it's a cottage pie,” Zoe said. “Or her famous mac and cheese.” Zoe had barely let go of her mother's hand since leaving the hospital. “Or both.”

Mackenzie just hoped it would be something that tempted Emma to eat.

“Oh, God you're making me hungry,” Serena said. “Just so you know, I don't intend to count a single calorie while we're here. I think we're all ready for some home cooking after all that hospital food and takeout.”

“And we definitely need to put some meat back on Emma's bones,” Mackenzie added. When Emma was stronger, well, then they'd make her explain what had caused her to jettison them.

“Ironic,” Emma said. “Only had to lose consciousness to lose weight.”

She had, in fact, lost fifteen pounds over the last two weeks, a situation Mackenzie was determined to rectify.

“Yeah, well next time do us a favor and try Weight Watchers first,” Serena said.

“Funny.” Emma's smile was tired. “Wish I had the energy to laugh.”

They exchanged glances, all of them aware of how large an effort was required for Emma to put a sentence together.

“Good to know. You owe me a belly laugh when you're feeling better, then,” Serena quipped. “Although I'd settle for a chuckle. Or maybe you could text or email me an LOL!”

The smile that flickered on Emma's lips ended in a yawn. Her eyes fluttered shut. The jagged stitches that showed through the patches of red-gold stubble that dotted her scalp underscored her frailty.

“When we get to the cottage, I'm carrying a drink out to the lake with me. Maybe even two,” Serena said.

“I'm going for a swim,” Zoe exclaimed. “And then I'm going to lie on the floating dock. Forever.”

Emma just smiled sleepily, only opening her eyes when the ambulance slowed at the low stone wall then turned onto a narrow, unmarked asphalt road. They wound through the densely wooded area toward the lake. Several smaller roads branched off to the right and left as they continued through the trees and scrub, finally coming to a stop in a clearing dotted with trees. Slivers of lake sparkled between their tall trunks. The whine of a boat engine reached them, and Mackenzie saw the frothy white wake it had left behind.

Emma's sigh was a contented one as the vehicle turned onto the driveway and followed it up the rise. The sprawling clapboard house sat atop the grassy hill and commanded a stunning view of the yard that sloped down to the private beach and the protected cove it bounded. Steps made of river rock led down to the beach, where a matching clapboard boathouse with a large railed rooftop deck overlooked an L-shaped dock. The beach and cove were horseshoe shaped and private, shielded on either side by stands of trees and shrubbery. A floating platform bobbed on the water, an easy swim from the beach and boathouse. At the edge of the cove lay the narrow triangle of land called Hemlock Point. Beside it a small army of buoys marked the rocky shoals where an island had once been. Beyond that
the lake opened up, stretching out of sight to the north and south and reaching some three miles eastward to the opposite shore.