On Mystic Lake - By Kristin Hannah Page 0,1

sleeping body and, at last, relax.

She had been proud of her daughter’s independence and courage in choosing to go all the way to England by herself, but she hadn’t realized how hard it would be to watch Natalie leave. They’d been like best friends, she and her daughter, ever since Natalie had emerged from the angry, sullen rubble of the early teen years. They’d had hard times, sure, and fights and hurt feelings, and they’d each said things that shouldn’t have been said, but all that had only made their bond stronger. They were a unit, the “girls” in a household where the only man worked eighty hours a week and sometimes went whole days without remembering to smile.

She stared out the car window. The concrete-encrusted canyons of downtown Los Angeles were a blur of high-rise buildings, graffiti, and neon lights that left streaking reflections in the misty rain. They were getting closer and closer to the airport.

She reached for her husband, touched the pale blue cashmere of his sleeve. “Let’s fly to London with Nana and get her settled with her host family. I know—”

“Mom,” Natalie said sharply from the backseat. “Get real. It would be, like, so humiliating for you to show up.”

Annie drew her hand back and plucked a tiny lint ball from her expensive wool pants. “It was just an idea,” she said softly. “Your dad has been trying to get me to England for ages. I thought . . . maybe we could go now.”

Blake gave her a quick look, one she couldn’t quite read. “I haven’t mentioned England in years.” Then he muttered something about the traffic and slammed his hand on the horn.

“I guess you won’t miss the California traffic,” Annie said into the awkward silence that followed.

In the backseat, Natalie laughed. “No way. Sally Pritchart—you remember her, Mom, she went to London last year—anyway, Sally said it was way cool. Not like California, where you need a car to go anywhere. In London, all you do is get on the Underground.” She poked her blond head into the opening between the two front seats. “Did you take the Underground when you were in London last year, Dad?”

Blake slammed on the horn again. With an irritated sigh, he flicked on his turn signal and jerked the car into the fast lane. “Huh? What was that?”

Natalie sighed. “Nothing.”

Annie squeezed Blake’s shoulder in a gentle reminder. These were precious moments—the last they’d see their daughter for months—and, as usual, he was missing them. She started to say something to fill the silence, something to keep from thinking about the loneliness of a house without Natalie, but then she saw the sign, LAX, and she couldn’t say anything at all.

Blake pulled onto the exit ramp and drove into the dark silence of the underground parking lot, killing the engine. For a long moment, they all sat there. Annie waited for him to say something fatherly and important, something to mark the occasion. He was so good with words, but he merely opened his door.

As always, Annie followed his lead. She got out of the car and stood beside her door, twirling her sunglasses in her cold, cold fingers. She looked down at Natalie’s luggage— a single gray duffle bag and a green canvas Eddie Bauer backpack.

She worried that it wasn’t enough, that it was too unwieldy . . . she worried about everything. Her daughter looked so young suddenly, her tall, thin body swamped by a baggy denim dress that stopped an inch above her scuffed black combat boots. Two metal clips held her long, silver-blond hair away from her pale face. Three silver earrings formed a curved ladder up her left ear.

Annie wanted to manufacture a conversation—toss out bits of advice about money and passports and the importance of always being in a group of kids—but she couldn’t do it.

Blake walked on ahead, carrying the two lonely pieces of luggage, as Natalie and Annie followed silently in his wake. She wished he’d slow down and walk with them, but she didn’t say anything—just in case Natalie hadn’t noticed that her dad seemed to be in a rush. At the ticket counter, he handled everything, and then the three of them headed for the international terminal.

At the gate, Annie clung to her navy handbag as if it were a shield. Alone, she walked to the huge, dirty window. For a split second, she saw herself reflected in the glass, a thin, flawlessly dressed housewife standing by