Laura parked the car at the bottom of the long driveway that wound through the trees to the lake house and stepped out onto the cobble lock pathway. She sucked in a deep breath of crisp, fragrant air. It was quieter that than she remembered. Her memories of the endless summers spent sitting at the edge of Castle Lake in Rossmore Park, Co. Monaghan. There was always the sound of kids playing in the lake, the splashing and laughing and shouting. The calls of geese echoing across the water. It was easy in the fog of nostalgia to consider them present features of the landscape. But no. It was quiet in this part of the world. This was a pleasant and welcome discovery.
When she was a child, her, her sister would run to the bridge and find the biggest leaves they could find. They’d stand on one side of the bridge, drop their leaves into the flowing river below and run to the other side to see who won, with bragging rights more than enough of a prize for two adolescent girls. A sharp pain stabbed through her chest and caught her breath.
Don’t stress what you can’t change.
The house on Castle Lake had been in Laura’s family for generations. Passed down from father to son since 1827 when Lord Rossmore built the castle. The lake house was for the caretaker of the Rossmore Park. The house had belonged to her Great Uncle Brian after he bought it off the county council. When Brian, who had no kids of his own, died four years ago, he left the keys to Laura who was he always said was his favourite niece. Laura hadn’t even considered visiting Rossmore until the morning the President of The United Nations addressed the world. Standing in her bathroom staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror she wiped the tears from her eyes and thought about walking out into the middle of the lake under the glow of the moon.
A week later and here she was, looking up and thinking that the place didn’t look in such bad shape after sitting vacant for so long. The weeds weren’t growing through the stone path, the gutters weren’t hanging with moss. No broken windows. That was good too.
Doesn’t matter much anyway. Thirteen days left. They had been exact about the date.
At the bottom of Laura’s handbag was a small envelope and inside of the envelope was the key to the front door. She had torn her house apart looking for it, but that didn’t matter either. The whole city had been torn apart, and Laura wouldn’t be back. Let the crazies pick through whatever she left behind. Or the rats, right? She didn’t even close the door behind her on her way out.
Laura was tipping the key into her palm when she heard a congested cough coming from the back of the house, the back door swing open and slam closed, the muted footsteps across the floorboards of the porch,
“Hello?” Laura called, walking around the side.
“Hello?” in reply. Another cough.
Laura turned the corner and froze. Perched on the edge of an old wooden rocking chair facing the lake was her father. She hadn’t seen Alan since the day of Uncle Brian’s funeral, and only a handful of times in the ten years before that.
Alan got up from the chair slowly and cautiously, as if Laura was pointing a gun and Alan would have to talk her out of doing something regretful. “Oh, hello Laura,” he said with a weak smile. He wiped his hands down the thigh of his jeans. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Long time, huh?”
Laura stood firmly. She fumbled with the key between her fingers. “What are you doing here?”
Alan looked past her. “You here alone?
“What are you doing here?” Laura repeated. Alan shrugged.
“Just riding it out I suppose. Cleaned the place up a bit.” His eyes were watering. “It sure is a stroke of luck to see you.”
