The Surface of Water

Prologue

Matthew Goodman stood alone. Wind-driven sand skittered along the Lake Michigan shore as waves smashed sand. Snowpacks still spotted the wide and empty beach. The March wind had swept everyone away—builders and beachcombers. He breathed. No cameras or I-MAG screens or ten-thousand seats.

Alone. Finally.

He should go too. It was nearly two hours back to Chicago. Instead, he hunched deeper into his wool coat, swiveling towards the site. They had made plans; now it was only when. He had diverted funds twenty years ago—against Roni’s wishes—to build a chapel, a holy space for God. It would perch on the overlook at Living Waters, past the condos and pool and seat-crammed deck—a chapel where walls of windows could watch the far stretch of water.

This was the rare desire that moved him anymore. It was the least he could do for the One who had given him much—here at his thin space, as the Irish would say. His shoulders lowered. When had the thin places gone thick?

The wind buffeted the beach grass. The straw-like grass hadn’t regained its color. He tensed and turned. The lake was a rolling plain that beckoned, and he walked toward it. His Allen Edmonds neared its moving edge.

One swim. That’s what else he wanted. His energy lifted. That’s what he wanted most. The icy water would be a . . . friend. It would quiet things. It would quiet everything. Maybe forever. The water would give him what he sorely wanted.

A chance to disappear.