Meet Me at the Lake

I dive off the end of the family dock, slicing through the water until I’m forced to surface. I put on my suit as soon as I got back from Will’s cabin and took the kayak out. But it didn’t help me take the edge off having spent the night with him, the prospect of spending another night together.

Long before I was born, my grandparents and mom would come here to spend time by the water. The shoreline is private, tucked into a small bay—you can’t see the cabins or the resort’s beach. There are two metal chairs, their red paint peeling, and a short, equally worn dock. A gnarled cedar grows out over the water; the base of its trunk lies parallel to the surface. Whitney and I used to strut down it like it was a catwalk. When we were eleven, she talked me into dressing up in Mom’s formalwear and taking a stereo with us to get the full effect, but she fell in the lake wearing a silk tea dress. Mom had us collecting errant tennis balls around the courts for the rest of the summer.

I preferred swimming at the family dock, away from everyone, but Whitney liked the beach for scouting Mystery Guest targets when we were younger and cute boys later on. This was Mom’s favorite spot, where she came to enjoy her coffee and a sliver of solitude.

My brain is like an overstimulated magpie, struggling to decide which shiny object to land on.

The resort.

Will.

The resort.

The thing Will does with his thumb.

I’m not much of a swimmer. I love being in the water, though I’m mostly a lounge-on-a-pool-noodle kind of fish. But today I paddle back and forth until my mind shuts up.

Wrapping myself in a towel when my lungs and arms give up on me, I sit in the same chair I always have, the one on the left. I watch the waves from a boat’s wake crash against the rocks and scrub at the shore, and for a second, it’s like Mom is right there beside me, holding a steaming mug.

This was our place—the only one that ever really felt like hers and mine alone. We’d come in the mornings, and Mom would leave her BlackBerry at the house. In the middle of summer, she wouldn’t have time to linger, and as soon as she finished, she’d be up and out of her seat. But in the fall, we’d bring streusel-topped muffins Peter had baked and stay here until I needed to get ready for school. In spring, we’d trudge through the melting snow and huddle under blankets.

I love it here, she would sigh. Aren’t we lucky?

I can hear her voice so clearly.

I wish so hard I could hear it again. The diaries are the closest thing I have. It’s been more difficult reading the final one this time. I didn’t think that was possible. Mom was young when she became pregnant. I’ve always known that—but reading her journal as an adult is so different because now she sounds young.

A monarch butterfly flitters by, then lands on the purple petal of a wild iris growing at the water’s edge. Even when I was in the throes of my teenage rebellion, Mom would make me come here with her. I’d sit with my arms crossed over my chest, not speaking, until she was done with her coffee, and then I’d slump back up the trail to the house.

I can’t remember the last time we sat here. I don’t think we got to the lake together once in the past twelve months. The more responsibility I took on at Filtr, the harder it was to find time to come home, though I stayed for a full week the Thanksgiving after Philippe and I broke up. On my last morning, I told Mom about my decision to swear off men. I said I’d be happier on my own, like she was.

She leaned over to take my hand, fixing me with her gray eyes. I know you’re not ready right now, honey, but I think one day you’ll find your heart’s too big for just you. I nodded, though I didn’t believe her. It was chilly outside, the sky bright blue, the leaves red and gold. Mom tipped her chin to the sun, sitting there with her eyes closed, a smile across her mouth, until I told her the time—she needed to get over to the lodge. She shook her head. Let’s stay a little longer, pea.

I stare at the empty chair beside me, and I know. My heart’s too big to let go.

People change. Dreams change, too.

When I get back to the house, I sit on the end of my bed in my damp bathing suit, towel around my waist. I pick up the diary from the nightstand and run my fingers over Mom’s writing. I want to tell her I’m going to stay. I want to ask her for advice. I want her to tell me how proud she is. I want my mom.

After I’ve wiped away tears with the edge of the towel, my gaze lands on a name on the page, and I pick up my phone and press the call button.

“Fern?” Peter’s deep voice sounds in my ear.

“Hey, Peter. I wanted to tell you first. I’ve made a decision about the resort.”

—

“It hasn’t changed at all,” Jamie says as he looks around the living room. “I haven’t been in here since we were dating.”

I’m not surprised. As much as my mother lived and breathed Brookbanks, she kept her relationships with the staff professional. Peter was an exception.

I always thought Mom’s reserve was purely about establishing boss-employee boundaries. Now that I’m reading her diary with adult eyes, I’m certain that’s not the whole story.

But I’m not my mother.

After I got off the phone with Peter, I asked Jamie to come by the house.

He’s wearing a hunter green tie with white pine cones printed on it. It’s something I noticed only a few days ago—he always wears a tie with at least a splash of Brookbanks green. I wonder how much time he spends online, hunting for green ties. I wonder when he morphed into the Jamie he is now, organized and tidy.

Maybe it was when he lived in Banff. He stayed there for a few years, working his way up at one of the resorts before moving to Ottawa to manage a hotel downtown near Parliament Hill. It was Jamie’s parents who told my mom how much he enjoyed his summers at Brookbanks and suggested she give him a call.

Her text message arrived out of the blue a few years ago.

We still like Jamie Pringle, right?

I hadn’t heard his name in years. We didn’t really stay in touch after our breakup.

We do, I wrote back. I hadn’t said much to Mom when we’d split, and I knew this was her roundabout way of asking.

Thinking about hiring him for the manager job.

He’d be great, I texted.

Aside from my mom, no one loved the resort as much as Jamie.

“I really appreciate all the support you’ve given me the last few weeks,” I tell him once we’re seated at the kitchen table. My voice sounds stiff. I don’t know why I’m nervous.

“What the hell, Fernie? Are you firing me?”

“What? No.”

He lets out a gust of air and then drops his head to the table. “I really thought you were going to fire me,” he says, voice muffled.

“Why would I do that?”

He looks up at me with a lopsided grin. “Because you’re still in love with me, and you can’t stand to be in the same room without wanting to tear my clothes off?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“The drooling gave you away. You drool when you’re turned on.”

I laugh. “I brought you here because I wanted to tell you that I’m not going to sell the resort. I’m going to stay on as owner.”

Jamie slaps his hand on the table. “Now, that is excellent news.”

“But there are going to be changes.”

Jamie has some understanding of Will’s consulting work, but I explain more about what we’ve been doing. “You know Brookbanks and the guests,” I say. “I’d love your input.”

“Of course, Fernie. I would be honored to help.” Honored. He’s serious, too.

“You really thought I’d fire you because we dated?”

He eyes me. “I was worried you might. We have a history, and I thought you could want a clean slate.”

“I have a history with a lot of people here. At least half a dozen people on staff changed my diaper. A couple of the guests, too. There’s no such thing as a clean slate for me.”

“But how many of them have you slept with?”

I blink. An image from last night slinks through my mind. Will beneath me, his swollen lips around my nipple, looking up at me with darkened eyes.

“Wait a sec, who else have you slept with, Fernie?”

“No one,” I say, cheeks burning. “We can’t talk about our sex lives if we’re going to work together.”

“Okay.” He flashes me a grin. “Though we’ll have to if we start sleeping together.”

I kick him under the table.

Two hours later, I’m curled up on the couch while Jamie warbles out a shockingly good version of “Ironic.” He insisted that we celebrate, insisted we needed to do that with the good stuff, and insisted on it being his treat. He called the lodge to have a bottle of “our finest, cheapest sparkling wine” sent over.

“Your Alanis is unreal,” I cry, clapping my hands when he’s done.

“I know.” He flops down on the sofa, putting his socked feet up beside me, and sips his beer. The bubbly didn’t last long.

I sigh. “I can’t believe they’re going to let us run this place.”

Jamie bumps my leg with his foot. “I’m happy you’re back. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” I say, because it’s true. I lost a close friend when I lost Jamie.

“All right, Fernie. You’re up.”

“What do you mean, up?”

“The floor is yours.”

“Nope, sorry. You know I don’t do karaoke.” Public displays of tone deafness are firmly on the list of embarrassing things I do not take part in. Also: kitschy holiday sweaters, bachelorette party games, sparkly eyeshadow. But Jamie razzes me until I relent.

I’m almost through “Insensitive” (Mom was a major Jann Arden fan) when Jamie turns toward the doorway. In it stands Will. He’s wearing the full Will Baxter: jacket, tie, combed-back hair, and an unreadable expression.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me,” he says. “Please, continue.”

I shake my head, mortified. “How was your meeting?”

“Fine. It ran long.” Will looks at Jamie and the empty bottle of cava on the table. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“Fernie and I were celebrating her good news,” Jamie says, standing.

Will flinches at the word Fernie and runs a hand down his tie. “What news is that?”

“I’ve decided to stay,” I tell him.

Will glances at Jamie and back to me. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Sorry I interrupted the festivities.”

“You didn’t,” I say.

“You definitely did,” Jamie says. “But I was just leaving. Show me out, Fernie?”

Will’s eyes slit, and Jamie winks at him.

“That guy?” Jamie whispers once we’re at the front door.

“I can’t believe you, trying to bait him like that,” I hiss.

“Come on. I get some leeway to hassle him. Four years together buys me that, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t still . . .” I start, narrowing my eyes.

“Have feelings for you?” Jamie tugs a strand of my hair. “I’ll always love you, Fernie. But don’t worry. I can be professional.”

I’ll always love Jamie, too. “I don’t want it to be weird with us. I want to be friends.”

“Same,” he says. “And as your friend, I don’t like him for you. He’s too uptight, too serious, and there’s something shifty about him. It’s like he’s hiding something. What do you see in him? Does he play an instrument?”

“Goodbye, Jamie.”

He kisses me on the cheek. “And he’s way too tall.”

When I get back to the living room, Will is on the couch, his hands between his knees, staring at the floor.

“You’re looking a little broody,” I say, sitting beside him. “What’s going on?”

“I was thinking about how much I used to hate that guy, and I’d never even met him.”

“Really? If we’re being honest, I wasn’t a big fan of your girlfriend, either.”

Will’s lip quirks. “I could tell. You aren’t the most subtle person, Fern Brookbanks.”

I wince.

Will pulls me so that I’m sitting on his lap, my thighs around his. He runs a hand underneath the skirt of my dress, tracing it up my leg. I close my eyes and bury my fingers in his hair, groaning. For so long, Will has been my what if guy. What if we had both been single when we met?

He kisses the spot below my ear as he pushes my underwear to the side. “I thought you were the coolest girl I’d ever met. I was considering breaking up with my girlfriend. Sending her a text.”

“What?” My eyes pop open, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing.

“But then I found out about you and Jamie.” Will’s watching me intently, and then he does the thing with his thumb.

“Oh my god.”

“I still hate that guy,” he says. “I hate that you told him about the resort before me.”

Will’s fingers are making it very hard to be verbal. But after a few seconds, I manage to ask, “You’re jealous?”

He presses his teeth to my neck. “So fucking jealous.”

It shouldn’t thrill me, but it does. I stand just to slip my panties off, then I reach for the button on Will’s pants. He pulls a foil packet from his pocket, and when I lower myself onto him, we both go still.

I murmur when I feel him pulse inside me. I start to circle my hips, looking for friction, but he holds them still and brings his lips to my ear.

“Want to know something else?” he grits out.

I nod. Adverbs have abandoned me.

“I didn’t need your help varnishing the mural,” he whispers, his thumb going back to work between us. “It would have been much faster if I’d done it myself. I could have finished in half the time, but I wanted to hang out with you.”

I murmur again because I’ve lost all the words in my vocabulary.

“And I thought very long and hard about what you kept in your bedside table drawer.”

I’m too focused on the need between my legs and the hunger in Will’s eyes to have even a shred of embarrassment.

It’s fast, almost feverish. Will watches my face the whole time. He must be able to tell how much I like the things that come out of his mouth, because when I’m close, he puts his lips to my ear and tells me to come, and I do.

I lean my forehead against his, catching my breath. I want to lie down in bed and replay my day with Will with the knowledge that he was jealous. And then I want to sleep.

—

Telling Whitney I’m staying is perhaps the most rewarding experience of my adult life. She begged me to bring Will to dinner at their place in Huntsville. She’s just stashed Owen in the Jolly Jumper that hangs between her living room and kitchen when I give her the news. She screams and bursts into tears, smashing me against her.

I look at Will over her shoulder, and mouth, Wow. He and Cam are laughing, and the Jolly Jumper is squeaking with each of Owen’s leaps, and Whitney is saying, “I’m just so happy.” It’s loud and lovely and I think, This is what a good life sounds like.

Cam makes spaghetti bolognese, and when Owen gets fussy, Will walks him around the main floor of the house, singing in his ear. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled past his forearms, and both Whitney and Cam ogle him like he’s a gift from the babysitting gods. At one point, Whitney asks him to move in with them.

Over dinner, Whitney launches into the story of how we became friends. Cam chimes in, “I still have a dent where Fern socked me.” Will squeezes my thigh under the table and gives me a secret smile. He’s heard this one before.

When the baby has gone to bed, Whitney steers me into the kitchen under the guise of helping her serve dessert. She wants to know what’s happening between Will and me, and I tell her the truth. I have no idea. All I know is that he’s decided to stay until the day after the dance. We ordered dinner from the restaurant after our quickie on the couch yesterday, and then he spent the night in my bed. I thought about asking him to leave before we fell asleep, but I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted him to stay.

Other than Whitney’s prolonged inquiry into Will’s oral health regime, the whole evening goes off without any awkwardness.

But then the bells toll on Will’s phone.

Whitney is trying to talk us into having another drink and sleeping in their guest room instead of me driving the twenty minutes back to the resort, but as soon as Will’s phone sounds, he excuses himself and heads into the kitchen.

He’s gone long enough that Cam and Whitney give each other pointed looks.

“I’ll go see if everything’s okay,” I say.

When I walk into the kitchen, Will glances up from his phone. His neck is red and he looks as though he’s about to issue a stern warning. “I gotta go,” he says to the person on the other end.

“Are you all right?” I ask when he hangs up.

Will blinks twice. “Do you mind if we take off?”

I tell him I don’t, but my stomach lurches. We say good night to Whitney and Cam. Will thanks them for the invitation and the meal, but he’s tense and distracted. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

What’s wrong? Whitney mouths when Will isn’t looking, and I shake my head.

The drive back to the resort is quiet except for the crackling of country music on the radio. I keep glancing away from the road at Will, but he’s looking out his window, twisting his ring.

“Has something happened?” I say when I pull the Cadillac into the Brookbanks parking lot.

Will’s frown deepens. “It’s family stuff.”

A puzzle piece falls into place. A bell ringtone for Annabel.

“It’s your sister you were talking to?”

Will doesn’t answer.

I consider letting it slide. Talking about his homelife does not equal the escape from reality he’s clearly seeking. But I reach across the console and put my hand on his knee. “What’s going on?”

“Annabel has started looking for her own place, for her and Sofia. She wants to move out,” Will says after a moment.

“Oh.” I hesitate. “And that’s bad?”

“It’s . . .” He looks out the window, then at me. “It’s not something I want to trouble you with.”

“It wouldn’t be trouble. I don’t mind,” I try.

“I mind,” he says. “Let’s keep them out of this, okay?”

I ask Will to stay over at the house, but he says he can’t tonight. He wants to call Annabel back.

I toss and I turn and eventually I fall asleep, only to wake with a gasp from a dream I don’t remember. It’s 2:08 a.m. I pull the small desk chair up to my bedroom window and stare at the golden square of light coming from Will’s cabin. I find it comforting, knowing that he’s there.

But I want him here, in my bed. I want him to talk to me. I’m afraid of how much I want where Will is concerned.