Meet Me at the Lake

Jamie sends me home in the late afternoon. I chuck out a “You are literally not the boss of me!” but it has the impact of a cotton ball.

The cool wind is the first thing I notice when I step outside, followed by the faint smell of rain on rock somewhere in the distance. Finally, a break in the heat.

I think about what Whitney said when we spoke on the phone earlier today while I walk back to the house, keeping my arms crossed against the chill.

I think about my mom and Peter and words unspoken. But I can be brave. I can let Will know how I feel.

He’s still working, so I send him a text, saying that I’m home early and to come over when he’s ready, and then I climb up to the guest bedroom. There’s a queen bed, a suitcase stand, and a carafe for water on a tray—but the room’s main function is kept behind the bifold closet doors.

I slide them open and run my fingers over the rainbow of skirts and sleeves and memories—all of Mom’s cocktail dresses and holiday outfits, and many of mine, too. There’s the purple taffeta number and the long-sleeved black gown. There’s the pale blue A-line hanging next to a tiny white dress with a matching pale blue satin bow. So much of our lives are woven into these threads.

Mom’s green velvet shift and pink sequined bolero: Peter and me playing fancy tea party, and Mom coming home to find us eating crustless sandwiches and listening to Smashing Pumpkins.

The matching tartan dresses: the Christmas dinner when Grandma and Grandpa announced they were moving out West.

A strapless silver gown: telling Mom she was too old to wear something that showed so much skin, even if it was New Year’s Eve.

I pull the silver dress out. It’s floor-length with a slit up the leg. It is pretty sexy—too sexy for the summer dance, and my god, it’s tight. I try on about a dozen more, growing hot and itchy as I do, but most are either too small or too froufrou. I do not do ruffles. Or pink floral. Or rhinestone-bedazzled sleeves. I throw open the window and a gust of crisp air blows through the room, slamming the door shut.

Sweating, I pull out an armful of clothing so I can get to the back of the closet, and wedged between a toile tea dress and a navy and white striped frock is a short orangey-red number with a scoop neck and thin straps. I’ve never seen it before. Red isn’t really my color, nor was it my mother’s, but when I slip it over my head, the fabric is light and floaty. It’s fitted but not tight.

I head to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The dress looks incredible. It’s kind of nineties but not in a costumey way. The color somehow works. Smiling at my reflection, I know this is what I want to wear when I tell Will how I feel, when I tell him I want to be a part of his life—his real one—even if I don’t know how that works. If he feels the same, we’ll figure it out. We’ll make a plan.

So that settles it. I’ll tell Will tomorrow. I’ll tell him while we dance.

I hang everything up and run my hands over the fabric one last time.

“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, and slide the doors shut.

—

There’s one entry left in the journal—I’ve been saving it until I have some alone time. I grab the diary from my bedside table and take it out to the back deck. It’s shielded from the wind here, but I’m bundled in a sweater and cozy pants.

“Hey.” Will pokes his head out the door as I find my place.

“Hey,” I say as the rest of his body follows. White shirt. No tie. A casual meeting day. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“I cut out early.” He clocks the book in my hands. “Am I interrupting? I could come back later.”

“Don’t do that.” I put the journal down and stand, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You always smell so good,” I say into his shirt. “You smell better than other men.”

“I’m going to pretend you don’t know what other men smell like,” he says, pulling back and tipping my chin up with a smile. He kisses me, and it’s slow and lush and as sweet as a lemon drop. “I’m going to pretend there’s never been anyone but you and me.”

I laugh. “We both know that’s wildly inaccurate.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice if it were true?” he says, tracing the line of my jaw with his nose.

“I don’t know . . . we might not be as proficient without all that experience.”

“Or maybe it’d be even better,” he says, “if I had ten years to figure out exactly what you like.”

“I think you’re doing just fine. But if you want a little more practice . . .” I take his hand and lead him to the couch inside, wiggling out of my sweats, and pulling him down over me. I want to feel the full weight of him pressing me into the cushions.

After, we survey the scattered pillows, the shirt flung over the lamp.

“Might need to try that again,” Will says, sitting up and hoisting me on his lap. “To make sure I got it right.”

“Good idea. I’ll order dinner from the restaurant so you can focus all your energy on studying tonight. Your final exam will be next . . .” The word week is about to slide from my lips. Will’s smile falls, and a heaviness settles between us.

“Tonight, can we pretend like you aren’t leaving on Sunday?” I ask. “Like it’s any other night?”

Something flickers in Will’s eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished. He moves his hands to my lower back, pulling me tight against his chest. “If that’s what you want.”

“Just for tonight.”

We have the restaurant send over fish and chips and coleslaw, and we eat in our underwear on the living room sofa watching Frasier reruns. As we’re finishing dinner, a crack of thunder rattles the windows. I dart out to the deck to save Mom’s diary, putting it back on my nightstand. We get dressed and sit on the front porch, sheltered from the storm, watching lightning branch across the black sky.

Will and I head up to bed. Being with him feels as impossible and inevitable as his leaving. But I don’t want to think about that part right now. I curl into him when it’s over, pleasantly noodle-limbed, following the lines of his tree tattoo with my finger, writing Fern over his heart after he dozes off.

It’s the first night since we started sharing a bed that I haven’t been able to fall asleep. I flick on the lamp, and when Will doesn’t move, I reach for the diary and flip to the final entry.

September 8, 1990

Two sleeps until Europe!

I’m going. A couple of days after I’d told Mom and Dad the news, Peter came over with more prenatal pamphlets to help me convince them it was okay to travel. I think they’ve finally stopped freaking out, or they’re doing a better job hiding it. I’m almost out of the first trimester, and hopefully the vomiting will stop any day now.

I’m excited for the trip. I’m looking forward to being a twenty- two-year-old with no responsibilities for a little longer. I’m going for six weeks. Italy, France, and England.

Peter has volunteered to drive me to the airport. He hasn’t mentioned what he wanted to tell me the day I announced I was pregnant. I’m not sure he ever will. But I’ve started hoping he does. I can’t imagine a life without Peter. I think that means something. Something we’ve been moving toward since the day I gave him a tour of the resort five years ago.

Liz was shocked when I told her the news and a little upset about the change in plans, but she’s decided to travel on her own for the full year.

I’ll admit I’m somewhat jealous, but whenever I’m feeling down these days, I rub my belly and talk to my baby girl. I’m certain she’s a girl. I call her my sweet little pea. I tell her how much I love her. I tell her I’ll love her enough for ten dads. And I tell her stories about all the people who will make up her big, wonderful family here. About her grandparents. And the Roses. And Peter. I tell her how she’ll never feel alone when she’s at home. I tell her I can’t wait to meet her, but that I don’t need to meet her to know I will never love another person as much as I love my daughter.

I put the diary down on the bed beside me. I do my best to sob quietly, but when I take a shuddering breath, Will stirs.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

But speaking is impossible when I’m crying this hard.

“Shh. It’s all right,” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

I shake my head.

“It was just a dream.”

“No,” I croak. “It was real. My mom.”

It’s all I need to say. He kisses my cheeks and wipes the tears, then turns me so my back is snug to his front. He brings his leg over mine, tucking me closer. I grip the arm that’s banded around my chest. “She loved me. So much.”

“Of course she did,” he whispers into my neck, pressing a kiss there. “She was your mom.”

“But she didn’t know,” I say, shaking with more tears.

He holds me until I stop. “Didn’t know what, Fern?”

I take a deep breath. “She didn’t know that I loved her, too.”

Will hugs me tight. “She knew,” he says. He kisses my shoulder.

I nod, but I can’t help feeling that if I’d been a better daughter, she would have told me about Peter. If she knew how much I loved her, she would have confided in me about the resort’s struggles.

“Fern, can I tell you something?” Will says, his lips against my skin.

I roll over to face him.

“I told your mom I met you,” he says.

“What?”

“I told her how we met. I told her how much you loved it here, and that I had to see it myself.”

“You did?”

“I did. We spoke on the phone shortly before the accident.” He brushes my hair off my forehead. “She said I had no idea how happy that made her.”

His words wrap around me like a down-filled duvet. I love you, I almost say. But then I remember the red dress and dancing with Will. We have tomorrow. We can have more than this summer. It’s the last thing I think before I fall asleep.

When I wake up, Will is gone.