Meet Me at the Lake

There’s no note. No text message. No voicemail. There’s nothing to explain Will’s absence.

At first I think he must have had an early meeting and didn’t want to wake me, but when I pull on a pair of sweats and walk over to Cabin 20 in the drizzle, there’s no light on inside. I don’t want to knock in case he’s on a call, so I creep around to the front deck to peer inside the kitchen, but the curtains are drawn.

As I head back to the house, I tell myself he’s probably gone for a jog or a walk to get some fresh air. I take a hot shower, but he’s not downstairs like I’m expecting when I come out. I make coffee, thinking he’ll walk through the door at any moment. But after I’ve had two cups, dread seeps its way into my limbs like a cold fog.

I send him a text.

Where did you go?

I wait for the three little dots foreshadowing his reply, but they don’t come. I get dressed and still there’s nothing.

I walk to the lodge and tendrils of smoke curl out of cabin chimneys, the smell hanging low in the mist. The late summer heat has turned into the cool damp of early fall. My mind is whirling, but my legs are leaden. Something has to be wrong. A work crisis maybe. Will wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t disappear on me. Not again.

I sit in my chair in the office, no memory of passing through the lobby to get here. I check my email, but there’s nothing from him. I stare at the computer. I’m still sitting there, eyes unfocused, when Jamie unlocks the door an hour later. He’s fuming about something to do with the florist and a shipment delay but stops mid-sentence.

“Are you sick?” He bends down in front of me, putting a hand on my forehead. “You’re clammy but you don’t feel like you have a fever.”

I blink. “Hungover.”

“Shit, Fernie. This is a big day. Want me to get you a Gatorade?”

“Big day?”

“The dance,” he says. “How much did you drink last night?”

The dance.

“I’m going to go find that bottle of Gatorade,” I say, pushing out of my chair, ignoring his offer. I need a few minutes alone to collect myself. “Then you can put me to work.”

I duck outside to get some air. My eyes wander down to the docks, and I shiver.

You and me in one year, Fern Brookbanks. Don’t let me down.

The day passes slowly with no trace of Will. Jamie won’t let me into the dining room to help with setup. I leave Will four voicemails and several more texts asking where he is and if everything is okay. All the while, I can’t seem to warm up. A chill has settled in my bones. By late afternoon, when I walk to the house to change, I’m so anxious and worried, I’m vibrating. Something has to be wrong.

I shower, blow out my hair, and put on my makeup. When I slip into the red dress, I look in the mirror, hoping he’ll be there. I want him to be okay. I want us to be okay. I want more than okay. The reality of what I want with Will crashes into me with such a force that I have to sit down.

—

A flood of guests heads toward the lodge, and I follow, rubbing my hands over the prickled flesh of my arms. I’m not paying attention as I enter the lobby and I almost bump into the glittering back of Mrs. Rose.

“Fern, dear, what’s the matter? You’re wearing the same scowl you did as a teenager.”

I apologize and tell her how lovely she looks, then rearrange my face so I’ll look suitably impressed when I enter the dining room.

But I don’t need to fake it, because the transformation is so dramatic, I gasp. Everything is pink. Pink linens, pink dahlias, pink balloons. Tables have been arranged to circle the dance floor and there are probably a hundred strands of twinkle lights hanging in the rafters. Candles flicker in glass jars all over the room. The band is already onstage, playing “Be My Baby.”

Usually the dancing doesn’t get started until sometime around dessert, but as soon as Mrs. Rose puts her purse down, she and Mr. Rose are shimmying their way to the floor.

“You like?” Jamie says, startling me. I spin around and see that he’s found a hunter green tie with a pink floral print to go with his tan suit.

“It’s incredible, Jamie. I think you may have outdone Mom.”

“Nah,” he says, but he’s pleased.

“I’m serious. Thank you so much for all . . .” I stop. The band has changed songs and is now playing “Love Man.” I narrow my eyes. “What kind of band did you book, Jamie?”

“They mostly do Motown covers,” he says. “But I may or may not have requested a set list heavy on songs from Dirty Dancing.”

I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m just happy you’re here”—he waggles his eyebrows—“Baby.”

I laugh, forgetting Will for a brief, wonderful moment. There was a time when everything about this night—the end-of-summer dance, a band hired specifically to tease me, a room full of guests—would have been my greatest nightmare. I spot Whitney and Cam being ushered to their table, and a flock of children boogieing with the Roses. In one corner, Peter watches the servers deliver baskets of bread rolls. Right now, I just feel . . . at home.

The band takes a break for the talent portion of the evening—Mr. and Mrs. Rose’s “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” gets a standing ovation. It’s one of the liveliest end-of-summer parties I’ve seen. I make my way from table to table, my eyes constantly flicking to the doorway. But Will never walks through it. By the time dessert is served and the band begins its third set, the glow I felt earlier this evening has faded into nothingness, and I have to hold back tears. Why isn’t Will walking through that door?

I wish Mom were here. I want nothing more than to bury myself against her, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume and the salt of her skin, the way I did when I was little.

I look for Jamie to tell him I’m leaving—I’m going back to the house to call Will. Again.

“Can I have this dance?” I hear Peter say behind me. He’s in a charcoal suit, the same one he wore to the funeral, probably the only one he owns.

“You don’t dance.”

“You don’t, either,” he says. “But let’s make an exception.” He holds out his large paw, and I follow him onto the floor.

We move slowly among the other couples, and after a minute, Peter clears his throat and says, “You’re a lot like her, you know?”

I frown. “I am?”

“Not just how you look, though I thought I’d seen a ghost earlier this evening, you wearing that dress.”

“You recognized it?”

Peter grunts in the affirmative. “Canada Day, I think. It was probably around 1992.”

I rest my head against Peter’s chest and take a deep breath, breathing in his Old Spice cologne and along with it a lifetime of moments with him and my mom. The holiday dinners and card games and birthday brunches Peter cooked for her.

“You’ve got her grit. Coming back here, stepping into her shoes—that’s no small thing.”

I consider this for a moment. “I’ve always thought I was more like you.”

“Maggie once said you had my soft heart and her strong head. I thought she was trying to make me feel like part of the family. But maybe you do have a little of both of us,” Peter says. “Either way, she’d be so proud of you.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, my throat tight.

We sway in a tiny circle, not speaking.

After a minute, I pull back to look up at him. “Do you think this would all be easier if you’d been married?” I ask. “If you’d gotten what you wanted before she died?” It’s something I’ve wondered.

“It wasn’t marriage I wanted, Fern.” His feet still. “It was Maggie. It wasn’t always easy, but we were always friends. We were always there for each other.”

I hug Peter tighter, and as his words sink in, the truth hits me with a sudden crushing clarity.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, and then I rush out to the lobby. I ask the desk clerk if I can look something up in the computer, and even though I know what I’m going to find, the shock of seeing it spelled out in front of me is dizzying.

I rush out of the lodge, imagining all the foul words I’ll use once I finally get Will on the phone. But then I hear Whitney.

“Fern, wait up!”

She’s jogging to reach me, her heels clutched in one hand, her boobs in the other.

“Thank god I wore the jumpsuit,” she pants. “Much better for chasing down fleeing besties.”

“I’m not fleeing.”

“You literally fled the dance as if escaping the scene of a crime. What’s going on?”

I fill Whitney in, and her hazel eyes bulge so wide, I’m worried she may burst a few blood vessels.

“Will checked out this morning,” I finish. The note in the file said he’d send for his things. He must have been in quite a hurry.

“He what?” she screeches. “He just vanished? Again? Oh, I will kill this man. Is that where you’re going?”

My eye catches on a branch of red maple leaves fluttering in the wind, the first blush of fall. So that’s it—summer is over, and Will is gone.

I shake my head. “I’m going to the house. I need to speak with him. You go back to the dance, enjoy yourself.”

Whitney looks over her shoulder at the lodge. Cam is waiting on the front steps. “Are you sure? Cam can pick me up tomorrow. I have a lot of Will trash talk in the tank. I can go all night.”

“No. Really, Whit. I want to be alone, okay?”

“Okay,” she says with obvious reluctance. “But if you change your mind about needing company, let me know.”

I call Will as soon as I get back to the house, pacing the kitchen floor. I get his voicemail for the nineteenth time. But I won’t let him ignore me. I call again. And again. My anger rises with every ring. My mom got an eighteen-word note when she was abandoned by Eric. I want more.

Finally, Will picks up.

“Fern.” He says my name on a frustrated sigh, and it’s like being doused in ice water.

“You left,” is all I manage.

There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line, and I hear Will apologize to someone. Then the line crackles with the sound of wind whipping into the microphone.

“This isn’t a good time,” he says to me, voice as sterile as an unopened bandage.

“What do you mean?” I cry.

“I really can’t talk about this right now,” Will says. “I’ve got to get back.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve been worried all day, wondering where you went and whether you’re all right. You need to tell me what the hell is going on. You checked out? What’s happening? Where are you?”

Will lets out another sigh. “I’m at the hospital, Fern.” It sounds like a chastisement. “Sofia is sick.”

My stomach seizes with a mix of fear and relief. I knew something was wrong. I immediately switch into problem-solving mode. “Which hospital? How is she? I’ll drive down and meet you.” If I pack now, I can be in the city before midnight. I’ll call Jamie once I’m on the road. Does the car need gas? “Can I bring you anything?” I ask, opening the fridge. Will won’t have eaten. I could pack up the leftover quiche he made for dinner two nights ago.

“Fern, no.”

I stop moving.

“Don’t come down here.”

“What? Why?” I say, confused. “I can help.”

“I don’t want your help. I’m sorry, but you and I . . . It was a mistake. We were a mistake. It’s my fault. I should have known that from the beginning.” He sounds vacant. It’s like there’s a stranger talking to me on the other end of the line, not the person who held me in his arms last night, whispering soothing words into my ear.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell him, my voice breaking.

I think of the Patti Smith album and the card he gave me. You do know me. And I know you, too. I look behind me at the stove, remembering him preparing the quiche in my mom’s apron.

“Will, I love you.”

There is nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.

I think of swimming together one evening last week. It was so hot, we didn’t bother toweling off after. We sat at the edge of the family dock, dripping, our feet in the water. Will pressed his lips to my shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve been happier than I am right now,” he’d said.

“And I think you love me, too,” I say now, my heart thrashing wildly in my chest.

“Fern, I can’t,” he says, and for a second, he sounds like Will again. But then his voice goes hard. “It’s time we both stopped living in a fantasy and move on with our lives.”

I begin to argue, but he’s hung up.

I hold the fridge door open, staring at the plate of leftover quiche, unable to comprehend what just happened. I told Will I love him, and he didn’t say it back. I told him I love him, and he ended things. I slam the fridge closed. I am not crying.

My hands shake as I fill a glass with water. I take a sip, but my throat is so tight, I can barely force the liquid down. I stand at the sink, looking out the window at Will’s cabin, rage turning my blood hot. I think of Will’s tailored suits and pristine white shirts hanging in an orderly row in the closet.

I bring the matches with me.

Please be unlocked, I wish as I climb the steps to Cabin 20. I’m wearing the red dress and no shoes, and if someone sees me, they’ll think I’m mad.

I’m not mad.

I’m furious.

When I twist the doorknob, it obeys, and I charge inside and head straight for the bedroom. I throw open the closet and Will’s clothing stares back at me. I grab as many jackets and shirts and slacks as I can, tamping down on the desire to press my nose into the fabric and get a hit of Will. I carry the load into the living room, and my foot slips on something. When I twist to see what’s gotten in my way, I freeze.

Sheets of paper lie on the floor and a large sketchbook sits on the coffee table, a pencil tucked into its rings. I don’t register when the clothes fall from my arms, only that I’m picking one of the pages off the floor, staring down at a drawing of me floating in water, arms outstretched, eyes closed. There’s a smudge over my nose, like it’s been erased at least once. There are three other drawings on the floor, unfinished variations of the same image.

I take the sketchbook off the table and flip the cover open. Will mentioned that he’d begun drawing again, but I had no idea he’d done so much. It feels wrong, like I’m reading his diary. But I was about to set flame to thousands of dollars of suiting. What’s one more bad deed?

I flip past sketches of scraggly trees on rocky shorelines, of a canoe pulled onto a beach, of the Roses playing cards. Of me. In one of the illustrations, my hair is short, the way it was when we first met. I lean against a graffiti-covered wall, my face tilted up to the sky. I press my hand against the sharp pain in my chest. When I turn the page, a shiver runs through my body.

No, no, no, I think as I study the drawing.

The bag beside me on the dock. The hat on my head.

“No.” I say it out loud, as if I can make it true. But the more I stare at the page, the more I know.

I sag onto the pile of clothing, the book in my hand, and when the tears fall down my cheek, I don’t hold them back. I stay there until a breeze blows through the back door, carrying with it the far-off sound of the band playing “(I’ve Had) the Time of My Life.”