Meet Me at the Lake
Carley Fortune
To Marco
For that first mix CD and all the ones that followed,
but especially for turning the volume down
1
Now
I make it as far as the front desk without anyone noticing me. It’s a striking piece, carved from a large tree trunk— rustic but not shabby, the epitome of Mom’s aesthetic—and there’s no one behind it. I hurry past, to the office, then shut myself inside and lock the door.
The room is more fishing hut than work space. Pine walls, two ancient desks, a small window trimmed with a flimsy plaid curtain. I doubt it’s changed much since the lodge was built in the 1800s. There’s nothing to suggest how much time Mom spent here, except for a photo of me as a baby pinned to the timber and a faint whiff of Clinique perfume.
Dropping into one of the worn leather chairs, I switch on the plastic tabletop fan. I’m already sticky, but it’s stifling in here, one of the few spots in the building without air-conditioning. I raise my elbows like a scarecrow and swing my hands back and forth. Pit stains are the last thing I need.
While I wait to cool off before changing into heels, I stare at a stack of our brochures. Brookbanks Resort—Your Muskoka Getaway Awaits, declares a chipper font above a photo of the beach at sunset, the lodge looming in the background like a country cottage castle. It almost makes me laugh—it’s Brookbanks Resort I’ve failed to get away from.
Maybe Jamie will forget I agreed to do this tonight, and I can sneak back to the house, slither into stretchy pants, and douse myself with a bucket of cold white wine.
The door handle rattles.
No such luck.
“Fernie?” Jamie calls. “What’s with the lock? You decent in there?”
“I need five minutes,” I reply, voice pinched.
“You’re not gonna bail, right? You swore you’d do this,” he says. But the reminder is unnecessary. I’ve been dreading it all day. All my life maybe.
“I know, I know. I’m finishing up some paperwork.” I clamp my eyes shut at the mistake. “I’m almost done.”
“What paperwork? Is it the linen order? We have a system for that.”
My mom had a system for everything, and Jamie doesn’t want me messing with any of them.
He’s worried. It’s peak season, but many of the guest rooms are vacant. I’ve been back for six weeks, and Jamie thinks it’s only a matter of time before I shake things up. I’m not sure if he’s right. I’m not even sure if I’m staying.
“You can’t shut me out of my own office. I have a key.”
I curse under my breath. Of course he does.
It’s going to be embarrassing if he has to drag me out of here, and I’m pretty sure he’ll do it. I haven’t made a scene at the resort since my senior year of high school, and I’m not about to start. Being here sometimes makes me feel like I’ve regressed, but I’m not a reckless seventeen-year-old anymore.
Taking a deep breath, I stand and smooth my palms over the front of the dress. It’s too tight, but the ripped jeans I’ve been living in aren’t appropriate for the dining room. I could almost hear Mom when I changed earlier.
I know you’d rather wear pj’s all day, but we have to set the tone, sweet pea.
I open the door.
Jamie’s flaxen curls are cropped short and styled into obedience, but he has the same baby face from when we were young and he thought deodorant was optional.
“Is it the linen order?” he asks.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You have a system.”
Jamie blinks, not sure if I’m teasing. He’s been the resort’s general manager for three years, and I can’t get my head around it. In pressed pants and a tie, he looks like he’s playing dress-up. In my mind, he’s still a lake rat in swim trunks and a bandanna.
He doesn’t know what to make of me anymore, either—he’s torn between trying to please me, his new boss, and trying to prevent me from wreaking havoc. There should be a cosmic law against exes working together.
“You used to be fun,” I tell him, and he grins. And there, with his deep smile lines and sky blue eyes, is the Jamie who once sang the entirety of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill stoned and wearing a purple caftan he’d nicked from Mrs. Rose’s cabin.
The fact that Jamie loved attention as much as he loved going commando was one of my favorite things about him—no one looked at me when Jamie was around. He was a good boyfriend, but he was also the perfect diversion.
“So did you,” he says, and then squints. “Is that your mom’s dress?”
I nod. “It doesn’t fit.” I pulled it from her closet earlier this evening. Canary yellow. One of at least two dozen brightly colored sleeveless shifts. Her evening uniform.
There’s a beat of silence, and it’s all it takes for me to lose my courage. “Listen, I’m not feeling—”
Jamie cuts me off. “Nuh-uh. You’re not doing this to me, Fernie. You’ve been dodging the Hannovers all week, and they check out tomorrow.”
According to Jamie, the Hannovers have stayed at Brookbanks for seven summers, tip like they’ve got something to prove, and refer a ton of guests. From the way I’ve caught him frowning into his computer screen, I think the resort needs good word of mouth more desperately than Jamie’s let on. Our accountant left another message today asking me to call him.
“They’ve already finished dessert,” Jamie says. “I told them you’d be right out. They want to give you their condolences in person.”
I scrape my nails across my right arm a few times before I catch myself. This shouldn’t be so hard. In my real life, I manage a trio of indie coffee shops in Toronto’s west end called Filtr. I’m overseeing the opening of our fourth and largest location this fall, the first with an on-site roastery. Talking to customers is second nature.
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I can do this.”
Jamie lets out a breath. “Awesome.” He gives me an apologetic look and then adds, “It would be extra awesome if you stopped by a few tables to say hello while you’re there. You know, carried on the tradition.”
I do know. Mom visited the restaurant every single evening, making sure this person liked the rainbow trout and that person had a restful first night. It was bonkers how many details she could recall about the guests, and they loved her for it. She said being a family-run business didn’t mean anything unless you put a face to the Brookbanks Resort name. And for three decades that face was hers. Margaret Brookbanks.
Jamie has been not-so-subtly hinting that I come to the dining room to greet the guests, but I’ve shrugged him off. Because as soon as I go out there, it’s official.
Mom is gone.
And I am here.
Back home at the resort—the last place I planned to end up.
* * *
—
Jamie and I make our way to the front desk. There’s still no one behind it. Jamie pauses at the same time I do.
“Not again,” he mutters.
The desk clerk who’s on tonight started a few weeks ago and tends to disappear. Mom would have fired her already.
“Maybe we should cover the desk until she’s back,” I say. “Just in case anyone comes.”
Jamie raises his eyes to the ceiling, considering. Then he narrows them on me. “Nice try, but the Hannovers are more important.”
We continue toward the French doors that lead to the restaurant. They’re propped open, and the clinking of cutlery and happy hum of conversation drift into the lobby along with the smell of freshly baked sourdough. There are soaring beamed ceilings beyond the entrance and windows that look over the lake in an impressive semicircle. It’s a renovation my mom choreographed after she took over from my grandparents. The dining room was her stage. I can’t picture it without her walking among the tables.
Taking a quiet breath, I tuck my white-blond bob behind my ears, her voice in my head.
Don’t hide behind your hair, pea.