Meet Me at the Lake
: Chapter 11

I slide the kayak off the edge of the family dock into the water, then ease myself into the boat like I do every morning before I head over to the lodge. It’s a flat-water kayak, no skirt or top covering my legs, and as I head south, I stare down at my golden-brown shins. I was a teenager the last time they were this tanned.

It’s gray today and the lake is almost empty. As I pass the Pringle cottage, I hoist my paddle in the air to wave to Jamie’s mom, who’s on the deck. There’s a small excavator working on the slope of the next lot, disturbing the quiet, clearing rocks to make way for Jamie’s dream home. He used to imagine it when we were dating—the two of us living there together, working at the resort. Smoke Lake was always his happy place.

This summer, it seems to be mine, too. My post-coffee paddles have become a ritual. Some days I inspect a reedy bit of marsh where a great blue heron has made its nest in a tree. I always look for moose—they’ve been spotted here before—but I never see one. Other days I stay close to shore, snooping on the cottages and saying hello to anyone already awake on the dock. These little voyages give me a break from everything that’s happening back at Brookbanks, a break from Will, though I never manage to get him out of my head completely.

It’s been a week since we agreed to team up, and we’ve also fallen into a rhythm. Our days are split in two. In the mornings, I’m at the lodge while Will works in his cabin. From midafternoon on, we’re together at the house. I can tell when he’s had videoconferences, because he shows up in white dress shirts, and the days when his schedule is lighter, because he’s at the house as soon as he sees me walking up the path. Today is different. Today we’re showing a real estate agent around the property.

I replace Will in the lobby, and for a moment I watch from a distance, struck by how familiar the sight of him has become. He’s inspecting a row of photos that capture three generations of Brookbanks as well as the decades before our time.

There’s one of Clark Gable during a famed stay in the forties and a classic of my grandparents when they bought the place. Grandma Izzy’s dress is tie-dyed, and Grandpa Gerry is sporting a fringed vest and an epic beard. You’d never know he came from money, though how else would two twentysomething dreamers buy a sprawling, if somewhat run-down, resort? It was always something of a lark for them.

There are others, too. My mother as a flossy-haired toddler, playing in a galvanized bucket of water by the shore. Mom and I in matching tartan dresses in front of a gigantic tinsel-covered Scotch pine in the lobby.

The photo Will is looking at is from the end-of-summer dance. I’m about five years old and wearing a ruffled white dress with a pale blue satin bow around the waist. I hold Mom’s hands and gaze up at her with an adoring expression, and she wears a cocktail dress the same shade of blue as my bow. We’re in the middle of the dining room’s dance floor; the photographer has captured us in some kind of silly waltz. I used to love dancing with her, how it meant having her undivided attention. It was a rare thing, even at that young age.

“Should I be offended that the real estate agent gets the suit treatment?” I say. Will’s always clean-shaven and well dressed, but a jacket and tie rarely make an appearance.

He looks down at his outfit. “Is it too much? My coveralls were in the wash.”

Working alongside Will requires that I not think about the past. There have been no more basic references, no discussions of small- or big-f ferns. We don’t talk about that day. I thought we had an unspoken agreement not to.

He taps the photo of Mom and me. “You were an exceptionally cute kid.”

I don’t have time to reply because bells begin tolling from his phone. I already recognize the ringtone—whoever it belongs to has called several times when we’ve been together.

“I have to take this,” Will says. “Excuse me.”

He talks to his business partner in front of me—colleagues, too—but he always takes these calls elsewhere. If we’re on the back deck, he’ll step inside. If we’re in the kitchen, he’ll go to the front porch. Now he exits the main doors to speak to whoever’s on the other end.

It’s not just the calls. At thirty-two, Will Baxter is a very private person, and I am an undercover agent. I collect every scrap of intel I can, sneaking covert looks while he types, and recording it all in my mental spy journal. Although if this were a game of Mystery Guest, I wouldn’t have much to report. Not only do we not discuss that day, but we hardly talk about anything other than the resort. I know he owns a house in Midtown close to his office. I know he has a gym membership and that he meets his trainer on his lunch hour. I know his office has a shower. After he tells me this, I imagine him sweaty and glistening and then soapy and glistening, and I give myself a stern lecture.

Then there are the things I’ve learned just from being around him. His workday beverage of choice is sparkling water with two lemon wedges. He fiddles with his ring when he’s lost in thought. He has a particular tone of voice for business calls that’s pleasant and also very . . . firm. When I hear it, it makes me feel things I should not, and I give myself more talking-tos.

None of it is enough. Will is a lockbox with no key, and the more time I spend with him, the more I want to jimmy him open. Sometimes I see a glimmer of the old Will, but he disappears as quickly as he came. I’m desperate to hear his laugh.

I have more important things to think about, but when I lie awake at two a.m., I workshop zippy one-liners to sidesplitting perfection. I wonder what happened to make Will so reserved and why he gave up on his art and who he’s speaking to when the bells chime on his phone. Sometimes I peek out the window in the middle of the night, and I replace that his light is almost always on. But I don’t ask him why he’s not sleeping, and he doesn’t mention it, either.

Will returns to the lobby, running a hand down his tie. It’s another tell I’ve picked up on. He’s stressed.

“Everything okay?” I ask, noticing the hint of a blush under his collar.

He grunts. “Fine.”

“Got it.” I can take a hint.

The hard line of Will’s mouth softens, and he looks like he’s going to say something else, but I spot a woman in a red skirt suit striding through the lobby. I recognize Mira Khan from her headshot, for sale signs, and prolific Instagram updates.

I take Mira around the resort, Will accompanying us mostly in silence. There’s something about her that reminds me of Mom. It might be the speed at which she walks or the way I feel like she’s assessing me from behind her sunglasses, or maybe it’s that I can’t stop seeing Mom everywhere. It’s gotten worse since I started reading her diary. Whatever it is, I’m anxious to impress upon Mira how capable I am. I tell her about how I see altering the decor and adding new amenities.

“One of the things Will and I have been talking about is how to generate revenue from parts of the property that aren’t currently monetized,” I say when we get to the library.

Mom replaced the colonial furniture when my grandparents moved out West, and now tan leather armchairs are arranged in groups of two, giving one the impression of being in a ski lodge rather than a Victorian study. There’s a stone fireplace framed by tall windows that look over the lake. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves, thick and raw-edged, that are filled with books, some of which were here when my grandparents took over. Others Mom collected over the years. Some have been left behind by guests. Once, Mom spied a copy of the Kama Sutra tucked between Summer Sisters and The Stone Angel and was horrified by how long it may have been there. Peter thought it was hilarious and told her to put the paperback on a high shelf. “Give the guests some bang for their buck, Maggie.” Mom whacked him on the chest with the book, but I found it in her bedside table a few months later, and read it cover to cover while she was working.

I tell Mira about my idea to add an espresso bar and a communal table so people can work at their laptops. “We’d get more people in here and add value.”

I wait for her to respond with enthusiasm, but she only gives me a polite smile.

I keep my thoughts to myself for the rest of the walk-through.

Are you okay? Will mouths to me as we escort Mira to her Mercedes.

I nod, but I feel deflated.

“It’s a beautiful property, Fern,” Mira says. “Totally adorable. I’ll have to do further research to come up with a suggested list price. We’re looking at seven figures, at least, for an operation of this size with such a substantial amount of waterfront footage.” She gives us a ballpark estimate, and I manage not to gasp.

I glance at Will, but he doesn’t look fazed.

“I’ll send you an email in a few days with what I’m thinking. Obviously big-ticket resorts and hotels like this have a limited number of prospective buyers—there are the luxury chains and maybe a handful of independents. Developers are a strong possibility, too.”

“Developers?” I repeat.

“Yes,” Mira says. “You’re a little far from town, but the cabins and lodge could be razed for a condominium development. Town houses, low-rise apartments, that sort of thing, if zoning isn’t an issue. It could be quite adorable.”

“No.” I don’t even think before I say it. Selling the resort is one thing. Flattening it is another. “No developers.”

Mira frowns, purses her lips, and nods. “Understood.” She lifts her chin to address Will, which is annoying—I introduced him as my consultant, but I’m the potential client. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important it is to keep the price as reasonable as possible so we can remain competitive.”

“Of course,” Will says.

Mira makes a dubious mmmkay sound. “Well, let’s make sure everyone is aware of that, yes?”

It’s clear that I’m the everyone and that I’m missing something.

As soon as her car pulls out of the lot, Will says, “I’ll fill you in when we’re somewhere private.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Will cuts me off. “Trust me, this isn’t a conversation you want anyone listening in on.”

To underscore his point, a woman in tennis whites interrupts us, asking where the courts are.

“House?” I ask Will once I’ve pointed her in the right direction.

“Actually,” he says, “I have a better idea.”

—

I walk down the hill to the water. Will had a few calls to make after our appointment with Mira, but now here he is, standing next to the outfitting hut in swim trunks and T-shirt, a paddle in each hand. My stomach dips as soon as I see him, which is funny because it’s been at my ankles ever since he asked me to meet him at the docks. He didn’t give a reason, but I changed into a bathing suit and shorts. I had a feeling.

“I was wondering if the offer still stands,” Will says as I walk toward him. There’s already a canoe in the water.

I don’t know whether to laugh or push him in the lake. First the coveralls comment and now this.

“What do you think?” he says.

“I think you’re nine years late for your lesson.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I’m sorry.” He nods his head at the canoe. “I was hoping you’d teach me anyway. You said you’d make sure I don’t embarrass myself.”

“You remember that?”

Will’s eyes search my face. Out here, the espresso brown is more like a glass of Coke held up to the light. “I remember everything.” He says it slowly, holding my gaze, and my stomach dives into the water.

I take the short paddle, willing my hands to remain steady. “Fine.” I square my shoulders. “Get in the boat.”

It’s overcast, and for a July afternoon, there’s hardly anyone out on the water. I like gloomy days for this very reason. We paddle for a while, not talking, just gliding across the water, past the cottages that dot the banks—classic log cabins with red-painted window frames, ostentatious summer homes with oversized boathouses. Will sits in the front, and I watch the muscles move across his back. I lose minutes staring at the evergreen tattooed on his arm.

It’s surreal, being out here with him, a moment I thought about for an entire year after we met. While I walked to work, as I fixed lattes, before I went to bed, I’d imagine giving Will Baxter the world’s greatest tour of Smoke Lake.

“So,” Will says, glancing over his shoulder, “how do I look?” He flashes me an Old Will smile, and suddenly I’m confused about what’s happening. He’s different today.

“Too tall for a canoe,” I tell him.

I point out a sandy ribbon of crown land and we pull the boat up on the shore. We sit on the small strip of beach, our toes in the water, just like I thought we would nine years ago.

“We haven’t gone into detail about what a sale might involve yet, and at this point it’s all speculative,” Will says, pulling me back to the present. “But essentially, there’s a limited pool of buyers for an operation this large. And while the business isn’t as strong as we’d like, the price for the property and buildings alone will be hefty.”

“Mira said I’d need to keep it competitive.”

“Right. To do that, a lot of businesses in similar situations would make sure they’re running things as lean as possible.” He pauses. “It usually involves doing an audit of the entire staff and . . . laying people off.”

My stomach roils. “How many?” I whisper after a minute.

“I’m not sure,” Will says. “It could be a few roles here and there, or we might want to look at a more substantial cut. I can figure that out with more time.”

Will studies my face. “We’ll get another agent’s opinion, but here’s the thing: If you decide to sell, you can do it without switching so much as a light bulb, but no buyer is going to come in without making changes, significant ones, likely including cuts. Chains will do things their own way. They’ll standardize everything, bring in their own people to fill some of the senior roles.”

I think of Jamie and how chuffed he is with our locally made shampoos and soaps, and the comment Peter made recently about how few hotels employ on-site bakers anymore. Everything comes in premade and frozen.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I don’t want to sugarcoat it, either,” Will says.

I stare out over the water, trying to quell my nausea.

Mom is going to be heartbroken. The thought comes and goes in one brief, painful second, and I have to shut my eyes.

“Fern?”

“I started reading my mom’s diary, the one from the summer before I was born.” My voice wavers, and I pause. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Will’s arm comes around my shoulder. It’s nothing more than a comforting embrace, but being touched by him is such a relief, like opening a pressure valve in my heart. He smells so good, and it takes every particle of restraint I possess not to rest my head on his shoulder and curl into him.

“She always knew,” I say when I can speak steadily. “She always knew she wanted to run the resort. Selling would have killed her.”

“Can I make an observation?” Will asks after a minute.

“Sure.” I twist so I can look at him. His arm falls and his hand comes to rest on the sand between us.

“You light up when you talk about the resort and the possibilities for the future. You’re passionate about this place and your ideas are solid. And, I hope you don’t mind, but I sat in on one of your staff meetings.”

“You what?”

After Jamie told me that my presence was “freaking people out,” I held two meetings to introduce myself properly, applaud everyone for holding things together following Mom’s death, and take questions—many of which I couldn’t answer, including whether or not I was selling the business. I wanted to puke the entire time. Mom loved being the center of attention, but I’m still uncomfortable when eyes are on me. I’m terrified people will be able to tell that I’m making half of it up as I go along.

“I wanted to see you in action.” He leans toward me. “You were awesome. Confident, as transparent as possible, strong but empathetic. It’s hard to get in front of a large group and tell them you don’t have all the answers—a lot of leaders won’t do that.”

I’m surprised by his praise. I was sure everyone could see my hands tremble, hear the wobble in my voice. I could sense their skepticism. The executive chef glowered at me the whole time, arms folded in front of his chest. “I don’t think I won them over.”

“Would you have been won over if you were in their position? You grew up at the resort, but to most of them, you’ve swooped in from nowhere.”

“I just didn’t ever picture myself here,” I murmur. Even to my own ears, the argument is starting to sound thin, a favorite shirt worn till it’s threadbare—comfortable but probably ready for the trash. “I’m actually starting to enjoy being back. Parts of it feel right.” It’s scary to admit it, but it’s true. Outside of staff meetings, I mostly like the work. I love being near Whitney. I hardly miss the city. “Shocking, right?”

Given everything Will knows about me, I expect him to agree. “I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes plans change.”

The statement feels loaded. We watch a boat putter by, a man casting a fishing line off the end. After a moment, Will adds, “We’re not the same people we were at twenty-two. It’s okay to want different things.”

I look down at our fingers, inches away from each other in the sand, worried that I want some of the same things I did then.

“So tell me about this man hiatus of yours,” Will says, and my gaze flicks up to his. Apparently my thoughts are being broadcast on a frequency only Will can hear.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say with caution. Love lives are firmly in the category of things we don’t talk about. “Bad breakup, vow of celibacy, et cetera.”

“Vow of celibacy, huh? How’s that going?”

“I lasted five months.” I don’t get the laugh I crave. Instead, Will goes still.

“So you are seeing someone. Jamie?”

I dig my toes into the sand and press my chin to my knees. “He and I broke up a long, long time ago.”

“He’s still in love with you.”

My eyes snap to Will’s. “No, he’s not.”

“Trust me. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Trust me. You’re wrong. Jamie loves the resort,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as Will. “Anyway, the hiatus has more to do with taking a pause from relationships.”

“Ah,” he says. “How much of a pause have you taken?”

“About two years.”

“Two years,” he repeats. “Was it serious—the relationship before the hiatus?”

I chew on my cheek. I have to think about this. Philippe and I exchanged I love yous. Met each other’s families. I thought of his pug as my own—I still take care of Mocha when Philippe’s out of town. But I never pictured us as a couple forever.

“We were together for a year and a half and worked together for a long time before that.”

“So why the breakup?”

I let out a breath.

I didn’t use to think I had a type, though Whitney maintains that I have two: The person who is perfectly fine, but not even close to perfect for me (almost everyone I’ve dated). And dickheads (Philippe).

I’ve never been ready for the sharing of keys and consolidating of furniture, but it wasn’t until Philippe that I started thinking Whitney might be right, that maybe a part of me was picking the wrong people on purpose. I guess there’s nothing like seeing your boyfriend with his pants around his ankles behind another woman to make you question your choices.

“Sorry,” Will says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No?” I ask with a little laugh. It’s so strange, talking like this to him again, but I replace myself wanting to share. It was always like that with Will. “It’s okay. I guess it’s a bit embarrassing. He cheated. I found them together. We broke up.”

“Why would that be embarrassing?” Will asks, his voice cold enough that I peer over at him. He’s staring out at the lake, jaw tight.

I shrug. I don’t want to tell him what a knock to my pride Philippe’s infidelity was. I reach for a subject change. “So what’s your story?”

Will’s forehead wrinkles.

“This isn’t exactly how you imagined yourself.” I think of what I wrote on his plan.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. I suspect this will be all he says on the subject, but he adds, “It’s not a short story.”

“I’ve got time.”

He leans forward, twisting his ring.

“You do that a lot,” I say.

Will assesses me from the corner of his eye.

“Who gave it to you?”

“My grandmother,” he says after a moment. “It was my grandfather’s.”

“You were close.”

“With my grandmother, yeah. You remember?” A hint of a smile graces his lips, and I want to hook my thumbs on the corners of his mouth and pull the edges up higher.

“Of course,” I say quietly. “I remember everything.”

He hums and looks at the water. “My grandfather died when I was four. I don’t remember much about him, but my grandmother was around a lot. She was a tough lady. Dottie. You would have liked her, I think.”

I replace this oddly pleasing. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. She was a real straight shooter. Very independent. My sister and I used to sleep over at her house almost every weekend when we were little. We had our own bedrooms there. She taught me how to use a screwdriver and change the oil in a car. When my mother left, she gave me this ring and a long talk about responsibility and looking out for my sister.” He looks over to me. I nod. I remember that part, too. I think about tracing my finger over the scar on his chin, but I stay still.

“She was funny, but her sense of humor was bone-dry. I could never tell if she was being serious or not. When I got older, I realized she was almost always joking. She died about a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was ninety-three. She had a good run.”

“It still sucks—good run or not.”

“It did suck. It sucked a lot.”

A light rain begins to fall. It’s only a misty drizzle, but we fold ourselves into the canoe and paddle back at a brisk clip, which is just as well because the drops come down with more vigor as we approach the resort.

We lift the boat out of the water and carry it to its rack. By the time we bring the paddles and life jackets to the storage shed, we’re both soaked. I finish hanging the jackets, and when I turn around, Will is watching me a few steps away.

Rain falls outside the door behind him, drumming on the metal roof. His shirt is sopping, hugging the ridges of his chest. We stare at each other for three long breaths and then he takes a step forward, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

“Don’t,” I tell him.

“Don’t what?” he asks, voice rough.

I suck in a breath. “Don’t look at me like that.” I don’t know how to handle this Will, the one who is studying my face like a treasure map.

“Like what?”

“Like you give a shit about me,” I say, pressing my nails into my palms.

He takes another step. “What if I do give a shit?”

“Well, you’re not allowed to.” I take a step back.

“Why not?”

I’ve been pushing down the hurt all afternoon, but it pops to the surface like a buoy. “Because you left me waiting for you on that dock nine years ago.”

“I didn’t want to,” he says quietly.

“Then why did you? You knew I would be here. You knew how I felt about you.” My voice sounds strangled.

He swallows. “Yeah, I knew.”

I can feel my bottom lip quake, and I bite down on it. Hard. I have to leave. I move past Will, but he catches my arm and turns me around. He ducks down, his eyes moving between mine.

“I was worried that I was different from how you remembered, and that you’d be disappointed.”

“But you did disappoint me,” I whisper. “You made me think it was all in my head.”

“It wasn’t,” he says. “Believe me, it wasn’t your head that was the problem.” I want to ask what he means, but he catches a tear on my cheek and tucks my hair behind my ears before pulling me toward him.

I wrap my fist in the hem of his shirt, tugging him closer. I want to run my fingers over his shoulders and press my tongue to his scar and do all the things I wanted to do when I didn’t hate Will Baxter.

He leans down and holds my face between his hands. His nose brushes mine. I slip my hands under his damp shirt, flattening them against his stomach, and he closes his eyes. His skin is hot, his flesh hard. I press against him.

Will traces a path down the bridge of my nose to its tip with his finger. “Perfect.”

As he brings his lips to mine, he whispers my name, and it snaps me out of whatever haze of nostalgia I got lost in.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “I shouldn’t have done that. We can’t do that.”

“Okay.” He’s breathing as heavily as I am.

“I’m in over my head,” I say, my voice hitching. “I need your help. I need us to be okay, to be able to work together.”

He stares at me. “I would never do anything to jeopardize your business, no matter what happened between us,” he says. “I want you to know that. You can trust me.”

I shake my head. Trusting Will would be like trusting a mirage. “I can’t. I don’t know who you are. And you don’t know me.” Then I walk out of the shed and into the rain.

—

The knock comes well after two a.m. It’s a soft thud. Not Peter’s tap, tap, tap, or the frantic rapping of a guest who’s spotted a pair of yellow eyes in the bush.

I’m already awake. I gave up sleeping a few minutes ago.

No one is at the door when I get downstairs, but there’s a thin, square parcel on the welcome mat. It’s wrapped in bright striped paper and there’s an envelope on top with my name on it. I recognize Will’s penmanship immediately. It hasn’t changed.

I take the gift to the kitchen table and open the card. Inside, there’s a sketch of a woman holding a paddle in the air like a sword, and a short note.

You do know me. And I know you, too.

I rip off the paper and stare at the album cover, smiling into the dark.