Meet Me at the Lake
: Chapter 19

Will shows up with a bag of groceries the morning after dinner at Whitney and Cam’s. His hair is wet, and I’m still wearing my pot head pajamas.

“I haven’t had a chance to make you breakfast yet,” he says as I let him in. “My omelet is excellent.”

“I’m sure it is.”

He sets the bag on the counter and asks if I have an apron, and I dig out Mom’s—the one with the red apples on it. I’m sure he won’t wear it. But Will ties it around his waist and kisses me on the cheek, and I’m so charmed, I reach around his back and unknot the strings.

Will gives me a questioning smile, and I pull my shirt over my head so my intentions are as clear as the fact that I’m only wearing underwear.

He backs me up to the kitchen table and lifts me onto it, pushing my knees apart and stepping between them.

“Lie back,” he tells me, cupping my neck to set me down gently as I do. He slips my panties down my legs, and then brings his lips to my navel, tracing it with his tongue. He leads a wet trail to my hip bone, and when I put my fingers in his hair, he kneels. Will pauses only to tell me that he missed me last night, and I last only a few seconds after that.

As I shower, Will makes omelets with spinach and caramelized onions and we spend most of the day in bed until it’s time to get ready for cocktails with the Roses. We stay for long enough to seem polite, and then race back. I turn to head up the path toward the house, but Will tugs on my arm, leading me to his cabin.

“Closer,” he says, biting my earlobe.

It’s the best Sunday I’ve ever had, and I fall asleep with a smile on my lips. But the next day, the week from hell begins.

Following lunch service on Monday, I gather everyone in the dining room to announce my decision to stay on as owner. I keep my hands clasped behind my back so no one can see how badly they’re shaking. One of the housekeepers asks what qualifies me to run Brookbanks aside from my last name. Eyes widen at his bold choice of words, but I can tell from the way people lean forward in their chairs that they’re wondering the same thing. I say something about my degree, my hospitality experience, and how I helped oversee Filtr’s expansion, but I can’t hear myself speak over the blood rushing in my ears.

Then the air conditioners start dying. The maintenance team is able to fix most of them, but one family decides to leave early because we can’t get a new unit in their cabin soon enough. A scathing one-star review appears online, calling us out for the AC issues, and describing resort management as “inept” and the cabins as “out-of-date.” “You couldn’t have paid me to stay there another night,” it reads.

The next evening, Jamie sends me a link to a newspaper article headlined, toronto hotelier revamps roadside motel, about the renovation of one of Muskoka’s derelict motels. According to the article, The Daisy will be a “retro playground for urbanites looking for a cooler side of cottage country.” The rooms will have all the modern amenities and a seventies decor vibe courtesy of an up-and-coming interior designer. There’s going to be a saltwater pool, lobster rolls delivered by servers on roller skates, and an emphasis on “funky, hard-to-replace wines.” It’s major competition, a shiny new hipster-approved hot spot that will make our battle to stand out even more difficult.

I think things are turning around on Thursday when Will goes over his big-picture strategy. He dials in four Baxter-Lee colleagues and walks Jamie and me through a three-year plan and marketing campaign timed to a grand reopening next May. There’s a flashy presentation and charts and a new employee structure that doesn’t involve every manager reporting to me.

I walk out of the meeting confident and excited and am quickly pulled aside by my head of reservations, who gives me her notice. She’s going to manage The Daisy.

It doesn’t help that it’s hot, the air so still you can see clear to the bottom of the lake. It’s the kind of hazy August heat that drives people inside by early afternoon, and moisture collects in your every cranny if you dare walk out the door. The kind of heat where every third sentence out of your mouth is, It’s so hot.

Will and I go swimming at the family dock in the evenings to cool off. The lake is like soup, and dead bugs speckle its flat surface, but it’s so hot, we don’t care if we’re lying in a watery grave. We float, arms and legs spread, a pair of stars drifting across a liquid sky. Back on dry land, Will cooks dinner, and I pretend I don’t love the game of house we’re playing. I pretend it doesn’t bother me that he excuses himself when the bells chime on his phone. I think about what Jamie said—about Will hiding something—and I pretend I don’t believe he’s right.

—

“Have you eaten yet today?”

I look up from the small pile of job applications on my desk to see Peter standing in the doorway of the office.

“Breakfast,” I tell him.

When I came downstairs this morning, Will had coffee made. Grapefruit juice on the table. Bread in the toaster. I’ve been getting these little glimpses of what I imagine he’s like at home. Not that he talks about his life at home.

“Sit for five minutes,” he’d instructed, setting a plate of scrambled eggs, tomato, avocado, and toast in front of me. That was seven hours ago.

“I need a taster,” Peter says, motioning for me to get off my butt with a tilt of his head. Everything Peter does is sparse. He speaks minimally. Moves quietly. He doesn’t get angry. His lips rarely deviate from their straight line. All his extravagance is poured into his work. The lemon-lavender pound cake, the pistachio-orange olive oil cake with cardamom drizzle, the salted caramel pecan pie.

I stare at the applications for the reservations manager job. They’ve been coming in drips, and most candidates are vastly underqualified. A trucker looking to make a career change. A Pilates instructor slash tarot card reader.

“Come on. It’ll all be there when you’re done,” he says, and adds under his breath, “Just like Maggie.”

“I heard that,” I say, pushing out of my chair and giving Peter my best death stare, though secretly, I’m pleased.

As I follow him down the carpeted hall, through the swinging doors, and into the staff passageways of the lodge, I get a sudden sinking feeling. I grab Peter’s arm so he stops walking.

“You’re not quitting, are you?”

“ ’Course not,” he says.

I put my hand on my chest and exhale, my eyes closed. When I open them, I think the corners of Peter’s mouth have arched up infinitesimally, but it’s hard to tell with the beard.

“I told your mother once that she’d have to drag me out of here if she ever wanted to get rid of me. This is me telling you the same thing.” He waits to make sure I’ve absorbed what he’s said, and then he keeps moving in the direction of the pastry kitchen.

The yeasty smell of bread replaces its way to us before we enter Peter’s stainless-steel sanctuary. It’s not sourdough—I know that scent so well, it’s almost a physical object I can feel the contours of. Inside, boules, baguettes, brioche, and oil-slicked bread knots cover the work counter. I’ve seen the kitchen like this before, when Peter was developing a new dessert menu or during one of his experimental phases—frozen custard was my favorite. But it was always sweets he played around with.

“Time for a change, I think,” he says, ripping off a piece of a plain-looking roll from a cluster of four and handing it to me.

“Why?”

He takes a piece himself and puts it into his mouth, chewing before he answers.

“Maggie picked the sourdough. Thought you’d want to have something that was yours. Something to suit your vision.” He doesn’t say vision like it has air quotes around it. Peter knows I want to make the dining room and the food less formal. Lose the white linens. Scale back the menu.

My throat tightens. “I love the sourdough.”

“I did, too,” he says quietly.

He points at the piece of roll I’m holding, and I pop it into my mouth. It’s warm and soft and surprisingly buttery for something that seems so ordinary.

“Wow,” I say, but Peter doesn’t react. He hands me a slice of olive loaf. We chew together in silence, no music to lift the mood, one hunk of bread after another, avoiding eye contact. With each bite, I feel like I’m saying goodbye. I wipe a tear away with the heel of my hand, and Peter acts as if he doesn’t notice.

“It’s the roll,” I say when we’re done.

“I thought so, too,” Peter says. “With whipped butter.”

I sigh. “I can’t believe we’re going to lose the sourdough.”

“I’ll make it for you whenever you want. The starter is my only child. I’m not going to give it up.” His hand freezes midway to his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean . . .”

It takes me a second to catch on to why he’s apologizing. “It’s fine, Peter. I came to terms with all that a long time ago,” I say, then add after a moment, “I’ve been reading Mom’s diary. I know you knew him. Eric, I mean.”

He goes to the fridge and pulls out a wedge of cheddar and some leftover cooked ham. He slices them, spreads butter on a piece of roll, and sets it all on a plate that he pushes in front of me.

“I didn’t know him well, and I didn’t like what I did know of him,” Peter says. “He was a good-looking guy. Real charmer. Thought pretty highly of himself. I figured maybe I was jealous.”

I stop chewing.

“You thinking of looking him up again?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“That ship has sailed.”

He nods, then after a beat says, “Your mom said she loved you enough for ten dads.”

“That sounds like her.” I think of how much time I’ve spent with Peter in here, watching him work. “But I had you, too.”

“Not quite the same as your own father.”

“Better,” I tell him. “Much better.”

Neither of us says anything for a minute, and the quiet of the kitchen is louder than any of Peter’s music. “Are you doing okay? I know you must miss her.”

He watches me from the corner of his eye. “Maggie was my best friend. I miss her like hell.”

“Did you ever . . .” I pause. “I’ve been wondering if the two of you ever . . .” I sneak a glance at him, and he turns to face me. “If you were ever more than friends?” It’s a question I’ve had since I started rereading the diary.

Peter doesn’t say anything. I don’t breathe. “Maggie should be here for this,” he says, looking at the ceiling. He shakes his head and then meets my eyes. “There were times when we were close like that.”

I stare at Peter, holding a piece of cheese.

“I fell in love with Maggie the first day I met her.” His eyes gleam. “She gave me a tour of the resort, talking a mile a minute, and I thought I’d never be lonely if she was around. And I wasn’t.”

“Mom never told me,” I whisper.

“Maggie’d say she was private; I’d say she was secretive. She wasn’t always like that.” Peter smiles a little. “I waited a long time for my chance with her. After you were born, I told her how I felt. But she wouldn’t let me take her on a date until you got older.”

“When?” I gasp. My head is spinning.

“Once you and Whitney became friends, going for sleepovers and running around here together. I think she felt like she could relax a little.”

That was so long ago. I was ten.

“I wanted to get married—she knew that. I thought she was ready, but then you”—he pauses, choosing his words—“hit a rough patch as a teenager, and she blamed herself. She said there was no way she could be a good wife when she couldn’t manage to be a good mother. I know you think she picked this place over you time and time again, and maybe she could have worked a little less, but running the resort was the one thing she felt she was doing well.”

I stare down at the plate of food, guilt turning the bread in my throat leaden. Peter and my mom as a couple? The worst part is that I can picture it. How perfect they would have been together.

I start to apologize, but Peter shakes his head. “It wasn’t about you, Fern, not really. It was more complicated than that. We argued a lot over the years, but we always found our way back to each other.”

A memory. Dinner with Mom and Peter in Toronto. Feeling tired from hauling boxes and assembling Ikea furniture. Hugging Mom good night. It’s hard to say goodbye this time. Walking down the sidewalk and turning around for one last wave. Peter’s arm around Mom. Mom looking up at him, smiling.

“Do you remember when you and Mom helped me move into my first apartment?”

Peter’s smile parts his lips. “That place barely fit the three of us in it at once. Maggie made me hang your mirror three times before it was perfectly centered over the dresser.”

“You and Mom stayed at a hotel for the night.”

“Stayed a couple more after we got you settled. We didn’t tell you that.”

I can’t believe I didn’t suspect anything. “When she died, were you together then?”

“As together as we ever were.” Peter sees the shock on my face and pats my shoulder. “Our relationship wasn’t traditional. We were best friends, and sometimes we were . . . partners. I always wanted more than Maggie could give, but I figure I’m lucky I got as much of her as I did.”

It might be the saddest, sweetest thing I’ve heard.

Before I go, Peter packs me two paper bags of leftover bread.

“When do you think you’ll start playing music again?” I ask as I’m leaving.

He looks over at the old broken tape deck by his workstation. “Once I’m ready for a day when your mother doesn’t walk through that door and tell me to turn it down.”

“I’ll make a playlist for then,” I tell him. “Something Mom would really hate.”

—

When I make it back to the house late that evening, my heart is heavy. But then I see Will at the stove, wearing a white shirt and Mom’s apron. I love Will in my kitchen, wearing that apron. I love how he never says a word about how much I’m working. I love that when he served me sourdough toast this morning, he kissed my nose and said, Not as good as you made it. I told him it’s best when it’s stale and cooked in a pan during a blackout.

Will smiles at me over his shoulder when he realizes I’m watching. “It’s just a stir-fry. Hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” I say, moving next to him. He spears a sugar snap pea from the pan and feeds it to me.

“I promise I’ll cook for you one day,” I say as I chew.

“Yeah? Aside from that dinner with Whitney and Cam, it’s been a long time since somebody made a meal for me. Annabel knows how to boil water, put a frozen pizza in the oven, and use the microwave—that’s about it.”

This is one of the few times Will has volunteered information about his sister. I know she’s a makeup artist and works on some of the bigger productions that shoot in Toronto. I know she can’t cook. But Will has us sealed in a bubble—keeping his vacation separate from his homelife.

“What about Jessica—she didn’t wine and dine you?” We haven’t talked about Will’s ex, and I’m not sure if she’s allowed in the bubble.

“She knew her way around a menu.”

I stay quiet, and after a moment, Will goes on.

“We didn’t exactly leave things on the best of terms,” he says, looking into the pan. “She said I wasted her time and that I’m incapable of commitment. She felt I was too involved with Sofia.”

“And you think . . . ?”

“She wasn’t wrong. I knew early on it wouldn’t work out long-term.”

“Because . . .” I prompt when he doesn’t elaborate.

Will exhales. “It made her uncomfortable—even them living with me was strange to her. But in truth, my niece and my sister are a big barrier to a relationship.”

“For who—you or your girlfriends?”

“Both, I guess. Between home and work, there hasn’t been a lot of room for other people.”

I feel like Will is waving an enormous red flag in front of my face. “Is this your way of telling me that you don’t do relationships?” I try to say this casually.

“It’s my way of telling you that I don’t do them well. Jessica wasn’t the first woman I’ve disappointed. I’m not the greatest boyfriend. Jessica wanted more of me than I had to share.”

“More of you?” I scoff, my heart pounding. “Who’d want that?”

Will pins me with his dark eyes. “Not you, huh? Hiatus and all that.”

I think about telling him the truth—that I’ll take as much as he can give—but then I remember Peter saying almost the exact same thing about my mom. He spent decades with someone who couldn’t give herself to him fully. I always loved when Mom said I was like Peter, but in this way, I can’t be.

“Sorry you had to wait so late to eat,” I say instead. It’s almost nine.

“I don’t mind. I usually eat early with the girls.” He gives me a quick grin while he plates the food. “I feel very sophisticated right now.”

“You look very sophisticated.”

He glances down at the apron. “You love it.”

“It’s weird how much I love it,” I say.

But the words in my head say something different. The words in my head say, It’s weird how much I love you. Surely those words have it wrong.