Meet Me at the Lake
: Chapter 13

Will and I are working on the back deck, a woodpecker’s hollow knock reverberating in the trees. He sits with his legs stretched in front of him, a sliver of skin peeking out below the hem of his pants. I don’t know why I find his ankles so compelling. I’m like a Regency era viscount hoping for a flash of flesh.

It’s well past six when his phone sounds—it’s the ringtone with the bells, and he rises to take the call.

A week has gone by since we took the canoe out on Smoke Lake. Since we almost kissed. Neither of us has mentioned it, but when I thanked him for the Patti Smith record, I could feel the air pull taut between us. Otherwise, it’s like I dreamed that moment. Except sometimes I catch him watching me, hear him whisper Perfect, and it takes me ages to refocus.

I’m texting with Jamie about the August dance and talent show. It was a tradition even before any Brookbanks owned the resort, an annual end-of-summer send-off with dinner and live music. Mr. and Mrs. Rose have performed “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” from Oklahoma! every year since my mom recovered the golf carts in the striped covers. There used to be a staff kick line, but Mom did away with it in the nineties. It’s a major production, and I think it’s too much for us to take on this year. Jamie and I have been debating for fifteen minutes. When Will steps inside with his phone and closes the sliding door behind him, I press the call button.

“You hate speaking on the phone,” Jamie says instead of a hello. He drops his voice. “Did you smoke a little something, Fernie?”

“Very funny. I thought it would be easier to talk you out of this.”

I’ve given Will full access to our books, and he has almost as many questions for Jamie as he does for me. I can tell Jamie is suspicious. He’s pressed me for details about how I know Will, and all I’ve said is that we met once a long time ago. But he hasn’t been defensive about having a consultant poke around. The dance is the one thing Jamie’s stubborn about.

“You’re not talking me out of it,” he says now.

“The idea of throwing such a big event with everything else that’s going on—I don’t think it’s a good idea.” It’s hard to imagine the dance without Mom there—I’m not sure I’m ready for that. We’ll do it next summer, I think, catching myself before I say so.

“Fern.” He says my name like a sigh, and I know whatever comes next will be serious. I don’t think he’s called me Fern (no ie) more than three times in my life. “We all loved Maggie, but it feels like the resort is still in mourning. I don’t want to suggest that it’s time to move on, but we need a celebration—the staff as well as the guests.”

I close my eyes. In the background, Will’s raised voice rumbles through the glass door. He’s not yelling, but he sounds frustrated.

“You’re probably right,” I say to Jamie.

“I am. Plus, I’ve already booked the band.”

I huff out a laugh.

“I’ll take care of everything,” Jamie says. “I’ve got you.”

When Will returns ten minutes later, he’s holding two cans of the lemon Perrier I’ve started stocking for him, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows. I don’t know why I find his forearms so compelling, either.

I look up from my laptop. The restaurant’s executive chef has sent me a condescending email mansplaining the many reasons I should stay out of menu planning.

“Sorry about that,” Will says, handing me a mineral water.

“About what?”

“I’m sure you could hear me.”

“It’s private. None of my business.” I go back to my computer, trying to figure out the most professional way to tell the chef to screw off.

Will’s quiet for a few minutes. “If I were to stay another two weeks, would that be okay with you?” My eyes spring to his. “The second real estate agent isn’t coming until next week, and after that, I can review both scenarios with you: selling or staying on.”

Will is supposed to leave next Sunday, something I’ve been quietly dreading.

“Stay as long as you want,” I say, my tone neutral. “I’ll make sure we can keep Cabin 20 open for you.”

I fire off an email to our head of reservations. If Will stays for two more weeks, he’ll be here for the dance. It might not be so bad, if he were there with me. I stare at the screen, but my mind has drifted back in time to us hot and sweaty and pressed together on a different dance floor.

“When you go over everything, are you going to tell me what you’d do if you were in my place?” I ask, collecting myself.

Will hasn’t said if he thinks I should sell or not. I appreciate it, but I’m also dying to know his take. I’ve told him about my coffee shop fantasy and the little corner store I’ve wandered into so many times, the owners suspect me of shoplifting.

“I’ll lay everything out for you, but this is your decision. And even if you wanted me to,” Will says, seeing that I’m about to disagree, “I don’t know what’s best for you. Only you know that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Will Baxter, you too-tall coward.”

He lets out a laugh, big and booming and sunny as an egg yolk. I haven’t heard that laugh in ten years. A blaze of victory radiates from my chest.

Will leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” We’ve had beers after work a couple times, but dinner would mean crossing the keeping-things-professional line we’ve drawn. “With food?”

Will smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Food is usually involved.”

I blink at him.

“Tonight,” he says. “At my place.”

The breathy laugh that leaves my mouth is ostentatiously nervous. “Technically it’s my place. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I own this joint.”

“I may have heard something like that.” He holds my eyes. “Is that a yes?”

“I don’t think you’ve asked me a question.” It’s supposed to come off as sassy, but I sound like a mouse negotiating with a lion.

He grins, and anticipation tightens my skin. “Fern, would you like to come over for dinner?”

“Yes,” I say. I really would.

—

Will asked for thirty minutes to get himself organized. In that time, I have:

• Stood in front of my bedroom mirror, trying to determine whether I should wear something nicer than shorts and a tank top or if that would seem like I was trying to impress him. (Which I am. Maybe.)

• Tried on a blue silk dress I bought last week.

• Considered whether blue silk was too far out of my black, white, and gray fashion comfort zone.

• Debated changing out of granny panties.

• Dry-shaved my legs.

• Put on an itsy-bitsy pair of underwear.

• Taken off the sexy underwear and put the granny panties back on. (Just friends. Just friends. Not even friends! Colleagues!)

• Decided I was neurotic, bordering on gross, for putting on dirty underwear and changed into clean, unsexy briefs.

• Sweated through my dress and changed back into shorts and a tank top. Note to self: Colored silk is the enemy.

• Questioned whether to bring red or white wine.

• Downed a glass of white. I’ll bring the red.

• Stared at myself in the mirror again and put on a sleeveless black jersey dress that’s plain in a What, this old thing? way but clingy in a These hips don’t lie way.

By the time I knock on Cabin 20’s screen door, I have worked myself into such a tizzy, I’m annoyed with both myself for being nervous and Will for being the cause of my dithering.

But when he steps onto the porch, his hair sticking up erratically like he’s been running his hands through it, I forget all that. Because Will Baxter is wearing an apron. A black apron with vertical white stripes. I didn’t know an apron could be sexy, but this apron is the lost Hemsworth brother of aprons.

“You’re wearing an apron,” is how I greet him.

“I’m wearing an apron,” is how he replies. “I don’t like to mess up my clothes.”

“You do have very nice clothes,” I say, still standing on the step.

He looks down at what he’s wearing—a black T-shirt and a pair of faded denim cutoffs that come down to his knees.

“Usually,” I amend. “Not that you don’t look nice. You look nice.” I may have forgotten about my nerves, but clearly, they have not forgotten about me.

Will’s cabin is the same as the Roses’, minus the bar cart. Screened back porch, a deck off the front that looks over the lake. A small eating area and kitchen with views of the water. The cast-iron fireplace is ancient but charming and the pine floors are well trodden. The walls used to be wood, too, but Mom had them insulated and drywalled so the cabins could be used year-round.

I follow Will into the kitchen and set the wine on the counter. There are veggies on a cutting board, two hamburger patties that look homemade, and a tinfoil packet of something ready for the barbecue.

“Burgers from scratch?” I ask, impressed.

“It’s a very complex recipe,” he says. “Meat, salt, pepper.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“I think I’ve got it under control. Burgers, salad, potatoes. Sound all right?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, digging a corkscrew out of the utensil drawer. All the cabins are stocked with the basics. “I’ll make myself useful.” I grab glasses from an upper cabinet and pour the wine while Will finishes chopping a cucumber and peppers for the salad. I watch, one hip leaning against the counter. His knife skills are dynamite. Mom would have liked that. He holds up a red onion, and I nod.

“You’re one of those awful people who’s good at everything, aren’t you?” I ask as he slices it into thin, even rings. Half go in the salad, and the rest go on a plate with the other burger toppings.

“Not at all, I’m terrible at . . .” He looks up at the ceiling, lips twisted to the side and one eye closed. He makes a humming sound.

“Humility?” I supply.

“No. I excel at humility.”

I like Will like this. Loose and a little silly. Aside from the day of the almost-kiss, he’s been so zipped up. I wonder what changed.

We move everything outside to the front deck, where the sun is starting its descent over the lake, casting everything in a saffron glow. Dragonflies twirl through the sky, hunting for their evening snack. I set the picnic table, placing cutlery and folded paper towels for napkins on the same side so we can share the view.

“This is nice,” I say, looking at the water as we sit down to eat. Will’s still in his apron, but I don’t comment. I’m hoping he forgets to take it off for the rest of the evening. Watching Will Baxter wear an apron is my new hobby.

“You sound surprised.”

It’s the first time I’ve sat on one of the decks, having a meal like a guest would. There are cedars between the cabins for privacy, but you can glimpse the neighboring cottages with their cheerful green awnings. The murmur of other dinnertimes carries down the shore. It’s comforting.

“I guess I am. I mean, I knew it was gorgeous out here. I spent enough time cleaning cabins when I was a kid to get a good look at them. But I thought it might feel a bit exposed.” I gesture to the row of cottages. “It doesn’t, though. I don’t mind the other people. It’s kind of . . . cozy?”

“I think that’s why a lot of people come to a place like this—you can be surrounded by nature but not isolated. There’s a feeling of community.”

I take a bite of my burger. It’s good, maybe the best I’ve had. I’m not sure how, considering how simple it is: lettuce, tomato, onion, cheddar, meat. Even the salad is extra tasty, the dressing homemade.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask through my last mouthful.

“I’m not sure barbecuing counts as cooking.”

“Don’t be modest—it doesn’t suit you,” I say, wiping my hands. “Besides, I saw you with a knife earlier. You know what you’re doing.”

“I taught myself to cook, but I took a knife skills class a few years ago.”

“I don’t want to stereotype,” I say, taking my gaze away from the sparkling water to look at his profile. “But guys like you don’t usually cook. They go to restaurants and order delivery.”

“Do they?” he says. “Tell me more about guys like me.”

“I only mean you’ve got a big, fancy job. I’m sure there are long hours and client dinners.”

“Fancy?”

“I saw the pictures online. Parties and fundraisers.” Super-attractive ex-girlfriend.

“Ah.” He slides his legs out from under the table and stands in one graceful movement, picking up our plates. I’ve reached the extent of New Will’s low tolerance for personal information.

I rise, but he motions for me to stay seated. “I’ve got it,” he says, stacking the salad bowl on the plates and taking the dirty dishes inside.

When he comes back out, he’s not wearing the apron anymore. He takes a seat across from me and puts his arms on the table, slanting forward. He fixes his eyes on mine.

“I don’t work long hours,” Will says with the same tone he uses for business calls, like this is important information. It’s true that Will is usually done between five and six, but he’s also awake in the middle of the night. I assume he’s working.

“Okay.”

He studies me, serious, almost stern. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “And I cook most nights.”

I feel like I’ve walked into a brick wall I somehow didn’t see coming. I knew he and Jessica broke up, but I didn’t think to ask if he was seeing anyone else.

“But not just for yourself.” I try to keep the disappointment from my voice, but it comes out loud and clear, wearing a highlighter orange construction vest.

“No.”

I’ll be mad at myself later for being so transparent, but I can’t sit across from him for another second. I hoist myself off the bench. But Will’s up fast, his hands reaching for mine. “Stay.”

I look at him across the table and shake my head. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want either of us to hear my voice waver.

“Please,” he says. “You asked for my story the day we went out in the canoe.” The day we almost kissed. The words go unsaid but they’re right there with us, shouting from a billboard. Will’s hands fit around mine, his thumb tracing the pulse in my wrist. “I want to share it with you, if you’ll listen.”

—

I’m certain what Will is going to tell me will hurt, but I sit back down, blood sloshing around in my eardrums. He keeps his hands over mine, and he doesn’t pull them away when he starts to speak.

“I wasn’t totally honest with you,” he says, and the sloshing turns into a roar. “But it’s not what you think. The night I came over to help with Owen, you asked if I have children. I told you I don’t, and that’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. I live with my sister and her daughter.”

Despite my silence, it must be obvious that I’m not going to bolt, because Will takes his hands away.

“Annabel was young when my niece was born. I learned how to cook around then. They’re the reason why I don’t work late. Family dinners are kind of a thing in our house.” He pauses. “My ex hated when I called it ‘our house.’ I own it, but they’ve always lived there with me.”

“So that’s why you know so much about babies,” I say.

He nods. “And that’s why I have my fancy job.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“You remember I went to school in Vancouver?”

“Emily Carr,” I say, quick as a reflex.

He smiles. “Emily Carr. I came back when Annabel was pregnant. It was complicated with our dad. He was about to get remarried, and Linda, his wife, wanted Annabel and the baby to stay with them, but I couldn’t see that ending well for anyone. Dad and Annabel were barely speaking. They had a huge fight when he found out she was expecting and wanted to keep the baby.”

“And you couldn’t stand being that far away.”

“Right.”

“What about the father?”

“David. He’s not a bad guy, but he was young, too. They’d only been dating for a few months, and they were nowhere near ready to make a commitment to each other. Our grandmother was starting to need care of her own. I thought, at the very least, I could help Annabel out with a place to live.”

I refill our wine, and Will takes a sip.

“My friend Matty was working at his dad’s consulting agency in Toronto. He set me up with a graphic design job and a good salary. Helped me out with first and last month’s rent. I had this idea that my sister and I would be roommates, and that I could lend a hand with babysitting after my niece was born.” He plays with the stem of his glass. “I had no clue what I’d signed on for.”

“How old is your niece?”

Will eyes me closely. “Nine.”

“Nine,” I repeat back. Will wasn’t just a babysitter or proud uncle. “You helped raise her.”

“Yeah.”

Will tells me how Matty’s dad offered to sponsor his MBA and how he earned it through night classes. He and the girls lived in an apartment until he saved enough for a down payment. I listen, and I can almost feel my mind bending to accommodate the new information.

“The early years were rough.” Will rubs his neck as if he’s deciding whether to say more. “I went from doing whatever the hell I wanted to having a nine-to-five and a baby at home. It kind of messed with me.”

“What do you mean?”

He presses a finger against a knot on the tabletop like he’s pushing something down into the woodwork. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “We were so sleep-deprived, I was barely functional.”

I don’t think that’s the full story, but I’m afraid if I press, he’ll snap shut. “What about your art?”

“It’s just not something I do anymore. There’s no time.”

“But you loved it,” I say, and his gaze rises to mine. “You were so good.”

Something flashes in his expression. “Yeah, well. I was lucky to find something that’s allowed me to support my family.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? That I call them my family?”

“Why would it be weird? Your sister and niece are literally family.”

His shoulders relax. “That’s how I feel, too. But it’s been an issue . . . for women.”

I don’t react to the mention of other women, not outwardly. Inside, my dinner curdles. But then Will’s eyebrows rise a little, like he wants to know whether it would be an issue for this woman, and my mouth goes dry.

He runs his hand through his hair when I stay quiet, further shuffling the haphazard sections. “Anyway,” he says, “I like my work. My partner, Matty, he’s the real brains. I’m mostly there to charm the clients.”

“Hence the fancy parties,” I say, though I don’t believe this for a second. I’ve seen Will in action. I’ve googled him extensively. He’s always been more than a pretty face. But I also remember how he used to talk about art—it’s hard to buy that his job gives him the same satisfaction.

“Hence the fancy parties,” Will agrees. “It’s not what I pictured myself doing when I was twenty-two, but who the hell knows anything in their early twenties anyway?”

“You knew a few things,” I say. “You helped me figure out I didn’t have to end up here.”

Will watches me. “But maybe that’s changed for you,” he says after a few seconds. “Maybe this is where you were supposed to end up after all.”

I’ve wondered that, too. If I took the long route to find my way back home. I look out over the water. “Maybe.”

—

We’re at the kitchen sink when the text comes. Will wouldn’t let me wash the dishes after dinner, but I grabbed a tea towel, and he reluctantly began passing me clean plates to dry. He’s wearing yellow rubber gloves, and they’re almost as hot as the apron.

My phone lights up on the counter. It’s from Philippe, and it’s just one word.

Fate.

I frown at the screen, not sure what he’s referencing.

“Everything okay?” Will asks, and then Philippe’s second message arrives.

It’s a photo of the outside of a building taken at night. It’s slightly blurred so I have to examine it to recognize the redbrick corner store and see the sign in the window. I pinch the screen to zoom in.

“Oh my god.”

“Fern? What’s going on?”

I hold out my phone to Will, and he takes off the dish gloves. “It’s for sale.”

He studies the screen. “This is your coffee shop.”

“Yeah.” We stand side by side, looking at the photo together. “This is it. I can’t believe it’s actually for sale.” I thought the elderly couple who owned it had drunk the elixir of life and would hang on to the place forever.

Another text from Philippe pops up on the screen.

No time like the present, BB. Come back home.

Will double blinks and then clears his throat. “ ‘BB’?”

“Short for Brookbanks.”

I look at the photo again. Philippe’s right. This is fate. This is the moment to make my dream happen. I have access to money. I have years of planning. I have a stack of baking cookbooks in my apartment closet and a storage unit of vintage furniture. I could put the orange velvet chair in the corner by the window. I could open Fern’s.

“I used to want this so badly,” I murmur, surprising myself. When did that change?

“You still talk to your ex?”

“Hmm?” I glance at Will, distracted. His eyes are darker than usual.

“I don’t, really. We’ve exchanged a few messages.”

Will frowns. “He asked you to come home.”

“As in back to Toronto. He knows how much I want this.”

“Do you?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore.” I stare at the photo, my head beginning to throb. “I should go.”

I thank Will for dinner, and he walks me back to the house. He says something when we pass the trail to the family dock, but I don’t catch it because inside I’m unraveling. I’m not sure about anything right now—Will, the resort, my coffee shop.

I ignore the focused way he studies me when he says good night. I close the front door behind me and seconds later there’s a knock.

Will’s in the doorway, his hands on either side of the frame. “I think that’s bullshit,” he says.

My hackles rise. He’s never spoken to me like that before. “Excuse me?” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“I think you know exactly what you want. I think you want to stay here and run this place and you’re afraid.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap, and Will’s head jerks. The movement is subtle, but it’s so satisfying. I want him to feel the way I did nine years ago.

“Don’t say that,” Will starts. “I know you’re scared that—”

I cut him off. “You think you can show up here after all this time, spend a few weeks with me, and think you know me. You don’t know a single thing about who I am and what it feels like to be back here.”

His fingers whiten around the doorframe. Good.

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Will says, his eyes focused on mine. “You want to be mad at me? Fine. You want to scream at me? Do it. I deserve it.” He leans in closer. “But don’t tell me I don’t know you.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Will’s lip quirks and he goes on. “I know you love it here. It’s plain across your face—the way you looked at the lake this evening. But it’s also clear from how hard you’re working. You wouldn’t consider selling to a developer, and I don’t think you want anyone else running the show here, either.” He pauses. “I know you don’t want to become your mother.” His eyes drop to where my nails are scraping against my wrist. “I know you scratch when you’re stressed. You chew on your cheek when you’re making a decision, and play with your hair when you’re nervous. You hum Talking Heads when you’re concentrating. You love your friends. And you love it here.” Every word is an arrow of truth piercing the center of a target.

“Screw you,” I spit out, my chest rising and falling like I’ve been running on a track. “Who are you to tell me anything about my life? Just because you gave up on your dream doesn’t mean I should give up on mine.” I regret the statement as soon as it leaves my lips, but I’m too angry to take it back.

We stare at each other. I curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for him—to push him away or pull him to me, I’m not sure.

“I don’t think you should give up on anything, Fern,” Will says. “I just think you won’t admit what you want to hold on to.”

And then he turns around and leaves.

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