I was bitter about the guests when I was young, how their needs came before my own, but the Roses were as good as family. Before I left for university, they threw a rowdy wine and cheese party that spilled from their cabin into several others, Mrs. Rose slipping me plastic glasses of chardonnay when my mom wasn’t looking. Since I’ve been home, they’ve insisted on hosting me for cocktails every week. I think they’re checking up on me.
“I’ve been swimming down at the family dock and taking the kayak out in the morning before the lake gets busy,” I tell them. “I did a few hikes. I was becoming inert.” Initially I needed to leave the house and get my blood moving, but I’m enjoying my treks around the property and time at the lake. I didn’t appreciate how stunning it is here when I was growing up.
“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Rose says. He’s standing behind the bar cart, stirring an awfully large pitcher of gin. Grandma Izzy had the cart delivered back in the eighties before the Roses arrived for their annual summer vacation. It’s brass with large swooping handles and in no way matches the quaint cottage decor. We all know it as Izzy’s Cart, even though Mr. Rose doesn’t share bartender privileges.
“I’m relieved to see that you’re no longer dressing as a street urchin,” says Mrs. Rose.
I’ve put on a pair of capris and a new cream silk blouse—it’s sleeveless with a high halter neckline and open in the back. Cocktail hour is something the Roses dress for, although I’ve never seen them in anything remotely shabby. It’s always natty suits for Mr. Rose and swaths of loose-fitting silk for Mrs. Rose. Tonight he’s in butter yellow and she’s in a turquoise caftan with gold embroidery on the bust and sleeves. I’ve been showing up in shorts and tanks, and neither has said a word about it until now.
“I went shopping in town today,” I tell her, taking my place on the wicker love seat, same as the one at the house, while Mrs. Rose settles into a bamboo rocker. On the coffee table, in addition to the regular paper-towel-lined bowl of chips, is a cheese ball—an honest-to-god, rolled-in-parsley-and-walnuts, old-fashioned cheese ball—surrounded by a ring of Ritz crackers.
I gesture at it. “What’s the occasion?”
“We’ve got company, dear,” Mrs. Rose says as Mr. Rose fills a fourth martini glass. He garnishes two of the cocktails with pickled onions and mine with a trio of plump green olives.
“We thought we’d invite your friend,” Mr. Rose adds.
“My friend?” I look around the porch. There’s no one else here.
“I sent him inside to see if he could repair our TV,” says Mrs. Rose. “I don’t know what we’ve done—can’t seem to get any picture on the thing.”
“Hoy, there he is,” Mr. Rose calls as Will appears in the doorway, remote in hand. He’s dressed in a navy suit with a crisp white shirt, the top button undone, his hair slicked back like it was last night. My lungs compress.
“Hello,” he says with an unreadable glance my way. Actually, it’s more than a glance. His eyes catch on mine and then they grow darker, but then he blinks and brings the remote to Mrs. Rose. “All fixed. You just have to press the input button a few times.” He shows her on the remote.
“How do you know the Roses?”
“We met last summer, and I bumped into them again this afternoon.”
“Take a seat, William.” Mr. Rose points at the small slice of cushion next to me, then brings Mrs. Rose and me our drinks. They are full to the brim. “Remind me how you take your martini,” he says to Will. “Let me guess. Are you a twist man?”
“I am,” he says, sitting beside me.
I watch as Mr. Rose takes a paring knife to the citrus rind, and I can suddenly taste the lemon drop candy in my mouth and feel Will’s body, hard muscle and damp skin, pressed to me.
“I hope it’s okay I’m here,” Will says quietly as Mr. Rose settles into his rocker.
“Of course,” I say, trying not to think about the smoky-sweet smell of him and his thigh wedged against mine or the fact that goose bumps have risen on my arms.
Will’s eyes expand at the size of the drink Mr. Rose passes over, spilling a little on the table. He doesn’t notice, and Will dabs it up with a paper napkin while Mr. Rose isn’t looking.
After everything that Reggie told me, I’m almost certain I need Will’s help, but could I really work with him? I’ve been turning the idea over in my mind like puzzle pieces dumped from the box.
We clink our glasses together, and I take a big sip. From the corner of my eye, I see Will inspecting me, his gaze lingering on my shoulder.
“You look nice,” he says.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, saying a quiet thanks.
“I was given a strict dress code, too,” Will says. “No shorts or sandals allowed.”
“There’s nothing less appetizing than a man’s bare foot,” Mrs. Rose pipes up.
“So tell us how you two know each other,” Mr. Rose says. My stomach flops, and I raise my glass to my lips.
“Fern and I met ten years ago. I painted a mural at the coffee shop where she worked.” I feel Will looking at me, but I keep my sights on the cheese ball as he tells the Roses about our day.
What he doesn’t know is how our time together altered the city for me. It’s like we left behind an imprint on the places we visited, and now twenty-two-year-old Will and Fern wander around downtown Toronto on a permanent loop in my memory.
“How nice that you kept in touch all this time,” Mrs. Rose says, and neither of us corrects her.
“A mural, eh? You don’t strike me as an artist,” says Mr. Rose, and my eyes dart to Will, an odd protective feeling whirring in my chest.
“I’m not one anymore,” he says, his voice flat. “I was never very good. Fern can attest to that.”
The Roses look at me. I have so many conflicting emotions about the man sitting beside me, but the most confusing is my need to defend the Will I once knew. He feels separate from this Will. This Will is the one who hurt me; that Will is the one whose drawing still hangs in a frame in my bedroom. That Will is the one I stand up for.
“I thought Will would be a famous illustrator one day. He was very good.”
I ignore Will’s gaze, boring into the side of my face. I supply myself with another dose of gin. His thigh presses against mine, a purposeful nudge, and I splutter into my drink, my cheeks heating.
“At my age, I should know people aren’t always who they seem on the surface,” says Mr. Rose. “Look at Fern. You wouldn’t guess it now, but she gave her mother quite a bit of trouble when she was a teenager. A real mutineer. Got brought home by the police once. Maggie was beside herself—all the guests around to see.”
I tense, and Will shifts beside me.
“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Mrs. Rose says, oblivious to my discomfort. Just as she’s about to go on, Will claps his hands loudly and we all look at him.
“I’ve already heard this one,” he says in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t want to hear it again.
I stare at him, and for a second time, he bumps his leg against mine.
“What about you, William? Get up to any mischief when you were a lad?” Mr. Rose asks.
“The regular—parties, beer, maybe a bit of pot,” he says. “I was a pretty boring kid.”
“You were not,” I contradict. Apparently, I’m Young Will Baxter’s most vocal advocate. I don’t appreciate this stoic, self-deprecating version, even though he looks like a sex dream. I spread a cracker with an orangey wedge of cheese ball, hoping the conversation moves on, but nope. There are three sets of eyes on me. “You were . . . unique.” A blush settles on my cheeks.
Will studies me for a second, the skin around his eyes crinkling. There’s something reassuring about this hint of a grin. I find myself smiling back.
“I think that day with Fern was the most exciting thing that happened to me.” Will looks right at me when he says this, and my mouth falls open.
“Well, if traipsing around Toronto is the most riveting experience of your youth, I hope you’ve gotten up to more trouble as an adult,” Mrs. Rose says, breaking the silence.