As we’re about to pass through the doorway, a couple exits arm in arm. They’re in their sixties and swathed almost entirely in beige linen.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hannover,” Jamie says, hands spread by his sides. “We were just coming to find you. Let me introduce you to Fern Brookbanks.”
The Hannovers give me their kindest smiles, the facial equivalent of a there, there pat on the shoulder.
“We were so sorry to hear about your mother’s passing,” says Mrs. Hannover.
Passing.
It’s a strange word to describe what happened.
A dark night. A deer through the windshield. Steel crushed against granite. Ice cubes scattered across the highway.
I’ve been trying not to think about Mom’s last moments. I’ve been trying not to think of her at all. The daily barrage of grief, shock, and anger can make it hard to put weight on my feet in the morning. I feel a bit wobbly now, but I try not to let it show. It’s been more than a month since the accident, and while people want to express their sympathy, there’s a limit on how much suffering others can tolerate.
“Hard to imagine this place without Maggie,” Mr. Hannover says. “Always had that big smile on her face. We loved catching up with her. We even talked her into having a drink with us last summer, didn’t we?” His wife nods enthusiastically, as if I might not believe them. “I told her watching her run around was making me dizzy, and boy, did she laugh.”
My mother’s death and the future of the resort are two topics I’m not prepared to discuss, which is the other reason I’ve avoided the restaurant. The regulars will have something to say about both.
I thank the Hannovers and change the subject to their holiday—the tennis, the beautiful weather, the new beaver dam. The small talk is easy. I’m thirty-two—too old to resent the guests or worry about their judgment. It’s her I’m furious with. I thought she’d accepted that my life was in Toronto. What was she thinking by leaving the resort to me? What was she thinking by dying?
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Hannover says again. “You look so much like her.”
“I do,” I agree. Same small stature. Same pale hair. Same gray eyes.
“Well, I’m sure you want to head up to your room to enjoy your last night. You’ll have a great view of the fireworks from your balcony,” says Jamie, rescuing me. I give him a grateful smile, and he sneaks me back a wink.
We were a good team when we worked together as kids, too. At first, we used a code word when one of us needed rescuing from an annoying or overly needy guest: Watermelon. The elderly widower who wouldn’t stop telling me how much I reminded him of his first love: Watermelon. The bird-watcher who gave Jamie a detailed description of every species he’d seen in the area: Watermelon. But after a summer spending every day together down at the outfitting hut, hauling canoes and kayaks out of the lake, we began communicating silently—a slight widening of the eyes or a curl of the lip.
“Not so bad, was it?” he says once they move toward the elevator bank, but I don’t reply.
Jamie extends his arm to the dining room entrance. Many of the people inside will be guests of the resort, but there’ll be plenty of locals. With my luck, someone I went to high school with will spot me as soon as I step inside. Blood roars in my eardrums like a transport truck on the freeway.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say. “I’m going to go back to the house. I’m exhausted.”
It’s not a lie. The insomnia began as soon as I got back. Every day, I wake in my childhood bedroom underslept and a bit disoriented. I look at the dense tangle of tree branches out the window, reminding myself where I am and why I’m here. In the beginning, I’d put a pillow over my head and go back to sleep. I’d rise around noon and stumble downstairs, filling the rest of the day with carbohydrates and episodes of The Good Wife.
But then Jamie started calling with questions, and Whitney popped by without warning often enough to give me a talk about how much time I was spending in my pajamas—the type of tough love only a best friend can provide—and so I began getting dressed. I began leaving the house, visiting the lodge, wandering down to the family dock for a swim or to drink my morning coffee, the way Mom used to. I’ve even gone out in a kayak a few times. It feels good to be on the water, like I have a shred of control, even if it’s just steering a small boat.
I’m still greeted by a procession of grief, anger, and panic when I open my eyelids, only now it passes quietly instead of clanging like a marching band.
Over the last couple of weeks, Jamie has patiently updated me on everything that’s changed in the many years since I’ve worked here, but what’s wilder is all the stuff that hasn’t. The sourdough. The guests. The fact that he still calls me Fernie.
We knew each other long before we started dating. The Pringle cottage is a couple bays down the lake. His grandparents knew my grandparents, and his parents still come to the restaurant for fish and chips every Friday. They spend most of the summer in Muskoka now that they’ve retired, venturing back to Guelph in September. Jamie rents a place in town, but he bought the vacant lot next to his family’s to build a year-round home. He loves the lake more than anything.
“It’s Canada Day,” Jamie says. “It would mean something to the guests and the staff to see you. It’s the start of summer. I’m not asking you to get up on the stage and make a speech before the fireworks begin.” He doesn’t need to add, The way your mom did. “Just go say hello.”
I swallow, and Jamie holds my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. “You can do this. You’re so close. You’re already dressed. You’ve been in there a million times.” He lowers his voice. “We’ve done it in there, remember? Booth 3.”
I let out a huff. “Of course you know what booth it was.”
“I could draw you a map of all the spots we desecrated. The outfitting hut alone . . .”
“Stop.” I’m laughing now, but it’s slightly frantic. Here I am with my ex-boyfriend, talking about the places we’ve had sex at my recently deceased mother’s resort. I’ve been punked by the universe.
“Fernie, it’s no big deal. That’s all I’m saying.”
I’m about to tell Jamie that he’s wrong, that it’s a very big deal, but then I see an excuse in the corner of my eye. A very tall man is wheeling a silver suitcase up to the front desk, and there’s still no one behind it.
The skyscraper’s back is facing us, but you can tell his suit is expensive. Custom made, probably. The black fabric is cut to his frame in the kind of impeccable manner that requires precise measurements and generous room on a credit card. I doubt an off-the-rack number would be long enough for this guy’s arms, and the cuff of his sleeve is perfect. So is his slicked-back hair. Inky and glossy and as meticulously styled as his jacket is tailored. He’s overdressed, to be honest. This is a beautiful resort, one of the nicest in eastern Muskoka, and the staff is always well put together, but the guests tend to keep things casual, especially in the summer.
“I’m going to go help him,” I tell Jamie. “I need practice with check-ins. Come make sure I do it right.”
There’s no arguing. We can’t just let the fancy man stand there.
As we round the desk, I apologize for making him wait.
“Welcome to Brookbanks Resort,” I say, glancing up quickly—even with me in my heels, he’s got almost a foot on me.
“Did you have any trouble finding us?” I ask, punching a key to wake up the computer. Tall dude still hasn’t said anything. The last stretch of road is unpaved, unlit, and has some wicked turns through the bush. Sometimes city people find it stressful, especially when they arrive after sundown. I’m pegging this guy as a Torontonian, though he could be from Montreal. There’s a medical conference starting next week—some of the doctors are arriving early, making a holiday of the long weekend.