“I’m convinced the doctors gave Whitney a personality transplant when the baby came out of her.”
He studies the page, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Parenthood can really fuck with you.” It’s a forceful statement coming from someone who’s reportedly not a parent.
“This is nice,” he says as we pass through the sunroom that Mom used as her office. I don’t like coming in here, but there’s no way to get to the back without going through it. “It’s so modern,” he says as I slide open the glass door to the deck.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “This part was rebuilt.”
Will’s gaze finds mine, and I can see him connecting dots. I don’t want to think about that night, or all the extra shifts I took so I could help cover the repair costs.
Recognition ripples in Will’s eyes, but all he says is, “Oh.” I tilt my head, gesturing for him to step outside.
The deck faces the bush so there’s no lake view, but I’ve always liked how private it feels, how you can’t see any of the guest cabins. I leave the door open so we can hear Owen and settle into one of the chairs.
“You really seem to know your way around a diaper bag,” I say. “You sure you don’t have a baby at home?”
Will freezes, holding his glass halfway to his mouth. He stares into his wine, and then slowly sets his glass down.
“I have a niece. My sister has a daughter,” he says after a second. His voice is clipped, like it costs him something to share this information.
“Did she have her recently?”
“No.”
Will drops his gaze to his wine, his jaw tight. I can almost see the wall he’s erected.
I want to shake him. I want to yell, Who are you and what have you done with my Will? I want to sharpen my claws and tear every brick from that wall. “Care to elaborate?”
Will takes a drink, then meets my eyes. “My sister was young when she became a mom. I helped out.”
“Proud uncle?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t know how my mom did it all by herself.” It’s an afterthought, one I didn’t really intend to vocalize.
“Single moms are superhuman,” Will says. “Yours seemed like a very determined woman.”
“She was a force,” I say.
We fall quiet. Will sits back in his chair, legs stretched in front of him, gazing at the trees.
“It’s nice here,” he says. “This whole place is gorgeous, but it’s peaceful back here.”
“Yeah, I used to come out here a lot when I was growing up,” I say. “And go down to the family dock.”
“To hide from all the guests?”
“Something like that,” I say, looking into the bush.
“You must be considering selling,” he says.
“Must I?”
“You weren’t interested in running a resort—I assume selling is on the table.”
I pull a gust of air into my lungs and let it out slowly. “It’s on the table.”
“It’s not an easy decision to make.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “It feels impossible.”
He watches me closely. “Does Jamie have something to do with that?”
I’m not touching that one right now. “I guess there’s not much point in having a consultant if I’m going to off-load the place, is there?” I say.
Will slants his head. “How serious are you about listing it?”
I take a drink. “The million-dollar question.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you.”
“Minus the fact that you need to know whether I want to work with you.”
“True.” He crosses one ankle over the other. “But I’m not asking as your potential consultant, I’m asking as your . . .” He drifts off.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting to see how he could possibly end that sentence. There’s no label that describes what he is to me.
“I’m just asking,” he finishes. But then he pins me with a hard stare. “And I guess I’m surprised that it’s even a question. That you wouldn’t just sell.”
“Because of the plan?” I say, voice hoarse. It’s been years since I looked at the list Will and I made. If I shut my eyes, I can still picture his handwriting. fern’s one-year plan. I have the four items on it memorized.
“Because you didn’t want to end up here.”
My fingers wriggle with the urge to scratch. “For a long time, my plan has been to open a coffee shop in the city.”
“One without a mural of Toronto on its wall, I imagine.” Will’s lips twitch. “Too basic for you.”
My insides fizz with pleasure. “I might let you paint a fern on the wall,” I say. “A small one.”
“That’s the only way I do them,” he says. “I’m very fond of small ferns.”
I go still, though beneath my skin I’m fully carbonated. That f sounded capitalized. We look at each other for a full minute. Or maybe it’s five seconds. However long, it’s dangerous.
“Do you still do murals? For fun, I mean.”
“No,” Will says quietly. He gazes into the darkness. “I haven’t picked up a brush in a very long time.”
“What about a pencil?”
He shakes his head.
“You should,” I tell him. “It’s wasteful not to use talent like yours.”
His eyes snap to mine and hang on tight. “Careful,” he says. “That sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t—I was pointing out how you’re squandering a gift.”
He makes a humming noise, low in his throat. It feels like having my back scratched.
“Anyway,” I say, bringing us back to our original topic. “Brookbanks was my mom’s entire life—it’s not easy to say goodbye to that. I have no idea what to do.”
Will sets his glass down, still watching me, and twists his ring. I stare at his hands, falling through time. I can almost feel his pinkie wrapped in mine. “If you really don’t know, I could work on two scenarios. One for selling, another if you decide to run this place yourself.”
“That sounds like a lot more work.”
“Looking at both options might help you make a decision.”
I move my head from side to side.
“You’re not sure you want to work with me, are you?” he asks. “I’m good at what I do, but that’s not the issue, is it?”
His question tugs at something inside me that I don’t want to explore.
I can’t hold on to my hurt so tightly that I’m unable to do what’s best for the resort. I’m a good manager, but I’ve never overhauled a business. I might be able to figure it out with time, but Brookbanks needs help yesterday. “Actually,” I tell Will, “I’ve been thinking I’d like to accept your help.”
The smile that takes over Will’s face could guide a ship home. He looks a decade younger. He looks like the Will I remember.
“Are we interrupting?” Whitney sticks her head out the back door.
“Hey!” I jump out of my seat. “You’re back. How was it?”
“Great,” she says, eyes trained on Will, who’s getting to his feet. “But enough about that.” She flicks her wrist.
Whitney is highly excitable, and when she’s ready to play, her big eyes go even wider and her lips smack together as if she’s struggling to contain herself. I call it her Evil Villain Face. And right now, she is wearing her Evil Villain Face.
“I see you’ve broken your man hiatus,” she says.
I glance at Will, whose eyebrows are a good inch higher from where he last left them.
“There’s a hiatus?”
Before I can confirm, deny, or implode from mortification, Cam steps onto the deck.
“Owen’s fast asleep,” he says, but no one pays him any attention because Whitney is sticking her hand out, saying, “You must be Will. It’s so nice to meet you.”
He clasps her palm, clearly taken aback.
“We googled you earlier,” Whitney says. Traitor.
Will’s eyes flare at this, and he shoots me a smug look, another flash of the younger Will.
“Just to check your credentials,” Cam says, offering his hand. I’ll thank him later. “I’m Camden, and this troublemaker is my wife, Whitney.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Will says. “I also met Owen earlier. He’s a beautiful baby.”