“We didn’t realize Fern was having a boy over this evening,” Whitney says. “Not sure we left enough pizza money to feed two people.” She’s making a joke, but the underlying question is obvious: What exactly are you doing here, Will Baxter?
I’m about to explain how Will helped with Owen, but he speaks first. “I saw Fern and Owen waving goodbye earlier, and I stopped in to meet the baby. We got to talking and . . .” Will gestures to the wine and the porch. “It’s such a nice evening.”
“Do you two want a glass?” I ask.
Whitney glances between us, a look of pure agony on her face. I know the calculation she’s trying to make: Stay and get a read on Will, or leave and let us continue whatever it is they interrupted. An excruciating choice.
“We’d love to, but we should get Owen home,” she says. Her words are so saturated with disappointment, it’s comical.
Will stays in the back while I see them off, Whitney carrying the sleeping baby in her arms and Cam lugging the diaper bag and travel crib.
“Whitney seems fun,” Will says when I return to the deck.
“She’s a maniac.”
“I should head out, too,” he says. I almost tell him to stay, to have another drink. “Thank you for the wine,” Will says.
“I owe you an entire bottle for helping me out tonight. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Any time.” He pauses and his eyes zip around my face like a searchlight. “You were serious earlier, right? About us working together?”
“I was.” Though the idea of spending more time with Will makes me feel light-headed. “I have a real estate agent coming next week. Could you come to the meeting?”
“I can do that,” he says. “But can you and I meet before then? There’s a lot I’d like to go over. Tomorrow would be great, if you’re able?”
We agree to meet here in the afternoon, and I lead Will to the front door, holding it open.
“Good night, Fern,” he says. “I hope you sleep well.”
* * *
—
After Will leaves, I stand at the kitchen table in front of the stack of shoeboxes. I think about Will and the past, and how different things look after so much time, and I carry the boxes to my room. The bedsprings squeak when I set them down.
There are more than a dozen journals, starting from when my mom was eight until just before I was born. I read them all during the summer I was seventeen. But I never finished the last one. I got up to the point where Mom found out she was pregnant before I confronted her.
I stop breathing when I find it, its fabric cover patterned with cheerful sunflowers, its pages only half-full. My mother’s handwriting is so familiar, slanting to the right with elongated y’s, j’s, g’s, and f’s. The first entry is dated May 6, 1990. Mom would have been twenty-two—it was right after she graduated from the University of Ottawa.
One hundred and twenty-seven sleeps until Europe! she wrote at the top. A lot of the entries begin this way, with a countdown to her big trip.
Peter brought me a calendar today and said I need to start crossing off the days until I leave. I’ve only been home for a week, but I think he’s sick of hearing me talk about traveling so much. So now I go into the pastry kitchen every morning and x off the date.
Have I mentioned that the music Peter’s playing is even more depressing than the mixtape he mailed me last winter? His poor staff! Tomorrow I’m going to sneak an Anne Murray cassette into the stereo when he’s not looking.
I smile to myself—Peter still has that old tape deck. I flip through the pages, looking for his name. He’s in here a lot.
Tonight, after I get ready for bed, I curl up with the diary, laughing out loud at Mom’s description of the Roses and my grandparents.
It’s the last day of the long weekend, and it’s finally starting to feel like summer. Lots of the regulars got here yesterday. The Roses brought an entire case of gin. Almost all the seasonal workers have started (the new lifeguard is the cutest by far), and the staff cabins are full. There’ll be fireworks off the docks tonight. I’ll have to watch Dad. Last Victoria Day he had one too many of Mr. Rose’s martinis and almost lost his nose lighting a Roman Candle.
Mom writes about how badly she wanted to get involved in the business in a “meaningful way.” She references Peter visiting her at school in Ottawa for her birthday a few times. Nothing happened between them, but it’s plain to me now that deeper feelings were at play.
As my eyes grow heavy, I put the diary down and shut off the light. My mind drifts to Will, replaying our evening together, fixing on the smile that transformed his face when I told him I wanted to work together.
For the second time in my life, Will Baxter is going to help me make a plan.
10
June 14, Ten Years Ago
“I have a confession to make,” I said when we reached the end of the alley.
Will had stopped a few times to point out graffiti he found honest or vivid or raw, but mostly we talked and meandered. He told me about Roommates, his comic based on “living in squalor with three other guys in a two-bedroom apartment,” and how murals began as a hobby, but he quickly figured out there was enough demand to help pay rent. While he spoke, I tried not to let my eyes get stuck on his tattoo or his hands or the bulk of his shoulder for an indecent length of time.
“I wasn’t really paying attention to the art,” I said in an exaggerated whisper.
“I also have a confession to make.” He sounded serious.
He leaned toward my ear, and the shock of his breath on my neck sent goose bumps down my arms. “I’m starving.”
“Oh. Do you want to take off?” I smiled to show that this would not be a disappointing turn of events whatsoever.
“Actually, I was thinking we could grab a bite before the next stop. I mean, unless you had somewhere else to be.”
“The rest of my plans for today were walking around,” I said. “And hanging out in my apartment. So I’m all yours.” I squinted at my choice of words.
His smile widened. “Perfect.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Do you mind if I call my sister? She and my dad had a big fight yesterday. I think I should probably check in.”
“Of course not. I’ll just . . .” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder.
He waved his hand, motioning for me to stay put as he held his phone to his ear.
“Hey, Bells,” he said, watching me. I glanced around, listening to Will ask his sister how she was doing, where she was, if she was coming home tonight. I could hear the answer to the last one: an emphatic no.
“I did tell him, believe me,” Will said after a few seconds, rubbing the heel of his hand against his brow. “We got into it after you left. I spent the night at Matty’s. But you and I are still doing breakfast tomorrow, right?” he asked after a minute.
Once he’d settled on a time and a place with his sister, Will laughed, then caught my eye. “Her name’s Fern.”
I narrowed my gaze when he slid his phone back into his jeans. “You told your sister about me?”
“Mm-hmm. She said to tell you the Annabel Baxter tour of Toronto is ninety-eight percent less pretentious.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Allegedly.”
“Is she okay?”
“She will be. She’s still cooling off. My dad was way out of line, but she really lost it, and the whole thing escalated. It was more vicious than usual. I feel like something’s going on.”
I touched his arm. “Listen, Art School. I know this is your tour, but this is my city, too. I’m picking lunch.”
We were close to a popular Vietnamese sandwich spot that had opened a couple years ago, and I was thrilled Will hadn’t heard of it. Loud music and air-conditioning blasted us when I opened the door. It was well past the midday rush, so the line that often snaked onto the street was only three people deep. I checked to make sure Will wasn’t a vegetarian (a good chance, I figured) and that he ate pork, then sent him to snag the only empty table.
I ordered two types of pork banh mi sandwiches (belly and pulled) and a massive cardboard container of kimchi fries, topped with mayo and green onions and more pulled pork, as well as fancy lemon sodas.