“I don’t have a favorite piece,” he said. “But I do have a favorite part.”
Will led me to a massive glass-and-wood atrium that spanned the entire length of the building. One side was floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out onto the city. It was called the Galleria Italia, and there were giant curving beams that made it seem like we were in the upside-down hull of a ship, except there was so much light. Massive tree trunk sculptures grew throughout the hall, and as we made our way through, I decided it wasn’t like being in an upside-down ship.
“It’s like being in the woods,” I told Will. Even though it was clearly Toronto on the other side of the windows, it reminded me of home. It was both—city and bush. “This is your favorite part?”
“Yeah. I like how the space is so overwhelming, it makes you feel insignificant and alive at the same time. It basically forces you to take a deep breath. It’s the same way I feel when I look at the mountains out West.”
I thought it was the loveliest thing I’d ever heard. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, what? Why?” He rubbed the back of his ripening neck.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
After we left the Galleria, we found our way to the permanent collection of Canadian art.
“There’s your girl,” I said, pointing to a display of Emily Carr paintings. Will looked at me, impressed.
“Hey, I may not have gone to art school, but I can spot an Emily Carr.” We moved toward one of a single massive evergreen. “Someone once told me Emily Carr painted a shit ton of lonely trees,” I said.
“A snotty art school grad, I bet.”
I vaguely recognized a handful of the pieces in the Group of Seven area. They were some of the most celebrated paintings of the nation’s wilderness, all done by a troupe of seven men. It was wall-to-wall lakes and snow and mountains and oh so many trees. But others felt familiar because they looked like home.
“I guess Emily wasn’t allowed in the Group,” I said.
“Oh, definitely not,” Will replied. “She was painting at the same time. Lawren Harris even told her she was one of them.” He gestured to one of Harris’s icy peaks. “But she wasn’t, really. No women were.”
I fell silent as we walked around. There was a canvas of a lake on one of the last days of winter—sky gray, trees bare, snow melting into smudges of brown. I could smell the wet pine needles, the promise of muddy earth, and spring buds forming on branches. I blinked up at the lights, my throat tightening.
I could feel Will’s eyes swing to me. He’d been watching me like this as soon as we stepped inside the AGO. It reminded me of how I’d been with Whitney during her visit. He was checking to see what I thought.
We came to a Tom Thomson—a storm-dark lake in the background, a rocky shore and saplings in the fore. Looking at it was like standing on the banks by the family dock. The trees were bare in this painting, too, but it wasn’t winter. Late fall or early spring—shoulder season, when the resort wasn’t busy. When Mom and I would head down to the water in the morning and she’d drink her coffee slowly. When she came home earlier in the evening. When life didn’t seem to revolve entirely around Brookbanks and its guests.
The stinging started in my nose. I looked up at the lights again, but a tear escaped, then another.
Will stood beside me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. It took me a little while to speak. “It’s beautiful up there, you know?”
“I’d like to know.”
“I miss it sometimes.” I missed my mom, too. So much. The older I got, the more I seemed to miss her.
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am.” I looked at him then, and he turned from the painting. “I’m sorry. Sometimes pot makes me . . . tender.”
“Tender’s okay.”
I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Did you know,” Will said after a moment, “that Tom Thomson wasn’t actually part of the Group of Seven? He died in Algonquin Park just before it was founded. Some say he was murdered. Very mysterious.”
I sniffed. “I think I did know that, yeah.”
Will leaned closer. “Did you know trees were a recurring theme in Thomson’s work?”
I sputtered out a laugh.
“I learned that in art school,” he said.
I looked up at him, wiping my cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you say you went to art school?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I think I might have mentioned that earlier?”
“Emily Carr, was it?”
“Emily Carr,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I think I know what you need.”
June 2, 1990
I spent my morning in the pastry kitchen with Peter, filling profiteroles and telling him about the improvements I’m going to make if Mom and Dad let me take over as general manager. I was worried things would be different when I came back this summer, that Peter wouldn’t have time for me now that he’s head p?tissier. I suppose I’ve always worried that he’ll get sick of me. But he’s the same old Peter. Only this summer he’s experimenting with sourdough starters, and he gets to control what music gets played in the kitchen. If I never hear Sonic Youth again in my life, I’d be perfectly happy. He’s also growing a beard, which makes him look even more handsome, not that he cares about that type of thing. And not that I care anymore, either. I got over my crush on Peter years ago—he’ll never think of me that way.
He doesn’t like Eric, but Peter never likes the lifeguards. He says all the sun must have fried his brain cells. That’s okay. Peter wouldn’t be Peter if he approved of the guys I date. Anyway, I know Eric’s smart—engineering degrees are no cakewalk. And you should see him in a bathing suit.
11
Now
I slide the kayak off the edge of the family dock into the water, then ease myself into the boat like I do every morning before I head over to the lodge. It’s a flat-water kayak, no skirt or top covering my legs, and as I head south, I stare down at my golden-brown shins. I was a teenager the last time they were this tanned.
It’s gray today and the lake is almost empty. As I pass the Pringle cottage, I hoist my paddle in the air to wave to Jamie’s mom, who’s on the deck. There’s a small excavator working on the slope of the next lot, disturbing the quiet, clearing rocks to make way for Jamie’s dream home. He used to imagine it when we were dating—the two of us living there together, working at the resort. Smoke Lake was always his happy place.
This summer, it seems to be mine, too. My post-coffee paddles have become a ritual. Some days I inspect a reedy bit of marsh where a great blue heron has made its nest in a tree. I always look for moose—they’ve been spotted here before—but I never see one. Other days I stay close to shore, snooping on the cottages and saying hello to anyone already awake on the dock. These little voyages give me a break from everything that’s happening back at Brookbanks, a break from Will, though I never manage to get him out of my head completely.
It’s been a week since we agreed to team up, and we’ve also fallen into a rhythm. Our days are split in two. In the mornings, I’m at the lodge while Will works in his cabin. From midafternoon on, we’re together at the house. I can tell when he’s had videoconferences, because he shows up in white dress shirts, and the days when his schedule is lighter, because he’s at the house as soon as he sees me walking up the path. Today is different. Today we’re showing a real estate agent around the property.
I find Will in the lobby, and for a moment I watch from a distance, struck by how familiar the sight of him has become. He’s inspecting a row of photos that capture three generations of Brookbanks as well as the decades before our time.