There’s one of Clark Gable during a famed stay in the forties and a classic of my grandparents when they bought the place. Grandma Izzy’s dress is tie-dyed, and Grandpa Gerry is sporting a fringed vest and an epic beard. You’d never know he came from money, though how else would two twentysomething dreamers buy a sprawling, if somewhat run-down, resort? It was always something of a lark for them.
There are others, too. My mother as a flossy-haired toddler, playing in a galvanized bucket of water by the shore. Mom and I in matching tartan dresses in front of a gigantic tinsel-covered Scotch pine in the lobby.
The photo Will is looking at is from the end-of-summer dance. I’m about five years old and wearing a ruffled white dress with a pale blue satin bow around the waist. I hold Mom’s hands and gaze up at her with an adoring expression, and she wears a cocktail dress the same shade of blue as my bow. We’re in the middle of the dining room’s dance floor; the photographer has captured us in some kind of silly waltz. I used to love dancing with her, how it meant having her undivided attention. It was a rare thing, even at that young age.
“Should I be offended that the real estate agent gets the suit treatment?” I say. Will’s always clean-shaven and well dressed, but a jacket and tie rarely make an appearance.
He looks down at his outfit. “Is it too much? My coveralls were in the wash.”
Working alongside Will requires that I not think about the past. There have been no more basic references, no discussions of small-or big-f ferns. We don’t talk about that day. I thought we had an unspoken agreement not to.
He taps the photo of Mom and me. “You were an exceptionally cute kid.”
I don’t have time to reply because bells begin tolling from his phone. I already recognize the ringtone—whoever it belongs to has called several times when we’ve been together.
“I have to take this,” Will says. “Excuse me.”
He talks to his business partner in front of me—colleagues, too—but he always takes these calls elsewhere. If we’re on the back deck, he’ll step inside. If we’re in the kitchen, he’ll go to the front porch. Now he exits the main doors to speak to whoever’s on the other end.
It’s not just the calls. At thirty-two, Will Baxter is a very private person, and I am an undercover agent. I collect every scrap of intel I can, sneaking covert looks while he types, and recording it all in my mental spy journal. Although if this were a game of Mystery Guest, I wouldn’t have much to report. Not only do we not discuss that day, but we hardly talk about anything other than the resort. I know he owns a house in Midtown close to his office. I know he has a gym membership and that he meets his trainer on his lunch hour. I know his office has a shower. After he tells me this, I imagine him sweaty and glistening and then soapy and glistening, and I give myself a stern lecture.
Then there are the things I’ve learned just from being around him. His workday beverage of choice is sparkling water with two lemon wedges. He fiddles with his ring when he’s lost in thought. He has a particular tone of voice for business calls that’s pleasant and also very . . . firm. When I hear it, it makes me feel things I should not, and I give myself more talking-tos.
None of it is enough. Will is a lockbox with no key, and the more time I spend with him, the more I want to jimmy him open. Sometimes I see a glimmer of the old Will, but he disappears as quickly as he came. I’m desperate to hear his laugh.
I have more important things to think about, but when I lie awake at two a.m., I workshop zippy one-liners to sidesplitting perfection. I wonder what happened to make Will so reserved and why he gave up on his art and who he’s speaking to when the bells chime on his phone. Sometimes I peek out the window in the middle of the night, and I find that his light is almost always on. But I don’t ask him why he’s not sleeping, and he doesn’t mention it, either.
Will returns to the lobby, running a hand down his tie. It’s another tell I’ve picked up on. He’s stressed.
“Everything okay?” I ask, noticing the hint of a blush under his collar.
He grunts. “Fine.”
“Got it.” I can take a hint.
The hard line of Will’s mouth softens, and he looks like he’s going to say something else, but I spot a woman in a red skirt suit striding through the lobby. I recognize Mira Khan from her headshot, for sale signs, and prolific Instagram updates.
I take Mira around the resort, Will accompanying us mostly in silence. There’s something about her that reminds me of Mom. It might be the speed at which she walks or the way I feel like she’s assessing me from behind her sunglasses, or maybe it’s that I can’t stop seeing Mom everywhere. It’s gotten worse since I started reading her diary. Whatever it is, I’m anxious to impress upon Mira how capable I am. I tell her about how I see altering the decor and adding new amenities.
“One of the things Will and I have been talking about is how to generate revenue from parts of the property that aren’t currently monetized,” I say when we get to the library.
Mom replaced the colonial furniture when my grandparents moved out West, and now tan leather armchairs are arranged in groups of two, giving one the impression of being in a ski lodge rather than a Victorian study. There’s a stone fireplace framed by tall windows that look over the lake. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves, thick and raw-edged, that are filled with books, some of which were here when my grandparents took over. Others Mom collected over the years. Some have been left behind by guests. Once, Mom spied a copy of the Kama Sutra tucked between Summer Sisters and The Stone Angel and was horrified by how long it may have been there. Peter thought it was hilarious and told her to put the paperback on a high shelf. “Give the guests some bang for their buck, Maggie.” Mom whacked him on the chest with the book, but I found it in her bedside table a few months later, and read it cover to cover while she was working.
I tell Mira about my idea to add an espresso bar and a communal table so people can work at their laptops. “We’d get more people in here and add value.”
I wait for her to respond with enthusiasm, but she only gives me a polite smile.
I keep my thoughts to myself for the rest of the walk-through.
Are you okay? Will mouths to me as we escort Mira to her Mercedes.
I nod, but I feel deflated.
“It’s a beautiful property, Fern,” Mira says. “Totally adorable. I’ll have to do further research to come up with a suggested list price. We’re looking at seven figures, at least, for an operation of this size with such a substantial amount of waterfront footage.” She gives us a ballpark estimate, and I manage not to gasp.
I glance at Will, but he doesn’t look fazed.
“I’ll send you an email in a few days with what I’m thinking. Obviously big-ticket resorts and hotels like this have a limited number of prospective buyers—there are the luxury chains and maybe a handful of independents. Developers are a strong possibility, too.”
“Developers?” I repeat.
“Yes,” Mira says. “You’re a little far from town, but the cabins and lodge could be razed for a condominium development. Town houses, low-rise apartments, that sort of thing, if zoning isn’t an issue. It could be quite adorable.”
“No.” I don’t even think before I say it. Selling the resort is one thing. Flattening it is another. “No developers.”
Mira frowns, purses her lips, and nods. “Understood.” She lifts her chin to address Will, which is annoying—I introduced him as my consultant, but I’m the potential client. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important it is to keep the price as reasonable as possible so we can remain competitive.”
“Of course,” Will says.
Mira makes a dubious mmmkay sound. “Well, let’s make sure everyone is aware of that, yes?”
It’s clear that I’m the everyone and that I’m missing something.
As soon as her car pulls out of the lot, Will says, “I’ll fill you in when we’re somewhere private.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Will cuts me off. “Trust me, this isn’t a conversation you want anyone listening in on.”
To underscore his point, a woman in tennis whites interrupts us, asking where the courts are.