Now
Will and I are working on the back deck, a woodpecker’s hollow knock reverberating in the trees. He sits with his legs stretched in front of him, a sliver of skin peeking out below the hem of his pants. I don’t know why I find his ankles so compelling. I’m like a Regency era viscount hoping for a flash of flesh.
It’s well past six when his phone sounds—it’s the ringtone with the bells, and he rises to take the call.
A week has gone by since we took the canoe out on Smoke Lake. Since we almost kissed. Neither of us has mentioned it, but when I thanked him for the Patti Smith record, I could feel the air pull taut between us. Otherwise, it’s like I dreamed that moment. Except sometimes I catch him watching me, hear him whisper Perfect, and it takes me ages to refocus.
I’m texting with Jamie about the August dance and talent show. It was a tradition even before any Brookbanks owned the resort, an annual end-of-summer send-off with dinner and live music. Mr. and Mrs. Rose have performed “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” from Oklahoma! every year since my mom recovered the golf carts in the striped covers. There used to be a staff kick line, but Mom did away with it in the nineties. It’s a major production, and I think it’s too much for us to take on this year. Jamie and I have been debating for fifteen minutes. When Will steps inside with his phone and closes the sliding door behind him, I press the call button.
“You hate speaking on the phone,” Jamie says instead of a hello. He drops his voice. “Did you smoke a little something, Fernie?”
“Very funny. I thought it would be easier to talk you out of this.”
I’ve given Will full access to our books, and he has almost as many questions for Jamie as he does for me. I can tell Jamie is suspicious. He’s pressed me for details about how I know Will, and all I’ve said is that we met once a long time ago. But he hasn’t been defensive about having a consultant poke around. The dance is the one thing Jamie’s stubborn about.
“You’re not talking me out of it,” he says now.
“The idea of throwing such a big event with everything else that’s going on—I don’t think it’s a good idea.” It’s hard to imagine the dance without Mom there—I’m not sure I’m ready for that. We’ll do it next summer, I think, catching myself before I say so.
“Fern.” He says my name like a sigh, and I know whatever comes next will be serious. I don’t think he’s called me Fern (no ie) more than three times in my life. “We all loved Maggie, but it feels like the resort is still in mourning. I don’t want to suggest that it’s time to move on, but we need a celebration—the staff as well as the guests.”
I close my eyes. In the background, Will’s raised voice rumbles through the glass door. He’s not yelling, but he sounds frustrated.
“You’re probably right,” I say to Jamie.
“I am. Plus, I’ve already booked the band.”
I huff out a laugh.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Jamie says. “I’ve got you.”
When Will returns ten minutes later, he’s holding two cans of the lemon Perrier I’ve started stocking for him, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows. I don’t know why I find his forearms so compelling, either.
I look up from my laptop. The restaurant’s executive chef has sent me a condescending email mansplaining the many reasons I should stay out of menu planning.
“Sorry about that,” Will says, handing me a mineral water.
“About what?”
“I’m sure you could hear me.”
“It’s private. None of my business.” I go back to my computer, trying to figure out the most professional way to tell the chef to screw off.
Will’s quiet for a few minutes. “If I were to stay another two weeks, would that be okay with you?” My eyes spring to his. “The second real estate agent isn’t coming until next week, and after that, I can review both scenarios with you: selling or staying on.”
Will is supposed to leave next Sunday, something I’ve been quietly dreading.
“Stay as long as you want,” I say, my tone neutral. “I’ll make sure we can keep Cabin 20 open for you.”
I fire off an email to our head of reservations. If Will stays for two more weeks, he’ll be here for the dance. It might not be so bad, if he were there with me. I stare at the screen, but my mind has drifted back in time to us hot and sweaty and pressed together on a different dance floor.
“When you go over everything, are you going to tell me what you’d do if you were in my place?” I ask, collecting myself.
Will hasn’t said if he thinks I should sell or not. I appreciate it, but I’m also dying to know his take. I’ve told him about my coffee shop fantasy and the little corner store I’ve wandered into so many times, the owners suspect me of shoplifting.
“I’ll lay everything out for you, but this is your decision. And even if you wanted me to,” Will says, seeing that I’m about to disagree, “I don’t know what’s best for you. Only you know that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Will Baxter, you too-tall coward.”
He lets out a laugh, big and booming and sunny as an egg yolk. I haven’t heard that laugh in ten years. A blaze of victory radiates from my chest.
Will leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Have dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” We’ve had beers after work a couple times, but dinner would mean crossing the keeping-things-professional line we’ve drawn. “With food?”
Will smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Food is usually involved.”
I blink at him.
“Tonight,” he says. “At my place.”
The breathy laugh that leaves my mouth is ostentatiously nervous. “Technically it’s my place. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I own this joint.”
“I may have heard something like that.” He holds my eyes. “Is that a yes?”
“I don’t think you’ve asked me a question.” It’s supposed to come off as sassy, but I sound like a mouse negotiating with a lion.
He grins, and anticipation tightens my skin. “Fern, would you like to come over for dinner?”
“Yes,” I say. I really would.
* * *
—
Will asked for thirty minutes to get himself organized. In that time, I have:
Stood in front of my bedroom mirror, trying to determine whether I should wear something nicer than shorts and a tank top or if that would seem like I was trying to impress him. (Which I am. Maybe.)
Tried on a blue silk dress I bought last week.
Considered whether blue silk was too far out of my black, white, and gray fashion comfort zone.
Debated changing out of granny panties.
Dry-shaved my legs.
Put on an itsy-bitsy pair of underwear.
Taken off the sexy underwear and put the granny panties back on. (Just friends. Just friends. Not even friends! Colleagues!)
Decided I was neurotic, bordering on gross, for putting on dirty underwear and changed into clean, unsexy briefs.
Sweated through my dress and changed back into shorts and a tank top. Note to self: Colored silk is the enemy.
Questioned whether to bring red or white wine.
Downed a glass of white. I’ll bring the red.
Stared at myself in the mirror again and put on a sleeveless black jersey dress that’s plain in a What, this old thing? way but clingy in a These hips don’t lie way.
By the time I knock on Cabin 20’s screen door, I have worked myself into such a tizzy, I’m annoyed with both myself for being nervous and Will for being the cause of my dithering.
But when he steps onto the porch, his hair sticking up erratically like he’s been running his hands through it, I forget all that. Because Will Baxter is wearing an apron. A black apron with vertical white stripes. I didn’t know an apron could be sexy, but this apron is the lost Hemsworth brother of aprons.
“You’re wearing an apron,” is how I greet him.
“I’m wearing an apron,” is how he replies. “I don’t like to mess up my clothes.”