“You look just like her.”
“I know. It used to bother me.” Mom had worn her hair short since I could remember. After I cut mine, the likeness was uncanny. I didn’t mind the resemblance anymore. I wasn’t sure when that changed.
“She’s beautiful,” Will said. My eyes swung to the side of his face, but he continued to study the photo.
“Your hair used to be so long.”
“Yeah, this is pretty new.” I twiddled a strand near my forehead.
Will put the frame down. “Was it always just you and your mom?”
“I don’t have a dad, if that’s what you mean.”
I took a step to the right so I could fill glasses with water. The kitchen was only a few feet of counter, a sink, an ancient gas stove, and a small fridge. I passed Will a tumbler and sat on the edge of the bed, kicking out a chair for him to sit in.
“My grandparents lived at the resort until I was twelve, but Peter was always around. He’s the pastry chef there. His days start early, so he’d be done with work by the time I got home from school. We used to have these tea parties when I was little. He’d make crustless cucumber sandwiches and we’d listen to Talking Heads and the Ramones.” I smiled. “One of my earliest memories of Toronto is having afternoon tea at the Royal York hotel with Peter.” He’d been trying to convince Mom to do a fancy tea at the resort—he lost that argument.
Will inspected the room again, his eyes landing on the closet. It was little more than a single-door cubby and so stuffed it wouldn’t close properly. “I guess you couldn’t start packing with your friend here?”
I flopped back on the bed. Whitney’s visit had given me an excellent excuse not to think about boxing up my stuff. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to live with my mom again.”
“Why do you have to?” I heard Will say.
I blinked up at the crack that ran through the ceiling. I could draw the fissure with my eyes closed. “Well, unless I want to bunk in the staff cabins, and I definitely do not, there really isn’t another option. The resort is kind of remote and I don’t have a car.”
“Right,” Will said. “But what I meant was, why do you have to go home at all?”
A crack of thunder saved me from answering. I jerked upright, sending a crushing pressure to my skull.
“We need some music.” I opened my laptop on the table next to Will, and the Brookbanks website stared back at us. Mom had called as Whitney and I were heading out the door this morning. She wanted our opinion on the new room reservation tool.
“Is this it?” Will leaned forward. The photographer had gone out in a boat to get the shot of the lodge sitting atop its grassy hill, the beach below. It looked like an oversized ski chalet, a three-story stone-and-wood ch?teau with a gabled roof.
“That’s it.” I clicked off the page and over to my iTunes, scrolling through my albums.
“What about them?” Will asked. When I turned to see what he meant, his face was so close, I could see an almost invisible smattering of freckles on his cheeks. I followed his gaze to the poster on my wall.
“Grizzly Bear? Sure.” I clicked on their most recent album. “I saw them at Massey Hall last year. Peter bought me tickets. That’s when I got the poster.”
I sat back on my bed as the first track began. “In my ideal world I’d have the space and the money for a record player.”
“And a brand-new Horses LP.”
“Exactly. But I’m very happy with my streetcar pin.”
Will tapped his fingers on the table. Our conversation felt stilted for the first time.
“If you could have anything right now, what would it be?” I asked to fill the dead air.
Will blinked in surprise, and a blush slunk up from under his collar. “I’d probably have something to eat.”
“You’re hungry? After all those nachos?”
“I’m hungry after almost everything.”
“Noted.”
I might have been able to open the fridge with my foot if I were as tall as Will, but as it was, I needed to get up to stare at its empty shelves. I hadn’t had a chance to restock after Whitney’s visit.
“I’ve got pickles?” I looked over my shoulder and noticed the paper bag on the counter. “Oh, actually. I have something much, much better.”
Peter had sent two loaves of sourdough down with Whitney, and there was still part of one left. “It’s not super fresh, but it’ll toast up great.” I held it out to Will in one hand and waved my other around it as if it were a prop in a magic trick. “Prepare to be amazed.”
“I’m not sure I’ve seen someone this excited about bread before.”
I stopped moving. “This is not just bread. This is Peter’s sourdough—and it’s going to change your life.”
“Is that so?”
The lights flickered again, and we both looked up, then back at each other.
“I guarantee it. After tonight, you’ll never be the same, Will Baxter.”
As I was getting our snack ready, a gust of wind toppled the garbage bins in the yard. The rain came harder against the glass, and my light dimmed, flashed once, then went out.
“Shit.”
“Do you think it’s only your place?”
I shuffled over to the window to check the streetlights, which had also gone dark.
“Nope.”
“You’ve got a bit of a serial killer thing going on right now,” Will said, his face glowing in the blue of my laptop screen. I was still holding the bread knife.
“Ah, you’ve figured it all out,” I said, raising it in the air. “I tricked you into thinking I was an innocent country lass.” I frowned, dropping the knife to my side. “The toaster is out of commission.” I chewed on my cheek, thinking. “I’ll just use a pan.” The stove was older than me and the back right-hand burner was broken, but because it was gas, I could cook in a power outage.
“Do you have a lighter?” Will asked as I was frying the bread. “I can do your candles.”
“In my bedside table.” I was so caught up thinking about the equation of romantic lighting plus Will plus small room that it wasn’t until he was opening my drawer that I remembered what was inside. “No, wait. Don’t do that. It’s in my bag. In the Ziggy Stardust pouch.”
Now my pulse galloped, and with every snick of the lighter, my skin felt snugger. Will lit all five of my candles, each nestled safely in a glass jar, delivering one to the bathroom and one to the counter next to me. Another went to the table, a fourth to my dresser, and the last beside my bed. When he’d finished, the room quivered with gold.
“Your laptop only has twelve percent battery. Should I shut it down in case the power’s out for a while?” Will asked, interrupting my increasingly attentive bread frying.
“I guess you better.”
With that, the music halted.
It was just the two of us now. And one plate of toasted sourdough.
I set it on the table along with a small ramekin of flaked salt and butter and took the chair beside Will.
“Put a little salt on top,” I said, demonstrating. I waited for Will to do the same before I took a bite, watching as his eyes widened. The sound he made, his mouth still full, was something along the lines of Fuuuuh.
“Peter made this?”
“Yeah. It’s what we serve at the Brookbanks restaurant.”
“Now I have another reason to get up to your resort. I’m going to shake that man’s hand and eat seven loaves of sourdough.” He took a bite and said while chewing, “The lake looked nice, too—maybe I’ll take a canoe out while I’m there.”
“Oh yeah? I’m having a hard time picturing you in the bush. Will Baxter in a canoe?” I shook my head, smiling.
He gave me a scowl. “I’d look great in the bush. Sensational in a canoe. You’ll just have to show me how to hold a paddle.”
“How about this: I’ll take you out in a canoe, teach you how to do a J-stroke, and make sure you don’t embarrass yourself. But in return, you have to show me your drawings.” If we were going to play make-believe, I might as well shape the fantasy how I liked.
“You want to see my work?”
“Yeah.” I sucked butter off my fingers. “So bring your portfolio when you come.”