Then the air conditioners start dying. The maintenance team is able to fix most of them, but one family decides to leave early because we can’t get a new unit in their cabin soon enough. A scathing one-star review appears online, calling us out for the AC issues, and describing resort management as “inept” and the cabins as “out-of-date.” “You couldn’t have paid me to stay there another night,” it reads.
The next evening, Jamie sends me a link to a newspaper article headlined, toronto hotelier revamps roadside motel, about the renovation of one of Muskoka’s derelict motels. According to the article, The Daisy will be a “retro playground for urbanites looking for a cooler side of cottage country.” The rooms will have all the modern amenities and a seventies decor vibe courtesy of an up-and-coming interior designer. There’s going to be a saltwater pool, lobster rolls delivered by servers on roller skates, and an emphasis on “funky, hard-to-find wines.” It’s major competition, a shiny new hipster-approved hot spot that will make our battle to stand out even more difficult.
I think things are turning around on Thursday when Will goes over his big-picture strategy. He dials in four Baxter-Lee colleagues and walks Jamie and me through a three-year plan and marketing campaign timed to a grand reopening next May. There’s a flashy presentation and charts and a new employee structure that doesn’t involve every manager reporting to me.
I walk out of the meeting confident and excited and am quickly pulled aside by my head of reservations, who gives me her notice. She’s going to manage The Daisy.
It doesn’t help that it’s hot, the air so still you can see clear to the bottom of the lake. It’s the kind of hazy August heat that drives people inside by early afternoon, and moisture collects in your every cranny if you dare walk out the door. The kind of heat where every third sentence out of your mouth is, It’s so hot.
Will and I go swimming at the family dock in the evenings to cool off. The lake is like soup, and dead bugs speckle its flat surface, but it’s so hot, we don’t care if we’re lying in a watery grave. We float, arms and legs spread, a pair of stars drifting across a liquid sky. Back on dry land, Will cooks dinner, and I pretend I don’t love the game of house we’re playing. I pretend it doesn’t bother me that he excuses himself when the bells chime on his phone. I think about what Jamie said—about Will hiding something—and I pretend I don’t believe he’s right.
* * *
—
“Have you eaten yet today?”
I look up from the small pile of job applications on my desk to see Peter standing in the doorway of the office.
“Breakfast,” I tell him.
When I came downstairs this morning, Will had coffee made. Grapefruit juice on the table. Bread in the toaster. I’ve been getting these little glimpses of what I imagine he’s like at home. Not that he talks about his life at home.
“Sit for five minutes,” he’d instructed, setting a plate of scrambled eggs, tomato, avocado, and toast in front of me. That was seven hours ago.
“I need a taster,” Peter says, motioning for me to get off my butt with a tilt of his head. Everything Peter does is sparse. He speaks minimally. Moves quietly. He doesn’t get angry. His lips rarely deviate from their straight line. All his extravagance is poured into his work. The lemon-lavender pound cake, the pistachio-orange olive oil cake with cardamom drizzle, the salted caramel pecan pie.
I stare at the applications for the reservations manager job. They’ve been coming in drips, and most candidates are vastly underqualified. A trucker looking to make a career change. A Pilates instructor slash tarot card reader.
“Come on. It’ll all be there when you’re done,” he says, and adds under his breath, “Just like Maggie.”
“I heard that,” I say, pushing out of my chair and giving Peter my best death stare, though secretly, I’m pleased.
As I follow him down the carpeted hall, through the swinging doors, and into the staff passageways of the lodge, I get a sudden sinking feeling. I grab Peter’s arm so he stops walking.
“You’re not quitting, are you?”
“?’Course not,” he says.
I put my hand on my chest and exhale, my eyes closed. When I open them, I think the corners of Peter’s mouth have arched up infinitesimally, but it’s hard to tell with the beard.
“I told your mother once that she’d have to drag me out of here if she ever wanted to get rid of me. This is me telling you the same thing.” He waits to make sure I’ve absorbed what he’s said, and then he keeps moving in the direction of the pastry kitchen.
The yeasty smell of bread finds its way to us before we enter Peter’s stainless-steel sanctuary. It’s not sourdough—I know that scent so well, it’s almost a physical object I can feel the contours of. Inside, boules, baguettes, brioche, and oil-slicked bread knots cover the work counter. I’ve seen the kitchen like this before, when Peter was developing a new dessert menu or during one of his experimental phases—frozen custard was my favorite. But it was always sweets he played around with.
“Time for a change, I think,” he says, ripping off a piece of a plain-looking roll from a cluster of four and handing it to me.
“Why?”
He takes a piece himself and puts it into his mouth, chewing before he answers.
“Maggie picked the sourdough. Thought you’d want to have something that was yours. Something to suit your vision.” He doesn’t say vision like it has air quotes around it. Peter knows I want to make the dining room and the food less formal. Lose the white linens. Scale back the menu.
My throat tightens. “I love the sourdough.”
“I did, too,” he says quietly.
He points at the piece of roll I’m holding, and I pop it into my mouth. It’s warm and soft and surprisingly buttery for something that seems so ordinary.
“Wow,” I say, but Peter doesn’t react. He hands me a slice of olive loaf. We chew together in silence, no music to lift the mood, one hunk of bread after another, avoiding eye contact. With each bite, I feel like I’m saying goodbye. I wipe a tear away with the heel of my hand, and Peter acts as if he doesn’t notice.
“It’s the roll,” I say when we’re done.
“I thought so, too,” Peter says. “With whipped butter.”
I sigh. “I can’t believe we’re going to lose the sourdough.”
“I’ll make it for you whenever you want. The starter is my only child. I’m not going to give it up.” His hand freezes midway to his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean . . .”
It takes me a second to catch on to why he’s apologizing. “It’s fine, Peter. I came to terms with all that a long time ago,” I say, then add after a moment, “I’ve been reading Mom’s diary. I know you knew him. Eric, I mean.”
He goes to the fridge and pulls out a wedge of cheddar and some leftover cooked ham. He slices them, spreads butter on a piece of roll, and sets it all on a plate that he pushes in front of me.
“I didn’t know him well, and I didn’t like what I did know of him,” Peter says. “He was a good-looking guy. Real charmer. Thought pretty highly of himself. I figured maybe I was jealous.”
I stop chewing.
“You thinking of looking him up again?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“That ship has sailed.”
He nods, then after a beat says, “Your mom said she loved you enough for ten dads.”
“That sounds like her.” I think of how much time I’ve spent with Peter in here, watching him work. “But I had you, too.”
“Not quite the same as your own father.”
“Better,” I tell him. “Much better.”
Neither of us says anything for a minute, and the quiet of the kitchen is louder than any of Peter’s music. “Are you doing okay? I know you must miss her.”
He watches me from the corner of his eye. “Maggie was my best friend. I miss her like hell.”
“Did you ever . . .” I pause. “I’ve been wondering if the two of you ever . . .” I sneak a glance at him, and he turns to face me. “If you were ever more than friends?” It’s a question I’ve had since I started rereading the diary.
Peter doesn’t say anything. I don’t breathe. “Maggie should be here for this,” he says, looking at the ceiling. He shakes his head and then meets my eyes. “There were times when we were close like that.”