As I head back to the house, I tell myself he’s probably gone for a jog or a walk to get some fresh air. I take a hot shower, but he’s not downstairs like I’m expecting when I come out. I make coffee, thinking he’ll walk through the door at any moment. But after I’ve had two cups, dread seeps its way into my limbs like a cold fog.
I send him a text.
Where did you go?
I wait for the three little dots foreshadowing his reply, but they don’t come. I get dressed and still there’s nothing.
I walk to the lodge and tendrils of smoke curl out of cabin chimneys, the smell hanging low in the mist. The late summer heat has turned into the cool damp of early fall. My mind is whirling, but my legs are leaden. Something has to be wrong. A work crisis maybe. Will wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t disappear on me. Not again.
I sit in my chair in the office, no memory of passing through the lobby to get here. I check my email, but there’s nothing from him. I stare at the computer. I’m still sitting there, eyes unfocused, when Jamie unlocks the door an hour later. He’s fuming about something to do with the florist and a shipment delay but stops mid-sentence.
“Are you sick?” He bends down in front of me, putting a hand on my forehead. “You’re clammy but you don’t feel like you have a fever.”
I blink. “Hungover.”
“Shit, Fernie. This is a big day. Want me to get you a Gatorade?”
“Big day?”
“The dance,” he says. “How much did you drink last night?”
The dance.
“I’m going to go find that bottle of Gatorade,” I say, pushing out of my chair, ignoring his offer. I need a few minutes alone to collect myself. “Then you can put me to work.”
I duck outside to get some air. My eyes wander down to the docks, and I shiver.
You and me in one year, Fern Brookbanks. Don’t let me down.
The day passes slowly with no trace of Will. Jamie won’t let me into the dining room to help with setup. I leave Will four voicemails and several more texts asking where he is and if everything is okay. All the while, I can’t seem to warm up. A chill has settled in my bones. By late afternoon, when I walk to the house to change, I’m so anxious and worried, I’m vibrating. Something has to be wrong.
I shower, blow out my hair, and put on my makeup. When I slip into the red dress, I look in the mirror, hoping he’ll be there. I want him to be okay. I want us to be okay. I want more than okay. The reality of what I want with Will crashes into me with such a force that I have to sit down.
* * *
—
A flood of guests heads toward the lodge, and I follow, rubbing my hands over the prickled flesh of my arms. I’m not paying attention as I enter the lobby and I almost bump into the glittering back of Mrs. Rose.
“Fern, dear, what’s the matter? You’re wearing the same scowl you did as a teenager.”
I apologize and tell her how lovely she looks, then rearrange my face so I’ll look suitably impressed when I enter the dining room.
But I don’t need to fake it, because the transformation is so dramatic, I gasp. Everything is pink. Pink linens, pink dahlias, pink balloons. Tables have been arranged to circle the dance floor and there are probably a hundred strands of twinkle lights hanging in the rafters. Candles flicker in glass jars all over the room. The band is already onstage, playing “Be My Baby.”
Usually the dancing doesn’t get started until sometime around dessert, but as soon as Mrs. Rose puts her purse down, she and Mr. Rose are shimmying their way to the floor.
“You like?” Jamie says, startling me. I spin around and see that he’s found a hunter green tie with a pink floral print to go with his tan suit.
“It’s incredible, Jamie. I think you may have outdone Mom.”
“Nah,” he says, but he’s pleased.
“I’m serious. Thank you so much for all . . .” I stop. The band has changed songs and is now playing “Love Man.” I narrow my eyes. “What kind of band did you book, Jamie?”
“They mostly do Motown covers,” he says. “But I may or may not have requested a set list heavy on songs from Dirty Dancing.”
I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m just happy you’re here”—he waggles his eyebrows—“Baby.”
I laugh, forgetting Will for a brief, wonderful moment. There was a time when everything about this night—the end-of-summer dance, a band hired specifically to tease me, a room full of guests—would have been my greatest nightmare. I spot Whitney and Cam being ushered to their table, and a flock of children boogieing with the Roses. In one corner, Peter watches the servers deliver baskets of bread rolls. Right now, I just feel . . . at home.
The band takes a break for the talent portion of the evening—Mr. and Mrs. Rose’s “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” gets a standing ovation. It’s one of the liveliest end-of-summer parties I’ve seen. I make my way from table to table, my eyes constantly flicking to the doorway. But Will never walks through it. By the time dessert is served and the band begins its third set, the glow I felt earlier this evening has faded into nothingness, and I have to hold back tears. Why isn’t Will walking through that door?
I wish Mom were here. I want nothing more than to bury myself against her, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume and the salt of her skin, the way I did when I was little.
I look for Jamie to tell him I’m leaving—I’m going back to the house to call Will. Again.
“Can I have this dance?” I hear Peter say behind me. He’s in a charcoal suit, the same one he wore to the funeral, probably the only one he owns.
“You don’t dance.”
“You don’t, either,” he says. “But let’s make an exception.” He holds out his large paw, and I follow him onto the floor.
We move slowly among the other couples, and after a minute, Peter clears his throat and says, “You’re a lot like her, you know?”
I frown. “I am?”
“Not just how you look, though I thought I’d seen a ghost earlier this evening, you wearing that dress.”
“You recognized it?”
Peter grunts in the affirmative. “Canada Day, I think. It was probably around 1992.”
I rest my head against Peter’s chest and take a deep breath, breathing in his Old Spice cologne and along with it a lifetime of moments with him and my mom. The holiday dinners and card games and birthday brunches Peter cooked for her.
“You’ve got her grit. Coming back here, stepping into her shoes—that’s no small thing.”
I consider this for a moment. “I’ve always thought I was more like you.”
“Maggie once said you had my soft heart and her strong head. I thought she was trying to make me feel like part of the family. But maybe you do have a little of both of us,” Peter says. “Either way, she’d be so proud of you.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, my throat tight.
We sway in a tiny circle, not speaking.
After a minute, I pull back to look up at him. “Do you think this would all be easier if you’d been married?” I ask. “If you’d gotten what you wanted before she died?” It’s something I’ve wondered.
“It wasn’t marriage I wanted, Fern.” His feet still. “It was Maggie. It wasn’t always easy, but we were always friends. We were always there for each other.”
I hug Peter tighter, and as his words sink in, the truth hits me with a sudden crushing clarity.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, and then I rush out to the lobby. I ask the desk clerk if I can look something up in the computer, and even though I know what I’m going to find, the shock of seeing it spelled out in front of me is dizzying.
I rush out of the lodge, imagining all the foul words I’ll use once I finally get Will on the phone. But then I hear Whitney.
“Fern, wait up!”
She’s jogging to reach me, her heels clutched in one hand, her boobs in the other.
“Thank god I wore the jumpsuit,” she pants. “Much better for chasing down fleeing besties.”
“I’m not fleeing.”
“You literally fled the dance as if escaping the scene of a crime. What’s going on?”
I fill Whitney in, and her hazel eyes bulge so wide, I’m worried she may burst a few blood vessels.
“Will checked out this morning,” I finish. The note in the file said he’d send for his things. He must have been in quite a hurry.