He holds my face between his hands. “Stand up for a second, okay? There are things I want to say.”
I get to my feet and Will kneels in front of me, holding the sand-covered box. A plain gold band sits inside. I can’t believe I didn’t notice he wasn’t wearing it.
“I had it resized,” he says, taking his grandfather’s ring out. “It’s the most important thing I own, and I didn’t think you’d want anything sparkly.”
Will tells me how lucky he is to have met his soulmate eleven years ago, and even luckier to have found me again. He tells me I’m his best friend. He tells me he never thought it was possible to be as happy as he is now, with me. He tells me I’m the bravest person he knows. He tells me he loves my loyalty and my playlists and my nose. He tells me he loves me best of all. We kiss and we cry and we hug, and we tumble around in the sand until a group of teenagers in a boat start whistling and honking their horn.
There’s a group of people waiting for us on the dock. I squint as we paddle closer, trying to make out their shapes. Sofia is obvious. I can see her purple shirt, the one she and Will tie-dyed, from way out on Smoke Lake. We’re far from shore, but she’s already jumping and waving.
“I could only keep so much a secret,” Will says when I turn around from my spot in the front. “You know what Annabel’s like.”
I do know what Annabel’s like. From the moment we announced that Will was moving here, she’s been plying me with bridal magazines and links to floral designers and Pinterest inspiration boards. She likes an occasion almost as much as Jamie does, and once she has a hankering, she’s impossible to deter. She’s more stubborn than Will, and though she’d never admit it, she’s as protective of him as he is of her. I told her planning a wedding was the last thing on my mind, and more important, I didn’t want to do the bride thing, ever. I’m not opposed to marriage, but weddings? I thought the vein in her forehead might burst.
I turn back to face the resort. We’ve drifted in a little, and I can spot Annabel as well as Peter’s bulky frame. Jamie’s there, too, standing beside Whitney and Cam.
They reach for us before we’ve even tied up the canoe. Sofia wraps herself around Will’s waist once he’s out of the boat and Annabel gives him a one-armed hug, pulling me in with the other.
Someone else curls around my back, and I can tell from the smell of her shampoo it’s Whitney.
“Get in here,” she says, and I feel more arms lock around us in a jumbled group hug.
“I’m throwing you an engagement party,” Annabel says. “Just try to stop me.”
The girls want to take the canoe out, and as the crowd disperses, Peter and I watch Will help them climb in.
“I think I got a good one,” I say to Peter. I know he agrees. Since Will’s moved here, not a week goes by when Peter doesn’t deliver us some kind of lemony dessert.
“You both did,” he says. “Well, I better get back to the kitchen.” He gives my forehead a kiss. “Congratulations, pea.”
As the girls begin to paddle, Will and I sit at the edge of the dock, where we were supposed to meet ten years ago. Annabel and Sofia go around and around in circles—neither one of them has got the hang of canoeing.
“They have no idea what they’re doing,” Will says.
“No, they really don’t,” I agree, grinning as Sofia leans over the side to splash her mom with her hand. Annabel shrieks and edges over on the bench. The boat rocks.
“They might tip,” Will says, and I pat his knee.
“They’re not going to tip,” I tell him. “And if they do, we’re here.”
Then, with a wicked smile, Annabel raises her paddle and swooshes it through the water, drenching her daughter. Sofia squeals in delight. Will laughs and brings his arm around me, tucking me tight against his side.
We sit there, together, until the girls get bored with the canoe, and they wander over to the beach.
We sit there, my head on Will’s shoulder, until the sun sinks low in the sky, painting the lake in purple and gold.
We sit there for hours, Will Baxter and me, making plans for the future, the dreams that we’ll share.
I look at our feet dangling in the water, then up at Will. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re here,” I tell him.
“I know the feeling,” he says. “But here we are, Fern Brookbanks. Right where we’re supposed to be.”
Epilogue
I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve never kept a diary before.
Will says I should think of it less as a journal and more like a letter. He says there’s no way you won’t find it one day and read it.
I guess, in that case, I shouldn’t call him Will. I should call him your dad.
I can’t see my feet over my swollen belly, but it’s still hard to imagine one day you’ll be here soon. Our daughter.
Your dad thought it might help to talk to you. He puts his nose to my stomach and sings lullabies or gives art history lessons, but I feel silly whispering to my stretch marks. So I think I’ll do this instead. I’ll write about all the people you’ll meet once you get here. Peter and Whitney and Jamie. Annabel and Sofia. Mr. and Mrs. Rose. The incredible man who I call Will and you’ll call Dad. And I’ll write about the people you won’t. I’ll tell you all about this little world you’ll live in.
And then, one day, I’ll give this book to you. I’ll make coffee—please tell me you’ll drink it—and we’ll wander down the path to the pair of old metal chairs by the water. I’ll sit in Mom’s old spot, and you’ll sit in mine. We’ll watch the waves crash against the rocks, and I’ll share everything with you. It’ll be our place. You and me, at the lake.
Acknowledgments
I’m sitting here on my couch in Toronto trying to decide how much to tell you about the challenges of writing Meet Me at the Lake. It’s a moody day in October—the peak of fall color—and the clouds are slate gray. Every so often the sun comes out, making the treetops glow orange, red, and gold. Tomorrow, I’ll drive north with my husband and two boys to Barry’s Bay for Thanksgiving. It feels like the ideal time to write my acknowledgments— there’s so much to be thankful for.
At the top of the list are my readers. I don’t have a thank-you big enough for your incredible response to my debut novel, Every Summer After, and for the countless messages of anticipation I’ve received in the lead-up to Meet Me at the Lake. The way you devoured Every Summer After and then told your friends and family to do the same was truly humbling and completely surreal. I know many of you want more of Percy and Sam. I get daily requests for Charlie’s story. I love how much you love those characters, and I hope Fern and Will have won a similar place in your hearts.
It was easy to tell you about writing Every Summer After—the experience was one of pure joy. I was working full-time as a journalist, had a young child at home, and was pregnant with my second, and yet it took just four months to pen the first draft. In my late thirties, I felt like I’d found my calling.
Discussing the creation of Meet Me at the Lake is more difficult—but you’ve given me so much, and so I’ll give you honesty. I spent at least five times the hours on this book than I did on Every Summer After. There were many rounds of edits and revisions. I rewrote almost half the book during the second draft (and had a blast doing so). With each draft, Meet Me at the Lake grew closer to being the story that it was meant to become. But the first draft knocked me about.