One Golden Summer(14)

He’s doing a similar inspection of me, a corner of his grin slowly lifting. My mouth has gone dry, my skin stovetop-hot, and I can’t seem to pull my eyes from his. I chew on my lip. Maybe I could ask to photograph him…

But then he smiles, and the gods of summer must be smiling, too, because a matching set of dimples appears in his cheeks, startlingly boyish and sweet.

It slips past my lips before I can stop it: “Whoa.”

His eyebrows lift.

I scurry to my feet, dropping the bruised tomatoes in my cart while more words continue to tumble from my mouth. They might be thank you and tomatoes and bye. Before he can say anything, I steer my cart toward the next aisle with the speed of a NASCAR driver, cucumber abandoned, just as awkward as I was at seventeen.





8




As Nan watches me unbox the sewing machine I bought at the hardware store, I tell her about my horrifying run-in by the cucumbers. The Nan I know would have tears of mirth falling from her eyes. But she only shakes her head, the barest hint of amusement on her lips.

“Should we go into town later and hunt for fabric?” I ask, hoping to perk her up, but she turns me down.

“Tomorrow. I’m still feeling a little slow today. I think I’ll take a nap after lunch.”

“You’re going to have to be a patient teacher. I haven’t sewn since high school.”

I loved using Nan’s Singer. There was one pattern I made over and over, a 1980s Laura Ashley dress I found in Nan’s stockpile, with overall-like straps, roomy square pockets, and very little shape. I wore it with blouses and plaid shirts underneath. I thought it looked romantic. But by the time I entered my senior year of high school, I’d become aware of how the DIY dresses made me stand out. I overheard a classmate calling me a freak and switched to jeans and T-shirts the following day. I still dress to go unnoticed.

“You’ll pick it right back up,” Nan says. “It’s like riding a bicycle.”

I cut her a look, and she wrinkles her nose. I was never any good at riding bicycles.

“Well?” I stand up, evaluating the makeshift workstation I’ve set up on a card table by the windows.

“That’ll do,” Nan says. “You know, Joyce always thought it looked like too much of a hunt camp in here.” She gestures to the paper cutouts of fish that hang over the windows, the year and species of the catch written in lead pencil. Lake trout, ’84. Bass, ’03. Pike, ’91.

“I think they’re kind of cool.” Cottage history, as told by fishing trips.

“I don’t mind them, either.” She points to one. “I caught that pickerel. Joyce wanted to paint the walls white, brighten everything up, but John wouldn’t hear of covering up the wood.”

And everything is wood. Floors, walls, ceilings, kitchen cupboards, furniture. A rainbow of brown. The only touches of femininity are the Harlequins and the floral armchair. Nan sees me eyeing it.

“That was Joyce’s spot.”

“Maybe we do florals,” I say, thinking aloud. “Make it more like Joyce.”

Her eyes flicker. “Sounds like a plan.”

When Nan lies down on the screened porch sofa, I change into my bathing suit and caftan and grab a wide-brimmed straw hat. I burn like birch bark, going from pale and freckled to red and freckled, with no stop at tan in between. I pack a canvas tote with sunscreen, a snack, my notebook, and my old Pentax.

In my final year of university, a group of students organized an exhibition of our work in an empty storefront in the West End. We thought we had talent. Knew it, really. My best friend, Oz, swiped our prof’s overstuffed Rolodex—an antiquated object even then, its position on his desk an obvious brag—and sent an email to every gallerist, buyer, collector, and journalist in the thing. I sold my first piece, a print of One Golden Summer, to an art buyer for one of the big banks whose CEO came from generations of cottagers. I spent the hundred dollars on a vintage Pentax K1000 after Oz talked the seller down by twenty-five bucks.

Now the image hangs somewhere in an office tower downtown, and Oz and I don’t speak.

But I still have the camera. I still love it. The thing is built like a tank, almost indestructible—even the light meter still works. I mostly shoot digital, but I love film, love the nostalgia it imbues, the intimacy. The feel of this camera in my hands, the curves of its body, is more familiar to me than any man. It’s seen me through my final year of university, through boyfriends and breakthroughs and breakups. It’s seen me grow up.

“Don’t rush home,” Nan tells me, lifting her head off the pillow as I’m leaving. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Call me if you need anything, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

She waves a hand, shooing me away.

I fetch a red life jacket from a hook inside the boathouse. There are two empty slips inside, and a wooden staircase that leads to the room over the top. It’s been a long time since I’ve driven a boat like this, but starting it is easier than I thought. With two mighty tugs on the cord, it chortles to life. I twist the handle, and with a jolt, I’m off. Nervous, I do a few practice loops in front of the cottage. My steering is jerky at first, the throttle a little touchy, but soon I’m gliding across the water, a broad smile on my face.

I zoom past the big white house with the yellow boat, but there’s no action outside. The kids at the cottage next door are swimming. I head south, around one bend and another, past a woman and a small dog on a paddleboard, past a cottage with a small seaplane, past water trampolines and dock slides and a man floating on an inflated moose, a beer in one hand, living his best life. He waves, and I wave back. This, I decide, is my ideal form of socializing.