One Golden Summer(30)

A second passes before I remember who he’s referring to. His friend. Harrison.

“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”

“Is it cool if I give him your number? He’s been asking for it.”

“Yeah.” I should sound enthusiastic. Harrison is cute. “So cool.”

Nan is waiting for us on the deck, where we left her. I hand Charlie the life jacket and thank him for the ride.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening?” I ask.

“The big party.” He fixes a dazzling grin on his face. “I wouldn’t miss it.”





16




Within twenty minutes of stepping foot into the Cut Above salon, Nan and I are up-to-date on every fresh piece of gossip circulating around the town of Barry’s Bay. Who’s retiring, which businesses are up for sale, the health and marital status of various members of the community. One stylist sets Nan’s hair with rollers while the other mixes dye for a woman in a sundress and flip-flops. Nan’s in good spirits—she switched out her walker for a cane, and we took a short walk in town before her appointment.

A black Porsche cruises past the window, and all the heads in the salon turn.

“There he goes,” says the younger stylist.

“There who goes?” Nan asks.

“Charlie Florek.” She sighs out his name, and I stare at her for perhaps a moment too long.

“I went to school with him,” she tells me. “He’s some kind of big banker in Toronto now.”

“He still comes home, though,” the older one adds. “Even after his mother passed.”

I think of how pensive Charlie was when we were on the cliff and the way he spoke about life being precious. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself since Mom moved to BC, but she’s only a phone call away.

“I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough if you’re staying on Kamaniskeg Lake this summer,” the younger stylist says to me.

“What do you mean?”

The pair exchange a look, but it’s the woman who’s getting her hair dyed who speaks.

“Our Charlie has always been a bit of a ladies’ man. I taught him math all through high school and handed out tissues to more than one girl whose heart he’d broken. Sharp as a tack, though. I’ll give him that.”

My eyes travel to Nan. Her mouth is pinched.

“And from what I hear,” the other woman adds, “he hasn’t changed a stitch. A bit of a Casanova.”

“Well, when you look like that…”

I feel woozy, like I’ve had too much sun.

Nan clears her throat loudly. “Let’s give the man some privacy, shall we?”

The women glance at each other, but no one says another word about Charlie.

As we’re working on the second curtain panel for the kitchen later that day, Nan pats my hand. “Don’t worry about what those ladies said in town today.”

“I’m not. I’m just not surprised.” He’s a playboy. It’s exactly what I expected.

I lie on top of the sheets that night, staring out the open window. It’s black on black, except for the moon’s silver stripe on the water and the lights across the bay. Charlie’s place shines brighter than the others. I stare at that orb of white as the time changes from 11:59 p.m. to midnight. Seconds later, my phone glows with a message.

    Charlie: Happy birthday.



I roll over and face the wall.

I have the dream. I’m running up the stairs. Someone is behind me—I can hear their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. I reach the top, but it’s a dead end with only a black rotary phone on a table. I pick up the receiver and dial, but I can’t say a single word.





17


Tuesday, July 1

62 Days Left at the Lake

Adrumroll of thunder and a string of texts from the twins greet me in the morning. They’ve sent them all after two a.m.

    Luca: I’m so sorry, Ali. I have to pick up a shift tomorrow night. Or I guess tonight? One of the bartenders walked out, and I kind of need the cash.

Lavinia: I wish I could come. But I’m not comfortable driving all that way on my own. Plus we’re really tight right now.

Luca: We’ll make it up to you!

Lavinia: YES! As soon as you’re back in the city!

Luca: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Lavinia: We loooove you!

Luca: You are sooooo old!

Lavinia: But never as old as Heather!



I stare at my phone in my storm-darkened bedroom. I should have guessed. Luca is notoriously unreliable, and Lavinia accepts it. We all do. You try looking at his face and being annoyed—it’s like trying to stay mad at a puppy. And even though I’m disappointed, I transfer them $500. I don’t want them eating Mr. Noodles for a month straight again.

Lightning flashes, and I shut the window. The lake, the sky, the shore—it’s all gray. Even the raincoat yellow of Charlie’s boat is muted in the murk.

Nan is asleep, so I fix myself coffee and eggs and take them out to the screened porch to watch the storm, nestled under a blanket. Rain dapples the lake’s surface, but it’s not falling heavily. We’ve already had a good soaking—the flowers in the window box look like they’ve been tromped on by garden gnomes. The Pegasus-unicorn has been tossed onto the dock.