One Golden Summer(4)

I manage to postpone many of my assignments and help find other photographers to cover the rest. I track down a physiotherapist in Barry’s Bay who can see Nan, and her post-surgery checkup goes well. John gives me the name and number of the guy who’s looking after the cottage for the summer—he has a spare set of keys.

“If you need a hand making the cottage more comfortable for Nan, I’m sure he’d be able to help,” John tells me.

As I dial the number, I find myself sinking back into memories of Barry’s Bay. Saffron sunsets. Fireflies twinkling in the dusk. The heat of the dock’s sunbaked wooden planks underfoot. A red-roofed cabin shaded by evergreen boughs.

The daydream ends with a record scratch when a man’s voice booms through the line.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Um…”

There’s more shouting, now muffled. I check my screen to make sure I’ve dialed the right number, and yes.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

I’m about to hang up when the voice says to me, “This is Charlie Florek.”

“Charlie, hi. This is Alice Everly calling.”

I hear the metallic thwack of metal on metal. A hammer, maybe.

“One sec,” Charlie says, annoyed, and then: “For the last time, Sam, will you kindly fuck off? You’re going to ruin it.”

I hear a disgruntled reply, and then Charlie says to me, “Sorry, who is this?”

“Alice Everly. I’m staying at John Kalinski’s cottage this summer.” I try to talk over the ruckus in the background. It sounds like he’s on a construction site. “Is this a bad time?”

There’s a long pause, raised male voices, and then the noise stops.

“No, I’m good. Apologies for that.” Charlie clears his throat. “Hi. Alice, right?” It’s a nice voice. Deep with a scrape of sandpaper over his r’s.

“Right.”

A thing about me: I once broke my wrist in ninth-grade gym class and spent twenty-four hours gritting my teeth against the pain until I finally told my mom I might need to see a doctor. I don’t like asking for help, or being an inconvenience, or wasting anyone’s time. This phone call incorporates all three—Charlie is clearly in the middle of something.

So I rush forward, getting it over with. “John said you might be able to help me out. I have a list of things I need to do at the cottage for my grandmother. She’s just had her hip replaced, and I—”

Charlie cuts me off. “How are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“?‘How are you?’?” says Charlie, sounding amused, “is typically what you ask someone after ‘Hello.’?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, slightly thrown. “Anyway, my grandmother—”

Charlie interrupts me a second time. “I’m good, Alice. Thanks for asking.”

“Right.” My face heats. I can’t remember the last time I was chided. “That’s good. That you’re good. We’re both good.”

Another thing about me: When I’m not holding my camera, I can find it hard to speak up. In my loud, chaotic family, with strangers, with pushy art directors…It’s one of the reasons why I love shooting so much—it’s the only time I feel like a certified badass.

I clear my throat, trying to get back on track. “As I was saying, there are a few things I need to have done at the cottage before we arrive, and I was hoping you or someone you know could help. I have a list.” I fetch my notebook and begin reading off the bullet points. “Grab bars, moving furniture, moving out the rugs—”

“Alice.” Charlie interrupts me yet again.

I inhale, annoyance growing. “Yes?”

“Take a breath. I can feel your anxiety all the way in Barry’s Bay.”

“I’m trying to be conscious of your time,” I say, channeling my most professional, together self. The Alice I am behind the camera. “I simply want to ensure everything is suitable for when I arrive with my grandmother. If you’re unable to assist me, that’s quite all right. But perhaps you know someone who can.”

A low chuckle fills my ear. “Don’t worry. I’m quite happy to assist. John gave me a heads-up about your grandma’s surgery. I’ll take care of everything. Text me that list of yours, and I’ll ensure everything is suitable.”

I blink. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, but I can hear him smiling. No, not smiling. Smirking. “Just get yourself up here, Alice. Something tells me you need some time at the lake more than I do.”

The hammering resumes in the background, and Charlie curses.

“See you soon, City Girl.”

And then he’s gone.



* * *





The evening before Nan and I leave, I go back to my condo to pack. When the elevator opens at my floor, I find the cardboard box I left in the hallway still sitting there. Trevor keeps making plans to pick up his stuff and then canceling. The remains of a four-year relationship come down to a copy of The Minimalist Entrepreneur, wireless headphones, and a stray dress sock. I nudge the box inside with my foot, though I’d rather shove it down the garbage chute.

Not that it would help me forget. Every corner of this place smacks of Trevor. When he moved in, we appointed it in whites and beiges, marble and glass, everything sleek and minimal. It never used to feel so hollow—it used to feel like home. Now everything is a reminder of how much I conceded to him. The pristine white sofa we bought one Sunday after brunch—I wanted something soft and smooshy, but Trevor loved its clean lines. The Carrara tulip dining table with the uncomfortable chairs he picked out. It’s where I was sitting when he broke up with me. He’d made dinner that night. It was six months ago, and I can still smell the coq au vin—I’ll never eat it again.