One Golden Summer(7)

I gasp at the massive expanse of blue and the small islands dotting its surface.

As we approach Barry’s Bay, water shines on one side of my car; the bustling Pine Grove Motel stands at the other. Ten minutes later, we’re on Bare Rock Lane, a bumpy stretch of road surrounded by dense forest. Slices of lake flicker between branch and bush out the window. There’s a Kalinski sign nailed to a maple at the end of the driveway, a dirt path that leads to a dark brown log cabin.

Nan sighs when it comes into view. It’s a classic cottage, built in the twenties, set on a wooded hill over Kamaniskeg. It has a stone chimney and a merry red tin roof with matching shutters. The window boxes are planted with poppy-colored impatiens. It looks like the kind of place where only good things happen. I park next to a neatly stacked row of firewood.

“Would you like me to help you out?” I ask Nan, noticing her hands are folded tight in her lap.

She shakes her head, her eyes not leaving the cottage. “I think I’ll just sit here while you find the keys.”

I climb out of the car and breathe it all in. Sun on cedar. Moss on rock. The unpolluted freshness of country air. The sounds of lake life. Waves lapping against the shore. A chain saw in the distance. A chipmunk scampering through a patch of wild strawberries.

Twigs and dry pine needles crunch under my feet as I walk to the rear of the house, looking for the outhouse, where Charlie said I’d find the key. Seeing no sign of it, I make my way around the other side of the cottage. I’m greeted with a view of the lake. It’s an overwhelmingly large pool of clear water, so spectacular I stop to marvel for a moment. But I don’t see any sort of shed.

I return to the car. “Any idea where the outhouse is?”

Nan frowns. “I didn’t think there was one—not that I can remember, anyway.”

I circle the building and still can’t find it. “Crap,” I say to the blue jay observing me from the limbs of a birch. “Crap,” I say to the spruce and maple.

I pull my phone from my pocket and call Charlie. He answers on the first ring.

“Hello, Alice Everly,” he says, drawing my name out slowly, roughing up the r in Everly. It sends a pleasant zing down my spine.

“Charlie, hi. We just got to the cottage, but I can’t seem to find the outhouse.”

“I’m good, Alice. How are you?”

“Magnificent,” I say flatly. What’s with this guy? “And you?”

“Better now that I’ve heard from you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Where are you right now?” he asks.

“Beside the woodpile.”

“And what are you wearing?”

My cheeks flash hot with anger. “Are you serious?”

He chuckles. “Not usually. Though in this case, I’m asking about your footwear. The trail to the outhouse is pretty overgrown.”

I glance down at my sandals. “I’ll be fine.”

“Walk to the back door—the one facing the bush.”

I do as Charlie says. “All right.”

“Look up the hill.”

The slope is covered in brambles and leggy saplings. Through the thicket, I spot a small wooden shed with a thatched roof just a few meters away. No wonder I couldn’t see it—it’s practically camouflaged. It probably hasn’t been used in half a century.

“You could have picked an easier spot for the key,” I say.

“There have been a couple of break-ins around the lake—kids looking for booze, probably. I didn’t want to leave the key under the mat. But if you need assistance, I can be there in five.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say.

“Your call. See you soon, Alice Everly.”

“What do you mean by soon?” I ask, but he’s hung up.

I stare at the outhouse, hands on my hips. Despite what Charlie thinks, I’m not the kind of city person who can’t cope without a doorman and a Starbucks within a one-block radius. I pride myself on being self-sufficient. A problem solver—never the problem. The friend you’d call if you needed help moving or fashioning a seahorse pi?ata for your niece’s sixth birthday. I’m that friend. Competent. Reliable. And I can cope with anything, including being dumped by the man I thought I’d marry. Including his getting engaged two months after that. And I can certainly fetch a key from a shed, even one that looks like a prop in a horror movie.

So I climb the hill. The trail isn’t overgrown; it’s nonexistent. I push aside branches, ignoring the sting of something scratching my shins. There’s a wood latch on the outhouse door, and when I turn it, it swings open, almost knocking me to the ground.

It’s so dark inside all I can make out is a white plastic toilet seat set on a raised platform. I squint into the black, and then I see a magazine rack fixed to the wall and a stack of old issues of Cottage Life on the ledge beneath. I feel around until my fingers hit a small piece of metal. But then I hear something behind me. I look up, and four sets of beady eyes stare back at me. Racoons.

If there’s one thing a Torontonian knows about wildlife, it’s to never get in the way of a mama raccoon and her babies. The big one begins making a low growling noise and I spin on my heel, losing my balance and falling out the door. With an oof, I land on a rock.

I brush myself off, hissing, and limp back to the cottage, cursing Charlie’s name.