One Golden Summer(8)

“Everything all right?” Nan calls from the car.

“Just a minor run-in with some furry neighbors. I’m okay.”

“You’re bleeding.”

I inspect my legs, and sure enough, I’m bleeding. My shins are covered in red welts, and burs have attached themselves to my nice linen shorts.

Effing Charlie Florek.



* * *





Inside, the cottage is almost exactly as I remember. The knotted wood walls are stained a deep honey brown, and the furniture is mismatched—a two-seater sofa, a floral armchair, and a leather recliner I remember sinking into when I was a teen. Strangely there’s no coffee table—I swear it used to be a trunk with puzzles and games inside. There’s a gorgeous stone fireplace, iron tools standing on a rack beside a box of kindling and newspaper, and Joyce’s bookshelf, still filled with her paperback drugstore romances. The cottage is perched just above the water, and the entire front of the space is glass. I stand there, shaking my head at how beautiful it is.

And just like that, I’m seventeen again, dressed in a terry cloth bathing suit cover-up with a camera strapped around my neck. I’m free from Trevor, from suggestions of cellulite, from the sense that I haven’t taken a photo that feels like me in months. I stare out the window, and I can see eight-year-old Luca and Lavinia leaping off the dock and a yellow speedboat ripping across the water.

But then I blink, and I’m returned to my thirty-two-year-old body. I stare at the empty bay, wondering if there’s a way to go back.



* * *





I help Nan navigate the walker into the cottage, ignoring her request to do it on her own. She looks around the living room, eyes fluttering. I squeeze her hand.

“Think we can manage two months here together?” I ask.

She nods but says nothing. Her eyes land on the bookshelf, and I watch her swallow.

“I think I need a tea,” Nan says, moving toward the kitchen. She drinks a cup of orange pekoe (one milk, one sugar) every afternoon around three. It’s almost four now.

“Let me do that,” I offer.

She swats at me. “I’m not incapacitated, Alice. I can put the kettle on. And I’m supposed to do as much as I can independently. Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay.” I eye the giant rug in the living room. It’s a tripping hazard and sure to give Nan’s walker issues. So much for Charlie taking care of everything. “I’ll get the rug out. Let me know if you need anything.”

The cottage faces south, and the sun has turned it into a sauna. My hair is curling at the nape of my neck once I’ve pushed the couch and chair off the rug. I kneel at one end so I can roll it up, but the thing is fixed in place.

“Alice?” Nan calls.

“What’s wrong?” I spring to my feet and rush into the kitchen to find her holding a sheet of paper.

“Have you seen this?”

She passes me the page.

“It was on the fridge,” Nan says.

The edge is frayed, ripped from a spiral-bound notebook, and both sides are covered in black ink. When I’ve finished reading it, my ears are ringing.

I’ve been dreaming of spending a quiet summer on the water. I’ve pictured long walks and sunrises, midafternoon swims and cozy nights with a book. I’ve imagined peace and rest and catching up on work.

But I didn’t anticipate Charlie Florek.





5


    Alice Everly (not City Girl),

I know you appreciate a list, so here’s what I’ve taken care of to ensure the cottage is suitable:



         All area rugs and runners have been removed, except for the big one in the living room. I’ve taped it down and it shouldn’t give your grandma any trouble. I’ve also shifted the furniture, so she has clear paths to the kitchen, porch, bathroom, and bedroom.



     I’ve taken out the trunk that John uses as a coffee table so there’s more space for her walker. You can find the games, puzzles, and a deck of cards on the shelf in the closet of the second bedroom. I’ll bring you a couple of small end tables soon.



     I’ve added grab bars to the bathroom and anti-slip strips to the shower stall. Did you bring a seat for her to use in the shower? They sell them at the drugstore in town, if not. I’ve also installed a raised toilet seat. John insisted on covering the cost of all this stuff, so no need to pay me back.



     I made up the largest room for your grandma. I’ve taken out one of the nightstands and shifted the bed to one side of the wall to give her more space.



     I’ve put night-lights in her bedroom and throughout the cottage so you can both move around safely in the dark.



     I also shuffled stuff around in the kitchen so that day-to-day items are easy for her to reach.



     This place gets hot as balls. There’s a fan in your grandma’s room but let me know if you need one. I have a spare.



     Boat is in. Gas tank is full.



     There’s a Tupperware container of cheese and potato pierogi in the freezer in case you need an easy dinner tonight.