One Golden Summer(9)

     (How impressed are you right now? Text me a picture of your face.)





    —Charlie



On the reverse side, there’s a list of odd jobs he’ll be doing for John: replacing a loose step to the lake and adding a railing, cutting back some of the brush, re-staining the dock. He’s left info about the fireplace, the Wi-Fi, and the water (drinkable, from a well). And then a final note: John asked me to take care of you and your grandma, and I promised I would. Lucky you: We’ll be seeing a lot of each other this summer.

I stare at the letter. Even his sloppy penmanship seems flippant. This man is very sure of himself. I feel a tiny pinch of envy.

“This is ridiculously detailed,” I mutter.

“I’d say we have a guardian angel,” Nan says, sounding brighter than she has all day.

I scan the letter again and snort. A fallen angel, more like it.

How impressed are you right now? Text me a picture of your face.

“I’d say our angel has a big opinion of himself.”



* * *





We do have the pierogi for dinner. They’re homemade, and they’re obnoxiously delicious.

“You know I made those curtains over the sink?” Nan calls as I’m washing the dishes.

The kitchen is tucked to one side of the cottage, a little closed off from the rest of the space, but the window has a great view of the woods. I’ve cranked it wide open, along with every other window in the cottage. Charlie was right: It’s hot as balls in here.

“It looks like your handiwork,” I say to Nan, examining the yellowing eyelet fabric strung on a tension rod.

“Joyce’s sewing was dreadful. Couldn’t even mend a seam. I hemmed all of John’s pants.”

“I’ll wash the curtains tomorrow,” I say. “I might be able to get them a bit brighter.”

“You should—”

“Hang them in the sun, I know.” Everything I know about caring for fabric and clothing is because of Nan. She can remove any stain, and she’s a wonderful seamstress.

“Should we start a puzzle?” I ask after I’ve cleaned up. We spent many nights puzzling here after the twins went to bed.

Nan’s standing at the bookshelf, holding a glass jar of matchbooks.

“What’s that?”

Her smile is sad. “Memories.”

I cross the room, and she passes it to me. I fish a matchbook out. It’s navy and silver, with the name of a restaurant I don’t recognize on the front flap and a Toronto address written on the back.

“They collected these to light the fire?” I guess.

“No. It was a game your grandpa and John used to play. They’d hide a matchbook every time they visited each other. These are the ones your grandpa hid here. There’s probably some still squirreled away.”

That sounds safe. I narrow my eyes and look around the room. The rafters would be a good hiding spot. There must be a ladder somewhere.

“Alice,” Nan says, and I turn my attention back to her. “You don’t need to hunt out the matches. We’ll be fine.”

I set the jar back on the shelf, deciding not to agree with that.

Nan stares at it for a moment longer, at the decades of friendship contained within it. It must be hard for her—coming here after all this time, without Grandpa, without Joyce.

“You’re going to have a great summer, Nan. I’ll make sure of it.” I’ve found a choir she can join. There’s a regular euchre night at one of the churches.

“I know you will.” She pats my shoulder. “I want you to have a great summer, too. Let your hair down. Do something stupid. Do something selfish.”

“I’m spending two months on a lake with no plans except to hang out with my dear grandmother. How much more selfish can I be?”

“You’ve invited your niece for a week to give your sister a break,” she says.

My brows furrow. “So?”

“And you’re paying for Luca and Lavinia’s car rental when they visit for your birthday.”

“I haven’t spent much time with the twins this year,” I say. “I don’t want it to be a hassle for them to come.” I’m not sure they would unless I covered the cost. Financial responsibility eludes them. I’m pretty sure our dad still pays their rent. Not that I’m complaining—he helped me with the down payment on my condo.

“You’ve booked me in for my hair appointments,” Nan says.

“Every Monday.”

“And you’ve found a physiotherapist in town.”

“She comes highly recommended. And I’ve got the newspaper delivery set up so you can do your crossword.” Nan says it keeps her brain sharp, but she’s addicted to the satisfaction of completing it, which she never fails to do. Her brain needs no sharpening.

“You’ve been very considerate of my needs, and I’m thankful. But I don’t want you playing nurse to me all day. What are you going to do for yourself?”

“I have some editing work to do.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’m going to relax.”

“And what does that look like?”