“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 bysoon?” 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 piñata for your niece’s sixth birthday. I’mthatfriend. 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 somethingscratching 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 ofCottage Lifeon 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 anoof, I land on a rock.
I brush myself off, hissing, and limp back to the cottage, cursing Charlie’s name.
“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, fromsuggestions of cellulite, from the sense that I haven’t taken a photo that feels likemein 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.
