Meet Me at the Lake - Carley Fortune
Fern Brookbanks has wasted far too much of her adult life thinking about Will Baxter. She spent just twenty-four hours in her early twenties with the aggravatingly attractive, idealistic artist, a chance encounter that spiraled into a daylong adventure in Toronto. The timing was wrong, but their connection was undeniable: they shared every secret, every dream, and made a pact to meet one year later. Fern showed up. Will didn't.
I MAKE IT AS FAR AS THE FRONT DESK WITHOUT ANYONE
noticing me. It’s a striking piece, carved from a large tree
trunk— rustic but not shabby, the epitome of Mom’s aesthetic
—and there’s no one behind it. I hurry past, to the office, then
shut myself inside and lock the door.
The room is more fishing hut than work space. Pine walls,
two ancient desks, a small window trimmed with a flimsy
plaid curtain. I doubt it’s changed much since the lodge was
built in the 1800s. There’s nothing to suggest how much time
Mom spent here, except for a photo of me as a baby pinned to
the timber and a faint whiff of Clinique perfume.
Dropping into one of the worn leather chairs, I switch on
the plastic tabletop fan. I’m already sticky, but it’s stifling in
here, one of the few spots in the building without air-
conditioning. I raise my elbows like a scarecrow and swing my
hands back and forth. Pit stains are the last thing I need.
While I wait to cool off before changing into heels, I stare
at a stack of our brochures. Brookbanks Resort—Your
Muskoka Getaway Awaits, declares a chipper font above a
photo of the beach at sunset, the lodge looming in the
background like a country cottage castle. It almost makes me
laugh—it’s Brookbanks Resort I’ve failed to get away from.
Maybe Jamie will forget I agreed to do this tonight, and I
can sneak back to the house, slither into stretchy pants, and
douse myself with a bucket of cold white wine.
The door handle rattles.
