ONE

A new season comes both in warning and promise.

Leelo

I recognize the place from the file the lawyer showed me.

A beautiful twenty-acre piece of property, just off Highway 101 east of Wawa; prime land along the shores of Whitefish Lake, which included a quaint little motel, as depicted on the photographs.

Okay, I’m lying; what I’m looking at is nothing like the goddamn pictures from the file.

More like a post-apocalyptic scene from the Walking Dead. Dilapidated buildings that look like no one’s even been through here in decades, and yet I know for a fact, Uncle Sam was running it just five years ago, until his health started slipping and he ended up in a home.

There’s a hole, the size of the Vesuvius crater, smack in the middle of the parking lot. It’s going to need a mountain of gravel to fill, before someone gets swallowed up. It’s like a damn sinkhole, it’s so big. Guess that’s the ‘minor pothole’ Henry Kline of Kline, Kline & McTavish warned me about.

Okay, so it’s not exactly Club Med, but I can do something with this.

Open eyes, open mind, and open heart, I promised myself. Giving myself pep talks is a skill I’m still developing, after a lifetime of very successful toxic inner dialogue.

Just like I’m doing for myself, I can give this old rattle of a motel a second chance at life as well, with some elbow grease and a lick of paint.

I look around as I open the door of my old, beat-up Jeep Cherokee and stick a tentative leg out. I’m immediately attacked by swarms of black flies, which probably haven’t seen a meal in a while, and here I am presenting them with a smorgasbord. The nasty little fuckers reign supreme here in the north from mid-May through to July.

I dive back into the Jeep and pull out my tote, which holds two brand new cans of bug spray, fortified with Deet, the only thing that might slow down these bloodthirsty mini vampires. I spray myself liberally, almost choking in the process. I hate the smell of bug spray, it makes me gag, but it’s part and parcel of living in the Great North, so I’d better get used to it.

Zipping up my hoodie, like that would keep them out, I turn back to what’s supposed to be my new lease on the future. The small, eight-room motel and bar that belonged to my uncle, up until he died six months ago. Now it belongs to me.

I’ve never seen the place before, even though Uncle Sam had it for damn near twenty years. I’d always meant to come up here, bring the kids, but life always got in the way. Instead, Uncle Sam would drive down to the city to spend the holidays with us every year, and every time when saying goodbye again, I would tell him we might drive up that summer. We never did.

The main building is set back a ways off the road, shadowed by large trees. A long, one-story structure with eight units; except on the left side of the main building, where a second story juts up above what I presume to be the bar. The large picture windows, I’m surprised are still intact, on either side of the door and the burned-out neon advertising for Molson Canadian hangs lopsided behind the glass.

On the opposite side of the motel units is a separate small building that is supposed to house a laundry facility, a large generator, and storage space.

The house is supposed to be built behind the bar, invisible from the road, and facing toward the lake.

The gravel crunching under my feet is the only sound I hear as I make my way around the bar to find my new home.

-

“Excuse me...”

The same guy who looked me up and down before giving me the stink-eye when I walked into the Home Hardware in town, does a fine job of ignoring me now.

“Sir, I could use a hand,” I try again with barely subdued irritation.

The older lady behind me in line at the paint counter clears her throat and that gets his attention.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Stephens?” he says, with a bright yellowish smile for the woman, who steps up beside me. He doesn’t even spare me a glance and I’m sure steam is flowing from my flared nostrils.

“Yes, you can, in fact,” the woman replies, and I’m about to turn and walk out of the store before I resort to violence.

It’s a two and a half hour drive to Sault Ste. Marie to find another half-decent building supply store, but I’ll be damned if I let myself be treated like this. I’ll just have to go back to the motel and make a complete list of stuff I’ll need in the near future, because I won’t be making that trip daily. I have a motel to renovate, and even though aside from painting, I don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m doing, I’m determined to have at least two or three of the rooms ready to go by the end of June.

“You can start by serving this young lady,” she says pointedly, nodding in my direction.

The man audibly scoffs, I presume at the use of both young and lady, neither of which are what I would call an apt description of reality. I’m going on forty-six and show it, and with my ringed nose, blue-tipped hair, and visible tattoos, I’m hardly lady-material. I got away with my appearance closer to the big city, but here in the sparse North, I stand out like a sore thumb.

It doesn’t seem to faze the grey-haired woman, who actually looks like a lady, with her carefully coiffed hair, wrinkled but manicured hands, and chaste pearls at her thin neck. Her eyes are bright and fierce on the man across the counter.

“Don’t you start with me, Travis McGee. I’ve known you since your scrawny little tush was still wrapped in diapers, and I know for a fact your mother would turn in her grave if she could see you behave like this.”

I watch in amusement as the grown man, at least my age, if not older, blushes and lowers his eyes.

“But, Mrs. Stephens...”

“None of that, Travis. That’s no way to welcome a new neighbour now, is it? Last time I saw the old Whitefish Motel, it looked like it would need quite a bit of work. Doesn’t seem too smart for the one store in town, that carries the supplies to get the work done, to be turning away good business now, does it?”

I’m actually dumbfounded. I can’t remember the last time a complete stranger volunteered to fight my battles for me. She turns to me with a smile on her face, only highlighting the plentiful wrinkles around her eyes. But the eyes are a clear blue and sharp as a blade.

“Let’s get introductions out of the way, shall we?” She reaches out a hand to me and I automatically place my work-roughened palm against her soft one. “Charlotte Stephens. If no one has yet, let me be the first one to welcome you to the neighbourhood, so to speak.”

Neighbourhood is a bit of a stretch, given that my place is a good fifteen minutes out of town, but in these regions, anyone close enough to visit within an hour’s travel is considered a neighbour. To some at least.

“Pleased to meet you,” I respond when I finally find my voice. “I’m Lilith Talbot, but my friends call me Leelo.”

“Happy to meet you, Leelo. One day you’ll have to tell me over a cup of coffee, how you came by that interesting name, but first why don’t you let Travis get you what you need?”

I turn to the man who still eyes me with distaste, even though he clearly tries to hide it. I proceed to hand him the paint chips I’ve chosen for the much-needed fresh coat the motel rooms are crying out for.

Forty-five minutes later, I finish loading the cans of paint, the bucket of drywall compound, putty knives, repair kits, and an assortment of tape, rollers, and brushes. It barely fits. I had to fold down the back seats to stack twenty-two boxes of end of the line, laminate flooring they had on sale, as well as a few boxes of shingles, and my old Jeep is loaded down heavily.

I almost jump when a hand falls on my shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, luv,” Charlotte Stephens says apologetically. “I was hoping to catch you before you took off and give you my number.” She hands me a folded sheet of paper with a phone number. “I know how daunting it can be to move to a new place, especially when you’re a woman alone. I did the same thing, almost fifty years ago, when I moved up here for a teaching position. If not for Elizabeth McGee, Travis’ mother, I might’ve turned tail and ran right back. She took me in as a friend and helped me ride out some bumps. I’d like to offer the same to you. I may not be worth much when it comes to hands-on help needed at the motel, but I assure you, I have a willing ear, I bake a mean pecan pie, brew a good strong cup of coffee, and I have time. More time than I know what to do with most days. You want that ear? Or perhaps just the company? Give me a call anytime.”

“Thank you,” is all I can manage, taking the paper from her hand, before she nods and turns on her heels.

The unexpected kindness goes a long way to soothing the dark lonely hole in my chest.

Roar

“Doyle!”

I close the gate of the truck before I turn to see Kyle Thompson heading toward me with determined strides, as much as his shiny loafers will allow. My least favourite person in this town, and that’s saying something since there aren’t many people I like to begin with. Kyle is a local realtor and self-proclaimed developer, with questionable morals. I’ve never liked the guy. Too fucking fancy, if you ask me, and so damn slimy, mud wouldn’t stick.

I cross my arms over my chest and grunt in response when he’s close enough. I don’t like wasting words and certainly not on our local wheeler and dealer.

“How’ve you been, my friend?” he starts, his recently capped teeth on full display.

I raise an eyebrow at his misplaced familiarity, given that we’ve never seen eye to eye on anything.

“Busy season coming up?” he continues undeterred, tipping his head in the direction of the load of supplies weighing down my truck.

“Cut to the chase, Kyle. Got shit to do.”

The fake jovial demeanour he’s trying for quickly slides off his face, leaving a distasteful scowl.

“What do you know about your new neighbour?” he asks, his tone barely civil now.

“Neighbour?” I feign ignorance, even though I know damn well he’s talking about Sam’s old place, where for the last week or so I’ve seen an old, navy blue Jeep parked the couple of times I’ve passed it. Neighbour is a bit of a stretch anyway, since my place is five kilometres up from the turn off, just past the motel, but it’s the closest I have to one.

“The Whitefish,” he says by way of explanation. “I hear some woman moved in?”

I heard that, too. Travis over at the hardware store just filled me in, actually. Didn’t have much good to say, only that some hippy chick, with a nasty attitude, was in to buy supplies earlier. Not that I put much stock in Travis’ opinion, he’s a piece of work in his own right.

“So I hear,” I confirm, shrugging my shoulders. “Here’s a suggestion, though; you wanna know something, try talking to her yourself. I’m not one for socializing.”

With that I turn on my heels and get in the truck, not waiting for a response. As I drive off, I see his angry scowl in my rearview mirror. Stupid motherfucker should know better than to try and get any kind of help from me. That ship sailed a long fucking time ago.

I have guests coming in tomorrow and want to get these supplies sorted away. I still have to get their cabin and boat ready. The damn engine is still in pieces on my front porch, waiting for the new propeller and fuel line in the back of my truck. Every winter I service the outboard engines of the fishing boats that I rent out, along with the six cabins. Once fishing season starts, my lodge is booked solid and I don’t have time to dick around with equipment breaking down. So I make sure everything is serviced.

Except, I’m running behind. We’ve had one of the harshest winters on record, and I’ve had my hands full digging out from under the damn snow every day. When the final melt off finally came, three of my six cabins had sustained damage to the roofs and I had busted water pipes at the main lodge.

Up ahead, I can see the sign for the motel. There’s an opening in the dense tree line on the north side of the road that cuts back toward one of the many inlets of Whitefish Lake. The motel is set back, about halfway between the road and the water. Weeds have overtaken most of the gravel driveway and parking lot, and the general lack of maintenance, these past few years, has taken its toll on the motel itself as well. The old Jeep is parked in front, and I just catch a glimpse of blue hair ducking into the building.

Who has blue fucking hair?

-

“Roar, your guests are here!” Patti ducks her head into my office, a big smile on her face. “We’re in business,” she announces, and I can’t help but smile at her excitement.

Patti’s worked for me since I bought the property, a little over ten years ago, but we’ve known each other since elementary school. We were part of the same group of friends, growing up in Wawa. She’s about the only person I can tolerate for longer than five minutes at a time.

I don’t have work for her during the long winter months, and to be honest, she doesn’t really need it anymore, having built up a lucrative cleaning business in town. Each spring she’s back here, though, getting the cabins ready for the guests. The one time I suggested I find someone else for the couple of days a week I needed a hand, because she seemed busy, I thought she’d deck me, so I never mentioned it again.

I stand up and move around the desk, when Patti blocks my path.

“Cabin three is ready for them,” she says, putting a hand on my chest as she hands me the keys. “I’ve put Ace in his pen so he doesn’t scare off the guests.”

With my hands on her upper arms, I gently move her aside, but not before bending down and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll introduce him,” I reassure her.

My dog looks fierce, with his light blue eyes and massive head, and he can make a lot of noise, but he generally loves people. They just don’t always love him, which is why I make it a point to introduce him to every one of my guests myself.

“Ace. Come.” I hold open the gate to his fenced-in pen on the side of the small office building. “Heel,” I tell him before he lopes off to greet the newcomers.

As it is, I see the two guys hesitate to get out of their car. A nice car it is, too. Not often you see a Lexus coupe in these parts. Not much use for them, especially in the winter. These two are clearly city dwellers, coming up to the Great North to remind them they’re still men. A lot of them do. Folks who spend most of their time behind desks and in boardrooms, who forget how to still their minds. Who have lost touch with the universe around them in the pursuit of the holy dollar.

Some come here to get in touch with their humanity, by leaving civilization behind, and some come simply so they can brag later about their prize catch or harrowing adventures. Not sure where to place these two. One guy is older, perhaps in his fifties, and the one behind the wheel looks like a younger version. A father-son combo, by the looks of it.

Finally, the older man in the passenger seat opens his door and gets out. I can sense Ace’s excitement, but he keeps his nose right by my hip. I rest my hand on top of his head as I nod at the older man.

“Welcome to Jackson’s Point. I’m Doyle, and this here is Ace.” I pat his head again. “He’s friendly.”