EIGHT

Imperfections are the vivid details that create beautiful contrast.

Roar

“Awesome!”

I smile at Matt’s youthful enthusiasm when he gets his first glimpse of the lodge. The truth is, I still sometimes get a thrill when I see it. Many years and much work has made it what it is now, but the once rundown, turn-of-the-century residence of a lumber baron, has been restored to glory.

Matt had talked a bit about wanting to build himself a log home one day, and I’d told him about the lodge. The massive two-storey structure, made entirely from local lumber, is pretty impressive, especially when you consider it dates back to the late 1800s, when such a large project would’ve taken a small army of men to build. What’s unique about it is the Scandinavian notch used for the joints. It’s not often used in North America but the more intricate notching style makes for greater stability for the large logs.

“Found the original plans in an old trunk when I bought the place. You’re welcome to have a look at some point. I sure learned a shitload from them.”

Guess that’s a hit, judging from the big grin on his face.

I like the kid; he’s protective of his mom—although he clearly underestimates her—is not afraid to get his hands dirty, and is good with them. Despite being raised a city boy, he’d probably do well living up here.

“Hey, you’re back,” Patti says, walking down the dock, where I’m just throwing off the last rope on my boat.

“Actually, I’m just taking Matt for a spin on the lake.” I notice Patti’s got the kid’s attention, which isn’t a big surprise. She’s nice to look at and she works it. “Matt, this is Patti,” I tell him and watch the two shake hands. “Matt is down visiting his mom.” Patti’s expression is blank. “She’s fixing up the motel?” I clarify.

“Right,” she responds with a bright smile for Matt, but her eyes are guarded when she turns to me. “That’s who you’ve been helping out, right?”

Hearing the edge in her voice, I decide it wiser to stick to an affirmative grunt as I shove the boat off and pull the protective fenders on board.

“Nice to meet you,” Matt calls to shore as I crank the engine. By the time I have the boat steered into open water, I find him staring at me with a smirk on his face.

“What?”

“What did you do?” he asks, his smile getting bigger.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I dismiss him, but he’s tenacious.

“That woman is all kinds of pissed off at you. The lethal kind, where they pretend to be all smiles, but underneath you can feel the anger seething. Trust me, I know; I have a sister and she mastered in the art of passive aggressive warfare. It’s fucking scary.”

I can’t hold back the chuckle at his description. Especially since it’s eerily accurate. Patti is pissed and I could pretend I don’t know why, but I do. There’s no way she would ever give it to me straight, though, but she sure can make me feel it when she feels I’ve done something wrong. Jenny was the same way; I had to guess at what had her panties in a wad. It always felt like some kind of test, where I could find forgiveness for my supposed transgressions, only if I could guess what they were. Ask me how successful I was at that. Come to think of it, even Charlie, who is one of the strongest and most capable women I know, can manipulate like a champ.

The only person who seems to lack any guile, who appears to me to be without any pretenses, is Leelo. There is little to no hesitation when she feels the need to put me in my place.

Interesting.

“How did you find this place anyway?”

Grateful for the change of subject, I don’t hesitate with my answer.

“I grew up here. My family had a small cabin on the other side of the lake and the old log home was a favourite hangout. I’d borrow my dad’s old rowboat and go exploring, any chance I got.”

“Borrow?” Matt questions.

“I’d like to think so,” I answer with a grin. “Although if my dad were still around, he’d probably disagree. Anyway, when the lumber company that owned the land finally went under, and the property came up for sale, I jumped on the opportunity.” I don’t mention that it was Kyle Thompson who tried to pull a fast one on me at that time and almost managed to snag it out from under me. No need to open that can of worms.

“Was it always called Jackson’s Point?” he wants to know, unknowingly bringing the conversation almost full circle again.

“No,” I answer honestly. “It’s named for my best friend. As kids, he and I would fantasize about what we would do with the place if it was ours. When the time came to make that fantasy a reality, it was too late for Tom.”

“Why? What happened?”

“He died at the side of a dusty road in Afghanistan.” It surprises me how hard it still is to say those words out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Matt mumbles, clearly uncomfortable.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid. We chose to be there.”

“You were there, too?”

I ease up on the throttle, letting the boat troll slowly along the far shore, and turn to look at Matt.

“I was. We did everything together. Can’t have been much older than you when we enlisted. It was our third tour. Was always supposed to be our last, but not like that. I survived...but came home with my friend in a casket. That had not been part of the plan.” I let my eyes drift back over the water, toward the lodge. “We ended up spreading his ashes over the point and I named it after him. It was always meant to be ours.”

“We?”

I turn back to face him.

“Patti and I. Patti was Tom’s wife.”

-

For the last half hour it’s been quiet in the boat. All you hear is the occasional splash of water when one of us casts a line.

Matt’s questions stopped at my last explanation, but his face shows a level of understanding I would not have attributed to someone so young.

The silence is comfortable though, not forced at all, and I once again consider how well-suited he is to life up here.

A loud splash draws our attention to a familiar dock on shore, where the ripples left behind by a jumping fish spread widely.

“Cool place,” Matt says, looking at the old cabin set about two hundred feet back from the shore. It looks a little run down after the winter. A clear reminder I should drive the mower over there one of these days and do some maintenance. “Is it abandoned?”

“It belongs to Charlie. She lives in town, but doesn’t get out here much any more. I’m supposed to maintain it.”

“She a friend?”

Again with the probing questions. The kid has some great inquisitive skills; he’s got me spilling my life to him.

“More like family,” I answer with a smile. “This is where I grew up.”

Matt opens his mouth with what I’m sure are more questions, when the loud rumble of an outboard motor on the water distracts him. I recognize the hull of the boat approaching from the direction of the channel, leading to the motel.

Asshole.

“Is that the guy who was bugging Mom earlier?”

“That’s him,” I confirm through gritted teeth, watching the boat slow down as it pulls close to the brand new dock next door. “That’s his place.”

Leelo

“Mom!”

I no sooner step out of the shower when I hear Matt calling me. Reminiscent of days when I couldn’t even pee in peace. Somehow the kids always needed me for one thing or another, preferably when I headed for the bathroom.

Despite the warm weather, I’d been shivering by the time I got back to the motel. Dripping wet with the cold lake water, it only took a light breeze to raise goosebumps on my skin. The prospect of a warm shower had me rushing upstairs, stripping off clothes as I went. Water pressure had been sorely lacking before, but Roar had mentioned that once he was done with the units, I would notice the difference. He was right. I stood under that shower for a long time with my eyes closed, hearing nothing but the fall of water, while letting the solid stream massage every sore spot on my body.

“Mom!” Matt’s voice is closer as I hear footsteps stomping up the stairs.

I barely manage to cover myself with a towel before the bathroom door swings open and my son barges in.

“Jesus, Bud! What the hell’s going on?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Roar’s face appears over his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Roar asks, scanning me over from head-to-toe.

“I’m fine,” I snap, pulling the towel tighter around me, painfully aware of my exposed state. “Can you guys please get the hell out?”

“Let’s go, kid. Let your mom get dressed.” Roar pulls Matt back and reaches around him for the door, but not before giving me a look that sends a shiver down my spine.

The moment I hear the click of one door, I dive through the other into my bedroom. It takes me all of two seconds to yank on some clothes and still drying my hair with a towel, I hurry downstairs.

“What was that all about?” I demand, walking into the kitchen, where Matt is digging a couple of beers from the fridge.

“Has no one told you not to leave garbage laying around outside?” Roar, who’s relaxed pose leaning against the counter, is clearly a front as he chastises me. “Or are you trying to draw out every wild animal within a five mile radius?”

I bristle at his tone, but curiosity wins.

“Garbage? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Christ, Mom—when we pulled up just now, there was a massive bear clawing through the garbage bag on the porch outside. And the damn door was open. I thought you were hurt.”

“Wait,” I plead, shaking my head as I hold up my hand. “A bear? Garbage? I don’t understand. I didn’t put anything out.” My mind is scrambling to remember exactly what I did. “I was cold. I’d gone for a dip in the lake in my clothes and wanted to get in the shower to get the chill off. I’m positive I did not put any garbage outside, but I can’t be sure about the door. I can’t remember if I closed it or not.”

As I’m talking, I move through the kitchen to the closed door, which I pull open. Just outside is a large garbage bag with crap spilling from a large hole, the contents strewn all over the porch.

“That’s not mine,” I announce, pointing at the heavy-duty black bag. “Mine are cheap: grey, with those yellow drawstring thingies. Besides...” I add; looking around at the stuff spilled everywhere. “I didn’t clean any fish. There’s at least four fish carcasses out there.”

Both guys walk up behind me and look over my shoulder, but it’s Roar who moves me aside and steps out for a closer inspection. I’m just going to ignore how nice the weight of his large hand on my shoulder feels.

“Weird,” he mutters under his breath, as he rummages with the toe of his boot through the trash. “It’s mostly food scraps.”

“I know,” I tell him. “There’s a heavy-duty garbage disposal system in the kitchen, behind the bar, I use to get rid of any organic waste. I never throw food in the garbage.”

Matt slips around me with a broom and pan and starts cleaning up the crap.

“You didn’t hear or see anything?” Roar asks, looking at me as he moves out of Matt’s way.

“No. I worked for a while after you guys left, then went down to the water and took a dip. I can’t remember seeing anything when I came back. I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed that bag sitting on the porch as I walked in.”

-

The guys finish cleaning up the porch and take care of the bag and its contents in the burn barrel out back. I keep myself busy inside, tidying up and running a load of laundry before starting preparations for dinner. But my mind stubbornly returns to the how and who, and most importantly, why.

I pick up snippets of conversation through the open window as Matt and Roar stand by the fire, making sure it stays contained in the barrel. Right now, we have a low fire risk because of the recent rain, plus it’s early in the season, but that can change quickly. From what little I can hear, they’re mostly discussing some property up the lake before their conversation becomes hushed. No longer able to make out much after that, I focus on the vegetables I plan to roast for dinner to accompany the tenderloin I picked up the other day.

“Want to stick around for dinner?” I ask Roar, when he comes in to wash his hands at the sink.

“Love to,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter while wiping his hands on the towel. “But I have guests coming in around dinner time and I should be getting back.”

“Why don’t you put the vacancy sign up, Mom?” Matt pipes up as he enters the kitchen. “You’ve got a few units ready to go plus the water’s back on now. We can spend the next few days finishing up the rest of them.”

“I don’t have all the quarter round down yet. Besides, I don’t have anything to offer yet, in terms of a working kitchen. I’ll need to get that up running first.” I do my best to avoid the two pairs of questioning eyes staring at me.

“Bullshit, Mom. No one expects food in a motel unless you offer it to them. And you have two units that only need clean sheets to be ready.”

He’s right. I know he’s right but there’s something so definite about putting out the vacancy sign. It’s a big step between working up to something and actually doing it. Once that sign goes up, I open myself to failure. What if no one shows? What if they hate it? Or me?

“Not a bad idea,” Roar contributes, earning a dirty look from me. “Wouldn’t hurt to start generating some income. Plus, the Wawa Music Festival always draws people to these regions. Seems like the perfect time.”

“Exactly,” Matt agrees. “And if we have some time left, we can start implementing some of those ideas for the bar.”

I drop the knife I’m holding on the counter and nudge Roar out of the way to get to the sink to rinse my hands. Snatching the towel from Roar’s hands, I swing around to address my son.

“I cannot recall making any plans for the bar,” I remind him snippily. “I distinctly remember the two of you deep in conversation in there, but to my recollection I was not included.”

With that I wad up the towel and toss it on the counter as I march out, a deep chuckle and a familiar snicker trailing behind.

To cool off, I pull some weeds from one of the overgrown planters separating the parking lot from the walkway in front of the units, when I hear someone coming up behind me.

“I’m heading out,” Roar’s deep rumble sounds behind me. “I told Matt to call me if you guys need a hand on Monday. I’ll be out on the water with the new guests most of the day tomorrow, but they’re on their own after that.”

I keep my back to him but straighten up and square my shoulders as I sense him closing in.

“You know...” I feel his words against the shell of my ear. “Your son’s got a good head on his shoulders, don’t dismiss what he says just because you’re upset.” I swear I can feel the brush of his lips on my skin.

I’m frozen, but whether it’s because of his comments or my acute awareness of his proximity, I don’t know.

That’s a lie. I barely heard what he said, the pounding of my heart too loud in my ears as I wait to see if he’ll kiss me again.

The sharp crunch of gravel finally has me turn around, and I watch Roar drive off, a dust cloud in his wake.