Chapter Six
On Sunday afternoon the limo pulled out of the long dirt driveway, blaring “Groove Is in the Heart,” leaving me standing like
a child being left at camp, waving with my duffel bag. I looked at the tiny log cabins at the end of the laneway down the
looked well cared for and semi-chic, with large front porches and herb and flower gardens on either side of their front steps.
There was a pathway between them that lead to what looked like a barn of some sort. It wasn’t really a yard so much as an
acre clearing, almost surrounded on all sides by trees. A bright wooden sign with the words Lake This Way in sloppy pink writing pointed down the slope. I was so ready to be alone, even for ten minutes. I’d see my sister and our
friends in August for the actual wedding, which was happening at a hotel in Wellington not far from my new summer home. And
here I was, starting a summer plan most eighteen-year-old girls would think was cool. Maybe it was my chance to act eighteen
because when I had been eighteen, I’d acted thirty, packing Katie’s lunches, remembering to buy shampoo and tampons, teaching
her to drive.
A part of me thought about running after the limo, changing my mind entirely.
But I pulled my duffel bag right around my shoulders like a backpack, hooking both thumbs in the straps as I walked through the gravel parking lot, stopping briefly to bend down and pet an orange tomcat who was stretched out on his back beside the small herb garden.
The air smelled like the lake, like the richness of early summer.
I said, “What am I doing?” out loud to the cat, who stared back in response, before taking a swipe at my hand, signalling
our affectionate connection time was over. When I stood up, I got a little dizzy, stumbling a bit, while taking in the cuteness
of the two matching log cabins, each with a porch and a large picture window. They’d been painted since Google had snapped
a photo.
Ben opened the cabin door on the left. “Welcome to the cottage!”
I screamed like a girl in a horror movie.
“I didn’t see a car anywhere,” I said. “You really appeared like an apparition. You can’t sneak up on a city gal, Ben.”
“Sorry, I thought you saw my truck.”
I hadn’t noticed it by the shed to my left, beside a tractor that had seen better days.
“I was distracted by this orange guy,” I said, hoping the whole “easily startled” thing wasn’t too big a turn-off.
“That’s Okanagan. I think he belongs to the farm across the way but he loves hanging around here. He loves the horses, too.
My sister takes care of them but you can ride them if you like, they’re out back. But let me show you to your little writing
haven.”
“Keep calling it that and you will shame me into finishing a feature this summer.”
“That’s the goal,” he said, winking. “Our mutual pact to exit the Christmas romance racket!”
“Operation No More Mistletoe!” I said, giving him a fist-bump and then following him up the cabin steps.
The cottage was an open concept room with a galley kitchen on one side and a small table and two chairs, a queen bed on the other side.
It was painted white and was both spotless, like every Airbnb, and a little unfinished around the edges.
There was a gap in the counter where a stove or dishwasher was meant to be, some contractor tools lying around, the smell of fresh paint.
“These cabins used to be very old and musty, but my parents finally agreed to renovate them this spring. We ripped up the
old seventies carpets, repaired the roof. This one is the most finished of the two. The guy working on them lives in the cabin
next door, I’ll introduce you. I’m not his biggest fan but I’m trying to get over it, and he’s a fine enough neighbour.”
I grew up in a house that was never quite finished. Even when my parents would clean before guests arrived, there was always
a pile of books or debris behind a closet door. When I pulled out the extra mattress for a friend to sleep on, I always had
to explain why we had to move an antique sewing machine, laboratory equipment, old journals, and two banjos first. We never
once received mail, sorted it, and then threw away the envelopes or junk mail. The cabinet under the bathroom sink looked
like someone had filled it to the brim with cleaning products and boxes of nails or tools, and then picked it up, shaken it,
and set it back down. I still don’t like to open cupboard doors, expecting something to fall out whenever I do. So I didn’t
care about some tools here and there or a missing stove.
A moment of awkward silence filled the room like a smell I hoped would dissipate.
“This is perfect,” I said, looking around, then back at Ben, who was far too cute and polished for a Sunday morning.
“We thought the cabin would be completely finished by now, but we’re almost there. The stove is coming in this week, but for
now I’ll bring over the toaster oven and a plug-in kettle. The cabin next door is still pretty gutted. But we’ll finish everything
in here by next weekend, I promise!”
“No worries,” I said. I was hoping for an old-school farmhouse quilt and a fireplace, like in my country romantic fantasies.
But there was some irony in this decor. I’d have to make it my own.
That was a tangible metaphor for what I was trying to do this summer, for my life in general.
He opened up a cupboard outside the bathroom door to show me the sheets and towels.
The sheets looked vintage, with tiny bluebell-embroidered trim, but the towels were plush and white, like a five-star hotel.
Best of both worlds. The door still smelled like fresh paint.
We stood awkwardly by the bed. I remembered the love scene I’d written for him and Cassie, in a country inn during a storm
where there was conveniently only one vacant room, with a single bed. Romantic scenes in movies are not romantic at all when
you’re standing around with a bunch of crew while they happen. It feels more like wrestling. But still I felt my face flush
red when he flicked the reading lamp on and off and opened the bedside table to show me the remote for the TV that was flush
against the wall above the dresser. He was close enough that I could smell his woodsy hair product or deodorant.
“The little couch has a pull-out bed if you have guests,” he said, scurrying across the room to the living room area. The
couch was green velvet, mid-century modern style. There was a small coffee table in front of it, and another small TV on top
of a wooden shelf. It occurred to me as he continued to show me things that I could plainly see with my own eyes that he was
possibly also nervous.
“I’m going back to the city tomorrow morning, I have a noon call time. As you know. But I’d love to take you out before I
go? I could pick you up around five?”
Saying no to Ben was a difficult prospect, even though I’d looked forward to spending the rest of the day alone after all
the group revelry. As my brain scrambled to come up with an excuse, I realized that until camp started and Ben was back the
following weekend, I didn’t know a single soul in this town. And I didn’t have a car. It’s not like I could call an Uber to
the literal forest.
“I really should’ve thought about not having a car out here. I’ll have to go back to the city and get mine, and grab my things for an extended stay. I only have, like, two outfits? But until then, is there a car rental place?”
“You know, my mom isn’t using her car right now, she’s recovering from surgery. I’ll ask her if you can use it until you can
go get yours.”
“Oh, wow, that’s generous. Are you sure? I swear I’ve never had an accident.”
“It’ll be fine. She’s so happy I found a playwriting teacher. The camp means a lot to her. She and my dad started Firefly
when I was a baby. They used to be real alternative theatre types in the eighties, radical puppetry and political takes on
Shakespeare and stuff like that.”
“I love that theatre is in your blood. What do they think of your TV career?”
“My dad likes it. I think he had big dreams and then he inherited the winery, and he hasn’t acted in a long time. My mom thinks
it’s silly but she gets it. She misses being on stage.” He looked sad then, and I wondered how sick his mother was. There
was something in his facial expression, and the fact that we’d known each other for just three days, that made me refrain
from asking.
He made his way to the cabin door, turned back after he opened it. “So, dinner? I noticed you didn’t answer, but I’m not above
a little pushiness. Some girls find it adorable.”
What did I have to lose? We’d be together all summer, after all. Why say no?
“Dinner sounds great.”
He smiled really big, genuinely, in a way that made me think it was the real Ben, not actor Ben.
After he left, I snuggled into my new bed, my heart racing.
What had I done?