2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Josie
My grandfather’s cottage smells like cedar and coffee and lake water, and I have cried in every single room of it.
I’m mostly keeping it together. No wailing or sobbing or dramatic, Oscar-worthy tears.
But there’s a steady flow of tears lurking behind my eyelids at all times, just waiting to spring a leak.
I'll be pulling a dust sheet off the couch or boxing up the mugs, and I'll find something—his reading glasses on the windowsill, a grocery list in his handwriting that says bread, worms, butterscotch candy—and the leak springs, and I have to sit down for a minute.
Grandpa Gus died in April. I hadn't seen him in person in almost three years, but we talked on the phone every Sunday.
He never once made me feel guilty about the visits I kept postponing, or about the summers that stopped after my parents split and vacations became a custody spreadsheet.
He just told me his terrible jokes and asked about my design clients and ended every call the same way: The lake misses you, Josie-girl.
I always said, Next summer, I promise.
Now it's next summer, and I'm here to sell his house.
The plan is simple. Fix the place up, list it, sign the papers, and use the money to restart my life, which fell apart with impressive efficiency this spring—my biggest client dropped me the same month my lease ran out, three weeks before the call about Grandpa.
Freelance graphic design pays fine when it pays.
Right now, it's not paying. Grandpa’s cottage is the only solid thing I own.
So, I've been cleaning. Which is how I found the tackle box.
It was under his bed, the old green metal one, and inside, on top of the trays of lures, was a folded flyer that said MERCURY RIDGE END-OF-SUMMER PAIRS DERBY — Labor Day Weekend — Teams of Two — All Proceeds Benefit the Kids' Fishing Camp.
Stapled to it was a copy of this year's entry form, filled out in his blocky handwriting.
Angler One: Gus Barlow.
And on the line for Angler Two, in careful letters: Josie Barlow.
He entered us. Months before he died, he put my name on that line, like maybe if it was official, this would finally be the summer I came.
I cried in the kitchen for a while about that one.
Then I did something insane. I drove to town, walked into the community center, and asked the woman at the desk if the entry was still good.
"Honey," she said, looking at the form, "for Gus? It's paid up and everything. You just need a new Angler Two."
Which is a problem, because not only do I not know any fishermen, but I also cannot fish. I hold a rod like it’s a gun that might go off. The last fish I caught, I was nine, and Grandpa did ninety percent of the work while telling me I was a natural.
That's what I'm chewing on when I stop into Lake Mercury Bait & Tackle for ice, and the woman behind the counter takes one look at me and says, "You're Gus's granddaughter."
I blink. "How does everyone—"
"You have his chin. And his boat's at the marina and Mercury Ridge has no secrets and Trent might’ve mentioned you were in town." She sticks out her hand. "I’m Dani. Your grandpa bought his crickets. I'm sorry for your loss. Also, the good ice is in the back."
Within ten minutes, Dani knows everything.
The cottage, the selling, the derby form, my name in his handwriting.
She has also introduced me to two women who came in for cold drinks—Rayna, who has flour on her T-shirt and the warmest smile I've ever seen, and Chrissy, sun-browned with a braid down her back—and all three of them are now looking at each other over my head in a way I don't fully trust.
"You have to fish the derby," Rayna says. "You have to. I have chills."
"I can't fish," I admit.
"So, you need a partner who can," Chrissy says. "Someone who knows the lake. Someone with time on his hands. Someone fun."
"Someone," Dani says, "like Trent."
"The boat rental guy?" I say. "I just met him. He's fixing Grandpa's motor."
The look the three of them exchange could power the entire town.
"He's fixing your motor," Rayna repeats, delighted, like it's evidence in a trial.
"For pizza," I say, which for some reason makes it worse.
"Thursday pizza," Dani says, pointing at me. "At Mercury Slice. You're coming. I’ll bring you.” She says it like it’s not optional.
I open my mouth to say I really shouldn't, that I have baseboards to paint and a realtor to call and a life waiting to be restarted somewhere that is not here.
"Okay," I say instead.
Because here's the thing I keep not saying out loud: I’ve been in Mercury Ridge four days, and half this town already knows my name.
The old man who fishes off the marina dock every evening waved at me this morning like we're friends.
And when Dani said Gus, she said it soft, the way you say the name of somebody you miss.
I spent all spring grieving him alone in a city where nobody knew him.
Here, everybody does.
You're leaving in a few weeks, I remind myself, loading the good ice into my trunk. Don't get attached.
The lake glitters at me through the trees like it's laughing.