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With a groan I sit and place my feet on the carpet next to the bed. Yep, chilly already. This close to the water that antique wood-burning stove in the corner of the living room probably gets used early in the season. I pad over to the window and draw away the black-out curtains.
Oh my goodness. My breath catches and I take it all in. The glorious reds and yellows and oranges make a patchwork of colors all along the edge of the lake across the water. The previous day’s rain left the light crisp and clear, as if a brightening filter covers the landscape. Except that this is real. I grab my phone and head to the mudroom for my jacket and sneakers.
I open the glass doors and step onto the deck. There it is. That scent of fall that exists nowhere else, basically because it is imprinted in my heart. I cross the deck to the water’s edge and lean to dip my hand into it. Yep, cold already, as expected. I straighten on an inhale and exhale slowly, shedding several layers of stress.
No photo can ever capture this. I’ve been an idiot not to come back earlier. To bring Mom back as she’d hinted at once. Like Kyle I’d chosen not to read between the lines there, but maybe if we had come back while she still had the energy and a gap between treatments, none of this would have been such a giant surprise. All those regrets… how they eat at you. Coming here would have given her the chance to open up about her past. But no, work had always been more pressing and now it’s chewed right through me, leaving me hollow, alone, and still grieving the woman I maybe never really knew.
I catch the tears before they run to my jaw and take several photos to send to Jana to distract me. Taking photos isn’t enough, so I turn back to the cottage to distract my mind with coffee, but almost trip over my feet as my gaze snags on my neighbor’s house. The wacky dude that goes for midnight rows has money.
Lots of it.
Good God, dude. Rein it in. The two-story A-frame house is all glass that blinks at me in the light. The only thing between my humble cottage and his mansion is a canoe rack that hosts at least ten of the same thing. Or maybe they aren’t all canoes. Looks like a standup paddleboard in there too. I haven’t been on the water since leaving Ashleigh Lake, when Hunter and I would often escape by canoe to be alone, somewhere in the woods. And get up to some serious adult shit.
Those were the days. Now it’s been more than five years since I’ve been with anybody. I’ve been so busy at work, and what with Brad giving all his attention and getting some so generously elsewhere, sex has been nowhere on my radar. Except now, memories of Hunter and me, which have been stalking me since our meeting a couple of weeks ago, block my way, mouthing to me that this vacation is the perfect opportunity to break my hiatus.
Nope. Not happening. Not in Ashleigh Lake where it all started.
My phone rings again and I glance at the screen. Brenda. She’s tenacious. We’ve spoken before but now that I’m here, she’ll want to wrap things up. Pick an offer and close the deal. God, I know that feeling.
“Hi Brenda,” I answer as I step into the cottage.
“How’s everything going, Beth? I hope the place Jessie has arranged for you suits your needs?”
“Absolutely. It’s perfect, thank you.” I toe my shoes off and cross to the kitchen to start the coffee machine.
“We’re still on to visit the farm later today? I know this is last minute and we’d said four, but it would be better if we could go earlier, say at two PM? They’re busy milking at four and I don’t want to… eh… get in their way.”
Weird. Now I need to reschedule an appointment to see my own farm? “How about three? I overslept and to be honest, I don’t want to rush.”
Through the phone I hear Brenda shuffling papers. “That’s fine, honey. We’ll make do.”
The farm is a long way from being sold and I’m not going to be honeyed or sweethearted until I sign on an offer of purchase. “Let’s keep this professional, shall we, Brenda? Stick to first names, please.”
The stretch of silence is just a split second too long and I probably just squashed her still-wet pedicure as I stepped on her toes, but I don’t care. Beth Anderson is no more. I’m a big city lawyer and I’m not going to take any shit from anybody.
“Of course. I’ll meet you at the farm then? You know how to get there?”
I used to live there, Brenda… and I’m not sure if I’m ready to go see the place that is the source of all my emo teenage trauma, but there’s no sidestepping it now. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you at three.”
11
BETH
My drumming heart stills as I drive up the road. The billboard advertising that the farm is for sale overpowers the gentle landscape, out of place with the flow of green and splatters of yellows and reds where clusters of trees line the road.
It ruins the moment of my arrival here and for the life of me, I don’t know why. And now I can’t get my head out of the funk a simple billboard put me in. I’m surprised Brenda went that far and that it’s still standing. Back in my day, this type of thing was frowned upon.
I take the turn-off to the farm, squinting through the trees to where our cottage still stands some distance away from the main buildings. Through the branches I can spot its off-white cladding, but then my gaze is drawn to the original farmhouse and barn. The picture they make is so beautiful and just as I remember it from the outside. Beyond the old heritage buildings, the massive modern barn with its milking parlor stands solid and unwavering.
Nice. What a mess. Hunter was right when he said it should be sold as a going concern. Beyond all the buildings and the grazing fields there is the biggest lure of them all: an untapped mountain screaming ski hill. Collingwood Farm borders a mountain ridge in a bigger nature reserve where skiing rights were allotted by the local authorities ages ago, and it’s the skiing rights that are really going to seal this deal.
I drive around the farmhouse to the barn where several trucks and cars are parked. This is a working farm and I’m not sure how Brenda expected to avoid people, activity, or cows for that matter. As soon as I pop open my door, the scent of manure, rich as the earth itself, hits me. I blink. Ugh. That this scent can make me feel nostalgic is a tad too much.
As soon as my foot is out of the door and onto the gravel, I realize my mistake. These little lawyer pumps are perfect for a clean office environment, but here, rubber boots are the answer, especially with the few rain puddles around the unpaved parking.
“Beth!” A tall and wide woman with a shock of blonde curls waves at me from where she’s clambering out of her truck. She rushes toward me. “Brenda Whitnell. So nice to meet you.” Brenda’s hand extends to mine and once I’ve closed my car door, we shake, her hand giving mine an enthusiastic squeeze.
“Nice to meet you too. Finally.” We’ve had a lot of email communications between us, Kyle responding to most of them as he’s been running with the sale of the farm. “Things seem busy here.” Busier than I remember. Maybe I never looked closely as a kid, being more interested in friends and roaming around than in a farm to which I had no connection except being a charity-case tenant.
