Page 32 of What You Never Knew

And there we are—the secret password. I push into him so that our lips crash together in a kiss. Unlike the last time, we go right into frenzied passion. I walk him backward toward the bed, not even thinking about how old or dirty it might be. Our mouths stay locked together, our tongues working fast, until I drop down on the bed and lie back—physically granting him permission to have me however he wants.

He shoves the fabric of my dress up around my waist and kneels on the floor in front of me. I lift my hips as he pulls to free me of my black lace underwear. Then he slows right down, running his hands up my calves to grip the backs of my knees. He leans into me, his breath hot against my skin. I sigh with pleasure as he begins to slowly kiss his way up my leg.

I try to lose myself in the sensation of him, but the dress is suddenly too tight, and the underwire of the bra digs into my left rib. Readjusting my position only intensifies the discomfort. I close my eyes and I see her. My mother, in the exact same position I’m in now, same dress, same everything, with West kneeling between her legs.

I sit up fast. “Stop.”

The word seems to physically throw him backward, away from my body. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are full of confusion and fear. “Are you okay?”

As I look into his face, the image of my mother and his father slowly fades away. “It’s nothing.” I laugh in an attempt to rid myself of the horrible feeling inside. “I’m sorry. I just thought I saw a mouse or something.” He glances around the room and then, seeing nothing, starts to move toward me again.

I shove the skirt of my dress down and stand up. “Can we go somewhere else?”

He pushes himself off the floor. “Ah, sure. Like another cabin?”

“Um.” I struggle to find the words, not knowing what it is that just happened to me or what I now want. It’s never happened before. Being with a man has always been a guaranteed escape, my mind becoming an empty vessel that fills only with him and with the physical. “Let’s just finish the tour and have dinner and then see how we feel.”

He nods, but the confusion lingers in his expression. “Sure. That’s fine. Whatever makes you comfortable. We don’t have to do anything, June, if you don’t want to. I just like spending time with you.”

A frustrated sigh escapes. “Ezra, save the sensitive-guy crap. I just saw something and it distracted me, okay? I want to fuck you. I do. But maybe not in this rodent-infested cabin.”

His eyes go wide in shock. “All right then.” He goes over to the desk, grabs his beer, and takes a sip. “I forgot how delicate you are, June.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and I can’t tell if he’s mad or not. He goes to the door and pulls it open. “Ladies first.” I grab my beer and move to leave, but he quickly steps in front of me. “I said ladies first.” He steps through the door, and I burst out laughing.

There’s something quite beautiful about the decomposing resort. The way nature has grown up around it, the sense of being suspended in time between the past and present, the silence and solitude of a place that used to buzz with activity.

Ezra shows me to the main lodge. There are still rocking chairs lined up on the verandah. The white paint of the building peels off in long, dripping curls, and piles of leaves have collected up against the main door.

We go to the boathouse, where boats still sit above the water in their lifts, their insides nesting grounds for animals and birds. A shadow moves from one boat slip to the next—a beaver that’s built its dam in the corner of the long building. Ezra says he’s been there for years.

We check on the golf clubhouse, which is still stocked with golf clubs and golf balls even though the greens are grown over. A lineup of golf carts sit at the side of the building, their batteries dead from years without a charge.

“It’s all such a waste,” I say, as we make our way toward the dance hall. “Why didn’t they at least sell things off or give them away?”

“Who knows,” Ezra says flatly, taking a swig of his beer.

I throw one hand up. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“People with money are weird.”

It’s hard not to feel as though my family is being lumped into the group. “You mean, like having a family cottage but telling everyone it’s been sold and then nobody goes to it for almost thirty years?”

He gives a quick nod. “Yes. Exactly like that.” I can’t help but laugh. “As weird as it may be,” he says, his tone serious, “I’m glad that your mother didn’t end up selling it and you came back.”

“Me too,” I answer, emotion making my voice low and gruff. I clear it away. I consider telling him about my visit with Leslie Swann, about the $50,000 and my mother refusing to sell Avril Island, about her visit back after my father disappeared, but something stops me. Maybe the hardwired sense to protect my mother, maybe shame.

“I thought we could eat in here,” Ezra says as we approach the dance hall. “It’s my favorite building.” He unlocks the door and pulls it open for me. “I’ll go grab the food and meet you inside.”

The dance hall is a tall, round building with windows running the entire length of it looking out at the lake. I’ve never been in it before. It was used for grown-up events, and I was never grown-up enough to go. Stepping inside is actually exhilarating. I imagined my mother and father in here dancing on so many occasions that it’s quite exciting to finally be inside.

A set of wide, red-carpeted stairs leads up to the main level. I could so easily visualize the men and women, all dressed in their best, making their way up these stairs for a night of drinking and dancing.

At the top of the stairs is a long hallway with doors leading off it. Two are marked WASHROOM, one is marked OFFICE, and one is marked DRESSING ROOM. At the end of the hallway is a collection of framed photos. They’re of guests in the dance hall—some individual shots, some groups shots—as well as the live bands that came to play here.

I find one of my mother, which surprises me—although it shouldn’t, considering what a regular she was here. She’s sitting at a table, holding a drink up to the camera, smiling wide, her teeth white against the bright red of her lips, her cheeks flushed, her tanned shoulders revealed in a strapless sundress. Suzanne Swann is sitting beside her, giving the camera a reserved smile, looking almost dowdy next to my beautiful mother. Mr. Swann sits on the other side of my mother, not beside his own wife. He smiles up at the camera as well, his hand on the back of my mother’s chair.

I take my phone out of my purse and snap a picture of the photo, then move along to study some more. There’s another one featuring my very photogenic mother. She’s in the arms of a man—who’s not my father—on the dance hall. She has one hand on the man’s shoulder and is using the other to blow a kiss at the camera, her lips puckered, her eyes bright.

“Whatcha looking at?” Ezra calls out as he makes his way toward me.