Page 16 of Buried in the Woods Below

“You’re too kind.”

Mom and I plop onto the pristine white seats at the back of the Chris-Craft. Eric opens a cooler and pulls out two frosty lowball glasses and a metal shaker. He shoots me a mischievous grin and hands each of us a glass.

“What is this?” my mom says.

“It’s bootleg mix. I thought I’d introduce Charlotte to Minnesota’s official summer drink.”

He gives the mix a quick shake and pours a cloudy drink dashed with mint leaves into each of our glasses.

I take a sip. It’s sweet but not too sweet, with a whisper of mint and something else I can’t put my finger on. “Wow. This is phenomenal. What’s in it?”

“You can make it a couple of different ways. The world-famous Eric Parker bootleg recipe is vodka, gin, a dash of simple syrup, frozen limeade and lemonade, soda water, and chopped mint.”

My mom takes a drink and claps. “Well done, Eric. I haven’t imbibed a bootleg for years.”

He bows. “Well, you know what they say. Never take a boat ride empty-handed.” He slaps a mosquito on his muscled forearm. I catch a small smear of blood from the crushed bug. “Okay, we’d better hightail it out of here before the mosquitoes feast.”

“Sail away, captain,” says my mom as she leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. The wine from dinner has clearly kicked in.

“Charlotte, can you do me a favor and untie the rope and give us a push?”

I follow the captain’s order, and a second later we drive into the sunset. The motor purrs, and I turn to watch the boat cut a gentle path across the dark water.

While my mom “rests her eyes,” I sidle up into the seat next to the captain’s chair. The wind whips stray hairs across my cheeks as the boat surges forward. I soak in the moment—lake spray kissing my skin, the crisp air filling my lungs, sharp and clean. The shoreline blurs past in a kaleidoscope of emerald trees, deep-blue waves, and a sunburnt streak of orange sky. For a breathless instant, everything else falls away.

I watch Eric’s hands on the boat’s controls—calm, confident, like he’s done this a thousand times. The wind ruffles his hair just enough to stir something old in me. I can’t believe I’m looking at him again.

When I was a kid, I used to imagine he was my dad. He had a warm, magnetic presence that made everything steadier. But it didn’t stay innocent for long. Pretty soon, I was scribbling Charlotte Parker in loopy cursive and bubble letters all over the margins of my journal.

We will be together someday, I wrote.

I just know it.

It’s destiny.

God. The delusion only a twelve-year-old could craft with absolute certainty.

Whenever Olivia invited me over, I’d drift through their house in a fog, stealing glances at him like I was under some kind of twisted spell. And when she caught me staring, she’d wrinkle her nose and shake her head. Seriously? My dad? Ew.

“Thanks again for doing this, Charlotte,” says Eric over the rumble of the motor. “I’ve found myself thinking a lot lately about when you and Olivia were kids. The fun times we had. It’ll be really nice to catch up.” I notice his eyes welling. I never realized Eric was such a softie.

I nod, wondering if Olivia feels the same way.

He clears his throat and smiles. “And selfishly, I don’t mind having a little extra help with the twins once Laelynn heads to the Boundary Waters.”

I sip my bootleg. “It’s my pleasure. Thanks for hosting me. Full disclosure: I’ve never babysat in my life, so I don’t know how helpful I’ll be, but I’ll do my best.”

“You mean they haven’t made childcare part of the management consulting curriculum yet?” He winks.

“Not yet. Though if you need to calculate the return on investment of your kids, I’m your woman.”

“Oh, God. That’s a big negative number I never want to see.” We both laugh. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’ve got a few tricks I could teach you if you’d like.”

The wind kicks up, and I pull my hair back into a ponytail. “Really? No time like the present. Give me a crash course.”

“Rule number one: Anything they don’t want to do, blame the government.”

I choke mid-sip and start coughing. “I’m sorry, what?”