Chapter 2.

2.

At seven-thirty I got up and made the bottom bunk, then showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Waiting on the island was a warm platter of fresh-baked breakfast treats—muffins, bagels, scones, cinnamon rolls, and lots of odd-shaped pastries that I couldn’t put a name to, plus bowls of oatmeal and yogurt and a massive urn of hot coffee. Clearly someone had entered our cottage to prepare the feast, but they’d completed their work in utter silence.

I fixed myself a coffee and filled a plate with carbs and then carried everything outside to the front porch. My sister was sitting in a rocking chair, dressed in a white Osprey Cove robe and slippers, watching mist rise from the lake with a mug of hot tea in her lap. “Good morning, little brother! How did you sleep?”

I didn’t see the point in complaining, so I just slumped into the empty chair beside her. “Fine, you?”

“Best rest I’ve had in thirty years. I slept like Rip Van Winkle. It must be the fresh air. Or the sounds of the lake? The lapping of the waves on the shore. Soooo relaxing. I didn’t even turn on my sound machine!”

She was in an exceptionally good mood. In all her life, Tammy said, she’d never awakened to a delicious breakfast prepared just for her. As she savored every bite of her chocolate croissant, she told me all about her conversation with Errol Gardner, whom she’d met during dinner the previous evening. “I’ll be honest with you, Frankie. I was a little intimidated about meeting him. Since he’s so rich, I thought he might be uppity. But you know what? That man came to our table and he brought me a glass of white wine and a Shirley Temple for little Abby, and we must have talked for half an hour. Such a genuine and compassionate human being. Do you know he even promised to teach Abigail how to water-ski? There’s three hundred Ivy Leaguers at this party and here’s Errol Gardner making time to help a foster kid. That goes a long way in my book, do you know what I’m saying?”

I set my coffee on an end table and agreed that Errol was very generous. “Last night, he offered to find me some company.”

“What kind of company?”

“Female company.”

My sister was delighted. “I bet he knows some nice widows.”

“Or prostitutes. One or the other.”

She started choking on her chamomile tea. “Oh, Frankie, please! Did he actually use the word prostitute ?”

“He said companion . But I could pick her age and hair color and body shape. Like I was ordering off a menu. It was really weird. And the whole time, Gerry’s right next to us with his eighteen-year-old bride. God only knows how those two found each other.”

“Errol just wants to know your type. I can talk to him on your behalf. I think I know what you’re looking for.”

“No, Tammy. Do not talk to Errol on my behalf. I don’t want a companion for this weekend. I want to spend time with Maggie and Aidan and Aidan’s family. That’s it.”

She let it drop, and I spent several moments simply appreciating the incredible view. The lake stretched out before us, placid and still in the quiet early morning. I spotted an osprey in flight, sweeping down to the water and skimming its talons along the surface; an instant later it was soaring skyward with a fish in its clutches. Then I turned my attention to my breakfast—a warm fresh-baked croissant, tiny round quiches with bacon and mushroom, a bowl of Maine blueberries in fresh sweet cream—and found my mood improving with every bite. Everything tasted fantastic and the coffee was sublime, and my sister shivered and sighed in blissful contentment, overwhelmed by the natural beauty.

Then the screen door creaked open and Abigail shuffled outside, dressed in her blue alien pajamas and clawing the side of her head.

Tammy said, “Good morning, potato bug!” and the little girl just groaned. “How did you sleep?”

Abigail scrunched up her face like she was constipated. “I’m all itchy, Miss Tammy.”

“Really? Worse than yesterday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right, honey, do me a favor. Go inside and get a towel. And bring the mayo from the fridge. And a rubber spatula. The kind you use to ice a cake. Do you know what I mean?”

Abigail nodded and disappeared inside the house and I glared at my sister. She waved off my concern. “It’s probably just dry skin. Don’t mind us. Go watch the birds or something.”

There was a pair of binoculars on the front porch so that guests could sit in their rocking chairs and marvel over all the magnificent waterfowl. But Abigail’s arrival ruined everything. She squirmed and fussed and groaned as Tammy worked the mayonnaise into her scalp, and all the birds flew off in search of peace and quiet. The smell was awful, like stinky, sweaty feet in polyester socks. I reached for the jar to check the expiration date.

“Tammy, this went bad in November.”

She shrugged. “If these lice die from salmonella, it’s all the same to me.” Finished, she wrapped the bath towel around Abigail’s neck so the condiment wouldn’t drip on her pajamas. “These little buggers can hold their breath for an hour, so you need to leave this on until nine-thirty.”

And with that, I realized I was late and stood up. “I have to go. I’m meeting Maggie for a canoe ride.”

Abigail’s eyes went wide. “Can I come with?”

Tammy shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“No, no, no,” I told her. “You should stay here and eat your breakfast.”

“Frankie, she really wants to canoe,” Tammy explained. “She was asking all day yesterday.”

I promised Abigail that I would take her in the afternoon, if there was enough time. And she looked disappointed and so did my sister, but you understand my point of view, right? I was already sleeping in a baby bed and eating chicken cutlets that fell on the grass, and I refused to sacrifice the most important thing, which was quality time with my daughter. I didn’t want Abigail coming between us and stinking up the whole boat.

“You could take her yourself,” I reminded Tammy. “They’ve got a dozen canoes. Anyone can borrow them.”

“I have no idea how to drive a canoe! I’d be scared to death.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail said. “I’ll just stay here and read my book.”

She shuffled back inside the cabin and my sister shot me a look of grave disappointment, but I refused to feel guilty about it. I set off down the path and followed the shore of the lake until I was back at the beach. The sand was littered with traces of the previous night’s revelry: forgotten towels, empty glass tumblers, someone’s bright yellow bikini bottoms, and lots of botched s’mores teeming with little black ants. The mess looked out of place in Osprey Cove, but there was already a trio of landscapers moving across the lawn and collecting the trash with long metal tongs.

I found Maggie standing near the shore, dressed in a 5K charity run T-shirt and khaki shorts. She held two insulated thermos cups full of coffee and passed one to me. “Milk and two sugars,” she said, and I was so touched by this simple gesture, touched that she’d remembered my order and taken the time to think of me. Of course, I didn’t know how I was supposed to canoe with hot coffee, but Maggie explained that modern canoes came with cupholders now, just like everything else in the world.

We grabbed a canoe and flipped it upright, only to discover it was full of daddy longlegs. I used a paddle to run them off and then together we pushed the nose of the boat into the lake. “I’ll steer,” Maggie offered. “I know where we’re going.”

I took my paddle and my coffee and settled into the front seat. My daughter pushed us off and then gracefully vaulted into the back seat without getting a drop of water on herself. She explained that our destination was Cormorant Point, a rocky ridge about a mile west of the cove. “We’re going to hike up there for lunch, but I thought you’d enjoy seeing it from the water.”

I still remembered Gwendolyn’s instructions—how she’d told me to stay behind when everyone walked to the cliffs. “Are you and Aidan going?”

“Yes, everyone’s going.”

“Even Aidan’s mother?”

I wish I could have seen Maggie’s reaction, but I was facing the wrong way. “Well, no, Dad, obviously Catherine can’t go. She’s in no shape for a hike.”

“How’s she feeling this morning?”

“I don’t know. I’m staying in Hummingbird. All the way on the other side of camp. I haven’t been to the lodge since yesterday.”

“So we’re just going to leave her alone all day? That doesn’t seem right. This is your mother-in-law.”

We’d already traveled about a hundred yards from shore when Maggie angled her paddle, spinning us into a ninety-degree turn. Then we resumed our paddling so we were following the shoreline. “Catherine doesn’t mind. There’s a nurse in the house who looks after her. Keeps her company and makes sure she has everything she needs.”

I was tempted to ask why her nurse didn’t answer my knocking last night but decided against telling that story. I knew Maggie would just get upset.

“I’d be happy to stay home and have lunch with Catherine,” I said. “If she’s feeling better, and she’s ready to have visitors. I can stay with her and keep her spirits up.”

“Dad, that is really sweet of you, but I know how Catherine is and I know she will want you to do the hike. She’ll feel bad if you’re stuck in the house with her. She doesn’t like to burden people.”

I remembered Gwendolyn’s words from the previous evening: If you still haven’t met Catherine Gardner, then you don’t know anything.

But how much did my daughter know?

And why was she being so evasive?

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring Abigail,” Maggie said. “She told me she wanted to go canoeing. She could have taken the middle seat.”

“Her head lice came back. Tammy’s putting mayonnaise on it.”

“Seriously? That’s just an old wives’ tale. Mayonnaise isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Your aunt swears by it.”

“That girl needs a doctor. When we get back to camp, I’ll call the clinic in town. I’m sure they can send someone over.”

“No, Maggie. You’ve already got a million things on your plate. I’ve barely seen you since I got here. You don’t need any more responsibilities.”

“Dad, why are you yelling?”

I didn’t realize I was yelling. I lowered my voice and tried to explain myself in a calm, measured tone: “This weekend is about family, Maggie. After we drive home on Sunday, Abigail will go back to her mother—or some other foster parent—and we are never going to see her again. Thirty years from now, you’ll be looking through your wedding photos and you won’t even remember her name. You’ll be like: Who the hell is this kid? What’s she doing at my wedding?”

She laughed. “You’re probably right, but I’m calling the clinic anyway. Someone will hurry right over.”

You never hear about doctors making house calls anymore, but I guessed if you were in the Gardner family, you could pick up a phone and ask for anything you wanted. You could specify an age and hair color and body type and magically conjure up a female companion, like a genie summoned from a lamp.

We paddled along and Maggie enjoyed playing tour guide. She directed my attention to various landmarks around the lake, such as a small decommissioned lighthouse and a property that once belonged to Jimmy Stewart. I could tell she was proud of the camp and excited to show it off, that she already felt an ownership of the place.

Cormorant Point was a rocky gray cliff that jutted out from shore. Apart from being the tallest point on the water, there was nothing especially notable about it. A couple of early risers were already milling around the top, leaning against the safety railing while snapping selfies on their phones. Maggie explained that the top of the cliff was a fifty-minute walk from Osprey Lodge, just enough of a climb to work up an appetite. The caterers would have lunch and refreshments waiting when we arrived.

And then I realized that Maggie was already turning the boat around, as if our morning excursion was complete and now it was time to turn back. We’d been on the water for scarcely twenty minutes and there were still so many things I wanted to ask her about. We’d wasted all our time talking about Abigail and Jimmy Stewart’s relatives.

“Maggie, listen to me. How are you feeling?”

“I feel great.”

“I mean, about the wedding.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Not at all. I’m excited.”

“How about Aidan? Is he nervous?”

“Aidan’s fine.”

“I didn’t see him last night.”

“Me, neither.” I thought she might elaborate on this point, but she just kept paddling.

“Gerry said he was upstairs with his mother?”

“That sounds right.”

“But you don’t know? You haven’t seen him?”

“He’s staying in the lodge. I haven’t seen him since dinner.”

She said this all very matter-of-factly, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “So you went skinny-dipping with all your friends and never saw him last night? Not even to say good night to each other?”

She laughed. “Dad, we’re not like you and Mom. Aidan and I aren’t joined at the hip. We’re very independent people. We have different interests and friends. And Aidan’s an introvert. He’s an artist. He needs a lot of downtime. If you try to smother him, he’ll resent you.”

I could feel her paddling faster, putting more muscle into each stroke, like she was suddenly racing to get us back to dry land.

“I’m not trying to smother him, Maggie. I’d just like to talk to the kid. Understand what makes him tick.”

“You talked for an hour yesterday! Errol said you guys were all drinking bourbon together. Doesn’t that count?”

“We were with his father and the family attorney. Because I brought the photograph of Aidan and Dawn Taggart. They said it was photoshopped.”

“It must have been,” she said. “Aidan never brought her here.”

Once again I wished I’d kept a copy. “It looked pretty real to me.”

“Which is the point,” Maggie explained. “It’s supposed to look real. But these days you can’t trust your own eyes anymore.”

In the distance, I could see the side of the Gardners’ boathouse slowly gliding into view. We were almost back at the camp, and I didn’t want to end our outing on a sour note. We passed a few cottages on shore and I recognized the front of Blackbird. Tammy waved to us from her rocking chair on the porch and we both waved back. There was no sign of Abigail, though.

After another minute or so we found ourselves approaching the L-shaped dock. Osprey Lodge came into view and the main lawn was full of people; it seemed like all the guests had come outside to welcome our return. Or maybe they’d been roused from sleep by a fire alarm; many were still dressed in their pajamas and slippers and Osprey Cove bathrobes, like they’d hurried outside on short notice. I asked Maggie if there was some kind of group breakfast and she said, “No, no, this is weird. Something’s not right.”

Errol Gardner and Gerry Levinson were on the beach conferring with Hugo. Two of the security guards were standing knee-deep in the lake and wading toward us. Hugo spotted our canoe and then waved both arms toward the boathouse. “Stay out of the cove, please! Tie up on the dock!”

The sun had risen over Osprey Lodge, and I had to squint through my fingers just to orient myself; I couldn’t tell what was happening. Maggie dug in with her paddle, spinning us around in a 180-degree turn, and then a cloud moved in front of the sun, allowing me a clearer look at the shore. The two men in the water were now waist-deep and advancing toward a large object floating just below the surface. I stared until it assumed a kind of form and its parts came into focus: slender bare legs, an open white robe, long red hair.