JEFF HAD misgivings right up until he turned into the driveway and the water of the Sound surrounded him on three sides—a solid, grounded, gorgeous blue, with the sky above it bright and clear. This close to the shore, the trees were sparse and the claustrophobia of the rest of the park didn’t encroach. The air tasted like relief.
It was probably a good thing he was mostly there for the scenery, because the cabin wasn’t much to look at—a solidly constructed square log A-frame, with a wooden porch along the front and a steel chimney out the back. Lots of windows for natural light, and a stack of firewood that’d last him ’til Doomsday. He parked the truck in a carport that also housed a bearproof garbage box and a huge plastic bin for gravel. With a little luck, he wouldn’t need that in the next few months.
There was still time for everything to go spectacularly wrong, obviously. Case in point, bear box. Jeff sat in his truck with the windows down, cut the engine, and listened as the waves crashed against the rocks and Gord Downie told some unknown person to shut up about poets.
It didn’t feel real yet—no hotels, no bandmates, no studio time, no practice, no interviews. This far out into the middle of nowhere, he might not even run into anyone who knew his name.
Well, not if he hadn’t grown up here.
As the song faded out, a green park-ranger vehicle pulled in next to him and Jeff opened the door and got out to meet the driver. She was a young woman, midtwenties, with pin-straight dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and an easy smile. “You must be Mr. Pine?”
God, Mr. Pine. She didn’t recognize him. He couldn’t place her either. He’d probably been a few years ahead of her at school, if she’d grown up here. “Just Jeff,” he corrected. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
They shook hands. “Kara. And it’s all part of the service.”
She showed him around the cabin—a single room with a bed, table and chairs, and a kitchenette with a wood-burning stove set against the wall that led to the bathroom, presumably to keep it toasty in the winter.
God, Jeff could imagine staying there through the winter. His balls tried to crawl up into his body at the mere thought.
“GPS can get a little spotty,” Kara warned as they made their way back to the cars. “What with the tree cover. Cell signal’s only so-so. You probably won’t get much data either. I’ve got a couple extra maps in the truck if you want.”
Jeff smiled. “I think I remember my way around. Thanks, though.” Sure, they’d probably changed things since he was fifteen, but where were they going to move the grocery? Willow Sound wasn’t that big.
“Oh, are you from here?” Kara leaned back against the ranger vehicle.
He’d opened himself up for that one. “Ah, sort of.” He shrugged. “We moved away when I was a teenager. I haven’t been back.”
Mercifully, she didn’t ask him about it. Thank God, because he had no idea what he’d have said. It’s complicated? It was actually just sad and kind of pathetic.
“All right. Well, I get the impression things don’t change too fast around here.” She pursed her lips around a smile in an obvious tease. “At least judging by how much people are still grumbling about the Tim Hortons that went in ten years ago.”
Jeff barked a laugh. “Some things will never change. Small towns’ resistance to change being one of them.”
“So you’ve definitely been here before.” Grinning, she reached into the truck and pulled out a park pamphlet. “You probably got one of these at the gate, but just in case.” She turned it over and pulled a pen from her ranger cap. “Not saying the solitary life won’t suit you, but if you feel like you need some company, there’s a pretty good set of programs—learn to fly fish, identify plants and animal signs. There’s a stargazing one, and if you’re going to be around in August, you should definitely come to that because the meteor shower puts on a good show every year. And of course there’s campfire night.”
She handed him the pamphlet.
“Campfire night,” Jeff repeated, the corners of his mouth turning up. “What, I don’t look like I can build my own?” He wasn’t offended; he wasn’t exactly a hulking guy. He’d never quite made it to five ten, and his T-shirt was too loose to show off his arms.
“Nah, that’s not it.” Her brown skin flushed just perceptibly, and she shook her head. “It’s more… campfire safety, an introduction to park wildlife, and then s’mores and camp songs.” The flush deepened. “It’s very popular with kids and people who are attracted to men.”
Translation—the ranger who ran it was a hotass. Jeff smiled. “Well, who doesn’t like s’mores.”
She grinned back. “I’m off duty at six, so I won’t be there, but tell me about it later if you decide to go. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you if you’re here all summer.”
“I’m sure I’ll get into some kind of trouble,” Jeff agreed. “Nice meeting you.”
She gave him a lazy salute and then climbed into the truck. Jeff watched it rumble away.
Then, absent anything else to do, he unloaded his stuff.
He didn’t have much. Most of his things were in his condo in Toronto; he didn’t need ten guitars out here. He’d brought two—his favorite electric Gibson Les Paul, a solid blue body he’d fallen in love with in a music store in Salzburg, and a battered old Seagull acoustic, his first love.
The cabin would be cramped enough with the three of them.
On top of that, he had a bag of clothes and toiletries, his laptop, and a heavy spiral-coiled notebook and three packs of pens. Pens were tricky; the moment you turned your back, they did some kind of battle royale until two days later you were down to one solitary ballpoint, and the cap was missing. He probably hadn’t brought enough.
He definitely hadn’t brought enough food. Or, you know, any.
And he should rectify that. One, because as confident as he was in his daytime navigation skills, all bets were off once the sun went down, and two, because if he wanted to check out Ranger Hot Stuff’s sing-along, he needed to get going.
Any minute now. His stomach was grumbling. The clock was ticking. Jeff’s feet were not moving him any closer to the truck. Instead they deposited him at the kitchen table, where he set his elbows against the scarred surface and dropped his head in his hands.
It had been almost fifteen years since he’d set foot in Willow Sound, but he wasn’t afraid to find out it had changed. The conversation with Kara had put paid to that.
No, Jeff was more concerned that it would be exactly the same, Tim Hortons or no, that he’d walk down the street and be able to tell where he was by the cracked sidewalk under his feet or how strong the smell of hot oil from Shinny’s was. He was afraid to go downtown and have people recognize him as Jeff Pine, frontman of Howl, and equally afraid they’d see Jeff Pine, the gawky fifteen-year-old who’d fled and never come back. He was afraid he’d recognize someone and equally afraid he’d meet no one but strangers.
And if he ran into Carter—
No, that’s stupid. Willow Sound was small, but not so small Jeff had to have an anxiety attack about the possibility of running into his former best friend in the grocery. At least not on the first day. He didn’t even know if Carter still lived here. He’d probably left for college. Lots of people never came back.
Jeff hadn’t, until now.
Finally his stomach growled, deciding for him. He needed dinner and provisions for tomorrow morning at the very least. After those needs were met, he could schedule time for self-pity.
So resolved, he picked his new keys up off the counter and headed for the door.
WILLOW SOUND might’ve had a coat of paint or two, but the landmarks were still there. Jeff pulled into the criminally tiny parking lot shared by the grocery and LCBO and found a spot. It felt strange to drive here; he hadn’t had a license before they moved. Now he knew why his dad always complained about that stoplight. In fifteen years, they hadn’t fixed the timing?
He didn’t realize he was sitting in his car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, until someone laughed outside and he jerked himself out of it. Too many memories of waiting in this parking lot for Carter to finish his shift at the grocery so they could swim or fish or hang out in Carter’s basement and watch MTV. Jeff hadn’t considered this complication. It wasn’t like he could avoid the grocery store.
He hoped Carter didn’t still work here. That would be awkward.
As he picked up a tiny cart near the entrance, he cataloged the differences—unlike the exterior, the inside of the store had had a facelift, and it was bright and pleasant. Jeff picked up as much fresh food as he thought he could cram into the cabin’s minifridge and a great deal more shelf-stable stuff for those inevitable days when he sank headfirst into his guitar and didn’t come up until midnight. He wished the cabin had a freezer, but mac and cheese in a box would have to do.
Small-town shopping had one thing going for it—expediency. The whole took Jeff twenty minutes through the aisles, without a single person asking for his autograph. He was just thinking he might escape unnoticed when he caught the cover of Hello, which the cashier had propped open against her till while she waited between customers. Jeff’s own face happened to grace this issue, a particularly unflattering shot of him leaving the label’s downtown office, freckles standing out too dark against pale cheeks and his dark curly hair mussed from the number of times he’d pulled at it in frustration. He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, for which Jeff credited caffeine, because it had been closer to a week.
He was debating whether to abandon his cart and make a run for it when a familiar voice said, “Georgia White! Is this the work ethic I inspired?” and the cashier scrambled upright, fumbling with the magazine. Her eyes caught on the speaker and she blanched.
“Ohmygosh, Mrs. Halloran. You scared me.” Georgia (apparently) glanced at Jeff, then back at Mrs. Halloran, then doubled back to Jeff.
Awkwardly, Jeff turned to Mrs. Halloran as well—only to find he recognized the face as well as the voice. Mind you, last time he’d seen her he’d been looking from a different angle.
He smiled. “Hey, Mrs. H.” Never would he have guessed his geriatric fourth grade teacher would be the first familiar face he saw in town.
“That’s ‘hello,’ Jeffrey. I know I taught you proper manners.” But her brown eyes danced; she had always loved gently giving her students a hard time. “Georgia, dear, those groceries aren’t going to ring themselves up.”
Georgia flushed. “Right. Sorry, Mrs. Halloran.”
“It’s good to see you back around these parts,” she told Jeff sincerely. “Did you buy property out this way?”
He shook his head. He’d considered it, but what if things didn’t turn out the way he thought? What would he do with it if he was on the road all the time? Cottages needed upkeep.
“Just renting for now.” He didn’t dare say where, with Georgia listening, and thankfully Mrs. H didn’t ask. Jeff didn’t know how to explain that the park, the Sound, felt like the place he needed to be, even if he’d had to bend a few rules to make it happen.
“Well, it’s good to see you,” she said warmly. “Though, if I can make one request? Maybe next album, at least one song I don’t have to give someone detention for singing in my class?”
He felt the tips of his ears go hot. Georgia was paying very close attention to Jeff’s selection of lunch meat. “Oh, well, I can’t promise that.” Especially since he didn’t know if there’d even be another album. “But I’ll try.”
Mrs. H patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Jeffy. Your mom would be proud.”
Shit, there it was. The first of many shoes he’d been waiting to drop. But he couldn’t begrudge Mrs. H, who had worked alongside his mom for close to twenty years. “Thanks, Mrs. H.”
She shook her head as Georgia timidly offered the total. “I think it’s probably safe for you to call me Linda.”
Jeff paid, signed the credit card slip with a pen like it was 2006, and gestured to the magazine.
Georgia squeaked. “Really?”
“If you promise to be this chill next time, absolutely.”
Thank God for Mrs. H.
Jeff signed the cover of the magazine, right under his own face, and Georgia looked at him with stars in her eyes as he left with his bags.
JEFF TUCKED the kitchen garbage into the bear box and secured it before he considered his next move. He knew he needed to be here, in the last place he’d felt close to his mother, that he needed to spend some time excavating himself from the strata of rock star and grief. But now that he was here, he didn’t feel ready. As much as he’d come up here for space, he didn’t actually enjoy being alone. He was a social creature. He drew on a crowd’s energy. Though he did sometimes get tired of putting on a show… maybe he’d be okay out here.
Maybe he could just be Jeff.
He knew it was overly optimistic when he packed the guitar into the truck, but he couldn’t help it.
The sun was setting when he pulled into the lot near what the park welcome pamphlet called the “amphitheater.” From the truck, Jeff could see it was just rows of backless wooden benches around an unusually large fire pit, which was already crackling. This early in the season, there weren’t many campers to entertain—a handful of retirees, one younger couple, and a pair in their thirties with kids too young to be in school.
He hung back, feeling like the lone goth kid at a Hannah Montana concert. There was an odd number of retirees, though they still made an obvious group.
But he wanted a s’more, dammit, and a chance to play guitar for someone. He hadn’t played solo since high school and he needed to decide if he was going to keep doing it if everything went further to shit.
Also he wanted to meet Ranger Hotass.
So resolved, Jeff hefted his guitar case out of the back seat and schlepped it to the amphitheater. He chose a seat all the way to the left, in the second row, where he could keep the guitar case out of sight. On the far side of the pit from him a table had been set up with the necessities—a cooler of water, a fire extinguisher and first aid kit, and a giant bowl of marshmallows. Jeff could almost taste the burnt-sugar goodness.
He didn’t see Ranger Hotass. Was he early? That would be a first. He checked his phone. Nope. Ten minutes late. Well, Jeff had kept way more people waiting much longer, and they’d paid for the privilege. But he couldn’t sit still. Maybe he’d take a short walk and come back.
The amphitheater was far enough inland to be mostly sheltered from the breeze off the water. The pine and spruce stood inky green against the twilight sky, somehow friendly figures. Jeff wondered if he’d see any moose while he was up here. Deer, definitely. Maybe a porcupine? Hopefully not a skunk.
In his meandering circuit it was just the usual—a chatter of squirrels, a chipmunk darting across the road, a hawk circling overhead before Jeff lost it to the low light. One day soon he might have to admit he needed glasses. Depressing. He should get Lasik. Jeff couldn’t pull off the Rivers Cuomo look.
By the time he circled back to the fire, his guitar case was getting heavy and he’d broken out in goose bumps. He’d forgotten how chilly it could get on a May night up here.
The ranger had shown up while he was gone, and he was demonstrating proper use of a fire extinguisher as though people just had these at their campsites. Jeff couldn’t make out his features from this distance, not with the firelight behind him, but he could tell the man was tall and fit, broad-shouldered and blond, with longish hair that brushed just below his cheekbones. The Dudley Do-Right type. Jeff smiled and made for his previous spot as unobtrusively as possible as the lecture moved on to keeping the ground around the fire clear of tripping hazards like roasting sticks.
“Can anyone think of anything else you shouldn’t do around a campfire?”
This was obviously for the children’s benefit, as he turned toward them when he asked, revealing the long line of a Roman nose.
One of the kids’ hands shot up. Were all kids like that at that age, so eager for attention and approval? Jeff could hardly remember. He’d been an okay student before his mom got sick, so… maybe.
“Yes?” the ranger asked.
“Run?” the little girl said.
“Run!” the ranger echoed. “Yes, that’s a very important one. Good job. What’s your name?”
“Lennon.”
“Very good job, Lennon,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it—it was like an echo of a memory. Probably a flashback from childhood teachers—he’d been having them off and on since he ran into Mrs. H. “What do you say—is it time for s’mores?”
What self-respecting child was going to turn that down?
Jeff was debating how quickly he could get away with getting in line for a marshmallow and keep his respectability when a voice next to him said, “Are you going to play for us?”
Nope, just thought I’d lug around a heavy instrument for the exercise. Jeff bit down on the smartass remark. The last thing he needed was more bad publicity, and it wasn’t a question anyway, it was a conversation starter. He was glad he’d held his tongue when he looked up and saw a woman in her early seventies, lilac windbreaker zipped all the way up, Yeti wineglass in hand.
This lady had no fucks to give about what anyone thought of her, which automatically made her way cooler than Jeff.
“The flyer said there’s supposed to be singing, right?” he said. He hoped she didn’t recognize him. She wasn’t exactly his target demographic. “I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes—”
“Oh, no, you’re fine. Smokey isn’t fussed about the spotlight.”
Jeff’s lips twitched as he pulled the Seagull out of its case. “Smokey?”
She artificially deepened her voice and puffed out her chest. “Only you can prevent forest fires.” She smiled as she took a seat on the bench next to him and offered her hand. “I’m Gloria.”
Hell, Jeff could get away with using his own first name, right? “Nice to meet you, Gloria. I’m Jeff.”
He strummed a quick chord to check the tuning. The ranger was still with the kids, helping them and their parents load up marshmallow roasting sticks. Gloria jerked her head at the group of seniors, and they ambled closer. “Don’t suppose you know anything from my day?”
Jeff had cut his teeth—or his fingers, at least—on classic rock, sitting in the man cave in his best friend’s basement, concentrating on the shift of strings under his skin. “I know a couple.” He adjusted the high E, then checked again. Better. He plucked out an opening riff. “You know this one?”
The intro was quick—just ten seconds or so—and then it started in on the first verse. The words to “The Weight” bubbled up like something deeper than memory, like part of his DNA. It was one of the first songs he’d learned once his fingers were strong enough for a bar chord. It felt right singing it too—he’d just pulled in, and he was looking for a place to lay his head.
He looked up and caught Gloria’s eye at the chorus, and she came in on cue, so he cued in each of the others in turn. But before he could finish it, someone said, “Jeff?”
Jeff’s fingers stuttered on the strings and the melody died on his lips. He paused with his mouth halfway open, left hand still curved into a D chord, and looked up.
The man in the ranger uniform—the one whose body he had admired, whose voice had seemed familiar, stood in front of him, close enough to the firelight now that Jeff could make out his features.
Familiar features—square jaw, straight nose, smooth brow, shockingly pink mouth that had been the unwitting object of all Jeff’s early fantasies.
Returning now to taunt him at his second-lowest moment. Fuck Jeff’s life.
Oh shit, was he still staring? “Carter?”
Jesus, he looked—he looked like endless summer days outside, and it was like Jeff could see teenage Carter superimposed on this older, broader, even more absurdly handsome version. Which, inexplicably, had surfer-bro hair.
Gloria said, from lightyears away, “Oh, do you two know each other?”
“Yeah,” Jeff said, feeling shell-shocked, at the same time Carter said,
“No.”
Jeff inhaled sharply, feeling the denial like a knife slipped between his ribs. But before he could make an excuse and leave, Carter backtracked apologetically, “I mean, we used to, but I haven’t seen him in….” He trailed off, and everything somehow became more awkward.
It had been over a decade, but from his face, Jeff knew he was thinking about the last time they’d seen each other.
On second thought, remembering that day, maybe Jeff didn’t know Carter either. “Fifteen years,” he supplied. He felt like there was a band around his chest. That made Carter, what? Thirty-two? The years looked good on him.
The looking hurt, though. It brought home that they’d never talked, after. There was just that awful day, capped off with a good rub of salt in the wound, and then Jeff had run out and refused to speak to Carter, and a week later he and his dad moved. They’d never emailed, even when Jeff stopped being mad. At that point what could he have said? It wouldn’t have made a difference.
Maybe Gloria sensed the tension, because she cleared her throat. “Well, it’s nice that you have a chance to reconnect!”
Reconnect—God no. Jeff’s life was already a turtlefuck. The last thing he needed was to mix his childhood trauma with his adult problems. Why was this happening? Was this some sign from the cosmos? Go back to the city, kid. This place is for a you long dead.
Except he couldn’t escape the feeling that it was the cosmos that had brought him here in the first place.
“Right,” Jeff said, instead of disagreeing and running away. He picked out the introduction of the song again to refocus the attention. As long as he had his little stage and his guitar, he was in control. And control was just what he needed. “So—should we try that again? Maybe we’ll get through the whole chorus this time.”
A few of the retirees exchanged glances, and Jeff saw the younger couple whispering to each other over a cell phone and thought maybe his cover was blown. Especially when Gloria said, afterward, “You have a wonderful voice, Jeff. Has anyone ever told you you sound like that singer from—oh, what’s the band—they have that song ‘Ginsberg’?”
Jeff pasted on a smile and pointedly didn’t look at Carter, who was back with the kids, scooping melted marshmallow onto graham crackers. “Yeah, I’ve heard that a time or two.” He made a mental note not to play any Howl songs. That would only invite trouble.
Not that trouble had ever needed an invitation, he thought as he glanced across the fire. Carter hadn’t joined in on any of the songs, he just sat and listened. Jeff found it unnerving and spent longer than he should scrutinizing his song choices. Nothing too angry, too sad, too nostalgic.
Nothing that might give away the monstrous rending of his own heart.
Finally, after a good set, Jeff begged off. “I might be back next week,” he said to Lennon, who had been delighted with his half-assed version of “Let It Go.” “But I just got in this afternoon and I’m exhausted.” And he was. Full-on gritty eyes, heavy chest tired. “If you’re still here I’ll see you then, okay?”
Jeez. He was going to bed before a three-year-old. Guess I really do need this vacation.
He was extra careful navigating back to the cabin in the dark. Even with the headlights, it was challenging to see the turnoff. He might really have to look into glasses. Or stop driving at night.
There was no use dwelling on any of it tonight. He put the truck in Park under the carport and was halfway into the cottage before he realized he never got his marshmallow.
Fucking Carter. That guy ruined everything.