“In fact, I wished I could un-read it.” She paused. “Except not, because it was fucking fantastic.”
She said that last bit as if against her will. Jack was chuffed. Forsome reason, praise from Allie meant more than the gushing reviews he had received from the literary establishment. But he didn’t know how to gracefully receive such praise, so he turned the conversation back to the cabin. “Has the place been renovated? Does it still have the wood-paneled walls?”
“Not renovated. I’ve done some work on the outside, but inside, it’s still 1977. I spent years trying to get Dad to do a remodel, but now that it’s within my power, I don’t know, I guess I feel like getting rid of the ugly-ass linoleum and the creepy muskies mounted on the wall would be like getting rid of him.” She scoffed. “I know that’s dumb.”
“No, it’s not.” Mr. Jensen had been similar to Jack’s dad in some ways, with his love of fishing, his gruff exterior, and his tendency to prefer that kids entertain themselves, but in others—most notably the affection he lavished on Allie—quite the opposite.
“So if Blair Kellermoon—you’re going to have to tell me how you went from dickbag to location scout for her—wants a fancy place, she’s going to have to look elsewhere.”
“No, she definitely wants 1977 with wood paneling.”
“Then she’s welcome anytime.”
Jack found himself wanting to say more. “Look, Iama dickbag. I know I’ve done a terrible job keeping in touch, but the old adage applies: it isn’t you, it’s me.”
“Oh, I know that.”
He chuckled. That was a very Allie-esque comment, and he was happy to hear the edge was gone from her voice.
“And,” she added, “to the extent that you are a dickbag, you come by it honestly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like father, like son.”
He didn’t like that assessment. He didn’t like it at all. Not that he didn’t agree that his dad could be abrasive. He wouldn’t haveused the worddickbag, but he could understand why someone else might. But that he might have those same traits was an unpleasant thought with which to contend. So he decided not to. “So can I give her your number?”
“Can you give Blair Kellermoon my number? Yes. Yes, you can.”
Jack:I found a place that might work. I’m going to send some pictures.
He forwarded Blair the shots Allie had sent him, the shots that had him feeling disconcertingly nostalgic.
Jack had spent a lot of time at the Jensen house as a kid, sometimes with his dad but mostly just with Allie. He used to canoe over, especially when his dad was holed up working.
The pictures made memories surface: The Formica table at which they’d played board games. The fish mounted on the wall and the stories Mr. Jensen used to tell about conquering them.
Blair:I wasn’t expecting you to find the specific place, but this looks pretty great.
Jack:If this particular spot isn’t a winner, places like it are a dime a dozen. I just happen to know the owner of this one.
Jack:And hey, if you end up using it, you can pay me a finder’s fee.
Blair:I totally can.
Jack:I was kidding.
Blair:I can, though. You’ve basically done the preliminary scouting. It’s the kind of thing I would pay someone to do.
Jack:No, no. I turned my book in. I’m good.
Although his agent was hounding him for a new proposal. If he wanted to keep going as a novelist, he needed a new book. Something he had been avoiding thinking about, telling himself it was reasonable to take a break. But it was mid-April now. He’d had a month to take a break.
Blair:Are you sure?
Jack:Yes. Let’s call it a favor for a friend.
Blair:Are we friends?
