Page 38 of What You Never Knew

“Good morning,” someone from the yard next door calls out. A large woman in a loose blue sundress is pruning a bush of white roses that sits right on the property line of her place and Ezra’s. She has short, gray hair that’s already damp with sweat and a wheezy sound to her breathing. “I’m Judy Bishop. Lived next to the Keens for fifty years.”

Not at all in the mood for small talk, I give a polite nod. “I’m June, a friend of Ezra’s.”

A spark of curiosity lights up her watery, gray eyes. “June Bennett? Is that really you, all grown up?”

My stomach drops, already afraid of what that recognition might bring.

“That’s right. From Avril Island.”

She takes a few steps closer, openly scrutinizing me. “I used to clean that place for your mom every couple of weeks. Do you remember me?”

There’s a vaguely familiar feeling to her, now that she says it, but I’d never have seen it on my own. She was thinner back then, and her hair was brown, not gray. “Yes, of course,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “How are you?”

“Oh, can’t complain,” she says, but I get the distinct feeling that she is the type to complain. “A few more gray hairs and aches and pains than the last time I saw you, but that’s just life, isn’t it? You sure have grown up,” she continues. “The spitting image of your mom, you are.” She tuts a couple of times. “Lucky girl.”

“Morning, Judy,” Ezra says, coming up behind me. I’m grateful for the interruption. “Your roses are looking great,” he tells her, causing her to beam with pride. He then turns to look at me. “We’d better get going.” I nod, feeling even more gratitude for the escape plan.

“Good to see you again, Judy,” I lie with a friendly wave.

“Will you be out long, Ezra?” Judy asks. “If you are, I’ll check in on Willa for you.”

“Thanks, Judy, but I’ll be back later today.”

She gives a nod and goes back to her rose pruning.

While untying the boat, Ezra explains that Judy helps him a lot with Willa. Whenever he has to go away, she goes in to make sure his mom eats something and gets to bed.

“She’s a bit of a busybody and total gossip, but she’s got a good heart,” he explains. “You know she used to clean your cottage?”

“She said that, but to be honest, I don’t really remember her.”

He gives a casual shrug. “Well sure, you were probably too busy enjoying the cottage to take much notice of your cleaning lady.” The comment feels like a dig, and I can’t help but wonder if the wealth of my family is a sore spot for him.

“Well, I took notice of your dad.”

Ezra nods in acknowledgment of that fact. “He actually got Judy that job.”

“So your family is close with Judy, then?” I ask.

“She and my mom have been best friends since grade school,” he explains. “Except now Judy’s more of a caretaker than a friend, really.”

“That must be tough,” I say.

“Yup” is his short reply before he turns the key in the ignition of the boat and the engine fires up, making further discussion difficult. Pulling away from the dock, he gives Judy one last wave as she stands on shore. The pruning shears dangle at her side as she watches the boat pull away.

The trip to town has made me appreciate my arrival back at Avril Island. It felt as though all eyes were on me and Ezra. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all, waving to everyone or calling out a friendly hello. He certainly seems to be popular around here. I, on the other hand, got only curious looks and what might be considered a few glares.

I take my time putting the groceries away, snacking as I do it. Ezra had to leave, saying he probably wouldn’t be back until tomorrow afternoon because of work and having to spend time with his mom. I was disappointed to see him go but am now forcing myself to enjoy the solitude, which I’ve never been very good at.

I go down to the shed by the lake and pull out the hammock that I noticed was in there when I was getting the dock chairs out the other day. There are hooks drilled into two trees not far from the shore where the hammock always went. It was May’s favorite spot; she could stay hidden in the folds of fabric but still observe people as they passed by on their way to the dock.

I give it a good shake and then string it up. The gentle swing of it makes my eyes heavy. I stare out at the soft ripples in the lake, sun bouncing off its surface, and try to resist, but it’s futile. The late night with Ezra, the dream about May, the trip into town—they all work like a sedative, and before I know it I’m in a deep sleep.

A loud boom wakes me with a start. The hammock is swinging as though someone has given it a push. Both hands clinging to the side, I lift my head, sure I’ll see a person there, but instead my view is dark-gray clouds rolling swiftly through the sky. Another crack of thunder splits through the quiet, followed by a powerful gust of wind. A storm is coming.

I tip out of the hammock and go to the dock, where I clumsily put the cover on the boat and then make sure it’s tied up tightly. As I’m walking up the path to the cottage, fat drops of rain begin to fall. Breaking into a run, I make it to the verandah right before the drops turn to sheets of driving rain.

It’s a typical cottage storm—my first one of the season. I watch as lightning flashes in the distance, connecting the sky to the lake with a bolt of electricity. The rain is so hard that in no time the path becomes a shallow river running down the gentle slope to the dock.