Page 12 of Fate Fiction

Sue brushed my hair away from my face and cupped my cheek in her hand. “Your mom called me up, she was all worried you’d do something extreme. I promised her I’d keep an eye on you,” she replied with a wink, then squeezed my shoulder.

This “worry” was a clear exaggeration on my mother’s part, but one I’d overlook.

I pulled myself away from her and took in the scene surrounding us, preserved in time like a snowglobe.

I could paint it from memory with my eyes shut. Eight identical little cabins spread across a small rocky beach with Sue and Randy’s modest home and attached dining hall directly in the middle. Beyond the beach there was nothing but mountains, woods, and the sparkling blue lake for miles. The red dock that served as the camp’s namesake stretched out onto the water.

“You’ll be down in the first cabin there,” Sue gestured to the first of the small cabins nestled next to the expansive woods. I breathed a sigh of relief. I would be tucked away from the rest of the camp and not be sandwiched in between young families with screaming kids or rowdy fishermen.

“By the way, Dan, we only have one other guest here this week,” Sue spoke offhandedly.

I turned to her in surprise. “Only one? I know the beginning of the season is quiet but it’s never been that quiet.”

She shrugged. “Some hotshot celebrity from New York. Said he needed to guarantee privacy so he booked every cabin.”

That was new. Red Dock Lake Camps didn’t exactly show up on Google when searching for wilderness retreats in northern Maine. People found it through word of mouth or were repeat vacationers who stayed every year.

I can’t imagine someone stumbling upon this place randomly, let alone deciding to book the entire camp out sight unseen. An image flashed through my mind of a sunglasses-wearing asshole descending upon camp with his crew of equally obnoxious buddies complaining about the bugs and lack of air conditioning and low thread count sheets like a bunch of valley-accented parasites.

“I called him when you said you were needing a getaway and he said that you staying here while he did wouldn’t be a problem,” Sue continued. “I promised him that you wouldn’t be a bother.” She narrowed her eyes at me like I would somehow manage to ruin this guy’s trip.

I barked out a laugh. “I definitely won’t be.”

If anything I’d need to seek out privacy from him and whoever he dragged along with him. I was excellent at being invisible, I could go the entire week without him and his posse knowing I was even here.

My plan was to spend my days swimming, hiking, reading, and writing. All solo.

“By the way, can I charge my laptop in your house from time to time? I’m not working, I promise, just wanting to write a bit.”

She didn’t know what my writing entailed these days, but from the glimmer in her eye she remembered the days when I’d lay on the dock feverishly scribbling something down in one of my notebooks. “Of course, lovebug, pop in whenever you need.” Sue said with a smile. “Dinner’s at six.” She spun on a heel and waltzed back into her office.

I turned to my car to grab the few things I’d packed. I wasn’t entirely sure what I had brought, most of my packing was done in a feverish haste from sheer excitement. My laptop and notebooks were high priority, everything else was secondary. I was mostly sure I had enough clothes to last the week.

The familiar scent of the oil used to treat the logs, pine-scented cleaner, and line-dried linens encased me when I stepped into the small log cabin. The space was smaller than my first terrible studio apartment post-college, with enough room for one or two people to almost sleep comfortably. Almost.

When Nick and I shared a cabin we couldn’t do anything without being on top of one another. It could be romantic for some, claustrophobia-inducing for others. For us it was typically the latter.

The makeshift bedroom was separated from the rest of the cabin with a curtain and held a full-sized bed and a few rudimentary shelves for storage. A modest kitchen and table with a wood stove tucked in the corner filled the rest of the square footage. I flopped on the bed and took it all in.

The cabins weren’t designed to spend any lengthy amount of time in, the screened in porch was the main feature here. The view was what you came for, and the rustic cabin would fade away into the background the longer you stared at the picturesque lake. Even laying down on the bed I could look straight out the front door at the water.

A breeze danced over me as I laid on the mattress, taking it all in. The curtains blew about like happy little ghosts. Unpacking could wait until tonight, I wanted to waste no time enjoying the half day of solitude. I jogged down to shore to go for a paddle and grabbed the first lifejacket and kayak I saw, not checking to see if they were the right size.

With each stroke of the paddle fresh air pumped into my lungs and icy droplets of lake water splashed onto my skin. When my arms grew tired I turned the boat around and looked at the shoreline behind me.

From halfway down the lake the camp was diorama-sized. The cabins looked like they were made of popsicle sticks, and my car was a Hot Wheels toy. Out here all that existed was me, the fiberglass kayak, and the surrounding water. This bubble would be all I’d need to focus on this week, anything outside of it didn’t matter.

I carefully slid my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the view. This was the moment that kicked off the rest of my life. I’d write a good chunk of this book, I’d get my groove back, and I’d go back to Boston a new woman. The plan was so clear, so easy, and I’d refuse to let anything derail it.

After dinner with Sue and Randy—an event where I was peppered with questions about what was new in myself while awkwardly dancing around the elephant in the room named Nick—I made my first attempt to write.

The gas lamps were lit, a mug of coffee was cooling beside me. I put on my comfiest sweats and flexed my fingers, willing them to plot out something brilliant.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Nothing. My brain had short-circuited. My cursor flashed at me. Mocking me.

I groaned, burying my head in my hands. “Ice on the Turret” had been so easy to write, the words flowed out of me without even trying. I’d be driving or walking somewhere and come up with a complete paragraph out of the blue and have to drop everything to write it down in my notes app. It felt like I was writing against my own will.

Why was it so much harder now? I had the framework, all I needed to do was tear down the siding and rebuild it into something slightly different that didn’t resemble anything related to Sword of Thorndown.