But before I could get my hand out the window to introduce myself, he got back into his car and drove down the paved service road, waving for me to follow. His coarseness stung, but I followed as requested, though I took my time, driving extra-slowly past the hard tennis courts, cracked and faded, their nets full of holes; grass ones choked to oblivion by tall, thin weeds; broken picnic tables and sun-battered wooden chairs; an upturned lifeboat roped to a fir tree; then the endless black lake with its huge, shabby restaurant on our right, and several slightly cleaner-looking outbuildings with metal signs that read ARTS AND CRAFTS, SPORTS, and THEATRE embedded into the hill—leftovers from the days when this resort was a kind of summer camp for rich WASPs. A few rusty single-speed bicycles were scattered here and there, and a metal rack near the beach held kayaks and canoes.

I didn’t see people anywhere.

This place was supposed to be full of life.

The contrast between the photos I’d mentally hoarded over the years and this empty retreat was surreal.

Had I dreamed it?

We turned down yet another road, into a long cul-de-sac of small, modernist cabins lining the lakeshore. There were twenty or so, about half an acre of yard around each one. The ones on my right were beachfront. The others nestled into the forest.

Every bungalow was impeccably restored, little sharp-angled modernist dreamscapes, a veritable Donald Judd Disneyland. Some had clean cedar siding, in varying ages and shades of gray. Others were painted exquisite shades of yellow—I spotted mustard seed, marigold, dandelion, pineapple, and ocher. All were trimmed with dark lines, blue-blacks like avocado peel and military navy. Their gutters were copper, and the fixtures on their doors and windows were brass.

Tyler parked on the beachfront side. As I pulled in behind him, the view of my soon-to-be house obstructed by a gigantic, overgrown honeysuckle shrub hanging off a chain-link fence, I felt a surge of happiness. I was certain that the beach houses were better than the forest houses, and I was flattered. Every morning, I could wake up and swim, if I wanted. I could sit on the beach and read every night.

Tyler hopped out and waved for me to follow him. Number nineteen, according to the enameled-metal number pinned to a stake at the edge of the lawn, was the last on the beachside row.

“Ty,” the girl purred. “I need to take a call. We have to go.”

He turned around and winked at her, then disappeared on the other side of the fence.

I followed, turning past the fence and into the carport, and at first—I was confused.