“Whoa!” you say, laughing. Tom can’t help but grin too, even though he lets it slide quickly from his face.

I watch all of this without moving. I’m still sitting, feeling the rock of the boat, the gentle swaying, the up and down, and the occasional knock as it bumps the dock.

“We’ll head inside,” Tom says. “You take your time, Paul.”

You follow him along the wooden boards, looking over your shoulder twice to see if I’m coming. You seem nervous, skittish, ready to bolt. I recognize it, because that’s how I feel. This place is too familiar to feel strange, too long ago to feel like home.

I pull myself up onto the dock, and the firmness of the world under my feet feels comforting. The boat rocks up and down in the small waves, the rope going back and forth between slack and taut. I wipe my wet hands on my jeans and take a deep breath, breathing in that place. Up ahead, Tom opens the back door to the cabin, and the two of you disappear inside.

I walk slowly up the dock. The outside of the cabin has been recently stained so that the wood shines, and the glass in the oversized windows is so clean it’s almost invisible. The grounds around the cabin have been cleared, at least more than they used to be, and there’s a small patch of grass off to the side. I can’t see the lane from there, but I expect it’s been widened slightly and properly maintained. It seems Tom has become a very responsible adult. Perhaps having money makes that a little easier, if you can hire out the work you wouldn’t normally do yourself.

All in all, the place looks good. Well kept. Tidy. The dock feels firm, not flimsy at all. I slowly open the door.

I can see Tom has renovated inside. All in good taste, of course—nothing over the top. The countertops are a plain, beige granite, the appliances are all stainless steel, and the living room furniture is new. The floors are hardwood.

“What do you think of the place?” Tom asks, coming out of the hallway.

“Where’s Pearl?”

“Exploring.”

I smile. “It’s nice. You’ve done a great job on the place.”

He seems relieved. I get the feeling he cares more about my opinion of the cabin than my opinion of his huge, glorious house.

“We wanted to keep it sharp, Shirley and I. Nothing too fancy.”

“Did you ever stay here?”

“Not often. A handful of times. One of her cousins brought their family here for a week every year, and I had an uncle who used it as a writing getaway. Besides that, not much.” He pauses. “Every so often we’d find beer cans out on the dock. I guess the high school kids camped out here from time to time.”

“Sounds familiar,” I say, thinking back on our first summer fixing the place up. “You’ve done a better job of renovating than we did that summer.”