His eyes go wide in shock. “All right then.” He goes over to the desk, grabs his beer, and takes a sip. “I forgot how delicate you are, June.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and I can’t tell if he’s mad or not. He goes to the door and pulls it open. “Ladies first.” I grab my beer and move to leave, but he quickly steps in front of me. “I said ladies first.” He steps through the door, and I burst out laughing.

There’s something quite beautiful about the decomposing resort. The way nature has grown up around it, the sense of being suspended in time between the past and present, the silence and solitude of a place that used to buzz with activity.

Ezra shows me to the main lodge. There are still rocking chairs lined up on the verandah. The white paint of the building peels off in long, dripping curls, and piles of leaves have collected up against the main door.

We go to the boathouse, where boats still sit above the water in their lifts, their insides nesting grounds for animals and birds. A shadow moves from one boat slip to the next—a beaver that’s built its dam in the corner of the long building. Ezra says he’s been there for years.

We check on the golf clubhouse, which is still stocked with golf clubs and golf balls even though the greens are grown over. A lineup of golf carts sit at the side of the building, their batteries dead from years without a charge.

“It’s all such a waste,” I say, as we make our way toward the dance hall. “Why didn’t they at least sell things off or give them away?”

“Who knows,” Ezra says flatly, taking a swig of his beer.

I throw one hand up. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“People with money are weird.”

It’s hard not to feel as though my family is being lumped into the group. “You mean, like having a family cottage but telling everyone it’s been sold and then nobody goes to it for almost thirty years?”

He gives a quick nod. “Yes. Exactly like that.” I can’t help but laugh. “As weird as it may be,” he says, his tone serious, “I’m glad that your mother didn’t end up selling it and you came back.”

“Me too,” I answer, emotion making my voice low and gruff. I clear it away. I consider telling him about my visit with Leslie Swann, about the $50,000 and my mother refusing to sell Avril Island, about her visit back after my father disappeared, but something stops me. Maybe the hardwired sense to protect my mother, maybe shame.