That slight bit of contact opens up a well of longing for them. I wish they were here with me now, enjoying a cinnamon bun and listening to me reminisce about my summers. They wouldn’t even have a point of reference for my experiences up here. The thought makes my heart ache.

Leo and I used to take them on vacation every year—some exotic places, lots of beach houses, a few cabins in the woods—but the locale was ever changing. They never grew summer roots that called them back every year to a second home the way May and I did.

A piercing hate for my mother pushes through my heart like an overgrown thorn. If she hadn’t kept Avril Island a secret, I could have been bringing the girls here all along. They would have made their own memories, built right on top of my own so that together we’d have made a lake lineage. Instead this whole world will feel foreign to them. They were robbed, but fortunately they will never know the value of what could have been. Only I do.

The bitterness turns the coffee rancid with my next sip. I push away from the table, gather my purse, and leave the last bit of cinnamon bun along with a puddle of coffee in the mug.

A very basic grocery store has swallowed the general store that used to be here. There’s a greater selection, but it comes at a high price. I wheel my shrunken shopping cart up and down the narrow aisles, choosing only the necessities. I have no idea what state the place will be in when I get there, so I get lots of canned soup and tuna.

Will I be able to get the water running? Will the refrigerator even work anymore? Will there be hydro? Each question that surfaces erodes my confidence and raises my level of anxiety. The stupidity of this mission slowly dawns on me. If May were here, it would be an adventure. On my own it’s just naïve and lonely.

I turn down an aisle of wine. The sight cheers me just enough to keep me going. I envision sitting on the dock with a nice glass of red, watching the sunset. Who needs food and water and hydro when you’ve got wine and sunsets? If May were here, she’d scold me for my careless attitude. But she’s not, which makes me load three bottles of red and three bottles of white into my cart.

When I arrive back at the marina, my mother’s boat sits bobbing on the soft waves, the sun bouncing off its clean white bow. The turquoise leather interior has remained in perfect condition, no cracking, no staining or mold. I’m amazed at how well it’s been preserved.