One
Jonas
Pine boughs scraped against the windows of the forty-five-foot tour bus as it crept along the last half mile of the dirt road. By the time the driver came to a stop outside the Nest Lake Lodge, I was already on my feet. And when the door swung open, I jumped out to taste the Maine air.
This was the moment of truth. I inhaled deeply, taking in the summery scent of lake water and lilacs.
Yes! It still smelled the same. That was a good sign.
Slowly, others began to trickle off the bus behind me. First came Quinn, our drummer. She stretched her legs without comment. But then Nixon, our lead guitar, stepped down and began to laugh. “No shit, man. Really? We drove a hundred miles out of our way for this?”
“Hey! Trust me.” I smiled at my two best friends. “Nest Lake is magic.” At least it had been once upon a time. And that was why we were here. This detour was supposed to help me remember the last time I’d been truly happy. Before I wrote another album, I needed to convince myself that happiness wasn’t impossible.
“Christ.” Nixon pulled his T-shirt down over his tattooed abs. “Where’s the bar? Where are the women?”
I took a moment to examine my oldest friend, and I didn’t like what I saw. A pale, tired face with dark circles under the eyes. ’Twas the season to worry about Nixon.
Most people looked forward to the summertime, but not him. Summer was when Quinn and I watched Nix for signs of a breakdown. From June till September—usually in the midst of a grueling tour—Nixon would trade his beer for whiskey. He would sleep too much and brood too long.
It was only Memorial Day Weekend, and already the man looked hollow. Not good.
I put a hand on Nixon’s shoulder. “Think of this as a couple of days off, okay? There’s nothing here but trees and the lake. You can thank me later.”
He eyed the lodge’s low-slung roofline with suspicion. “Have we fallen on hard times? Should I be worried?”
They both stared at me, but I didn’t give a damn. “Forty-eight hours,” I told them. “No TV, no cell phone service. Just put on a pair of trunks and jump in the lake.”
“Shit, I lost my suit in Toronto,” Nixon complained. “That sick night in the hot tub with those triplets? I’m lucky I still have both of my balls. Things got hairy.”
“Enough about your hairy balls,” I quipped. “No suit, no problem. Jump in naked. Or read in the hammock. When the weekend is over, you’re going to beg me to stay.”
Nix twitched, and then slapped at his neck. “Mosquitoes? Fuck. This is going to be the longest two days of my life.”
I’d already begun to walk away, but I turned around to say one more thing to my two best friends. “Listen, team. I wrote seven of the songs off Summer Nights about a half a mile from where you’re standing. If it weren’t for this lake, the words ‘one-hit wonder’ would appear in each of our Wikipedia entries. So quit bitching about my favorite place in the world.”
At that, I turned away. Walking toward the lake, I spotted two canoes parked on the bank, with life jackets and paddles at the ready. I walked past these and out onto the lodge’s private dock. The green scent of Maine was strong on the breeze.
“I only have one beef with Maine,” said a voice from behind me. “But it’s legit.”
I didn’t need to turn around to identify the speaker. Our tour manager—and my good friend—was the only one who could cast such a huge, bald, muscular shadow on the dock boards. “What’s that, Ethan?”
“There aren’t any other black dudes in Maine.”
I chuckled. “I’ll give you that. But it’s just a visit. We aren’t moving in.”
“Color me relieved. You need anything? I’m going inside to divvy up the rooms.”
“I’m good. Really good, actually.”
“Glad to hear it. Dinner’s at seven.”
An hour later, I convinced Quinn to row across the lake with me. “You don’t even have to row. I’ll do all the work.”
“Hey, I’m game.” She picked up a paddle and strapped on a life vest.
She tried to hand me the other vest, but I held up a hand, refusing it. “The summer I was here, I swam across this lake most days.” I squinted against the glare off the water. “In the morning I’d write. And if I made some good progress, I’d swim and lie in the sun in the afternoon. Otherwise, it was back to the grind after lunch.”
“Sounds very disciplined,” Quinn said with a sigh. “Maybe I should try it.”
“Totally worked!”
Five years ago I’d used that summer to regain control of my life. Secluding myself in the woods had served a couple of purposes. First, it got me away from the crazy Seattle scene. Then, with no distractions and nothing to occupy myself in my room at the tiny bed and breakfast but my favorite acoustic guitar and several empty notebooks, I’d finally written the band’s overdue album.
Not only had that album eventually gone double platinum, I’d had the best summer of my life. Because for once, I’d proved to myself that I could get the job done. I didn’t have to be just another blip on the music scene—a chump who got lucky with two hit songs before fading into oblivion. I didn’t have to be a fuckup. Not all the time, anyway.
Now I steadied the canoe at the edge of the water. “Hop in,” I instructed. “You sit up front.”
After Quinn was settled on the seat, I shoved off, then stepped carefully into the rear of the boat. Sitting down, I dug my paddle into the water and headed toward the western shore and the tiny town of Nest Lake. After only a few minutes of paddling, the little public dock and the B&B where I’d rented a room that summer came into view.
It had all happened right here. The narrow door at the back of Mrs. Wetzle’s house had been my private entrance. After a day spent writing, I used to slip on my flip-flops and shuffle down to the dock for a swim. On the Fourth of July, I’d gone skinny-dipping here with my only Nest Lake friend.
Just remembering that night made my chest ache. No wonder songwriters made so much of summertime memories. If I closed my eyes, I could still conjure the potent, warm air and bright stars.
And beautiful Kira. She was the best part of that memory.
“Turn around so I can get undressed,” Kira had said that night, her fingers poised on the hem of her T-shirt. I remembered precisely how she’d looked, her cheeks pink from embarrassment, her sweet curves framed against the dusky sky.
Even though I’d been sorely tempted to peek, I’d turned around, obeying her request. Kira was gorgeous in the same way that Maine was—fresh and unspoiled. But she’d been off limits. It had been a rare instance of me staying “just friends” with a girl. And staying “just friends” had been another of my summertime goals.
At the time, I was freshly dumped by my supermodel girlfriend. We’d had the worst kind of pathological relationship, and I’d needed to prove to myself that I could go twelve weeks without relying on a hookup to feel better.
I’d almost succeeded.
Funny, but now I couldn’t even picture that ex-girlfriend’s face. But Kira’s was seared into my memory. Her tanned legs and sunny energy had tempted me from the minute I’d blown into town.