Midsummer Fling - Abby Knox Page 0,1

the fish and wildlife service? I could be overthinking it.

Mom would probably scoff at the idea; it’s so cheesy. But the more I think about it, the more I completely fall in love with the possibility of bringing her with me for one last trip.

When I go home that day to pack my bags, I stop at the fireplace mantel, which houses a collection of knickknacks and artifacts from all of us housemates, including one or two pet memorials and an art project or three—and rub my hand over the scrolled wooden box that has a tiny brass plaque on it with her name, date of birth and date of death. “Beloved mother, friend, and wife.”

She was so much more than those things, but she was most proud of those labels.

“Guess what, Jean?” I say to the box. “You’re coming with me on vacation.”

Chapter 2

Josh

This must be what an injured pelican flopping in the water feels like, with nowhere to go as two ships barrel toward it, one from each direction.

The two ships are the owners of the cabin that I’ve rented for two weeks this summer, who seem to have gotten their wires crossed over my reservation.

“I wrote his reservation down in the logbook right here, Matthew. Look.” The co-owner, Gretchen, shows Matthew her spiral notebook while Matthew is looking on, slightly exasperated.

“Babe, I don’t know what to tell you. I followed proper procedure and entered the Reeve reservations into the system via the spreadsheet after her card was approved through the vacation rental app. We talked about the need to do this.”

“We did talk about it,” Gretchen replies sweetly, “but I hadn’t had time to enter this gentleman’s information into the system before the time stamp on your email. I took the phone call in the middle of checking in other guests.”

“Sweetheart, I told you, you have to come find me when you’re overwhelmed,” the husband replies.

I look from the husband to the wife. “But this is why you put it in the physical book if you take a reservation online, even if you put it in the spreadsheet, or I might not see it,” she’s telling him. “So I’ll see it on paper.”

“Digital information supersedes a phone conversation,” Matthew says.

I don’t know what this husband is expecting, but he’s not going to win this argument.

The only real problem I see here is I don’t have the key to my room yet. I’ve been driving all morning from downstate to get here, and I should be on the lake with a fish on my line by now. This domestic misunderstanding is eating into my two weeks’ vacation of fishing, eating, and drinking beer while staring into a campfire, sleeping, waking up, and starting all over again.

I plan on only one break in that routine: On Friday, I’m going to tour the locks up in Sault Ste. Marie. The locks on the Saint Mary’s River connect Lake Huron to Lake Superior, and every year, the US Army Corps of Engineers opens up the locks to the public for tours. It’s one of my favorite nerdy activities and I look forward to it every year.

How nerdy am I? I am a frequent reader of BoatNerdgasm.com, which reports on all the freighter ships passing through the locks every day, and I have memorized the names of every ship and its country of origin. So pretty fuckin’ nerdy.

But right now, I just want the keys to my cabin. And instead, I’m stuck in a loopy game of spousal conflict.

Gretchen taps a pencil to her chin and finally shrugs. “I’ll have to call around town and see if anyone has any openings for the lady,” she says to her husband.

A knot of guilt twists in my gut. Call me old-fashioned, but the knowledge that it’s a woman who’s getting the shaft makes me feel worse. I mean, I’m not giving up my cabin, but I’ll feel bad about it.

“I’ll have my key now,” I say, holding out my open hand.

Gretchen smiles apologetically for the delay as she opens a desk drawer to find my key.

Matthew’s stern façade is crumbling. “My love, this is why I showed you how to use a spreadsheet.”

She pouts at him. “And I asked you to check the physical book instead of doing everything automatically online.”

Matthew rubs his temples. “Why do you refuse to join the digital age? You’re like a feral mermaid.”

The tone in his voice is suggestive, and it sort of makes me feel dirty, like I