I’m not as nervous this time because at least I’ve already been through it once. Loon Lake opens in June, since there’s usually still snow up here in May, and even the people who hard-core need to get away from the news for a while aren’t ready to do it in snow boots. The cabins are heated, and have fireplaces for more than decoration, but then Jonathan grumbles about the residents who set the thermostat too high or go through too much wood.
He’s off picking up a late arrival, but most of the others trickle in for dinner. In June Truman was here to tell me they’re more scared of me than I am of them, but he’s off today. This group seems a lot like the last as far as that goes, though: the timid wildlife.
Edgar’s first, with the curls and the smile most people would know anywhere, and he opts for the takeaway containers so he can pile things in, grab a drink—nonalcoholic—and skedaddle out the door before anyone else comes in. Valid. It’s easy enough to assume that he of all people came here to get away from being seen, so I smile when he glances my way but don’t come out from behind the desk.
They really shouldn’t need me much right now. It’s easy to see where the dining room is, with enough chairs for everyone around various small tables in case they want to stay, but also that option of takeaway container over plate because they certainly don’t have to. Lydia cooks things off their lists of likes and dislikes—seriously, she has a whole spreadsheet—and there are the freezers with frozen meals if anyone wants one of those instead, plus the microwave here, and in the kitchenette parts of the cabins.
My cabin looks exactly like one of the resident cabins, except I’m on the woods side of the path instead of the lake side. I’ve got my coffee pot and my little fridge and single cupboard, just like they do. The lodge is even open around the clock in case they realize at midnight that they want a frozen burrito. Someone’s always at the desk or taking the radio if they have to go out to a cabin. I don’t think Lydia needs more than two hours of sleep a night.
Henry and Jane come in together, talking cautiously about the weather probably because they came out of their cabins at the same time and it would have been more awkward to walk in silence. Jane grabs a takeaway container first, and either Henry was already planning on it or he decides to go with the flow because he does, too. Unlike Edgar, they each examine the beverages in the alcohol cooler and help themselves rather than sticking to pop. Then they’re gone, but not before I see the way Henry—tall, blonde, casually fit—looks at petite, dark-haired Jane,
Agatha opens the door like a rabbit sniffing for predators and doesn’t smile back when I smile first. My dad would say she’s got Spanish eyes, and she looks like she’s sulking not just in her face but the way she moves. One takeaway container for Agatha, check, and she practically glares at Percy when he opens the door, realizes she’s on her way out, and holds it for her.
Percy’s half of our only pair this month, but Mary isn’t with him. He’s dressed so out-of-place for the region: khakis, loafers, even a tie around his neck, and I don’t know how expensive his haircut is, but it’s possible he paid even more than Edgar. He grins at me with some very white teeth and comes to the desk instead of heading to the dining room, leaning on the high edge. “My wife, uh. Mary.” He chuckles to show how ridiculous the whole pseudonym thing is. “She’s not feeling well. Wondering if you have a heating pad.”
I tuck my bookmark into my book and get up. “We’ve got heating pads and hot water bottles.”
“Heating pad would be great. It’s the, uh.” His smile loses a little of its sparkle. “PMS, you know.”
I nod and go to one of the closets where there are three heating pads, neatly stacked. At least we’ve got electricity here. Imagine trying to make it through a whole summer with candles and all the mod cons circa 1850. “Do you want a bag? If you’re taking dinner back, too.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah.” He starts like maybe he wasn’t planning on grabbing food, even though it’s all laid out and everything.
It’s the first day. Everything’s new and weird, and I don’t think he’s from anywhere around here. We don’t ask, and even if he told me something, I wouldn’t necessarily believe it, but the Shelleys feel big city to me.
I tuck the heating pad into a reusable shopping bag and try not to watch him as he goes into the dining room, but he’s focused on making one large leafy salad and one meat-and-potatoes, so it’s not like he’s going to complain. He puts the boxes in his bag, making sure they’re mostly level, before adding napkins and silverware and pausing at the drinks before selecting one large bottle of Evian and a six-pack of beer. He even nods at me on his way out.
We’ve only got one other guest coming and nobody’s asked me for anything but the heating pad, so I go ahead and make myself a plate. Lydia’s a good cook. It’s a turkey dinner tonight, not a full Thanksgiving spread but plenty of options all the same, so I make myself a side salad instead of Percy’s enormous dinner salad and go for white meat, mashed potatoes, and cornbread. I take it back to the desk instead of to one of the tables so I don’t have to run for the phone in case anyone calls, even though the dining area has the view of the lake. It’s still beautiful, even after almost six weeks, but I’m on call. I’m not a guest.
Really, I lucked out. I couldn’t have afforded this place. The prices are justified, since it’s room and board with everyone at your beck and call, plus the upkeep, and the propane, and the generators. Lydia has a whole list of people to call if anyone backs out or decides to go home early. No matter how desperately I needed to get away, I couldn’t have rustled up the funds. I’m lucky Lydia saw my application and accepted it, and being on-call for long hours is worth it because I get what the rest of them do: a break from the headlines. A place where only a select few can reach me.
Except, unlike the residents, I get weekends. Not real weekends. Truman has Mondays and Tuesdays off, and I have Thursdays and Fridays. Plus I’m never on call overnight. It’s just 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. for me, when I’m awake, anyway, and all that means is I have to be here in the lodge, where the food and books are. Thank God there haven’t been any emergencies, and the last group kept mainly to themselves, doing the whole communing with nature while going through cell phone withdrawal thing.
Honestly, I thought it would be worse: more drinking and more fights, maybe. Loon Lake isn’t billed as a screen detox facility, but that’s basically how it functions. When you agree to come up here, you’re saying you’ll leave your cell phone behind. You know there isn’t any signal up here, anyway, and no Internet. I guess I thought more residents would have trouble with it, but I also didn’t really expect the sorts of people Lydia and Jonathan attract.
The people who come here aren’t screen addicts being forced to break their habit because of familial concern. They’re all people who just want to freaking get away from the world for a while.
I know exactly how they feel.
Rebecca Frost 