Once Upon a Summer
Prologue
Paige clung to the overturned canoe, but the wood was slimy, giving her little purchase. Wind-lashed waves crashed against her, trying to tear her away. The air was liquid with driving rain. Hard to breathe.
Blinding lightning ripped apart the inky sky. Thunder rumbled up from the depths of the lake with volcanic wrath.
She tried to shout Rebecca’s name, but the black, churning water swept over her.
And then she heard the hollow scrabbling of bony fingers digging at the canoe. Her mind screamed for Rebecca. She must be there, clinging to the other end or in the air bubble under the capsized boat. She couldn’t have drowned. Those skeletal fingers that reached from the angry waves were not hers.
She tried to scream again, but this time in terror as the flailing claws crept ever closer. Seaweed snaked around her legs, tugging tenaciously as she struggled against the insubstantial water. Down she drifted, ever farther from the surface, now calm and blue with reflected summer sky.
The girl with dead eyes standing among the swaying weeds reached for her.
1997
Chapter 1
“Now I feel like we’re heading through a portal into the past,” Brett jested as they bumped over a private road through towering woods along the last stretch to the resort. The sign at the entrance read Westwind Inn: Making holiday wishes come true since 1882. “I won’t be surprised if I see women in Victorian gowns.”
“You just might,” Paige said happily. “When we used to stay here, they had a weekly masquerade dance, if people wanted to dress up. And lots did! My parents kept some of the vintage clothes from the old cottage, so we always brought something to wear. I loved dressing like a flapper when I was a teen.”
She never thought she’d return to the lake or the inn, much as she had once loved it and still dreamt of it, usually with poignant pleasure. But the nightmare had returned.
And then she had read in the newspaper – just a small ad which she’d almost missed – that this was the last season for the renowned Westwind Inn.
It was time to come to terms with the past.
Although Paige had booked in for three weeks, Brett was only staying for one, and then rejoining her for long weekends. Unless something cropped up at work, which it often did.
“They actually seem to have a decent golf course,” he said, spying the close-cropped green turf through the thinning trees.
Paige clenched her hands tightly, almost afraid to catch her first glimpse of the place that had been the epitome of summer. But seeing its white clapboard siding and red roofs sent a thrill of pleasure through her.
The three-storey inn rambled lazily along a rise overlooking the lake. It had sprouted from a farmhouse with several additions, giving it a haphazard but welcoming look.
Manicured grounds and colourful gardens flowed around it. A dance pavilion perched on stilts over the lake at right angles to a long wharf and extensive boathouse complete with an enticing rooftop bar.
It was so unchanged that Paige almost burst with happiness. She now knew what people meant by that overwhelming emotion, that pounding of blood through the veins, the feeling of breathlessness, as if one’s heart actually ballooned with joy.
They walked in through the double-door entrance to the reception area, which had changed little since it was originally hand-crafted from local oak and pine. The scent of old wood with a whiff of lemony polish instantly took her back a decade and more.
Although she rarely acknowledged it, Paige had a “sensitivity” to atmosphere, perhaps even to people’s thoughts. She had vague premonitions, and strong feelings about certain places. There were old buildings that she could barely enter without feeling suffocating emotions - sadness, terror, revulsion.
But Westwind had always felt like being embraced by a warm hug.
The middle-aged woman at the front desk greeted them with a large and friendly smile. “Paige Latimer! How wonderful to see you again!”
“It’s good to be back, Louise. How’s the family?”
“Very well, thank you. We’ll have to catch up when you have a few minutes.”
“Absolutely! Louise, this is my husband, Brett Turner.”
“Welcome, Mr. Turner. We hope you enjoy your time here.” She had the reservation quickly to hand. “You have a one-bedroom cabin with two double beds . . .”
“Do you have any with a king bed?” Brett interrupted.
“Only in the Water’s Edge Suites, which have been fully booked for months, sir. For our cabins, we provide as many beds as possible for families. Yours can sleep six.”
Brett scowled.
“Paige is familiar with the drill, but I’ll run through it anyway. All your meals are included except Sunday lunch, which is our turnover day, when most of our guests depart. You can get burgers, sandwiches, salads, and such at our rooftop bar.”
She circled a little house on the grounds map, saying, “Yours is the very last at the north end of the property, on a narrow stretch of the beach where few venture, so it’s quite private. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“Thanks, but we can manage,” Paige responded before Brett could. “I can’t believe that this is Westwind’s last summer.” She could see that it needed a facelift, but nothing major that she could discern. “What’s going to happen to it?”
“It’s been sold to a developer from the city. He’s keeping this part - the original inn - but will completely renovate and winterize it. Everything else will be bulldozed to make way for townhouse condos and a recreation complex.”
“Now that does interest me,” Brett said.
“There’s a model of the development in one of our meeting rooms behind the lounge. And here’s a brochure, Mr. Turner.”
“Westwind Beach Club,” Brett read, taking a glossy promo booklet. It exuded money, class, exclusivity.
He was already reading as they walked out. “’Luxury villas starting at $325,000. New, world-class golf course.’ This definitely interests me! It would be a terrific investment. You could spend all summer here, babe. When you don’t want to use it, the management company rents the place and splits the profits with you. They’ll offer cross-country skiing on the golf course and skating on the lake in winter. You do wonder how these places have survived so long, only being open four or five months a year. Things are certainly looking up,” he added cheerfully.
She put her arm through his and said, “Great! Why don’t you drive over to our cabin, and I’ll walk?”
“Sure. We can check out the development later,” he agreed, looking at the property map as he walked off.
Paige was glad to be alone for a moment. She breathed deeply of the fresh, pine-scented air, and felt her soul nourished by the sight of the sparkling blue water, the rugged islands, and the busy waterfront activities. How could she have stayed away so long? She had expected to feel again the anguish and sorrow that had shrouded her departure. There was nothing but a sigh of sadness wafting across a thousand happy memories. Not enough to obliterate or negate them.
With childish glee, she strolled along the familiar, broad veranda that flowed around bays and wings with inviting bandshell corners and bump-outs furnished with wicker sofas and chairs set around small tables.
At the far end of the building, a flagstone path led her past shuffleboard players and the Lodge - a two-storey building added in the 1920s - past the free-form pool and hot tub, between the dozen tennis courts and the beach, where cheerful yellow-and-white sun shelters provided shade, and along the double-string of cabins that squatted near the water’s edge.
Brett was pulling into a small parking lot behind, and she went over to help him unload.
“We could have used a bellhop,” he muttered, looking askance at the pile of luggage they had to haul to the cabin.
“They’re needed in the main buildings, which don’t have elevators. And for the elderly and infirm,” Paige ribbed, grabbing his golf bag, and setting off for cabin #19 at the farthest end of the waterfront row. The cabins were well spaced and staggered so that each had a view of the lake. They were afforded privacy with screening shrubbery, interspersed with trees that offered shade in a cozy woodland nook.
She spotted it at the last moment, just as she shifted her heavy load and looked up at the three steps to the deck. It sat there belligerently.
Paige froze in terror, dropping the bag, but unable to move. She could almost feel it crawling over her, its legs probing and assaulting her skin, and shivered in revulsion. It was the size of a hand, its eight strong legs narrowing like talons, gripping the deck where it now hunched menacingly.
Paige clung to the overturned canoe, but the wood was slimy, giving her little purchase. Wind-lashed waves crashed against her, trying to tear her away. The air was liquid with driving rain. Hard to breathe.
Blinding lightning ripped apart the inky sky. Thunder rumbled up from the depths of the lake with volcanic wrath.
She tried to shout Rebecca’s name, but the black, churning water swept over her.
And then she heard the hollow scrabbling of bony fingers digging at the canoe. Her mind screamed for Rebecca. She must be there, clinging to the other end or in the air bubble under the capsized boat. She couldn’t have drowned. Those skeletal fingers that reached from the angry waves were not hers.
She tried to scream again, but this time in terror as the flailing claws crept ever closer. Seaweed snaked around her legs, tugging tenaciously as she struggled against the insubstantial water. Down she drifted, ever farther from the surface, now calm and blue with reflected summer sky.
The girl with dead eyes standing among the swaying weeds reached for her.
1997
Chapter 1
“Now I feel like we’re heading through a portal into the past,” Brett jested as they bumped over a private road through towering woods along the last stretch to the resort. The sign at the entrance read Westwind Inn: Making holiday wishes come true since 1882. “I won’t be surprised if I see women in Victorian gowns.”
“You just might,” Paige said happily. “When we used to stay here, they had a weekly masquerade dance, if people wanted to dress up. And lots did! My parents kept some of the vintage clothes from the old cottage, so we always brought something to wear. I loved dressing like a flapper when I was a teen.”
She never thought she’d return to the lake or the inn, much as she had once loved it and still dreamt of it, usually with poignant pleasure. But the nightmare had returned.
And then she had read in the newspaper – just a small ad which she’d almost missed – that this was the last season for the renowned Westwind Inn.
It was time to come to terms with the past.
Although Paige had booked in for three weeks, Brett was only staying for one, and then rejoining her for long weekends. Unless something cropped up at work, which it often did.
“They actually seem to have a decent golf course,” he said, spying the close-cropped green turf through the thinning trees.
Paige clenched her hands tightly, almost afraid to catch her first glimpse of the place that had been the epitome of summer. But seeing its white clapboard siding and red roofs sent a thrill of pleasure through her.
The three-storey inn rambled lazily along a rise overlooking the lake. It had sprouted from a farmhouse with several additions, giving it a haphazard but welcoming look.
Manicured grounds and colourful gardens flowed around it. A dance pavilion perched on stilts over the lake at right angles to a long wharf and extensive boathouse complete with an enticing rooftop bar.
It was so unchanged that Paige almost burst with happiness. She now knew what people meant by that overwhelming emotion, that pounding of blood through the veins, the feeling of breathlessness, as if one’s heart actually ballooned with joy.
They walked in through the double-door entrance to the reception area, which had changed little since it was originally hand-crafted from local oak and pine. The scent of old wood with a whiff of lemony polish instantly took her back a decade and more.
Although she rarely acknowledged it, Paige had a “sensitivity” to atmosphere, perhaps even to people’s thoughts. She had vague premonitions, and strong feelings about certain places. There were old buildings that she could barely enter without feeling suffocating emotions - sadness, terror, revulsion.
But Westwind had always felt like being embraced by a warm hug.
The middle-aged woman at the front desk greeted them with a large and friendly smile. “Paige Latimer! How wonderful to see you again!”
“It’s good to be back, Louise. How’s the family?”
“Very well, thank you. We’ll have to catch up when you have a few minutes.”
“Absolutely! Louise, this is my husband, Brett Turner.”
“Welcome, Mr. Turner. We hope you enjoy your time here.” She had the reservation quickly to hand. “You have a one-bedroom cabin with two double beds . . .”
“Do you have any with a king bed?” Brett interrupted.
“Only in the Water’s Edge Suites, which have been fully booked for months, sir. For our cabins, we provide as many beds as possible for families. Yours can sleep six.”
Brett scowled.
“Paige is familiar with the drill, but I’ll run through it anyway. All your meals are included except Sunday lunch, which is our turnover day, when most of our guests depart. You can get burgers, sandwiches, salads, and such at our rooftop bar.”
She circled a little house on the grounds map, saying, “Yours is the very last at the north end of the property, on a narrow stretch of the beach where few venture, so it’s quite private. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“Thanks, but we can manage,” Paige responded before Brett could. “I can’t believe that this is Westwind’s last summer.” She could see that it needed a facelift, but nothing major that she could discern. “What’s going to happen to it?”
“It’s been sold to a developer from the city. He’s keeping this part - the original inn - but will completely renovate and winterize it. Everything else will be bulldozed to make way for townhouse condos and a recreation complex.”
“Now that does interest me,” Brett said.
“There’s a model of the development in one of our meeting rooms behind the lounge. And here’s a brochure, Mr. Turner.”
“Westwind Beach Club,” Brett read, taking a glossy promo booklet. It exuded money, class, exclusivity.
He was already reading as they walked out. “’Luxury villas starting at $325,000. New, world-class golf course.’ This definitely interests me! It would be a terrific investment. You could spend all summer here, babe. When you don’t want to use it, the management company rents the place and splits the profits with you. They’ll offer cross-country skiing on the golf course and skating on the lake in winter. You do wonder how these places have survived so long, only being open four or five months a year. Things are certainly looking up,” he added cheerfully.
She put her arm through his and said, “Great! Why don’t you drive over to our cabin, and I’ll walk?”
“Sure. We can check out the development later,” he agreed, looking at the property map as he walked off.
Paige was glad to be alone for a moment. She breathed deeply of the fresh, pine-scented air, and felt her soul nourished by the sight of the sparkling blue water, the rugged islands, and the busy waterfront activities. How could she have stayed away so long? She had expected to feel again the anguish and sorrow that had shrouded her departure. There was nothing but a sigh of sadness wafting across a thousand happy memories. Not enough to obliterate or negate them.
With childish glee, she strolled along the familiar, broad veranda that flowed around bays and wings with inviting bandshell corners and bump-outs furnished with wicker sofas and chairs set around small tables.
At the far end of the building, a flagstone path led her past shuffleboard players and the Lodge - a two-storey building added in the 1920s - past the free-form pool and hot tub, between the dozen tennis courts and the beach, where cheerful yellow-and-white sun shelters provided shade, and along the double-string of cabins that squatted near the water’s edge.
Brett was pulling into a small parking lot behind, and she went over to help him unload.
“We could have used a bellhop,” he muttered, looking askance at the pile of luggage they had to haul to the cabin.
“They’re needed in the main buildings, which don’t have elevators. And for the elderly and infirm,” Paige ribbed, grabbing his golf bag, and setting off for cabin #19 at the farthest end of the waterfront row. The cabins were well spaced and staggered so that each had a view of the lake. They were afforded privacy with screening shrubbery, interspersed with trees that offered shade in a cozy woodland nook.
She spotted it at the last moment, just as she shifted her heavy load and looked up at the three steps to the deck. It sat there belligerently.
Paige froze in terror, dropping the bag, but unable to move. She could almost feel it crawling over her, its legs probing and assaulting her skin, and shivered in revulsion. It was the size of a hand, its eight strong legs narrowing like talons, gripping the deck where it now hunched menacingly.