The Long Weekend

by Mimi Flood

  Now, as I skimmed through the list, seeing what needed to be done, and what my mother had already managed to accomplish by herself, I was only left with the minuscule task of calling a few of my grandmother’s friends. Still, something as simple as telling them when and where the party would be was turning into slow torture for me. Their grief, their fears at being next in line, their simple near-deafness, all made me feel more anxious and unsteady than I already had that day.

  Still, I pushed through, and as I hung up on the last guest, I let out a deep, cleansing breath. The air inside the house was stifling nonetheless. Despite my failed attempts at small talk, my mother seemed to be keeping her emotions and thoughts to herself.

  “Dad seems to be taking it reasonably well, all things considered,” I said once in between phone calls.

  “It seems that way,” she agreed, seeming unsure.

  “How about you, how are you doing?”

  “I’m alright, don’t worry about me,” she snapped, picking up the phone and dialling.

  I knew that was as much as she would say, at least to me. It was stupid of me to expect my normally tight-lipped mother to suddenly open up and share how she was feeling. Still, I kept trying, continually expecting a different outcome only to be disappointed.

  I decided to go for a walk, desperately needing some fresh air, to stretch my legs and to get away from the tension in the room. I headed down the steps toward the lake, crouching to dip my fingers into the still slightly frigid water. Seeing my father’s kayak parked on the beach, I decided to take it for a little ride. I paddled a few feet from the beach and let the gentle breeze do most of the work. It wouldn’t have taken long to paddle the lake’s entire circumference, but I wasn’t looking for exercise, just some alone time with my thoughts. Passing our neighbours homes, I wondered how many of them I would see over the weekend. I worried about the questions they would ask, the gossip that might start.

  My thoughts were interrupted when I found myself passing in front of a particular house. The people who lived there would definitely be at the wake, I thought, my gut clenching with nerves. The house, which stuck out from all the rest, had been slowly transformed over the years, but since I last visited my parents, the home had gone through some serious renovations. It was now so stunning, it could have easily graced the cover of Architectural Digest.

  Its entire lakefront had been landscaped into a true thing of beauty. A large, brick fire pit was surrounded by stone walls as if it was hidden in its own private nook. Zigzagging steps made their way up the grassy slope to the house, which was now utterly breathtaking. The lake-facing wall consisted solely of windows and the owners had added a second storey to the bungalow. Inside, was a large living room with an immense stone fireplace as its central focal point, and a modern, all-white kitchen.

  The Barretts, the family who lived there, had never seemed like the kind of people who would like that style of home. I began to wonder if maybe they had retired early and moved out, allowing the new owners to make these changes. Then again, maybe I was wrong. I hadn’t known them that well. It still didn’t make sense to me that David and Micheline Barrett would have turned their once boring but traditional bungalow into such an open and contemporary home.

  David Barrett, the father, was tall, handsome and had always been friendly with my parents, though never a close friend. His wife Micheline, was petite and blond and kept to her gardening. Though they had been quiet neighbours and kept mostly to themselves, they were always kind on the rare occasions where we had interacted. I remembered their daughter Valerie and how she had always seemed awkward and shy, and with three years between us, we had never become friends.

  And then there was Devon, their son. A small shiver went through me as his name popped in my head. Though I hadn’t seen him in a long time, every detail of him came back crystal clear in my mind.

  He was tall, had brown hair that was streaked with subtle hints of blond and had the most captivating green eyes. His skin was a delicious caramel colour, and even in the dead of winter, he somehow retained his summer complexion.

  Summers had been my favourite time of year because they gave me the opportunity to watch him swimming in the lake or playing football with his friends, oblivious of my affection. He was only a year older than me, but we had lived in absolute opposite universes. He was unbelievably gorgeous, popular and a jock. I had spent most days watching him from a distance, secretly pining for him, but had always been too shy to approach him. I kept to my quiet shell, focusing on my writing and other interests, all the while daydreaming that he and I could one day be more.

  My kayak slowed down as it approached the shore of the Barrett home, snapping me out of my daydream. I started to paddle away when a flicker of something in the top window caught my eye. The sun had started to set and the glare forced me to squint in order to see properly. I didn’t know why I was looking—I probably seemed like a peeping tom—but something kept me from looking away. Once my eyes adjusted, as if deciphering a hidden object in a 3D painting, I gasped.

  A man, with a toned and chiselled body, was standing at the window completely naked for the whole world to see. A part of me knew I should row away, but instead, I found myself frozen, watching, using my oar to keep me steady. I couldn’t deny that his body was hard not to look at. A feeling of familiarity came over me and my mind immediately flashed to Devon and his body.

  Could that be him?

  He seemed the right age, his skin did have that same, sun-kissed colour. The last I had heard, Devon had moved away a few years after I had and hadn’t been back since.

  No sooner did the thought pop into my head did the man look directly in my direction. I panicked, uncertain what to do. Surely he couldn’t see me, I reasoned. Why else would he be standing there if he knew someone was watching him? I was too far down to know for sure. His expression didn’t change so I assumed he was actually looking elsewhere and hadn’t spotted me. Relieved, I slowly began to manoeuvre the kayak around, back toward home.

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, as well as a little flustered, I walked up the hill, shaking my head in disbelief. I kept seeing the man’s features and wondering if it could have been Devon all grown up. The sun had prevented me from getting a good look at his face but his body, well, it was definitely a grown man’s body. The last time I had seen Devon shirtless he had been a teenager—albeit an incredibly muscular one. But then it occurred to me that Devon would now be thirty-one. If that was him in the window, did that mean he had returned to Frelighsburg? Was he now living with his parents?

  A million questions were running through my mind. My father was sitting on the veranda yet again, drinking a beer. Pulling up a chair beside him, he handed me a can from the small icebox he kept at his side. I thanked him and took a long, hearty swig. The fizz burned my nose and eyes, but I didn’t care. I needed to settle my nerves a little after what had just happened.

  “Nice ride?”

  “Nice, yes,” I replied shyly. We sat in silence, watching the still water, the soft breeze in the trees. This time, I was happy that my father wasn’t known for his conversation skills.

  “Dinner will be ready in thirty,” he informed me, breaking the silence. I stood to go get washed up, maybe take a cold shower to erase the image of the man next door, when my father added, “We’re having guests.”

  “Great,” I said, less than remotely excited to have to socialize.

  CHAPTER SIX

  From my room, where I had been hiding, skimming through old yearbooks that, as chance would have it, my parents had been kind enough to have kept, I heard the doorbell and reluctantly headed downstairs.

  My mom was already at the door, greeting the couple that stood there. Roger and Marie Longpré, long-time friends of my parents, were offering their condolences. I attempted to sneak by, but Roger spotted me before I could.

  “Elizabeth?” he asked, unable to hide his shock.

  I forced a smile as Marie took me into her
arms.

  “Look how much you’ve changed!” she said, her tone making it seem as if the last time she had seen me I had been in training bras and not just a few years. Uncomfortable with the attention, I cleared my throat.

  “Come, let’s not just stand here all night,” my mother said, leading everyone into the kitchen.

  I followed behind, already wishing this evening was over. Marie handed a bottle of red wine to my father who looked at it appraisingly.

  “Excellent choice, as always, Marie,” he said, smiling. Though Marie didn’t seem to take notice, I could tell he wasn’t being honest. Something about his demeanour seemed strange. I couldn’t be sure, but it felt like something other than his mother’s passing was bothering him.

  “You know me,” Marie bragged. “Ever the wine connoisseur.”

  While they began to wax poetic about different wines and vintages, I took advantage of the distraction, and, taking the utensils and napkins from the kitchen counter, made my way to the dining room to set the table.

  I had just finished rearranging things for the umpteenth time when I heard the doorbell ring yet again. I could hear my mother opening the door, kisses being exchanged, but I couldn’t recognize the voices. I stood by the table, uncomfortably reorganizing things that were perfectly fine, my way of dealing with my nerves, I assume, preparing myself for whomever else was about to come in.

  “And I’m sure you remember our daughter, Elizabeth?” I heard my mother say.

  She walked in with our newly arrived guests. Immediately, the blood rushed to my cheeks and my knees went weak. There, standing a few feet from me in my parents’ dining room was none other than the naked man I had seen earlier. Fortunately, now he was fully dressed in dark jeans paired with a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was tanned. In fact, it had retained that same familiar caramel colour. And his hair was golden-copper.

  Just as I had remembered.

  My stomach tensed and my knees shook as I struggled to come to grips with the thoughts competing within my head. I tried desperately not to imagine him naked, but it was proving to be impossible. Through my discomfort, though, I noticed the way he was looking at me with his piercing green eyes. They seemed to twinkle with their own recognition.

  “Hi,” he said, revealing the most beautiful smile, his voice deep and sensual.

  My brain took its time to accept the fact that the man I had seen naked was, in fact, my high school crush, Devon Barrett. My mouth wouldn’t cooperate. I stood motionless, completely aware of his extended hand but finding myself unable to move.

  “Elizabeth, where are your manners?” my mother snapped. “Forgive my daughter, she’s usually a hermit and isn’t used to speaking with people.”

  I looked at her, trying to hide my embarrassment with a grin. It had never ceased to amaze me how sometimes she could be so kind, and yet at others, she could be so rude. I had never admitted it to her, but it had always bothered me to no end when I was growing up. Especially when that rudeness was aimed at me, such as now.

  “Hi, I’m Valerie,” said the tall blond girl standing next to Devon, obviously sensing the tension between my mother and me.

  I shook her hand, finally finding control of my body. Valerie, Devon’s younger sister, had aged, obviously, since the last time I had seen her. She was no longer the scrawny teenager with braces but was now a strikingly beautiful twenty-something-year-old woman. She had silky blond hair that ran bone straight down to her lower back. Her skin was similar to that of a porcelain doll, showing barely any signs of the horrible acne she used to have. Her teeth, a glowing example of the successful years of brace-wearing, were straight and perfectly white. She had truly grown into a stunning woman.

  Standing next to her I soon felt very insecure about myself. My hair was up in a boring ponytail and I had barely put on any makeup. It wasn’t like I had known who our dinner guests would be. Along with black jeans and a plain, white t-shirt, my whole appearance felt entirely inferior compared to her.

  She held my hand reassuringly as if she could feel my discomfort. It felt like her amazing kindness was radiating through her and into me. I suddenly felt calm and happy.

  “Do you remember my brother, Devon?” she asked, reintroducing him. He smiled and extended his arm once more. This time, feeling more at ease—and especially not wanting to look like a complete moron—I accepted it. His grip was firm but his hand felt soft and warm, sending a small shiver through me.

  “I can’t help but think we’ve met before,” he said, giving me a small wink.

  My breath caught as I dropped his hand.

  “Must be from school,” I replied dismissively, turning away so that he wouldn’t see the embarrassment on my face.

  At that precise moment, I would have gladly welcomed a sinkhole beneath my feet. Instead, dinner was served.

  “Great, everyone’s here,” my father interrupted, walking into the dining room carrying a platter. “Let’s eat!”

  In an attempt to sit as far away from Devon as possible, I waited until everyone sat down. Inevitably, I ended up with the seat across from him. Better than being right next to him, I thought. However, as I sat down I realized he was still too close for my comfort. I told myself to simply avoid eye contact and to only speak to him if absolutely necessary. Soon enough, dinner would be over and I could retreat back to my room and try to forget any of this had ever happened.

  I ate in silence, only speaking when spoken to, which was not often. Luckily for me, my parents monopolized the conversation. Nonetheless, I could feel Devon constantly staring at me, making me feel incredibly uncomfortable. I accepted the fact that he had probably seen me looking through his window, but I also reminded myself that he was the one who had walked around naked for the whole world to see. Why wasn’t he the embarrassed one? To the contrary, he seemed completely unbothered. And what was more unsettling was the fact that this situation was making me so nervous.

  Still, as he continued to watch me, I became more and more aware that embarrassed was the last thing he was feeling. It felt as if he was challenging me to do something. To do what, I wasn’t sure. Was he planning on bringing it up or did he want me to say something about it? Was he daring me to make things awkward for him and I both? Was he trying to figure out just how much I had seen, or worse, was he looking for a sign of my interest?

  I couldn’t deny that seeing him after so many years, especially in the nude, had ignited many mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was taken back to my teenage years, when I had been completely infatuated with him—to a time when I had felt a rush when he looked at me and in those brief moments I believed there might be some mutual attraction. Unfortunately, that rush would never last very long and would always be replaced with the feeling of heartbreak brought on by unrequited love.

  Yet, on the other hand, seeing him walk around in the nude—getting just enough of a glimpse at his body—had turned me on in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Though I had been unable to see every single part of his body, I had seen enough to whet my appetite. Sure, Paul’s body was great, but where he was lean and fit, like a runner, Devon was strong and sturdy. The image of his chest and washboard stomach came running back to me. His thick thighs, standing assertively at the window, made me squeeze my legs together.

  Coming back to my parents’ dining room, I rubbed the bridge of my nose, hoping it would help dissolve the pictures of him. My thoughts kept shifting from those of a socially awkward teenager with zero experience to a sexually attuned and definitely aroused adult. As this tug-of-war raged in my head, I desperately hoped my face wasn’t giving away my thoughts. I kept avoiding his eyes—a feat unlike any other I had faced in recent history—and maintained my composure until dinner was done.

  “So, Elizabeth,” Roger said, catching me by surprise. “What have you been up to?”

  Everyone’s eyes turned to me, waiting for my answer.

  Shit.

  “Working, kee
ping busy,” I said in an attempt to answer without needing to go into further detail.

  “Elizabeth is such a hard worker,” my mother pitched in. “She works so hard, she barely has time for her own family.”

  “Corinne, really,” my dad interjected, putting his hand on hers. “Elizabeth’s job is time-consuming and I’m sure she’s just been very busy. I wouldn’t take it personally if I were you.”

  I bit my tongue, trying desperately to avoid the fight my mom was clearly looking to start. My father smiled at me then, making me feel a little more reassured, but I still didn’t feel great.

  The fact was that he was wrong—I hadn’t been that busy. I could have visited more or at the very least definitely called more. The truth was that my mom was mad at me for other reasons. Her outburst tonight was just one example of her passive way of attacking me instead of calling me out about something that was bothering her. I knew better than to let her goad me into a fight, and so I sipped my wine, hoping someone would come to my rescue.

  “What is it that you do, Ellie?” Devon asked, my knight in shining armour. He smiled knowingly.

  Hearing his voice, I nearly choked on my wine but maintained my composure.

  “I’m a freelance writer.”

  “Anything I would have read?”

  I heard my mother’s stifled cough but chose to ignore her.

  “Probably not. I work mainly on company websites and online newspapers.”

  “She’s the next Charles Dickens,” my mom joked, her tone malicious.

  “Christ Mom, how much wine have you had?” I snapped, unable to stop myself.

  “That sounds really interesting,” Devon added, completely unphased by and ignoring my mother’s interruption. “I’ve always envied writers. How they’re able to put into words what others only feel in their hearts.”

  “Well said,” Roger added, raising his glass. “To writers, freelance and all.”

  I raised my glass along with everyone, feeling good for the sudden burst of support even though it was nearly impossible to ignore my mother rolling her eyes.