Crooked Smile (eBook)

Chapter One When I wake, the cottage is hushed. The kids are still sleeping, but Joel is already on the screened-in porch, eating breakfast and reading a section from yesterdays newspaper. No need to hurry here, a place where time doesn't matter. That's one of the things I love about it. That and the calm glassy lake that beckons my canoe. I grab a plum and brush Joel's bent neck with my lips before setting off across the bay. Little things are etched into my memory of that Sunday, the last one of August, such as Jonathan parading around with the canoe overhead. 'Mom, this is how I portaged on our trips in the wilderness. Remember, it was much harder with all those mosquitoes anda seventy-pound pack on my back.' I marvel at the lean muscles in his fourteen-year-old arms. My youngest child looks so much like his father, the same lanky build, gangling legs, long skinny face. He and Joel share the same colouring too, fair skinned with green-grey eyes, just like Alyssa, our eldest. Right now, she's relaxing in the hammock, enjoying some light summer reading before boring into her university texts. She stretches. Her skimpy bikini straps pull tautly and then settle back into place. Even when she crosses her ankles, her thighs don't touch. Maybe in my next life, I'll look like that: five-foot-four, slim, and with cleavage. I stare down at my thighs, rubbing together on the edge of the dock. Middle-aged spread indeed. At least no varicose veins spider their way up my legs yet. I unbutton my beach top and slip into the water, swimming a few laps of front crawl back and forth between my neighbours dock and ours. As I dry off, Daniel and his friends stride down to the lake, flicking each other with their towels. Three of his friends are spending the weekend, so we've had a full house of laughter, music, and the constant roar of the boat engine. Water-skis, kneeboards, tubes - it doesn't matter. The boys are happy to be pulled on anything so long as they can go fast. 'Hi, guys. Had any breakfast?' 'Yes. Thanks for the blueberry muffins, Mrs. Cohen,' John says. 'They were delicious.' Daniel doesn't waste any words. Peeling off his T-shirt and exposing a bronzed tan, he dives off the end of the dock, barely rippling the surface, his powerful arms slice through the water. When he emerges from the lake, he shakes his head back and forth like our dog, squeezes the excess water from his long hair, and then pulls it back into a ponytail. He'll never have to worry about being bald like his father, I think. Daniel has my family's thick dark hair, deep brown eyes, and long eyelashes that his sister so envies. I turn to look at my husband, whose shiny dome is covered by a wide brimmed hat, even in the shade. No point taking any chances, he feels. Grey hairs sneak out from behind his ears and infiltrate his trim brown beard. Was it just last month that we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary? Our first holiday in years without the children - what a treat! Ten days of touring the Normandy coast through towns of cobble-stoned streets and stone houses so close to the road that I could practically pick the flowers from the window-boxes as we drove by. I recall the fragrance of fresh ocean air and the smell of buttery croissants wafting from the patisseries. I look at Joel absorbed in his book and think about walking hand-in-hand through paths in the woods, my head just brushing his shoulder. 'Hey, Dad. We're low on gas. Where's your credit card?' Daniel bounds up to the cottage and quickly returns, swinging the boat key in one hand. The credit card is tucked into the waistband of his bathing suit.