“What if someone tells Cath?”
“Tells Cath what?” He has clearly decided to play obtuse. “That my old friend needed a lift to a place she needed to photograph for her work, and I obliged?”
Yeah, and the night before we ended up necking on a cliff overlooking the river. We might have snuck away from the party, but I know better than to delude myself. Of course someone saw us, and the info is already circulating as we speak. It’s Marly after all.
Luc turns off the paved road onto a narrower one and then pulls up to the curb right by the entrance into the woods. “There was a decent road leading to the cabins, once upon a time,” he says in response to my quizzical look. “But it hasn’t been maintained in a few decades. If I get stuck there, I’m not sure there’ll be anyone to tow me.”
And wouldn’t it be awkward, I add in my head.
“You okay with a short hike?”
I’m okay. I did wear sneakers for a reason. The reason being that they’re now one of my three remaining pairs of shoes and the only one suitable for the weather and terrain. But I do feel a bit silly about the mascara and concealer. The air here is humid, making my face itch the second I get out of the car. My hair must be frizzing out too. As we step into the woods, the musty smell envelops us, thick and swampy, and in spite of the early time of year, mosquitoes begin to buzz around us within minutes. Not exactly the epitome of romance.
Then again, what exactly did I expect? A trail of rose petals?
Luc forges ahead, and all I have to do is follow. He turns out to be right, the road is in bad shape. Tree roots protrude here and there, thick and gnarled, and the forest encroaches from all sides, determined to take back what once belonged to it. Overhead, the damp branches of trees, still devoid of leaves, sway against the bright blue sky. It’s not a view I can admire at leisure because I constantly have to watch where I’m stepping. Not just because of the roots and rocks but also the deep puddles filled with opaque, nearly black mud.
I realize Luc has stopped when I almost walk into him. “Hey,” I say.
He moves aside so we can be alongside each other. “Steph, I know how it must look. It’s not great, okay? But I think we should talk about the elephant in the room.”
“You mean yesterday?”
“I mean Cath.” The look on his face is dead serious and a little bit sad. His chin is dipped, the very image of contrition.
“Oh.”
“I know I come across as a total sleaze. But I think it’s time you and I talked about it.”
That’s when I realize how little I want to talk about it. In fact, I’d rather never ever talk about Cath, think about Cath, or hear Cath mentioned in casual conversation for as long as I live.
But at the same time, I know he’s right. We should talk about it. Luc is the kind of guy who would talk about it. That’s why he’s Luc.
I heave a sigh. “Luc, this is unnecessary. It’s been fifteen years. What are you going to do at this point? Tell me how sorry you are? Tell me it was all her idea? What good would it do to anyone?”
“You—” He runs his hands through his hair, visibly at a loss for words. Anguish flickers across his face. “You up and left overnight! I never had a chance to explain.”
“Yes, I up and left. Because Cath was going to sic her dad on me. What choice did I have? Was I going to throw my whole future to the dogs so that you could have a chance to grovel?”
“And now you’re back. But you’re right, it’s too late to grovel. I just thought I’d explain to you what happened.”
“I think it was pretty clear,” I say.
The first of the cabins emerges seemingly out of nowhere. I give a start. Luc was right, it’s insanely creepy in a picturesque kind of way. I take out my phone and take a couple of pictures.
“This isn’t the place,” Luc says. “It’s farther up.”
Sure enough, we pass several cabins in varying states of decay. Layers of moss have grown over the logs, stained with brown rings from the successive floods. Roofs have caved in on several of them. Of one, only a wall remains.
“I feel like a Stephen King character,” I say, happy to be able to change the subject.
Luc shrugs. “To be honest, I always thought the place was more soothing than creepy. Nobody comes here anymore. Nobody except me.”
And now me as well. We walk along the road that has now dwindled to little more than a treacherous, slippery, overgrown path, until we arrive at the Bergmann cabin. Somehow I know we’ve reached our destination the moment I see it. It’s the first cabin I see that looks relatively unscathed.
“My granddad was good at building things,” Luc is saying. “He wanted this place to be more than just a fishing and hunting cabin. He actually wanted his family to spend summers here. But as far as I know, that never ended up happening. It’s sad, isn’t it?”
I’m only marginally aware of what he’s saying, too absorbed in inspecting the cabin itself. It’s A-shaped, which is probably why it has held up so well—the winter snowfalls would slide off the roof rather than accumulate to eventually cave it in. Carved steps lead up to a small porch out front, and there’s a large terrace above the door. It’s definitely the only cabin I’ve seen here that has two floors. The railing is intricate albeit worn by time and weather. Even the windows are intact, only covered with such a thick layer of dirt that you couldn’t see through them even if you came up close.
After a short hesitation, I make my way up the stairs onto the porch. The door is closed, and, catching my questioning glance, Luc nods.
“Go ahead. It’s pretty safe.”
I open the door and go inside, with Luc on my heels. The open door lets in just enough light to see. It smells swampy in here, just like in the forest, but the floor is surprisingly dry. I guess the water didn’t reach it.
The place is empty except for an ancient, lopsided table that’s been pushed into a corner. The stairs lead to a mezzanine that’s shrouded in semidarkness. I raise my phone and take two pictures: One of the table, with the diffused light from the dirty window falling over the crooked tabletop, an image of sadness and desolation. The other photo is of the stairs, but it’s a bit too dark, so I can’t tell if it’s any good. We make our way up to the loft, which turns out to be empty, only cobwebs and dust everywhere.
“There are all kinds of creepy stories about this place,” Luc is saying.
“I believe that,” I echo.
“I heard one about my grandmother. Apparently, some people think Fat Sophie never ran away. She’s still lurking in the woods. She’s become feral or something.” He chuckles, but when he sees my unsmiling face, he grows serious. “Yeah, my dad wasn’t too happy about that one either.”
“I can’t blame him. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Bother? I wouldn’t go that far. It did when I was a kid. And teenagers, you know how they can be.”
I do know it. I always wondered if this was part of the reason Luc was drawn to me. I was popular, but so was he. He had his pick of girls. And yet he chose the one from the bad home. The one whose family other people liked to talk shit about. I could never bring myself to ask him. I still can’t.
