The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

“Would that be weird, me going up there without you?”

“What’s weird is that you and your brother hardly ever see each other. Maybe this will be a bonding experience for the two of you.”

That’s exactly what I was afraid of. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any bonding with my brother. But at the same time, I was strangely buoyed by the thought of Ricky choosing me. And if I thought Amir was excited about our impending Brother/Sister Weekend, I wasn’t prepared at all for Mom’s reaction. As soon as I mentioned it to her, she started to cry.

“That just makes me so happy!” she said, pretending that she didn’t have tears running down her face.

The only person who had any reservations about the whole thing, it seemed, was me. Because hovering right next to my cautious enthusiasm was the memory of the horrible weekend I had spent with my brother in Leeville, when he thought it would be a good idea for his little sister to watch Friday the 13th.

WE WEREN’T KIDS ANYMORE, THOUGH. I was thirty-one that fall, and Ricky was almost forty. We met up at a carpool lot on the side of Highway 400, just north of Toronto, and Ricky threw his duffel bag into the back of my car which was loaded with supplies that Amir had helped me pack.

“So,” Ricky said as he settled into his seat, “you know how to get there?”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I asked. “You know the cabin’s not in great shape. And you have to boil the water before you can drink it. Oh, and there’s no cell service. Well, in some places out on the water you can get a signal, but not from the cabin.”

“Zoe, relax. You’ve mentioned all that already. I won’t need my phone, anyway. I’m taking the weekend completely off. Did you know I’ve never done that? Not even on my honeymoons. Both times, I was checking messages, doing business, sealing deals.”

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to say he was long overdue for a vacation, or if he was suggesting that this weekend with me was somehow more important than his first days as a newlywed.

“Yeah, and look how those turned out for you,” I joked.

“No kidding,” he replied, as if his doomed marriages could be blamed on his addiction to work or his phone, rather than the women he’d slept with on the side.

We spent a good chunk of the five-hour drive listening to the radio, hardly talking. Ricky checked his phone compulsively and I assumed he was trying to make the most of it while he still had a signal. When we stopped to eat in Parry Sound, I called Amir to update him on our progress.

“Are you having fun?” he asked.

“We’re still getting used to each other,” I replied.

As we pulled into the gravel driveway of Windy Pines, Ricky said, “You weren’t kidding about this place, eh? Is he hoping to sell it or what?”

“I think he’s just sort of gradually retiring so he’s not keeping it up like he used to. But he lives here, and as far as I know, he has no plans to move. Please don’t talk to him about real estate, Ricky. You’re taking a break, remember?”

“I’m just saying, he’ll have a hard time selling it in this condition.”

Lance must have heard my car pull in because he came ambling over to greet us. “When you’ve unloaded,” he said, “come on back to the house for a drink and I’ll go over what you need to know.”

The main house was cozy, dominated by a giant stone fireplace in the living room. The first time I’d come here with Amir, I’d been freaked out by the bear skin rug in the middle of the room, with its stuffed head that sat like a bowling ball on the floor. When I mentioned to Amir how creepy I found it, he’d laughed.

“When I was little, and I came here with my dad, I used to sit on that rug and pet the bear’s head. I read stories to him.”

“Okay,” I’d said, backing away from him in mock horror. “That’s more than creepy.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow when he saw the bear skin, but he didn’t say anything.

Lance offered us each a beer and motioned for us to sit at the scarred wooden table in the kitchen. He pushed a map of the bay toward us and pointed out the marked hazards. “The water’s low this time of year so most of these aren’t hidden anymore, but some are still covered, so keep an eye out for markers. And since the water’s so low, you’ll have to watch for shoals, too.”

I got the sense he missed this — sitting down with guests to talk about the water, offer advice, and pass on a small bit of the knowledge he had acquired through a lifetime of experience.

“You should go out tonight for an evening fish,” Lance continued. “Get used to the boat, pick some spots for tomorrow.”

Later, when Ricky and I were in our own cabin, heating up the lasagna I had made at home, he said he didn’t feel like going out that evening. “It’s Friday night,” he reasoned. “We still have all day Saturday and most of Sunday to be on the water.”

I didn’t argue. The lasagna was filling the cabin with a mouth-watering aroma and staying in to eat and relax didn’t seem like a bad idea. I thought about all those nights I’d watched my brother across the kitchen table, praying he’d stay home long enough to play a game with me, or watch TV, anything that indicated he was at least aware of my presence.

Apart from a tiny bathroom and two bedrooms, the cabin consisted of only one other room: a combined kitchen and sitting area. Most of the space was taken up by a round wooden table with