Fated Shot

Chapter 2

Mia

I can’t believe how much I’ve missed being here. In Wyndham, it’s like time stands still. Since being back this summer, I’ve established a usual routine: early morning coffee runs to Cordelia’s, days spent at the lake, and back home to work on my business.

Cordelia and Harold have known me since I was eleven. That’s when my parents decided to buy a place in Wyndham, so we would always have a space to call home. My dad grew up here. He said some of his best memories were made in this little town, and once we moved, I quickly understood why.

My summers here were nothing short of incredible. From running wild in the forest surrounding our home, jumping off the dock in our backyard, or rowing out to the middle of the lake to bask in the sun, it’s always been bliss. There is nowhere else that I feel whole.

Over the past three years, I haven’t been back here for more than a week or two at a time. Every year without fail, though, my parents pack up their things at the end of the season to move back to the cottage. I’ve been at NYU and decided it would be best for me to spread my wings and be more independent. Summer in New York was always so exciting, but nothing will ever compare to my quiet little Wyndham.

As soon as I graduated, I told my parents I wanted to move back to Toronto to be close to them, and they couldn’t have been happier. My mom converted the boat house into my own little studio apartment for me to enjoy. Filled with a perfectly functional kitchen, massive windows, and endless natural light, it’s safe to say I’ve settled back into the quiet of being home.

My dad decided it was the summer I learned how to properly barbecue. We’ve been spending our evenings finding new recipes to try before settling into the picnic table on our patio for family dinners together. Mom always says it’s the best meal she’s ever had, without fail, night after night. I believed her for a few days, too, until I completely burnt a garlic shrimp skewer, and she happily munched it down, commending our flavor choice. She swore the black coating added an extra layer of complexity and eagerly pointed out the added benefits of charcoal as an antioxidant.

Beverly Cameron, I’m convinced, could turn being marooned on an island at sea into a unique opportunity for a one-of-a-kind tropical vacation. Being around her constant positivity and support has done wonders for my mindset. I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of hanging around my parents. It feels like I’m a kid again, basking in the adventure of summer. I don’t deserve them, but I’m so lucky they are mine.

I’ve kept to the house mostly, save for a few family dinners at Pier 23 or grocery runs to Rev’s for supplies. A quiet summer, enjoying being back together. I don’t know why I convinced myself independence was for me. Being alone sucks, and I am just not my happiest when I’m not around my family.

It was early May when I pulled into Wyndham after what can only be described as the longest nine-and-a-half-hour drive of my life. I came to a stop, parking in one of the three spots in front of Cordelia’s, running out just in time to catch Harold by surprise as he was flipping the open sign to closed. My parents, of course, told him I was coming back for the summer and anyone else who would listen, for that matter .

Looked like independence wasn’t for them either, I am their only daughter, after all. But Harold’s eyes lit up in surprise nonetheless when he saw me. I always loved that. I would spend my summers biking down to Cordelia’s Corner, march in like I owned the place, and take up residence in my cozy little booth. Steamed milk and chocolate chip muffins turned into lattes over the years, but the feeling always remained.

I cherished the hours I spent in the warm and practical kitchen of the café. It felt like my second home with its vintage oven, farmhouse sink, and a kitchen island where I would work for hours. Cordelia always let me help her bake, and the fresh pastries we created were a hit among locals and summer visitors alike—muffins, croissants, mini cakes, cookies—you name it. She never used a recipe; “Measure with your heart,” she’d say, a mantra I painted on a piece of driftwood I found by the lake a few years back. When Harold saw it, he bellowed with laughter, immediately heading to the garage for a ladder. That sign hung proudly above the kitchen doorway that same day.

I tried to absorb every piece of advice Cordelia would sing out as she baked. It wasn’t until our last summer together that I started jotting down notes religiously as she swirled around the kitchen like she’d never be at home anywhere else.

I’d come home covered in flour, and my parents always received samples of my latest creations. My notebook, often looking like it had been through a mixer, was filled with my attempts to capture Cordelia’s magic. Though she didn’t approve of my meticulous recipes, she lovingly sewed my favorite notebook cover. “To protect from the flour, dear,” she chuckled as she handed it to me.

During our last summer together, Cordelia gave me a basket brimming with all the delicious pastries we’d perfected. She hugged me tightly, encouraged me to keep baking, and told me how much she’d enjoyed watching me grow. She was so vibrant and full of life that summer, but just two months later, she passed away in her sleep from unknown causes.

We were gutted. It was the first time I can remember that I wasn’t giddy with excitement at the thought of returning to Wyndham. I still feel a twinge of sadness each time I’m reminded of her, but I’m determined to focus on our endless happy times instead.

“Here you are, young lady, your vanilla latte.” Reaching over, I grab my coffee. “Looks like the lemon shortbread is a hit already,” Harold says as he smiles warmly, gesturing his head toward a tall guy sitting in my booth in the back.

Not a guy, a man. That is most definitely a full-grown man. His thick legs are sprawled out below him as he just barely fits in the seat. There is no way that can be comfortable. I glance over to him, my eyes spotting nothing left but a few yellow crumbs on a now-empty Cordelia’s plate.

Studying his body, I notice his muscular arm adorned with intricate black tribal designs that snake up from his forearm and wrap around his bicep, resting casually on the table. His broad shoulders are slightly hunched, giving him a relaxed yet commanding presence, even while he's squashed into my favorite seat. Moving up to his square-defined jaw covered in dark stubble, I suck in a quick breath when my eyes meet his piercing blue ones, filled with sincerity and intrigue. His mouth starts to open as if he’s about to speak, but I quickly avert my gaze, cheeks burning, looking back at Harold.

“I’m so glad. Thanks again for everything, Harold,” I manage to squeak out before turning in place and marching out the front glass door. My heart is pounding faster than usual, heat rising across my body. The slight morning breeze is a welcome comfort on my now-flushed skin. Smooth, Mia. Real smooth.

Two moments of eye contact with men is all I can seem to manage these days without bursting into flames. This summer has done nothing to break me out of my shell, and I refuse to practice my socialization skills on someone that hot. Talk about out of my league. Besides, it’s not like he was trying to talk to me. I was staring at him like a dingbat, he was probably going to ask me to leave him alone. He’s always by himself, cooped up in that corner, baseball cap pulled low. I’ve never had a chance to get a good look at his face, but something about him looks familiar.

I slide into the driver’s seat of my blue Jeep, the door popping open with a creak. Jamming my keys in the ignition, my summer playlist hums from the speakers. Sunlight streams in through the windshield, warming my skin as I rummage in my tote bag for my sunnies. Slipping them on, I roll down the windows and ease out of the parking spot, heading back home.

By the time I turn onto our gravel driveway, it’s nearing 7:30 am. Our two-story brick cottage, nestled among towering pines and the lush greenery of the dense forest, really is a sight to behold. The sun paints the weathered cedar shingles and expansive front windows with hues of pink and gold, casting a picturesque glow. As I approach, I spot two familiar faces on the front porch. My parents sit side by side in matching white rocking chairs, their expressions radiant as they watch the sunrise.

My mom had always dreamed of a wrap-around front porch, more than a bit impractical for Ontario winters but the perfect whimsical touch for our summers in Wyndham. They offer a cheerful wave as I drive past the main house, down the driveway lined with my parents’ neatly parked cars, and pull up in front of our boat house.

With my coffee in hand and tote slung over my shoulder, I slam my door shut. As I round the car, a little, round face peeks up at me through the sidelight, making me chuckle. I can almost hear his meow as I unlock the door and push it open. Catching the tail end of his greeting, I drop to my knees to give Bean a little pat. He stretches forward, extending his paws and then trots ahead, finding a sunny patch to flop down in. Sometimes, I think he’s even happier here than I am, spoiled by my parents who decided he needed his own Catio on our dock and a cat leash to ensure he wouldn’t be left out of our evenings by the fireside.

I set my coffee down on the kitchen island, gazing out the large window above the sink that frames the glimmering lake. A sigh escapes me as memories of how I first felt when I arrived here flood back—lost, vulnerable, heartbroken, and alone.

I’m excited for the year ahead, but I’m seriously going to miss it here. Scooping up Bean, I settle him gently on his three-story cat tree near the glass sliding door, another gift from his grandparents. I plant a kiss on his head before returning to the kitchen, ready to get to work.