Page 2 of Patio Lanterns

He didn’t budge. Maybe, she reasoned, he was afraid to jump out of the van. She couldn’t blame him with only one front leg and a wonky centre of gravity.

Robin climbed down from her seat and marched around the front of the van. She gathered up an armful of Mutt-butt and lifted him out, steadying his paws on the ground. “Here’s the plan. See that couple over there? We’re going to ask them to keep an eye on you while I use the ‘washroom,’” she explained, using heavy air quotes for a dog who didn’t understand duplicity. Or sarcasm. Or English.

She made the mistake of looking into his sad, soulful eyes, and was struck by a pang of guilt. “I promise you, this is for the best. For the both of us.”

Robin led the way, and Mutt dutifully hopped close to her side. He let another greasy burp rip, this time out his back end. Maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to let him finish that burger after all. Thankfully, his wagging tail mellowed the odour before they approached the couple.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you,” Robin said meekly. “But I have to duck inside to use the washroom and was wondering if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Of course we’ll watch him for you,” brightly answered the girl with a frizzy ponytail and a City and Colour tee. Friendly? Check. Good taste in music? Check. The moment Ponytail put out her hand, Mutt ducked beneath her palm to coax out a scratch behind his ears, and she happily indulged him. Animal lover? Another big fat check.

“As long as you’re not planning to abandon him,” said her boyfriend, whose braided goatee looked like dreadlocks sprouting from his chin.

Robin’s breath hitched. “Abandon him? Oh God, no. I mean, I would never.”

“You’d be surprised.” Weird Beard’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked on a reusable straw. “People pull that kind of shit all the time.”

“Only monsters would do something like that,” condemned Ponytail. “So, what’s this good boy’s name?” Her voice pitched into baby talk, and Mutt turned into a pile of mush, rolling belly up on the gravel.

“Uh, his name…?” Robin repeated the question as she blanked. “Well, he’ll respond to pretty much anything if you have food, but I call him Mutt Lange.”

Weird Beard smirked. “That’s funny. As in Shania’s husband?”

“Ex-husband,” Ponytail pointed out to him. “He did our girl dirty, remember?”

“He also produced some of the biggest-selling rock albums… AC/DC, Bryan Adams, Def Lep—” Robin started to explain, but hardly had the time to give a crash course in music history. “Look, I’m not defending the guy, nor did I name the dog after him. I just thought it was funny.”

“It’s all good,” said Weird Beard. “You can leave him with us. Your dog will be right here when you get back.”

When you get back. The words echoed in the empty chamber between Robin’s ears. She thanked them before tossing a final parting glance at the pain in the ass who was now officially someone else’s problem. It’s been real, Mutt Lange.

Just don’t look him in the eyes. Don’t look him in the eyes. Don’t look—

He lifted his head, and she looked into his pitiful, questioning eyes.

And the right hook of remorse smacked her so hard it nearly knocked her flat.

In a cold sweat, Robin raced to the front door of the burger joint. Her heart racing and stomach heaving, a greasy sourness hit the back of her throat as she made a beeline for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall.

The last thing she expected was to be conflicted or to catch feels for that stinky, floppy-eared nuisance. She should’ve just snuck out of the place, traipsed through the dense brush, ducked between rows of parked SUVs and boat trailers, and drove off, leaving him behind in a cloud of dust without a second thought.

Only monsters would do something like that.

Ponytail’s words came back to haunt Robin as she bent over and paid a retching homage to the porcelain gods.

Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, Ponytail. I am not a monster.

2

Robin

The van rounded the last sharp turn on the winding, well-travelled road Robin knew by heart. Lake Whippoorwill, nestled amidst the whispering pines and pink granite outcrops of Muskoka, was strangely subdued for being peak summer season.

She’d noticed an unusual number of realty signs on the drive. Back in the day, it was rare to find a cottage going up for sale in the area, but when it happened, the coveted property was usually scooped up before the realtor had dug a hole for the signpost.

Surely, it was a cyclical thing. Cottages changed hands just like any other real estate. Death, divorce, and life itself ushered in a new generation of owners who had different priorities. Just like the Pelletier sisters, suddenly faced with deciding what to do about their property now that their parents were both gone. Every family had their own reasons. Robin chalked it up to being a sign of the times.

The rusty brakes squealed to a stop in the driveway beside the Blue Canoe Cottage. The old girl still looked pretty good for withstanding more than a hundred summers and winters. Modest in comparison to some of the newer and more opulent cottages that had popped up in the area, the Blue Canoe remained a lovingly preserved sanctuary of cedar and stone, reflecting the natural beauty of its secluded surroundings.

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