Page 9 of Patio Lanterns (The Blue Canoe Cottage #1)

Robin

Robin pushed open the front door of the general store and stepped back in time. The metallic echo of the bell jingling overhead instantly unlocked memories of being a kid in that candy store with a couple of loonies burning a hole in her pocket, feeling like she owned the world.

Inside, little had changed. The stale air still smelled like cobwebs and old newspaper, earthy and dank, mixed in with the faintly sweet scent of tobacco.

There were two long rows of shelving on either side of the middle aisle, stocked with dry goods and various sundries, from frying pans to playing cards.

The creaking floorboards that ran from the front of the store to the back were still intact, but alarmingly spongy as she stepped on them.

Robin grabbed a basket and followed Mutt’s lead, his sniffer taking him directly to the pet supplies.

She browsed the meagre but adequate offerings, choosing a leash, a brush, an extra large bottle of flea and tick shampoo, a rawhide chew, and the least expensive brand of dog food.

If Mutt thought he was dining on ribeye steak every night while at the lake, he was sadly mistaken.

But he’d been a very good boy and had been on his best behaviour at Rick’s, so she also sifted through the bin of fetch toys, picking out a squeaky miniature football. Mutt immediately wagged his tail in approval, and Robin envisioned them asking Rick to come out to play. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

She took the items to the counter and began unloading her basket. With no clerk in sight, she hit the little bellhop dinger. Ding-ding . Was Mrs. Crawley still in the store? Surely, she was too elderly to be working there alone and had someone lending her a hand.

Robin was about to ring the bell a second time when she noticed the handwritten sign taped to the antique cash register: We appreciate your patience.

We’ll be right with you. On the wall behind it was the classic Absolutely No Store Credit in big block letters.

That sign had been up for as long as she could remember, back before she even knew what it meant.

It struck her that with an unmanned till, it would’ve been ridiculously easy to rob the place blind, yet she couldn’t ever recall hearing about such an incident.

That was the neighbourhood, for you. Cottagers in the area knew and trusted one other, and the honour code was the only security system most people needed.

Not that Robin hadn’t tested it herself.

When she was maybe six years old, she’d swiped a pack of gum from the store.

She’d been quite smug about it until Lark and Dove told Lil’ Miss Sticky Fingers that spooky Mrs. Crawley once put a spell on a kid for stealing a chocolate bar.

The tall tale wasn’t all that far-fetched, especially since the shrivelled storekeeper looked frighteningly like the witch from Hansel and Gretel .

From that day on, Robin remained a little terrified of the old lady, yet never let fear paralyze her to the point of abstaining from Swedish Fish and Sour Patch Kids.

Her sweet tooth prompted a renewed grumbling in her stomach now, reminding her that she’d skipped breakfast. She hadn’t even thought about it until that moment, her appetite likely suppressed to feed other, more ravenous needs.

She eyed up the neat rows of chocolate bars stacked beside the counter, a Coffee Crisp calling her name.

Not knowing how much longer she’d have to wait, she immediately tore into the yellow wrapper and took a satisfying bite through its crunchy layers, sending sprinkles of wafer dust floating down onto her shirt.

As she snacked, she examined the locked cabinets behind the counter, a veritable jewel case of clandestine goods stocked with booze and wine, cartons of smokes, condoms, and fireworks. Lake Whippoorwill sure knew how to party.

Finally, frail Mrs. Crawley poked her little wrinkled tortoise head out of the stock room. Shockingly, she didn’t look a whole lot older than she did years ago, although her thinning hair was now merely gossamer. Robin managed a weak smile hello.

Mrs. Crawley—the crone had never married, but it didn’t seem right to use the title “miss” with anyone whose age had to be calculated by carbon dating—did not smile back.

Instead, she saved her momentum to shuffle out in her house slippers.

Chilled molasses moved faster. Naturally, it took another ice age for Mrs. Crawley to reach the counter and begin tallying the purchases one by one, including the discarded candy wrapper.

Robin watched her gnarled fingers poke at the oxidized cash register keys.

The translucent onion skin covering the old woman’s shaky hands had practically melted away, revealing a crisscrossing of her raised blue veins.

Robin wondered if her own smooth, youthful skin would someday dissolve, and made a mental note to slather on hand lotion later.

She didn’t want to break the old woman’s concentration, lest she have to start all over again, but the wait prompted her to make an impulse buy from behind the counter.

“Sorry, but could I also get…” she pointed to the condoms dangling below the row of booze, “the second box from the right, please.”

Mrs. Crawley tapped the box of ultra thins with her long, yellowed nail. “This?”

Robin nodded. It felt strange to be buying condoms from the same lady who once sold her Archie comics. But she’d taken the last of her cock sock stash to Rick’s and had to replenish her supply.

Mrs. Crawley put the box with the rest of the items, then rang up the tally. “Comes to seventy-eight twelve,” she announced before slapping down a paper bag.

Robin paid, then filled the bag under Mrs. Crawley’s watchful eye. She tucked Mutt’s food under one arm and scooped the bag off the counter with the other. “Thanks,” Robin said, “have a nice day.”

“Be careful,” the old lady muttered.

Startled, Robin met her eyes. Dullish and pale, like clouded green marbles, they seemed to stare right into her soul. “I’m sorry…?”

“Be. Careful.” Mrs. Crawley annunciated clearly a second time. The words rang ominously like the tolling of a bell. What the hell did that mean? Be careful of what?

Shit. The old biddy must’ve lost her filter.

Robin marched down the centre aisle to the front of the store, Mutt dutifully clip-clopping at her side.

Her arms full, she’d barely extended her fingers to grasp the door handle when suddenly, it swung inwards.

She jumped back, her nerves already jangled like the bell swinging overhead. “Hey! Watch it!”

“Oop, sorry!” A polite apology squeaked from the other side of the door, the offender obscured by the Open sign and a patchwork of notices plastered to its window. “Oh my God…!”

Robin blinked. “Dove?”

“Robin!” Dove brightly beamed. She slid her designer sunglasses onto her head, pushing her blonde tresses back in effortless waves.

Like it wasn’t enough that by thirty, Dove already had it all—a swanky condo, a robust retirement fund, and a sweet, la-dee-fucking-da job—but she also had the nerve to be one of the most kindhearted people in the world and as stunning as a Disney Princess.

“What are you doing here?” Dove asked. “I mean, what are you doing here already?”

“We said the twentieth, didn’t we?” Robin shrugged, figuring there was no reason to reveal her scheduling snafu. “It’s the twentieth.”

“I’m just so… well, you made it.” Dove wrapped her arms around her, crushing the bag of groceries between them. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Robin reciprocated, and it wasn’t even a lie. It had been months since she and her sisters had been together. Since their mother died. “Have you been to the cottage yet?”

“We’re on our way now. Just topping up the gas tank.”

“We?” Robin questioned.

“Lark’s here, and she brought Nova with her. She’s getting so big, Rob. And she’s so freakin’ cute my ovaries ache.”

“What? No Phil the Pill?” That was strange. Lark’s jerk of a husband was always lurking.

Dove shook her head. “It’ll just be us girls. Not like we’ll be sad about Phil not joining us, will we?”

“True. But I am allowing one rooster in the henhouse.” Robin looked down at Mutt. He was wagging his tail, politely waiting to be introduced to the nice lady in case she had a spare hot dog in her purse. “Meet Mutt Lange.”

“Well, hello there.” Dove placed her hands on her knees and bent down low, instantly recoiling and bouncing back up. “Holy shit, Rob, does he reek!”

“Yeah, I just bought stuff to fix that.”

Dove grimaced, pressing the back of her hand to her nose. “Gah, you might be better off shaving him right down.”

“Think I’ll try shampoo first.”

“Fine, but you know you can’t bring him inside Mom’s cottage stinking like that. She would have a freaking conniption.”

“Mom’s not here,” Robin reminded her.

“Try telling her that.” Dove thumbed over her shoulder. “She’s sitting in the back propped up next to Nova.”

Robin’s sick mind conjured up a Weekend at Bernie’s scenario. “She is?”

“The urn holding her cremains is in the backseat,” Dove clarified.

Ahhh . She hadn’t even thought about how their mother’s ashes were getting to the lake, but rightly assumed that one or both of her sisters would take care of it. “Well, I guess I’ll head to the cottage first. By chance, do you have a key to get in?”

Dove’s eyebrows fell. “Let me guess. You lost yours?”

“I never had one,” Robin said.

“Okay, well, just grab the spare.”

Robin gave her a sheepish smirk. “Remind me of where that is?”

“Magnetic key keeper on the underside of the bird feeder in the backyard.”

Oh, the underside of the feeder. She hadn’t thought of looking there. “Great. Thanks, sis. See you in a few.”

Dove slipped by Robin and Mutt as they stepped outside into the sunshine. The only other vehicle in the lot besides her rust-eaten van was a luxury Land Rover. Figures that’s what Dove would drive in cottage country.

Lark sat up front in the passenger seat, the dark fringes of her blunt bangs falling around her eyes as she stared at her phone.

Being at the top of the Pelletier Pecking Order—first came Lark, then Dove, and finally, Robin—had served her well.

She never failed to remind her sisters that as the eldest, she had special privileges: the first turn of any game, the biggest slice of cake, a bedroom to herself at the cottage, and especially the right to boss her sisters around.

At least by the age of thirty-four, she’d started using her evil powers for good.

Lark was a resident at Foothills Medical Centre in Calgary, which famously had one of the best stroke facilities in the country.

The opportunity to work there had attracted her after their father’s sudden passing.

It had been a whirlwind three years for Lark—getting settled into her residency, and then meeting and marrying Philip, a renowned dick doctor, before quickly adding motherhood to her growing list of accomplishments.

It totally fit the script because her overbearing maternal instinct had prematurely aged her long before she could legally buy a two-four of beer.

Robin gently tapped on the tinted window, barely open a crack. “What’s up, doc?”

“Jesus!” Lark clutched her chest. “Oh…! Robin! Hi. Sorry.”

“Hi.” Robin smiled as the window lowered. “Dove said you were out here.”

“She picked us up at the airport yesterday. Made more sense to drive up together rather than rent a second vehicle,” Lark told her.

“You look well,” Robin said, despite noticing that her eyes were puffy.

Lark managed a smile but skipped over returning the courtesy. “Thanks for making time to come to the lake, Robin. It would’ve made Mom happy knowing the three of us were doing this together.”

Robin nodded. “I hear you packed my niece in your carry-on.”

Lark laughed. “Nova’s asleep. But I’m looking forward to having both her aunties around to change diapers.”

Robin shuddered. “Sorry, but no. Dove can be on diaper watch. I’m the fun auntie. No crying, no fussing, no poo. Fun only.”

“Well, two-year-olds are plenty of fun, but they also make plenty of poo,” Lark said, laughing. “So, we’ll see just how long your plan lasts, fun auntie.”

“With any luck, the entire time we’re up here,” Robin said, the bag of dog food starting to slip from beneath her arm. Jostling the bag back into place, it reminded her that she had her own poo machine to take care of now. “See you guys in a few.”

“Sounds good,” Lark said. “Oh, and Robin, I have a surprise for you.”

Robin tilted her head to the side. “A good surprise, or like, a diaper-full-of-bad surprise?”

Lark laughed. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

Robin grimaced and stuck out her tongue. “You know I hate surprises.”

“Trust me,” Lark said, a sneaky grin playing at the corners of her mouth, “this is one you’re going to love.”