CHAPTER THIRTEEN
here’s another long stretch of serpentine driving before we make theT turn toward Tofino in the late afternoon. I can smell the ocean’s clean brine as beaches appear through the evergreens, and I catch a glimpse of pale sand and silvery surf out George’s window. Here, the highway tunnels through the temperate rainforest of the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve.
“The trees are monstrous,” I say.
“Among the tallest and oldest in the country,” George tells me. “The largest western red cedar in the world grows in the reserve. It’s called the
Cheewhat Giant.”
I’m completely in awe.
A paved multiuse trail runs parallel to the road, and we pass cyclists, families out for a stroll, and joggers. One guy has a surfboard strapped to the side of his bike. There are signs for sites with names like Incinerator Rock and Radar Hill and, more alarmingly, tsunami hazard zones and evacuation routes. Finally, George turns off the highway when we reach a sign for Moss & Stone Resort.
Tree branches create an arch over the gravel driveway, and at first, all I see is green—from the ferns that fan at the feet of the firs to the plush blankets of lichen that nestle around their trunks. The canopy is so thick, only the vaguest glimmer of light breaks through its cover.
The property is dotted with town house villas clad in blue-gray siding that blends into the landscape. Pink rhododendron and blue hydrangea grow in massive, bloom-filled bushes around the pebbled paths that lead to the town house entrances. The main building is like an enormous beach house, but
distinctly Pacific Northwest in style, with massive carved cedar pillars and beams—both rustic and modern, and definitely expensive. Through the trees, beyond the resort, lies the ocean.
I hear its soothing whoosh as soon as I step out of the car and into the mizzle. The air is thick enough to taste, a cool spoonful of salt and seaweed and spruce. George walks to my side, and we stare into the branches of the most enormous tree I’ve ever seen. Its trunk is so thick it would take a group of people linking arms to give it a hug. It’s odd how much I want to do just that. This secluded slice of paradise is formidable in its majesty. I may be tired, but looking up at this impossible tree, I feel more alive than I have in months.
“Do you know what kind this one is?” I ask, staring into the ancient limbs.
George is good with this sort of thing, but he also has apps on his phone for ID’ing plants and bird songs. For his eleventh birthday, my mom helped me buy him a thick book called Trees in Canada, full of photos, illustrations, and identification tips. He keeps it on his bookshelf in his condo, the pages
dog-eared and annotated.
“A Sitka spruce.”
“How can you tell?”
“The long branches—the way they slope downward. See how straight the trunk is? And how the bark looks like scales?”
A fat droplet of water falls from a branch—plop!—onto my face. I feel George’s stare, and I glance at him.
His hair has already coiled more tightly in the damp. There are dark spots on his chest from where the tree has dripped on him. He does take up more space than he used to; it wasn’t just the car. His shoulders, chest, and arms— they’re all slightly thicker. Purposefully toned.
Another drop lands on my nose. Then another on my shoulder. Each one startles me a little more awake, bringing my attention back to the fact that I’m standing in a rainforest with George. We’ve always wanted to travel together, but I’d resigned myself to it never happening. And here we are, on the western edge of Vancouver Island.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say, not for the first time today.
“You know what?” he says, looking at me intently. “Neither can I.”
• • •
I GASP WHEN we enter the lobby. In every way, it feels like an extension of the forest, with its honey-brown wood and shades of slate and earthy greens.
There are brown-butter leather armchairs and sofas, a dramatic stone fireplace, and art everywhere you look—striking pieces that honor traditional Indigenous techniques and styles: smooth stone sculptures of seals and bears, a brightly colored painting of a whale, and panels of carved wooden suns and moons. The room smells like freshly cut timber and ocean breeze, as if someone has managed to bottle the outdoors and gently infuse it throughout the space.
I leave my suitcase by the front desk and head straight to the floor-to- ceiling windows, looking up and down the foggy shore, where the rainforest collides with the Pacific. It’s unlike any beach I’ve seen—pristine white-gold sand buttressed by wind-bent evergreens, dense shrubbery, and craggy rocks.
The palette is muted, the beauty rugged. It’s hard to accept that we’re still in Canada.
“George, can you believe how gorgeous this is?” I say, glancing over my shoulder. He’s watching me with a strange expression. He blinks, and it vanishes.
“It seems mythical, doesn’t it?” he says.
“Now that is the perfect word for it,” says the man behind the front desk.
He’s around our age, wearing a navy suit and tie. He seems unreasonably happy to see us, two straggly travelers who are wildly underdressed for this level of luxury. I’m wearing George’s old Parks Canada T-shirt and bike shorts, and he’s in ripped jeans and a plaid flannel. Although, other than the staff, the guests are sporting beach attire or hiking gear.
“I’m Kevin,” he says, extending his hand to George as I join them. “I’m the head of guest experiences, and you must be our newlyweds.”
This is far from the first time we’ve been mistaken for a couple. We often let it slide—what’s the point in explaining to a server that we’re friends? But if we’re going to be interacting with someone for more than a few minutes, we’ll deliver our spiel.
So when George says “That’s us,” all I can do is gape. He doesn’t look at me. Instead, his hand settles in the middle of my lower back, and I straighten like I’ve been shocked. I can feel the heat of his palm through my T-shirt, and I’m not sure I breathe as he pulls me into his side with the slightest of pressure, as if we’re dancing.
“Allow me to formally welcome you to Moss and Stone,” Kevin says.
“It’s an absolute pleasure to have you join us, Mr. and Mrs.…” He pauses.
“It’s Bacon, correct?”
I’m immediately hot with rage. I can’t believe Nate put us both under his last name.
“No,” George says. “My assistant must have made a mistake when he booked. We are Mrs. and Mr. Francesca Gardiner,” he says. I almost snort, my anger already cooling.
Kevin doesn’t so much as blink. “I do have a credit card on file for Nathaniel Bacon, and I received assurance that all charges should be put on
it.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
I used to be uncomfortable with the financial imbalance in our relationship, but if Nate wants to play sugar daddy for the week, so be it.
“Actually,” George says, setting a matte black card on the desk, “I’d prefer to use this one.”
George doesn’t like to talk about money. I think he’s a little scared of it.
When we moved in together, I forced him to have a frank conversation about finances so we knew where we both stood. It was awkward. I had nothing and, thanks to Mimi, he had a lot. He’s never liked spending it, though.
Watching his dad blow through cash has left George anxious about suddenly finding himself broke.
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, not wanting to make a scene. But George only gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Absolutely,” Kevin says, taking the card. He gestures to the seating area.
“Take a seat and enjoy the view while we get you checked in and ensure your accommodations are ready. We’ll have your bags sent ahead.”
We settle on the softest leather my ass has had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and Kevin brings us two flutes of bubbly pink wine.
“May I offer you a glass of sparkling rosé?” he asks.
“After that drive, you can offer me a swimming pool of sparkling rosé,” I tell him, reaching for the glass.
Kevin laughs, and the sound is like the tinkling of wind chimes. “It’s my little way of saying welcome and congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.”
I nudge my knee against George’s leg. He’ll hear about this later.
“To us, honey,” I say, clinking my glass to his. I meet his gaze, giving him a lion’s smile. “I can’t wait to get you all alone.”
He smirks. “I bet, buttercup.”
It’s either the best wine I’ve ever tasted, or spending hours feeling like we were about to careen off a cliff has made me particularly thirsty.
“This is what angel tears must taste like,” I marvel.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” George agrees.
Kevin looks more than a little chuffed. “I’m so glad you like it. It’s a blend of chardonnay and pinot noir, from one of the fabulous wineries in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley.”
We drain our flutes in under three minutes. Kevin returns, subtly eyes our empty glasses, and says, “Your accommodations are ready, and I have a fresh bottle awaiting you. May I show you there?”
We follow him out of the main building to a row of town house villas sitting in the trees along the beach. Kevin is telling George about the resort’s sustainability efforts and the Nuu-chah-nulth peoples, who have stewarded the land for thousands of years. He praises the restaurant and spa and has endless suggestions for activities. George pays close attention, but I zone out somewhere around the hot springs tour. The day and the wine have caught up to me, and every inch of my body feels heavy.
“Here we are,” Kevin announces when we get to the last villa. It sits beneath evergreen boughs, and an impressive blue hydrangea grows beside
the entrance—it’s even taller than George. “Oh, before I forget,” Kevin says.
“The whale-watching cruises book up fast, so let me know if you’d like me to make a reservation.”
“No way,” I say too quickly, and Kevin cocks his head. “But thank you.”
“She’s not a fan of whales,” George explains.
“I strongly dislike them,” I say, before thinking better of it.
Kevin gasps then quickly composes himself. “They really are remarkable.
And you’d see sea lions and seals on the tour, too.”
“Not my thing,” I say.
Kevin stares at me, mouth agape, before slowly pivoting to George.
“Frankie doesn’t really like any sort of marine life,” George tells him.
Kevin, poor thing, does his best to smile like this isn’t the most psychotic thing he’s heard.
Try being named after a whale, I want to tell him. Try growing up with my mother.
“Sorry.” I shrug, and Kevin takes that as his cue. He unlocks the door with the key card and gestures for us to enter.
• • •
“HOLY SHIT.”
I’d glanced at photos of the resort when Nate made the reservation, but I didn’t realize our villa was this stunning. It’s an open-concept apartment with a two-story wall of windows looking onto the beach and forest and a sliding door out to the deck. There’s leather furniture, a gas fireplace, and a spiral staircase that winds its way up to the second floor. Like the lobby, the colors are all sandy browns, hushed greens, and drizzly grays.
“Right?” Kevin exclaims, slipping out of character momentarily. “It’s one of the more deluxe suites we have on offer for special guests like yourself.”
The kitchen is phenomenal. I run my hand over the slate counters, trace the knots in the grain of the wooden cabinets, and practically squeal at the brand names of the appliances—I could never afford these. The fridge, stove, and sink are arranged in a perfect work triangle, and it’s open to the rest of
the suite so no matter where you stand, you have a view of the epic landscape. I could spend the whole week in this kitchen, experimenting with the Pacific Northwest’s abundant seafood. Spot prawns. Dungeness crab.
Salmon. Oysters. Gooseneck barnacles are a delicacy I’ve only read about.
“I’ll show you around and then leave you to enjoy,” Kevin says.
Like a Dutch still-life painting, there’s food everywhere. A bottle of sparkling rosé lazes in an ice bucket. Chocolate-dipped strawberries glisten beside it. There’s a fruit platter spilling with pineapple, cherries, figs, grapes, and apples. On a wooden board is a crusty baguette and links of dry sausage alongside a jar of grainy mustard and bottle of pinot noir from Duncan, Vancouver Island.
“The baguettes are house-made,” Kevin says, following my gaze. “I wasn’t sure whether you preferred red or white wine, so there’s a bottle of gewürztraminer in the fridge as well.” He turns to George. “It’s from the Okanagan. I don’t know whether you’re wine people, but the Valley’s vineyards are doing some pretty sensational things.”
“Oh, we’re wine people,” I say.
“Wonderful.” Kevin gives me a tight smile and then twists back to George. I guess I lost him over the whales.
“And have no fear,” he says to George. “The gewürz is bone-dry.”
George stifles a smile and gives him a clipped nod. “I appreciate that, Kevin. I do prefer a dry gewürz.”
Kevin looks like he might float up to the rafters. “I’d be happy to open it for you, if you’d like a taste now.”
“That’s all right,” George says. “I’ll save it for later.”
“Of course,” Kevin replies, not able to conceal his disappointment.
“Moving on, then. Our restaurant offers world-class dining, and there are some great local spots, but I had the fridge stocked with a few supplies.”
He opens the stainless-steel doors. Inside are a dozen glass pots of French yogurt and petite bottles of pear, peach, and orange juices. There’s a whole shelf of drinks. Butter from Prince Edward Island. Chèvre from Salt Spring Island. In the door are jars of pink candy hearts, artisanal marshmallows, and nuts.
“The chocolates are made locally,” Kevin says of the square box from Chocolate Tofino on the middle shelf. He leans toward George, as if telling a secret. “The Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Logs are an absolute revelation.”
If we were newlyweds, I might feel a little territorial, because Kevin is looking at George like he’s a Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Log. Though to be fair, George’s flannel shirt and sexy glasses combo give him a rugged, intellectual vibe, like a modern Thoreau, yearning to live deep and suck out life’s marrow. I can see the appeal if you’re into tall men with luscious dark waves who smell of mist-kissed pine boughs.
“And of course,” Kevin says, “there’s always room service. We’re proud to offer our full menu, and our chef would be delighted to accommodate any dietary needs. I hope you’ll find everything you need to suit your appetite, but do let me know if you have any special requests. It’s your honeymoon—I know you may never want to leave your suite.”
George quirks an eyebrow in my direction, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Before I take you up to the bedroom, allow me to show you outside,”
Kevin says. He walks across the space, gesturing for us to follow, and opens the door. I poke my head out. The deck is like a tree house, surrounded by evergreens and ferns, with Muskoka chairs and a beach view. In one corner, behind a wooden screen, is a hot tub, in which I will soon be relaxing with a glass of dry gewürz.
Kevin turns to George. “Our architect and landscape designer did their utmost to ensure that guests could enjoy the hot tub and scenery while maintaining maximum privacy.”
To fuck. He doesn’t say it. But come on.
I decide it’s best not to look at George.
“Are you ready to see the primary suite?” Kevin suggests.
George follows Kevin up the stairs, and I follow George. It’s not that I want to look at his butt, but it’s right in my face, and it’s hard to turn away because I don’t remember him having such a good ass. Either his jeans are working for him, or he’s been doing squats.
When we reach the top, I look at George, dumbfounded.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “God help me.”
