Free Salvage by Duncan Ralston

neither. What it had instead was a big wooden water tower with CHAPEL LAKE painted on the side the color of dried blood. Much of the paint had flaked off, and as he drove past, Owen realized you couldn't spell Chapel Lake without an H, an E, and two Ls.
    The town wasn't exactly thriving, either. Many small towns had become havens for retirees, meaning big business from Baby Boomers, well-to-do folk trying to escape the city, the rat race, the teenagers and immigrants. Chapel Lake, it seemed, was not one of those towns.
    Maybe a dozen years ago it had been a decent-sized tourist trap (the run-down B&Bs were evidence of that), but not today. Windows of a bakery advertising "Authentic Canadian pastries" were lined with newspaper, the door adorned with WE ARE CLOSED FOR BUSINESS FOREVER printed on dot-matrix computer paper. In a small park, no one posed for photos in front of the oversized cedar canoe. The post office's sad red and white maple leaf hung from the rusted pole like a wet rag. The hardware store—NOW HIRING, according to a sign in the window—was closed, and the outdoor market sparsely populated: a few meager displays of peaches-and-cream corncobs and strawberry baskets, the remnants of a half-assed Mennonite furniture venture, and something called Miss Betty's Jams 'N Preserves. All of this Owen saw as he drove through town, while curious citizens shaded their eyes and squinted back at Owen in his fancy little car.
    "You people can roll out the welcome wagon anytime, now," he muttered, waiting at the flashing red light in the center of town. An elderly lady turned to look down at him from the sidewalk with a thunderous expression, though she couldn't possibly have heard him with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on. He suspected she might cast the same glower of disapproval on anyone she didn't recognize, particularly upon such an obvious out-of-towner. The lights changed and she shuffled her walker across the street. Owen turned left.
    Potholes were more common than usable road beyond Chapel Lake's business district. The realtor renting out the cottage had an office on the north end of town. Between there and what passed for the "downtown core" were turn-of-the-century homes gone to seed, a fenced-off auto yard, a small antiques "shoppe," and a closed-down Dairy Queen.
    Wickman Realty was a small square one-story building, the kind of off-white stucco eyesore with a flat roof that could just as easily be a dentist's office or a chiropractor's, except for the storefront windows. The lawn was neatly manicured, one of the few in the area. The windows held neat photo displays of houses and cottages for sale, lease, or rent. Owen scanned them for the cottage Lori had stayed in, but since he didn't know what to look for, and had just hoped something would leap out at him, he gave up, disappointed.
    A young couple with a baby sat at Skip Wickman's desk when Owen stepped in, the bell above the door tinkling. The couple peered back over their shoulders.
    "I'll be with you in a moment," Skip said.
    It was cool inside, like a fridge, compared to the street. More photos of houses, trailers, cottages and empty lots were posted on a photo board. A rack by the door displayed brochures for towns, townships, and lakes in the region. Children playing in the water. Couples holding hands at sunset. Horse carriages, speedboats, canoes, fishermen, the Mushkoweban Falls Hydroelectric Dam ( Power for Our Future! ), the Peterborough Lift Lock, a bridge called the James A. Gifford Causeway across Chemong Lake, pinecones, snowmobiles and skiers, village fairs and festivals, cotton candy and livestock, trees and trees and even more trees.
    Finally, Skip shook hands with the husband and wife, who looked to be in their early twenties and had probably just signed the lease on their first mobile home. He led them out of the office, holding the door for them. As they thanked him again, Owen noticed the woman had teared up a little.