Summer at Willow Lake (12 page)

“Why not?”

“I suck at romance. I have a terrible track record. You said so yourself. I set myself up for failure.”

“You’d be great at it if you’d just pick the right guy.” He kissed her again. His mouth was warm and sweet, and the kindness of the gesture made her feel like weeping.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, pulling back. “Now you’re crying.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean…God, Freddy, I’m such a mess.” She hadn’t cried over Rand Whitney, yet here she was, the tears boiling from her eyes simply because Freddy had kissed her.

“I know you are. So am I. Maybe it’s something else we’ll work on this summer besides renovating the camp.” And with that, he released her.

She felt both bereft and relieved. Freddy was wonderful, she adored him, but a romance? She pressed her sleeves to her eyes. Impossible.

Edging away from him, she studied the reflection of the stars on the lake. “Is it going to be all awkward between us now because we tried kissing and it didn’t work out?”

“Who says it didn’t work out?”

Oh, God. “Freddy, I—”

“Shut up, Livvy.” He patted her gently on the back. “I’m pulling your leg. I wasn’t feeling it from you.” He cleared his throat. “But you understand, I had to try.”

She wondered, if she shone the flashlight on him, what she would see in his face. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, so she kept the beam turned off.

When the sun rose, neither Olivia nor Freddy mentioned the previous night. Fortunately, they found plenty to keep them busy. She pulled on sloppy denim cutoffs and a sweatshirt over a tank top, and looped her hair into a messy ponytail. This was going to be a workday.

Over mugs of coffee, they held a typical consultation, just as they might in the city when they were starting a project, with Olivia making lists and Freddy creating sketches on big sheets of butcher paper. They worked at a long table of scrubbed pine in the dining hall, with a view of the lake as their backdrop.

“It’s going to be incredible,” she said, standing back and admiring their shared vision. “All we need now is the right contractor to get the job done.”

Freddy tore a slip of paper out of his notepad. “Here’s the number I took down when we passed through town yesterday. Davis Construction.”

“I’ll ask around for others.” Catching his expression, she said, “You know, to get some competitive bids.”

“Don’t be surprised if this is the only game in town. And with the budget your grandmother gave us, we don’t exactly need to pinch pennies.”

“I’ll ask around,” Olivia said stubbornly. “Wish me luck.”

She had no luck. Cell phone service was nonexistent and the camp-office phone had been disconnected years ago. To make a call, she had to hike out to the main entrance and use the antiquated pay phone at the gatehouse. Until she set up the old business office in the main building, it would be the camp’s only phone service. According to the directory assistance operator, there was only one general contractor in Avalon, just as Freddy had predicted.

Gritting her teeth, she dialed the number. Like most small-time contractors, Davis Construction’s answering service consisted of a male voice saying, “Leave your number and I’ll get back to you.” The first time she heard the message, she hung up without saying anything.

Come on, Olivia, she pep talked herself. It didn’t really sound like him. It couldn’t be him. What would he be doing with a construction business in Avalon, New York? And even if it was him, so what? She was a professional. She dealt with contractors all the time.

None of them, however, had ever made her hyperventilate when she dialed his number. That was new.

Grim with determination, she plugged another quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number again. And once again, she got the voice mail. This time, she left a clear, distinct message: “My name is Olivia Bellamy, and I’m calling from Camp Kioga. I’d like to discuss a…sizable restoration project, if you’re interested…”

“Any luck?” called Freddy.

“No. I left a voice mail.” It took her a moment to find him, following the sound of his voice. He was in the storage loft above the dining hall. The high gallery featured an impressive peeled-log railing that was badly in need of dusting.

“But no one can call you back.”

“I left directions and said to just show up if he’s interested in the job. If no one shows by tomorrow morning, we’ll work on finding someone else.” She said this with a small measure of relief. “What are you doing?”

“Getting started,” he said. “I’m digging up all kinds of treasures here.”

“Like what?”

“Like the telescope you told me about.” It was his only reference to last night, and Olivia pretended not to hear. She suddenly became fascinated by a collection of painted paddles that used to be displayed in the foyer.

“Check these out.” Freddy dropped something unwieldy over the railing. A large bundle fell in a heap on the floor, throwing up a storm of dust.

“The flags,” said Olivia, gagging on the dust. She bent down and unwrapped the old, brittle fabric, jumping back as a spider scuttled out. “I don’t think you’re supposed to let them touch the ground.”

“There’s a five-second rule,” he said.

“Right.” She gingerly picked up the bundle and laid it on an empty table. There were three of them—the flags of the state of New York and of the U.S., and Camp Kioga’s signature banner. The faded fabric was covered in cobwebs and creepy-looking spider-egg cases. She rolled the flags up and brought them outside to the commercial Dumpster that had been delivered first thing in the morning.

You weren’t supposed to put the flag in a Dumpster, though. She remembered that from civics class. You were supposed to burn it to show reverence, though she had no idea why that showed more reverence than putting it in a Dumpster.

Then she had another thought. In front of the main pavilion at the entrance circle, the three flagpoles stood, stark and denuded as trees in winter. The sight of the three flags flying would certainly be an improvement.

Decisively, she shook out each flag with a snap. The cables on the flagpole seemed to be in working order. Within minutes, she had raised the Camp Kioga flag, which depicted a kitschy tepee by a lake. Then came the state flag, with its two goddesses holding a shield. Finally, on the center and tallest pole, she raised the U.S. flag. She felt oddly virtuous and patriotic, tugging at the cable and humming the national anthem under her breath. This flag was a true antique, because it had forty-eight stars. Like her grandparents, it had seen a half-century of history—wars and the birth of rock and roll, disaster and abundance, social movements and national crises.

This flag…was upside down.

In her patriotic fervor, Olivia had raised it the wrong way. An upside-down flag was a sign of distress. She didn’t want to give that impression, surely.

She reversed the direction of the cable, but the pulley seemed to be snagged. She tugged a few times and swore at the thing, but it did no good.

“A ladder,” she muttered, heading for a storage shed. She found one, brushed away the cobwebs and marched back to the flagpole area. By now, the sun had burned away the cool of the morning, and she peeled the sweatshirt down to her tank top. It took some maneuvering to lean the ladder against the slender pole, but she found that by keeping herself centered, it didn’t wobble too much.

Halfway up, she heard the wind in the trees and paused to survey the area from her high vantage point. She could see the layout of the camp from here, the quaint wooden structures in the distance, the lake shimmering in the sun and the wind. From here, the view was majestic and intimidating. It struck her then that this job was bigger than she’d ever imagined. It would be a miracle if she could pull it off.

I can do this, she thought, moving up each rung with determination. Nana liked to say that everything happened for a reason, and you don’t always get to know what that reason might be.

Olivia climbed as high as she dared, and then reached, stretching to her limit. As she extended her arm upward to tug at the snag, she felt the ladder shift.

No, she thought. No. But before she could even open her mouth to yell for help, the ladder canted sideways. She hugged the pole, cringing as she heard the ladder hit the ground with a crash.

Six

C
onnor Davis couldn’t remember ever meeting an Olivia Bellamy. There were a bunch of Bellamys and in the past, he’d encountered his share, but not lately. Thank God. High-strung and overbred, the Bellamy women he’d known were the French poodles of the fairer sex. Most of them, anyway.

Still, her message had intrigued him. The promise of a project intrigued his bottom line. So far, it had been a lean spring season on the heels of a brutal winter. The weather that had turned the landscape into a regular Currier and Ives postcard had also put the big freeze on most building projects. He was ready for the dry spell to end. There were a dozen guys on the payroll and he wasn’t keeping them busy enough.

Because the work truck was in use by one of his crews, he rode up to Camp Kioga by the only other means he had, his Harley. To someone who didn’t know his situation, the bike looked like a huge extravagance. In reality, a cash-poor client had given it to him a few years back as payment for a project.

Connor was happy enough to ride today. It was the kind of late-spring day that promised that winter was finally over. The sky was a deep blue bowl and sunlight sliced down through the tree branches, dappling the road with coins of gold. Chilly, though. He was glad he had taken the time to put on all his gear—jacket, gloves, boots, chaps. And hell. Might as well admit it. People like the Bellamys tended to pay closer attention when he dressed head to toe in scuffed black leather.

He didn’t get up this way very often, not anymore. No one but the most dedicated autumn leaf-lookers did. But as a kid, the road to Camp Kioga represented an emotional roller-coaster ride. Each summer he’d come here, it was the same. He made the journey with a heart full of hope and possibility. This year, it would be different. This year, his father wouldn’t let him down. This year, his father would keep his promise to stay sober. This year, his father wouldn’t humiliate him and make him wish he could disappear. This year, he could just be a kid, instead of taking care of the man who was supposed to take care of
him.

That was a long time ago, though. Now the camp was closed and its boundaries posted Private Property—No Trespassing.

The sign arching over the main entrance looked the same. A little more rusty, maybe a tad crooked. But it had been built to last, and seemed to be as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and trees.

Time fell away as he rolled under the arch. He was a kid again, clutching his duffel bag and making a run for it, hoping he got a good cabin this year.

The three flags that flew in front of the main hall looked…Connor touched his sunglasses. Something was wrong. On the tallest flagpole, the U.S. flag hung crookedly by one corner. And someone—a very blond someone in extremely short shorts—clung to the pole as though hanging on for dear life.

Connor accelerated, the Harley blasting an announcement of his arrival. This should be interesting.

CAMP KIOGA CODE OF CONDUCT

The use of alcohol, tobacco and drugs is strictly prohibited.

In matters of dress,
modesty
must prevail. Halter tops, short shorts, etc., will not be allowed. Wear shoes at all times. See the Official Camp Dress Code.

Radios, tape players, magazines, comic books, etc., are a distraction to camp. The dean has the privilege of confiscating such items.

No camper is to be out of his or her cabin after lights-out.

Food is not allowed in the cabin at any time; it attracts bugs and animals.

The camp kitchen is off-limits except at mealtimes.

Do not
push the beds together; it’s a state law.

Seven

Summer 1991

H
is first summer at Camp Kioga, in the middle of water-safety practice, Connor Davis discovered firsthand what a woody was. Sure, guys talked about it all the time, and a morning woody was nothing new, but the actual wide-awake experience was…startling. All it had taken was one look at Gina Palumbo in her red swimsuit, and his elastic warrior instantly got a mind of its own. His regulation dark blue swim trunks were suddenly way too tight. Tent pole time.

Schwing.
And worse, Connor couldn’t make it go away.

He and a group of kids had been sent up to the top of the lookout tower, a platform thirty feet above the swim and dive area. They were supposed to be watching the swimmers as part of their safety-certification training. Instead, he found himself staring at Gina Palumbo, whose boobs belonged in the hall of fame.

Some of the guys in the cabin told dirty stories about her. Connor doubted if any of them were true, the stuff they said she did behind the boathouse or on the floating dock at night. Sometimes there was even an extra girl in the story, or a German shepherd, which was plain gross. Anyway, he wasn’t even thinking about the late-night, whispered stories when he saw Gina and two of her friends strolling down the beach. It was the furthest thing from his mind. But once he spotted her and her friends, he couldn’t think of anything except those stories.

Why was it that hot girls always went around in packs of three? he wondered, biting his lip to keep in a groan. It made it three times harder not to stare.
Down, Simba.

But Connor couldn’t help himself. Even though there was a rule—universally hated by the girls—that they had to wear one-piece regulation camp suits, Gina still looked like a Madonna CD cover. The stretchy fabric showed off those huge melons and pulled tautly over the curves of her rear end.

It was said that guys weren’t even supposed to look at Gina. Her father was this mafioso gazillionaire whose goons would break your kneecaps if they caught you having impure thoughts about his daughter. Impure didn’t even begin to describe what Connor was thinking. If there was a mafia goon around, Connor Davis would be toast.