Summer at Willow Lake

by Susan Wiggs

  “When my mom figured out I could come here for free on account of my dad working here,” Connor explained, “my fate was sealed.”

  In her mind, Lolly put together the facts, like a detective. If he was coming here for free, that meant he was a scholarship camper. Each year, under a program her grandparents had founded, needy children were brought to the camp for free. They were kids who had rough family lives and were “at risk” although she wasn’t quite sure what “at risk” meant.

  At camp, everybody dressed the same, lived and ate and slept the same. You weren’t supposed to know if the kid beside you was a crack baby or a Saudi prince. Sometimes it was kind of obvious, though. The scholarship kids talked differently and often looked different. Sometimes their bad teeth gave them away. Or their bad attitude. Or sometimes, like with Connor, a kid had this hard, dangerous look about him that warned people he didn’t need a handout. There was nothing needy about him at all, no hint that he was “at risk.” Except the hurt in his eyes when she had called his father a drunk.

  “I feel completely cruddy,” she reiterated. “And horrible. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You’re right. You shouldn’t have. Crazy-ass girl, no wonder you go to a shrink.” He stabbed his stick into the ground and sped up. It looked as though he wasn’t going to say another word to her. Ever.

  Fine, she thought. She’d blown it, the way she always did with other kids. And he was probably going to make sure the whole world knew it. He’d probably tell everyone she was all freaked out about her parents, in therapy. He would probably say he’d seen her cry. She had made an enemy for life.

  She trudged onward, feeling more sweaty and cranky with every step she took. You’re an idiot, Lolly Bellamy, she told herself. Each year, she came to Camp Kioga with ridiculously high expectations. This summer will be different. This summer, I’ll make new friends, learn a sport, live my own life, just for one single season.

  But once things got under way, reality set in. Simply leaving the city didn’t mean leaving discontent behind. It came along with her, like a shadow, expanding and contracting with the light.

  She and Connor Davis were the last to reach the summit. Everyone else was gathered around the fire pit. There was no fire because it was plenty hot and sunny. The campers sat on huge old logs. Some of the logs had been there so long they had seats worn into them.

  The head counselors of Eagle Lodge this year were Rourke McKnight and Gabby Spaulding, who fit the Kioga mold perfectly. They were cute and perky. Each had attended Kioga as a camper. Now in college, they embodied what Nana and Granddad called the Kioga “esprit de corps.” They knew the camp rules, CPR, several key Algonquin words and the tunes of every campfire song known to man. They understood how to talk a camper out of feeling homesick. Among the Fledglings especially, homesickness was a dreaded epidemic.

  In the olden days, homesickness wasn’t a problem because the cabins had been rented by families. That was how camp used to work. As soon as the school year ended, the moms and kids would move into the bungalows, and each weekend, the dads would come to join them, taking the train up from the city. That was where the term “bungalow colony” came from. A colony was a group of bungalows set close together. Often, Nana had told her, the same families returned year after year. They became close friends with the other camp families, even though they never got to see each other except in the summer, and they looked forward to camp all year.

  Nana had pictures of the olden days, and they looked like happy times, frozen in black-and-white photographs with deckled edges, preserved in the black-paged camp albums that went back to the Beginning of Time. The dads smoked pipes and drank highballs and leaned on their tennis racquets. Nearby were the moms in their kerchiefs and middy blouses, sunning themselves in bent-willow lawn chairs while the kids all played together.

  Lolly wished life could really be like that. Nowadays, of course, it couldn’t. Women had careers and a bunch of them didn’t have husbands.

  So now the bungalows housed the counselors—scrubbed, enthusiastic college kids by day, party animals by night. Last summer, Lolly and three of her cousins, Ceci, Frankie and Dare, had sneaked off after lights-out and spied on the counselors. First there was the drinking. Then the dancing. A bunch of couples started making out, all over the place—on the porches, in the lawn chairs, even right in the middle of the dance floor. Ceci, who was the eldest of the cousins, had let loose with a fluttery sigh and whispered, “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be a counselor.”

  “Yuck,” Lolly and the younger cousins had said in unison, and averted their eyes.

  Now it was a year later, and Lolly seemed to understand that fluttery sigh a little better. A kind of electricity danced in the air between Rourke and Gabby. It was hard to explain to herself but easy to recognize. She could totally picture them together in the staff area, dancing and flirting and making out.

  As soon as a head count verified all were present, Rourke took out a guitar (there was always a guitar) and they sang songs. Lolly was amazed by Connor’s voice. Most of the boys mumbled the words and sang off-key, but not Connor. He belted out “We Are the World,” not really showing off, but singing with the matter-of-fact self-confidence of a pop star. When some of the kids stared at him, he would just shrug and keep singing.

  A few of the girls gaped openly, slack-jawed. Okay, so it wasn’t Lolly’s imagination. He was as cute as she thought he was. Too bad he was such a jerk. Too bad she’d blown it with him.

  Then it was time for the introductions, which were as boring as she’d feared. Each partner was supposed to stand up and offer three facts about the person with whom they hiked up the mountain, the idea being that strangers who shared an adventure could wind up friends.

  Cripes, she thought, she and Connor hadn’t bothered to learn anything about each other except that they were enemies. She didn’t know where he lived except in something he called a double-wide, if he had any brothers and sisters, what his favorite flavor of ice cream was.

  There were no surprises in this group. Everybody went to the most exclusive schools on the planet: Exeter, Sidwell Friends, the Dalton School, TASIS in Lugano, Switzerland. Everybody had a horse or a yacht or a house in the Hamptons.

  Big fat hairy deal, she thought. If the most interesting thing about a kid was what school he went to, then he must be a pretty boring person. It was slightly interesting that the kid named Tarik attended a Muslim school and that a girl called Stormy was home-schooled by her parents, who were circus performers, but other than that, totally yawnworthy.

  Nearly all of the other factoids were equally tedious or boastful, sometimes both. One kid’s father was a publicist who had A-list celebrities on speed dial. Another girl had her diving certification. People came from families that won prizes—Pulitzer, Oscar, Clio. The kids flashed these credentials as if they were scouting badges, undoubtedly making stuff up in order to top each other.

  Listening to everyone, Lolly came to a conclusion—a lie worked better than the truth.

  Then it was her turn. She stood up, and she and Connor glared at each other through narrowed eyes, silent warnings leaping between them. He had more than enough information to humiliate her if he wanted. That was the thing about telling somebody something private and true. It was like handing him a gun and waiting to see if he’d pull the trigger. She had no idea what he would tell the group. All she knew was that she’d given him plenty of ammo to use against her.

  She went first. She took a deep breath and started speaking even before she knew what she was going to say.

  “This is Connor, and it’s his first time at Camp Kioga. He…” She thought about what she knew. He was here on scholarship and his father drank. His mother had just remarried and his stepfather was mean, which was why he had to go away for the summer. Lolly knew that with a few words, she could turn the gun on him. She could probably turn him into a kid nobody would want to be friends with.

  She caught
his eye and knew he was thinking the same thing about her.

  “He puts ketchup on everything he eats, even at breakfast,” she said. “His favorite group is Talking Heads. And he always wins at one-on-one.” She was guessing at that last bit, based on the fact that he was so tall, and he wore Chuck Taylor high-tops. And he seemed fast and had big hands. She was guessing at everything, as a matter of fact, but he didn’t contradict her.

  Then it was Connor’s turn. “This is Lolly,” he said, her name curling from his lips like an insult.

  Moment of truth, she thought, adjusting her glasses. He could ruin her. She’d shown too much of herself on the way up the mountain. He cleared his throat, tossed his hair out of his eyes, assumed a defiant slouch. His gaze slid over her—knowing, contemptuous—and he cleared his throat. The other campers, who had been restless through most of the exercise, settled down. There was no denying that the kid had presence, commanding attention like a scary teacher, or an actor in a play.

  I hate camp, she thought with a fierce passion that made her face burn. I hate it, and I hate this boy, and he’s about to destroy me.

  Connor cleared his throat again, his gaze sweeping the group of kids.

  “She likes to read books, she’s really good at playing piano and she wants to get better at swimming.”

  They sat back down and didn’t look at each other again—except once. And when their eyes met, she was surprised to see that they were both almost smiling.

  All right, she conceded, so he hadn’t decided to make her a human sacrifice this time, or use her for target practice. She was torn between liking this kid and resenting him. One thing Lolly was sure of. She did hate summer camp, and she didn’t even care if it belonged to her grandparents. She was never coming back here again for as long as she lived. Ever.

  INVITATION

  THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE IS

  REQUESTED

  BY JANE AND CHARLES BELLAMY

  ON THE OCCASION OF OUR

  50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

  YOU’VE SHARED IN OUR LIVES WITH

  YOUR FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

  NOW WE INVITE YOU TO JOIN US IN

  CELEBRATING

  OUR GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY.

  SATURDAY, THE 26TH OF AUGUST, 2006.

  CAMP KIOGA, RR #47, AVALON,

  ULSTER COUNTY, NEW YORK.

  RUSTIC ACCOMMODATIONS PROVIDED.

  Two

  Olivia Bellamy set down the engraved invitation and smiled across the table at her grandmother. “What a lovely idea,” she said. “Congratulations to you and Granddad.”

  Nana slowly rotated the tiered array of tiny sandwiches and cakes. Once a month no matter what else was going on in their lives, grandmother and granddaughter met for tea at Astor Court in the Saint Regis Hotel in midtown. They had been doing it for years, ever since Olivia was a pudgy, sullen twelve-year-old in need of attention. Even now, there was something soothing about stepping into the Beaux Arts luxury of elegant furnishings, potted palms and the discreet murmur of harp music.

  Nana settled on a cucumber slice garnished with a floret of salmon mousse. “Thank you. The anniversary is three months away, but I’m already getting excited.”

  “Why Camp Kioga?” Olivia asked, fiddling with the tea strainer. She hadn’t been there since her last summer before college. By choice, she had put all the drama and angst behind her.

  “Camp Kioga is a special place to me and Charles.” Next, Nana sampled a tiny finger sandwich spread with truffle butter. “It’s the place where we first met, and we were married there, under the gazebo, on Spruce Island in the middle of Willow Lake.”

  “You’re kidding. I never knew that. Why didn’t I know that?”

  “Trust me, what you don’t know about this family could fill volumes. Charles and I were a regular Romeo and Juliet.”

  “You never told me this story. Nana, what’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. Most young people don’t give a fig about how their grandparents met and married. Nor should they.”

  “I’m giving a fig right now,” Olivia said. “Spill.”

  “It was all so long ago, and seems so trivial now. You see, my parents—the Gordons—and the Bellamys came from two different worlds. I grew up in Avalon, never even saw the city until after I was married. Your granddad’s parents even threatened to boycott the wedding. They were determined that their only son would marry well. In those days, that meant somebody with social status. Not some Catskills girl from a mountain camp.”

  Olivia was startled by the flicker of hurt she recognized in her grandmother’s eyes. Some wounds, it seemed, never quite healed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Nana made a visible effort to shake off her mood. “There was a lot of class consciousness back then.”

  “Still is,” Olivia said softly.

  Nana’s eyebrows shot up, and Olivia knew she’d better change the subject, or she’d be trapped into explaining what she meant by that. She looked expectantly at the teapot. “Is it ready?”

  They always split a large pot of Lady Grey, which carried a whisper of lavender along with the bergamot. Olivia’s grandmother nodded and poured. “Anyway,” Nana said, “you have more important things than my ancient history to think about.” Behind her chic black-and-pink glasses, her eyes sparkled and for a moment she looked decades younger. “It’s a grand story, though. I’m sure you’ll hear it this summer. We hope everyone will come for a nice long stay. Charles and I are going to renew our vows at the gazebo, in the exact spot where we first spoke them. We’re going to reenact the wedding as much as we’re able.”

  “Oh, Nana. That’s a…wonderful notion.” Deep down, Olivia was cringing. She was sure the idyllic picture in her grandmother’s mind was a far cry from the reality. The camp had ceased operating nine years before and had lain fallow ever since, with minimal maintenance performed by a skeleton crew that mowed the grounds and made sure the buildings were still standing. Some of the Bellamy cousins and other relatives used the place for reunions or vacations, but Olivia suspected the camp had gone to ruin. Her grandparents were sure to be disappointed in the setting for their golden anniversary.

  “You know,” Olivia said, determined to be diplomatic, “some of your friends are getting on in years. As I recall, the camp is not wheelchair accessible. People would be more likely to attend if you had the affair at the Waldorf-Astoria or maybe right here at the Saint Regis.”

  Jane sipped her tea. “Charles and I discussed it, and decided to do this for us. Much as we love all our friends and family, our golden anniversary is going to be the affair we want. That’s what our wedding was, and that’s what we’ll do fifty years later. We’ve chosen Camp Kioga. It’s a way to celebrate what we’ve been in the past and what we hope to be for the rest of our lives—a happy couple.” Her cup rattled, just slightly, as she set it down in its saucer. “It will be our farewell to the camp.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The golden anniversary celebration will be our last event at Camp Kioga. Afterward, we’ll need to decide what to do about the property.”

  Olivia frowned. “Nana? Did I just hear that right?”

  “You did. It’s time. We’ve got to come up with a plan for the property. It’s a hundred acres of prime real estate, and it has been privately owned by my family since 1932. Our hope is that we can keep it in the family for our children.” She looked pointedly at Olivia. “Or our grandchildren. Nothing’s sure in this life, but we hope the property won’t be sold to a developer who will put up roads and parking lots and rows of those dreadful tract mansions.”

  Olivia didn’t know why the prospect of her grandparents letting go of the property made her feel wistful. She didn’t even like the place. She liked the idea of the camp. Nana’s father had received the property during the Great Depression as payment for a debt, and had built the compound himself, naming it Kioga, which he thought was an Algonquin word for “tranquillity,” but which he later learned was
meaningless. After the camp closed in 1997, none of the Bellamy offspring was inclined to take it on.

  Her grandmother helped herself to a cornet filled with chocolate ganache. “We’ll discuss it after the anniversary celebration. Best to get everything settled so no one will have to make a decision about that after we’re gone.”

  “I hate it when you talk like that. You’re sixty-eight years old, and you just did a senior triathlon—”

  “Which I never would have finished if you hadn’t trained with me.” Jane patted her hand, then looked pensive. “So many important moments of my life took place there. The camp floated my family through the Great Depression, just barely. After Charles and I married and took over, the place became a part of who we are.”

  So typical of Nana, Olivia reflected. She always looked for ways to hold on to things, even when she would be better off letting go.

  “That’s all in the future.” Nana’s manner turned brisk as she took out some pages she’d obviously printed off from Olivia’s Web site. “We have business to discuss. I want you to prepare the property for our gala celebration.”

  Olivia let out a short laugh. “I can’t do that, Nana.”

  “Nonsense. It says right here you provide expert research, design and services to stage and enhance real estate for optimum market presence.”

  “All that means is that I’m a house fluffer,” Olivia said. Some of the designers in her field objected to the expression, which definitely lacked a certain gravitas. They preferred house stager or property enhancer. Fluffer sounded…well, fluffy.