by Susan Wiggs
Davis’s gaze flickered. “Uh-huh.” He brought the match to the tip of his cigarette.
Philip and Mariska kept walking. “Never mind him,” Philip said. “He probably won’t remember anything tomorrow, anyway.” Despite the conviction in his words, he felt a thrum of apprehension in his chest. Over the summer, he and Mariska had grown increasingly inventive when it came to finding places to make love. They’d done it not just in the boathouse, but in some of the boats. In the panel van Mariska drove on her bread deliveries. On the bridge over Meerskill Falls.
Tonight, they decided to risk sneaking into the bungalow. As a senior counselor, he had private quarters, and there, illuminated only by a single night-light, he took her in his arms, leaning down to bury his face in her fragrant hair. “I can’t wait to be with you forever.”
“You’re going to have to. I better not stay out too late tonight. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment first thing in the morning.”
He pulled back, studied her face. “Are you okay?”
“Just a checkup,” she said.
A sigh gusted from him. “Whew. I’m going to miss you so much.”
With delicate fingers, she unbuttoned the front of his shirt. “How much?”
“More than you know.” He caught his breath as she parted his shirt and pressed her lips to his throat.
“You’ll probably forget all about me once you’re back at college with your rich fiancée and high society friends.”
“Don’t talk like that. You know it’s not true.”
“All I have is your word for it.” Despite the accusation, a teasing note lightened her voice. “The rich boy’s word. What do rich girls do all the time, anyway?”
“They let rich boys make love to them,” he said, unzipping her dress in a smooth, practiced motion. He was excited now, but forced himself to slow down. He undid one cuff link and slipped it in his pocket.
“Those are pretty,” she said, admiring the glint of silver.
“They were my grandfather’s.” He removed the second one and placed it in her hand. “Tell you what. You keep one, I’ll keep the other. After I…when I come back for you, I’ll wear them again at our wedding.”
“Philip.”
“I mean it. I want to marry you. I’m giving you this little hunk of silver now. After this is all straightened out, it’ll be a diamond ring.”
Her eyes sparkled up at him as she dropped the cuff link into her handbag. “I’ll hold you to that, too. In fact, I’ve got my dream ring all picked out.”
“At Palmquist’s, where you work?”
“Very funny. At Tiffany’s.”
“Ha. I can’t afford Tiffany’s.”
“Sure you can. Your parents are loaded.”
“But I’m not. In this family, we make our own way in the world.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He laughed and skimmed her dress down over her shoulders, watching it pool on the floor. Then he reached around and unfastened her bra. “You’re going to be the bride of a poor but noble public defender.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
He caught his breath as the bra came away; then he found his voice again. “The only thing that scares me is leaving you tomorrow.”
CAMP KIOGA SONGBOOK
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
And what do you think he saw?
Five
“Why do I keep flashing on scenes from The Shining?” asked Freddy Delgado. He hummed an ominous sound track as Olivia drove their leased SUV up the narrow, patchwork-paved country road toward the town of Avalon.
“Believe me,” she said, “that’s not as horrific as the flashbacks I’m having. I spent a lot of excruciating summers here.” She still couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. The simple act of driving felt foreign to her, since she never drove in the city. Right up to the last minute, her mother had tried to talk her out of the renovation project, but Olivia was determined. Her father had been more supportive. When she’d told him goodbye the previous night, he’d held her close and wished her luck.
“Why excruciating?” asked Freddy. “It looks like the perfect place for summer.”
She eased up on the accelerator as a chipmunk darted across the road. There were things she’d never told Freddy—or anyone—about her life. “I was sort of a misfit.”
“You?” He snorted with a disbelief that made her feel flattered. “What is this, a camp for freaks and geeks?”
She gestured at the photo album, which lay on the seat between them. The thought of him getting a glimpse of her past was discomfiting, but she had to trust him. Who besides Freddy would drop everything and agree to spend the summer at a remote Catskills camp, trying to bring back the charm of a bygone time? Of course, being jobless and homeless was a clear incentive, but now it was too late. He was already flipping through the old photos.
“Find the group shot from 1993. Saratoga Cabin, Eagle Lodge,” she instructed him.
He flipped it open and scanned the collection of photos. “Looks like a breeding program for the Aryan nation. Geez, did everybody have to be tall, blond and hot to go to camp here?”
“Look closer. Back row, on the end,” she said.
“Oh.” The tone of Freddy’s voice indicated that he had spotted her. “Went through an awkward phase, did you?”
“I wouldn’t call it a phase, I’d call it my entire adolescence. And I wasn’t awkward. I was fat. The Coke-bottle glasses and braces were just kind of a bonus.”
Freddy let out a low whistle. “And look at you now. The ugly duckling became a swan.”
“The ugly duckling got contacts, went blond and did year-round intramural swimming in college. The ugly duckling worked for two years to get to her ideal weight. And you don’t have to be polite. I was horrible. I was an unhappy kid and I took it out on myself. Once I figured out how to be happy, everything got better.”
“Kids aren’t supposed to have to figure out how to be happy. They just are.”
“Some families are different,” she told him. “And that’s all I’m going to say about the Bellamys, so don’t bother to pry.”
“Ha. I’ve got you to myself the entire summer. I’ll learn all your secrets.”
“I have no secrets.”
“Bullshit. I think you’re keeping secrets even from yourself.”
“It’s going to be a real picnic, spending the summer with Dr. Freud.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re doing this project. And I’m glad Rand Whitney is history now.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “That means a lot, coming from you, Freddy. You wanted me to fail.”
“Olivia. You set yourself up for failure every time. Ever wonder why that is?”
Ouch.
“You have a habit of picking the wrong guy,” he went on. “I think it’s because you wouldn’t know what to do if you actually found the right guy. You say you figured out how to be happy. Why don’t I believe that?”
She didn’t want to discuss this. “I think Barkis needs a bathroom break.”
“No, he doesn’t. He just peed in Kingston. According to the map, we’re almost there. I’ll shut up, I promise.” True to his word, Freddy fell silent and went back to studying the photos. Olivia had already done so, poring over the old Kodachromes and black-and-white photographs in order to remind herself what the place used to look like. Fortunately, her grandmother kept a concise history of the camp, from its humble beginnings in the 1930s to its heyday in the late 1950s, which was the time period she wanted to replicate in honor of the golden anniversary. She hoped to evoke the simple pleasures of summers past, to make Camp Kioga look like the sort of place people used to go—or wish they had.
Freddy flipped the book shut. “Seeing you as a kid explains a little more about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a master of th
e art of transforming things. No wonder you’re so good at what you do.”
She’d certainly had plenty of practice. As a child, she had been obsessed with changing things—her room in her mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment, her locker at the Dalton School, even her cabin at Camp Kioga each summer. At camp, it was the one thing she was good at. One year, she’d raided a storeroom above the dining hall and found a stash of old linens. Her cabinmates had returned from a hike to find the bunks covered in handmade quilts, soft and faded with age. The windows were draped with calico curtains, the sills decked with freshly picked wildflowers in jelly jars.
“We’ll see how good,” she cautioned Freddy. “I’ve never staged an entire wilderness camp before.”
“Your grandmother gave you a big fat budget and the whole summer to get the job done. It’ll be an adventure in itself.”
“I hope you’re right. And thanks for agreeing to do this with me. You’re a godsend, Freddy.”
“Trust me, honey, I needed this gig,” he said with self-deprecating candor. “You’re going to need more than me on this renovation, though. Who are you going to use for labor?”
“My grandparents budgeted for a general contractor. We need to find someone as soon as possible. You’re going to meet a few more Bellamys, too. My closest cousin, Dare, is coming. So are my uncle Greg and my cousins Daisy and Max. Greg is a landscape architect, and he’ll be in charge of the grounds. He’s going through a rough spot in his marriage, so spending the summer up here might be good for him and his kids.”
“See, marriage is a bad idea,” Freddy said.
“So I shouldn’t even bother, is that what you’re saying?”
He ignored the question and went back to the photo collection. “What a place. The older pictures look more like a family reunion than summer camp.”
“Way, way back, before our time, the camp was for families,” she said. “Sometimes, it was the only time of year that relatives got together. The moms and kids would stay the entire time, and the dads would come up on the train every Friday. Weird, huh?”
“Maybe. I hear family retreats are coming back in vogue, though. You know, the overscheduled family in search of downtime together, yada yada yada.”
She glanced over at him. “You sound really taken with the idea.”
“Babe, I retreat from my family, not with them.”
“Whoa, where did that come from?” she said. “I didn’t realize you had issues with your family.”
“I have no issues. I have no family.”
She gritted her teeth. Though they’d been friends for years, he’d never told her about his family, except that they lived in Queens and hadn’t been in touch since he left home. “You’ve been poking and prodding at me for the past ninety miles, so now I get a turn.”
“Believe me, it’s not that interesting, unless you’re a huge Eugene O’Neill fan. Now, shut up. I need to navigate.”
Just before they reached the village of Avalon, the railroad-crossing barriers descended, and she put the car in Park as the local train took its time passing by.
“I used to take that train from the city to Avalon.” Olivia could still remember the noise and the excitement streaming through the passenger cars. Some of the more experienced campers would sing traditional songs or boast about past victories at archery or swimming or footraces. There would be nervous speculation about who would wind up in which cabin, because everyone knew that bunkmates could make or break the entire summer. When she was in the eight-to-elevens, she had looked forward to camp. She had three girl cousins in her age group, and the train ride and then van up the mountain was a magical journey into an enchanted world.
Everything changed the year her parents split up. She emerged awkwardly from the cocoon of childhood, no lithe butterfly, but a sullen, overweight preteen who distrusted the world.
The train passed by, the last car disappearing, and the curtain opened on the perfect mountain town of Avalon.
“Cute,” Freddy observed. “Is this place for real?”
Avalon was a classic Catskills village. It looked exactly the way tourists yearned for it to look—a world apart, separated from time itself by the railroad tracks on one side and a covered bridge on the other, with brick streets lined with shade trees, a town square with a courthouse in the middle and at least three church spires. It changed very little from year to year. She remembered Clark’s Variety Store and the Agway Feed & Hardware, Palmquist Jewelry and the Sky River Bakery, still owned by the Majesky family, according to the painted display window. There were gift shops with handmade crafts, and upscale boutiques. Restaurants and cafés with striped awnings and colorful window boxes lined the square. Antiques shops displayed spinning wheels and vintage quilts, and almost every establishment featured homemade maple syrup and apple cider for the tourists who came in the fall for the autumn colors.
In the backseat, Barkis woke up from a nap and stuck his nose out the window as they passed the picnic grounds by the Schuyler River. The most beautiful street in town was Maple Street, which boasted a collection of Carpenter Gothic homes from the Edwardian era, some displaying plaques from the National Historic Register.
“Very Age of Innocence,” Freddy declared. The pastel-painted houses had been converted to bed-and-breakfast inns, law offices, art galleries, a day spa. The last one on the street had a hand-painted sign: Davis Contracting and Construction.
“Olivia, watch out!” Freddy yelled.
She slammed on the brakes. In the backseat, Barkis scrambled to stay upright.
“It’s a four-way stop,” Freddy said. “Take it easy.”
“Sorry. I missed the sign.” Just the sight of the name Davis left her shaken.
Get a grip, she told herself. There are a zillion Davises in the world. Surely the construction firm wasn’t…No way, she thought. That would just be too crazy.
“I’m taking down the number of that construction firm,” Freddy said, oblivious.
“Why would you do that?”
“It’s probably the only one in town, and we’re going to need their help.”
“We’ll find another.”
He twisted around in his seat as they passed. “The sign says they’re bonded and insured, and they give free estimates and references.”
“And you believe that?”
“You don’t?” He clucked his tongue. “A cynic, at such a tender age.” He scribbled down the number.
It was highly unlikely that Davis Construction had anything to do with Connor Davis, Olivia told herself. Even if it did, so what? He probably didn’t even remember her. Which was a strangely depressing relief, considering what a fool she’d made of herself over him.
“Okay, tell me that’s not a covered bridge,” Freddy said, grabbing for his camera.
“It is a covered bridge.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “This is better than Bridges of Madison County.”
“A lobotomy is better than Bridges of Madison County.”
He snapped away, marveling over the sign that dated the original structure to 1891. It even had a name—Sky River Bridge. Spanning the shallow rapids of the Schuyler River, it had a postcard-pretty quality. Olivia recalled that the camp van from the train depot to Camp Kioga always honked its horn when they entered the shadowy tunnel, creaky and festooned with swallows’ nests. It was the last man-made landmark before the camp itself.
Beyond the bridge, the road meandered along the river, past a chain of mountains with names and elevations posted. Freddy, a city boy through and through, was beside himself. “This is incredible,” he said. “I can’t believe you have a place like this in your family, and you never told me about it.”
“It’s been closed as a camp for the past eight—no, nine—years. A property management company looks after the place. Some of the family come for vacations and get-togethers every once in a while.” Olivia had been invited to the occasional family gathering, but she never went. The place held too many ba
d associations for her. “In the winter,” she added, “my uncle Clyde brings his family up for cross-country skiing and snowshoe hiking.”
“Crazy,” Freddy murmured. “Almost makes me want a normal family.”
She glanced over at him. “Well, if what you see today doesn’t send you screaming back to New York City, you’ll have a tribe of Bellamys all summer long.”
“Works for me. And, ah, did I mention the situation with my apartment?”
“Oh, Freddy.”
“You got it. Jobless and homeless. I’m a real prize.”
“You’re working with me this summer, and you’re living at Camp Kioga.” He was her best friend. What else could she say?
She slowed down as she saw the white flicker of a deer’s tail from the corner of her eye. A moment later, a doe and a fawn appeared, and Freddy was so excited, he nearly dropped his camera.
In the shuttle van years ago, camp regulars used to call out landmarks along the way, each sighting greeted with mounting excitement as they drew closer and closer to their destination.
“There’s Lookout Rock,” someone would announce, pointing and bouncing up and down in the seat. “I saw it first.”
Others would be named in quick succession—Moss Creek, Watch Hill, Sentry Rock, Saddle Mountain, Sunrise Mountain and, finally, Treaty Oak, a tree so old that it was said Chief Jesse Lyon himself had planted it to commemorate the treaty he signed with Peter Stuyvesant, the colonial governor.
Her twelfth summer, Olivia had ridden in silence. With each passing landmark, her stomach sank a little lower and dread became a physical sensation of cold, dead weight inside. And outside, she reflected. The weight she gained represented the stress of her quietly warring parents, the demands of school, her own unexpressed fears.
They passed a glass art studio with a whimsical sign by the road and then a stretch of riverside land, where the meadows were almost preternaturally green and the forest deep and mysterious. High in a sunny glade sat, of all things, a small Airstream travel trailer with a black-and-chrome Harley parked outside.
