If the Summer Lasted Forever

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Dad came home from work one day a few years ago,” Landon continues, “said he had an amazing idea. Six months later, he quit his job, bought the RV, and we’ve been traveling ever since. It took some adjusting, but it’s been pretty cool.”

  “So, you homeschool?” I ask, more for the sake of conversation than curiosity. There are more full-time families than people realize. I made friends with a few before I came to terms with the fact that they all leave. It hurts less to keep my distance.

  “I finished my senior year a few months ago,” he answers, and then he turns his head my way. I can feel his eyes on me, but I continue to look straight ahead.

  “What grade are you in?” he finally asks.

  “I’ll be a senior in the fall.”

  “Is there a school here?” He looks around as if the building will magically pop up in front of him.

  “Our K-12 is about forty minutes away.”

  “That’s a long drive.”

  I shrug. “My best friend lives five minutes from here. We ride together, so it’s not so bad.”

  “How many kids are in your graduating class?”

  Finally, I meet his eyes. “Seven.”

  His eyebrows shoot up.

  “I know.” I look away, trying not to smile. “We’re a big class. Last year there were only two.”

  “We lived in a medium-sized city before we decided to travel,” Landon says. “What’s it like to live here?”

  “In the middle of nowhere?”

  He flashes me a smile that would make my insides all warm and liquid if I weren’t so guarded against summer boys.

  “It’s fine,” I finally answer. “Busy in the summer but quiet the rest of the year.”

  “No ski crowds?”

  I shake my head. “We’re not close enough to the slopes to get winter traffic, though we do keep a few of our cabins open during the cold months, just in case.”

  “What do the local kids do for fun?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “Fun…?”

  He laughs, but before he can press for more, we reach the campsite. Mr. Tillman has already backed in, and he and Mrs. Tillman are trying to decide if they’re too close to a tree on the right-hand side before they unhook the Suburban.

  Candy begins to bark as soon as she spots her Saint Bernard brother. The massive dog lies under the picnic table, slobbering all over a treat-stuffed chew toy.

  “Landon,” Mr. Tillman says when he sees us. “Run inside and open the table slide.”

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “Okay, well. This is you. Obviously.”

  Landon hesitates, glancing at the RV, and then he gives me a smile. “Thanks, Lacey. I’ll see you around?”

  “I’m always here,” I say, trying to be clever, but then I realize I’ve informed him I have no life.

  His smile grows. “Me too—all summer.”

  Just for the summer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Error code 306. Please remove jammed paper to continue printing,” a popup says on my computer.

  I growl under my breath. First, the printer wouldn’t feed the paper, now it’s jamming after printing only five pages. I yank at the paper, cursing the junky piece of office equipment in my head.

  The front door opens, and Paige comes striding inside, letting in a cold, rainy gust of wind. “I’ve found my new summer boy,” she declares.

  She’s wearing hot pink flip-flops, her favorite pair of shorts with the diamond rhinestones on the back pockets, and an oversized green sweatshirt she must have swiped from one of her brothers’ closets.

  “Did you miss that it’s trying to snow out there?” I ask, grinning at her. She even painted her toenails despite the sleet.

  Paige sweeps a hand over her outfit. “I’m defying the weather. It’s almost June. It should be warm.”

  Living in the mountains gives you a different definition of warm. We’d be ecstatic if it got to seventy this time of year. It’s in the low forties right now and probably won’t get much over fifty.

  “Who’s your new summer boy?” I ask, abandoning the printer. It and I are not getting along this morning, and we need a little time apart. I can print the maps later. Or better, Uncle Mark can fight with it once he’s finished repairing an electrical outlet in Cabin Six.

  Paige gives me a Cheshire Cat grin and practically purrs, “Number Twenty-nine.”

  My shoulders stiffen, and I look down at the desk. “Oh yeah?”

  “Have you seen him?” She comes around the counter and swipes a stick of sour apple licorice Uncle Mark keeps stocked just for us.

  “Twenty-nine?” I say as if thinking about it. I shuffle several papers without purpose. “That would be one of the Tillman kids.”

  I feel her eyes on me, but I ignore her and pretend to look busy.

  “I dropped my phone when I was running across the parking lot just now,” she says. “He saved it for me. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Mmmhmm,” I say, pretending I don’t mind that Landon rescued her in a rainstorm like the hero of a romantic movie. Why couldn’t I have met him like that? It sounds a lot more memorable than me walking him to his campsite after his sister’s dog got sick in their car.

  I catch myself, startled. Obviously, I don’t care.

  “You like him,” Paige stage whispers, her voice triumphant.

  I jerk my head up, realizing I’ve been caught in a trap. “What? No.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. So…have you met him yet or only sighed over him from afar?” Somehow, I sense she already knows the answer to that question.

  Rolling my eyes, I reshuffle the papers. “We met a few days ago when his family arrived.”

  “Did you talk to him?” she demands, flopping down into the office chair next to mine and taking a tiny nibble of the green candy. I don’t know how she does it, but she can make one stick last an hour.

  “I walked him to their campsite.” I say it like it’s no big deal—like I stroll through the campground with hot guys all the time.

  Which, of course, I don’t.

  “Well, you must have made a good impression because he asked about you.”

  Again, I jerk my head up—this time so quickly I’m afraid I might have given myself whiplash. “What?”

  She grins and does a seated dance of victory.

  I’m busted.

  “So, we’re standing on the porch, right?” she says, wasting no time. “He’s soaking wet because he jumped out of his SUV to save my phone, and I give him my most come-hither smile because, hello, he’s gorgeous. We talk for a few minutes, and when I explain I live not far from here, he asks if I’m the friend you were talking about. At that point, I completely lost him.” Her eyes sparkle as she points the licorice stick at me. “Lacey, he was sending out subtle questions about you in the freezing rain when he could have been back in his toasty warm car.”

  A warm sensation starts in my chest and travels to my belly, making me feel off-kilter and a little breathless. I look down at the papers. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

  “Didn’t you say you were on the porch?” I ask, avoiding. “That’s not exactly in the rain. Landon was probably just being friendly.”

  “Oh, it’s Landon, is it?” Paige laughs. “You’re so delusional.”

  I prefer to think of it as practicing self-preservation.

  “Well, no matter,” she says, twirling in the chair, holding her candy up like a royal scepter. “From here forth, we shall consider him yours.”

  And though she says the words flippantly—and though I don’t want Landon—I relax just a little knowing my pretty, flirty, vivacious best friend won’t pursue him.

  ***

  Thirty-six—that’s how many flower barrels we have scattered about the property. Thirty-six—that’s how many of those flower barrels I’m in charge of planting.

  I can’t complain, not really. The June day is actually warm, the sky is that ideal shade of robin’s egg blue, and I’m not stuck in the o
ffice fighting with the printer or cleaning the guest cabins.

  My wagon bumps down the paved campground road, and black flats of petunias and sweet alyssum bounce against a big bag of compost and a beat-up watering can.

  I pause in the middle of the road, right by Site Twenty-five, and fix the earbud that fell to my shoulder. Then I open the playlist on my phone and replay Mason Knight’s newest single. He sings about the girl who got away, and I sigh with suppressed longing.

  I’m not sure anyone will ever feel that way about me.

  My eyes stray to the long camper trailer parked in Site Twenty-nine. The Suburban is gone, meaning the Tillman’s must be out enjoying the weather. It doesn’t matter to me. I didn’t take extra time with my makeup and hair because I thought I might run into Landon while planting the flowers. Of course not.

  I roll my eyes, silently mocking myself, and tug the wagon to the next barrel. I planted seven yesterday, and I’m hoping to get another ten finished before I meet Paige later. A car slowly rolls by, and I wave at the woman in the passenger seat.

  “Looks like you’re having fun,” she says, leaning out the window. Her hair is short and curled. It’s as blond as can be, but judging from her soft, grandmotherly face, I’m pretty sure it went gray years ago.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I answer as I fight to remember her name. I checked the retired couple in myself just a few days ago.

  Their golden retriever hangs his head out the back window, looking like he’s smiling. His name is Todd, and his great, great, great grandpa won best of breed at Westminster years ago. (Because that’s what’s important to remember.)

  “Looks like you’re doing a good job,” she calls as they continue down the road.

  “Thank you...Mrs. Murray!” I remember just before it’s too late. Satisfied, I pull on my bright green gardening gloves and kneel in front of the barrel.

  There’s a happy squeal from the nearby play area, and the smell of charcoal briquettes floats on the air as a nearby camper prepares lunch. The aroma makes my stomach growl. Mom bought sandwich stuff, but she forgot to get turkey, and I can’t stomach the bologna Uncle Mark prefers. But I’m hungry now—I’ll have to scrounge for something when I’m finished with the flowers.

  I break up the soil, mix in compost and a capful of the organic, granular fertilizer I’m trying this year, and start planting. I’m just about finished with the barrel when the Tillman’s door opens. I glance up, surprised because I thought the family was gone.

  Landon jogs down the steps and then turns, holding the door open. “Come on,” he calls inside. He has a small video recording device, and he points it at the door.

  I free a flower from its cell and watch him, trying not to be obvious about it. What’s he doing? After several moments, the Saint Bernard appears at the door.

  Landon jiggles a leash, but the massive dog yawns, turns around, and then disappears into the camper once more.

  “Have it your way,” Landon says, tossing the leash aside before he closes the door.

  Quickly, I return my eyes to my project, pretending I’m so busy I didn’t notice him. He walks around his campsite with that small camera in hand, talking to himself. I plant the last petunia, pat down the soil around its roots, and stand, brushing stray dirt from my jeans.

  Without looking Landon’s way, I pick up the watering can and walk to the closest unoccupied water spigot. I couldn’t find the hose I usually use, so I’m stuck making several trips for each barrel I plant. Luckily, all the sites aren’t full. Otherwise, I’d have to go to the spigot by the play area—which would mean walking right past Landon.

  I pull the lever, trying to control the flow of water. It’s either all or nothing. Since I don’t feel like soaking myself, I settle for a meager trickle and let the can fill slowly. As I wait, my mind wanders.

  Is Landon still at his site? Was he going somewhere? The Tillmans have been here for over a week—maybe he met someone in town. The thought makes my stomach twist.

  I can think of several local girls who’d be happy to keep Landon company for the summer, like Alissa at Mr. Oliver’s ice cream shop. She’s back from her first year at college and working there for the summer.

  A horrible thought flits into my mind: Maybe he met Gia.

  She’s a year younger than I am and ridiculously pretty. Guys seem drawn to her petite, curvy frame. She’s barely five-foot, but they don’t care. All they see are her big green eyes and…other things.

  I push the thought away. Landon has no reason to go to Upper Ridge Campground, which is where Gia and her brother help out every summer for their aunt and uncle.

  Water trickles from the top of the watering can, alerting me to the fact that I haven’t been paying attention. Quickly, I jump to action.

  But my mind isn’t on my task. I yip when the lever comes down with a crack and pinches the skin on my palm. Irritated with myself, I hold in a string of unladylike words. A few escape, but they are pretty mild considering.

  Gravel shifts on the path behind me as a certain someone jogs over. “You okay?”

  Feeling like an idiot—again—I slowly turn, shaking out my aching hand. I smile like I’m surprised to see him. “I’m fine.”

  My stomach does a little flip when I meet Landon’s gaze. A slow smile builds on his face, lighting his unusual, light green eyes. He catches my hand, tugging me to him like we’ve been friends for years. His smile becomes a frown as he runs a finger over the angry, purple skin. “You got yourself good.”

  I would answer, but my mouth doesn’t remember how to form words.

  “You’re very busy,” he says, letting me have my hand back. He cocks his head to the side, reminding me of Mrs. Murray’s golden retriever. His dark blond hair is cut short on the sides and a little longer on the top. He must wear some sort of product in it to keep it out of his eyes, but it looks soft. Touchable.

  “Are you aware of that?”

  “Hmmm?” I jerk my eyes from his hair. “That I’m busy?”

  He’s effortlessly stylish, casual yet purposely so. The entire family is ridiculously pretty. I feel self-conscious even though I took that extra twenty minutes getting ready this morning.

  “Every time I see you, you’re helping customers or running errands or” —he nods to the watering can— “planting flowers.”

  I shrug. “It takes a lot of work to run this place.”

  He nods, still studying me. Then he lifts the small camera and nods to it. “Do you mind?”

  I eye the lens. “Do I mind what?”

  Smiling, he begins recording and focuses on my face. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I stare at him, incredulous.

  His eyes meet mine, and he chuckles. “Just humor me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m stalking you.” He grins at his joke and makes an adjustment to the settings. “It’s just my thing. It’s a nice way to remember the places we’ve been and the people we meet.”

  My stomach flutters at the thought of Landon wanting to remember me, but at the same time, my chest constricts because something about the statement resonates with me. Maybe it’s not so different being the one always leaving from being the one always left behind.

  “What’s your name?” he prompts.

  I look at his face instead of his camera. “Forgot already?” I tease.

  His eyes move from the screen to mine, and they lock. “Lacey.”

  He’s a summer boy, an obnoxious voice of reason whispers in my ear.

  “Come on. Tell me about yourself,” he prompts again, his tone a hint softer.

  “Um. My name is Lacey.” I’m breathless from nerves and something more, but I try to hide it. “My grandparents built this campground, and my parents bought it from them about fifteen years ago.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. It’s just me.”

  A wicked grin flickers over his face. “Want a couple? I have extras, and I don’t mind sharing.�
�

  “That’s very generous of you,” I say with a laugh, trying to relax.

  “Why should people stay at Campfire Cabins and RV?” He changes his tone so he sounds like he’s conducting a real interview and raises a single eyebrow, pinning me with a gaze that’s full of good humor.

  “Because I plant thirty-six barrels of flowers every single summer, and it would be a shame if no one ever came to see them.”

  He looks at the screen again, watching me without making eye contact. “And the girl at the front desk is pretty. Don’t forget that.”

  I blink at him, and a startled smile steals across my face before I can stop it.

  Landon turns off the camera and looks up, giving me a friendly jerk of his chin as he heads back to his campsite. “Especially when she blushes.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My mother is an odd sort of artist. If books and television are to be believed, you’d think she’d be scatterbrained and prone to whims. She’s not.

  Every night, she has a homecooked dinner on the table. (Well, some nights she delegates the chore to me, but either way, it’s there, and it’s homecooked.) She makes sure we eat perfectly balanced meals with seasonal produce, and there’s usually something homemade for dessert, even if it’s just a jar full of cookies in the kitchen.

  She’s big on family time, good grades, brushing your teeth before bed, and grilling her daughter about the “cute” boy that’s staying in Site Twenty-nine.

  “I’m just saying I saw you two talking,” she says with a laugh, raising her hands in surrender. Her hair is red. Not brown with natural red highlights like mine—red. Every day she takes the time to straighten it, smooth it to perfection, and make it shine…and then she yanks it into a ponytail before lunch because it drives her crazy. She’s tall and willowy—like an overgrown pixie. I take after her, but at five-nine, she’s got two inches on me.