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“So do you,” I say.
“I hear you’re a painter now. Mom told me she bought one of your works. I haven’t had a chance to see it yet. I just got back from Africa two days ago.”
“Franny mentioned that. You’re a doctor?”
Theo gives a little shrug, scratches his beard. “Yeah. A pediatrician. I’ve spent the past year working with Doctors Without Borders. But for the next six weeks, I’ve been demoted to camp nurse.”
“I guess that makes me the camp painter,” I say.
“Speaking of which, I was just working on your studio for the summer.” Theo jerks his head toward the arts and crafts building. “Care to take a peek?”
“Now?” I say, surprised by his casual willingness to remain alone with me.
“No time like the present,” Theo says, head cocked, his face poised somewhere between curiosity and confusion. It is, I realize, the same look Franny gave me earlier on the Lodge’s back deck.
“Sure,” I say. “Lead the way.”
I follow him inside, finding myself in the middle of an airy, open room. The walls have been painted a cheerful sky blue. The carpet and baseboard are as green as grass. The three support columns that rise from the floor to the ceiling in equal intervals have been painted to resemble trees. The areas where they meet on the ceiling contain fake branches that drip with paper leaves. It’s like stepping into a picture book—happy and bright.
To our left is a little photo studio for Becca, complete with brand-new digital cameras, charging stations, and a handful of sleek computers used for processing pictures. The center of the room is an elaborate crafts station, full of circular tables, cubbyholes, and cabinets filled with string, beads, leather bands the color of saddles. I spot several dozen laptops for Roberta’s writing classes and a pair of pottery wheels for Paige.
“I’m impressed,” I say. “Franny did a great job fixing this place up.”
“This is all Mindy’s handiwork, actually,” Theo tells me. “She’s really thrown herself into reopening the camp.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s certainly—”
“Enthusiastic?”
“I was going to say ‘overwhelming,’ but that works, too.”
Theo leads me to the far end of the room, where a semicircle of easels has been set up. Along one wall is a shelf holding tubes of oil paints and brushes clustered in mason jars. Clean palettes hang next to windows that let in natural light.
I roam the area, fingers trailing over a blank canvas leaning on one of the easels. At the shelf of paints, I see a hundred different colors, all arranged by hue. Lavender and chartreuse, cherry red and royal blue.
“I put your supplies over there,” Theo says, gesturing to the box I brought with me. “I figured you’d want to unpack them yourself.”
Honestly, there’s no need. Everything I could possibly want is already here. Yet I go to the box anyway and start pulling out my personal supplies. The well-worn brushes. The squished tubes of paint. The palette so thoroughly speckled with color that it resembles a Pollock painting.
Theo stands on the other side of the box, watching me unpack. Fading light from the window falls across his face, highlighting something that’s definitely different from fifteen years ago. Something I didn’t notice until just now.
A scar.
Located on his left cheek, it’s an inch-long line that slants toward his mouth. It’s a single shade lighter than the rest of his face, which is why I had missed it earlier. But now that I know it’s there, I can’t stop looking at it. I’m about to ask Theo how he got it when he checks his watch and says, “I need to go help Chet with the campfire. Will I see you there?”
“Of course,” I say. “I never turn down an opportunity to have s’mores.”
“Good. That you’re coming, I mean.” Theo’s departure is hesitant. A slow amble to the door. When he reaches it, he turns around and says, “Hey, Emma.”
I look up from my supplies, the suddenly serious tone of his voice worrying me. I suspect he’s about to mention the last time we saweach other. He’s certainly thinking about it. The tension between us is like a fraying rope, pulled taut, ready to snap.
Theo opens his mouth, reconsiders what he’s about to say, closes it again. When he finally does speak, sincerity tinges his voice. “I’m glad you’re here. I know it isn’t easy. But it means a lot to my mother. It means a lot to me, too.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone to wonder what, exactly, he meant by that. Does it mean a lot to him because it pleases Franny? Or does it mean my presence reminds him of happier times before the camp shuttered in disgrace?
Ultimately, I decide it’s neither of those things.
In truth, I think it means he forgives me.