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Instead of shaking my hand, the man nods and says, “I know.”
He doesn’t tell me how he knows this. He doesn’t need to. He was here fifteen years ago. He knows the score.
“You were here before, right?” I say. “I recognized you when I arrived.”
The man folds another easel, drops it onto a growing pile of them. “Yep.”
“What did you do in the time the camp was closed?”
“I don’t work for the camp. I work for the family. Doesn’t matter if the camp is open or closed, I’m still here.”
“I see.”
Not wanting to feel useless, I collapse the last remaining easel and hand it to him. He adds it to the stack and scoops up all of them at once, carrying six under each arm. Impressive, considering I could have only managed one or two.
“Can I help carry some of those?” I say.
“I got ’em.”
I step out of his way, revealing several splotches of paint that mar the grass. White and cerulean and a few dots of crimson that unnervingly resemble drops of blood. The maintenance man sees them and grunts his disapproval.
“Your girls made a mess,” he says.
“It happens when you’re painting. You should see my studio,”
I give him a smile, hoping it will appease him. When it doesn’t, I remove the rag hanging from my back pocket and dab at the grass. “This should do the trick,” I say, even though it does the opposite, spreading the paint in widening smears.
The man grunts again and says, “Mrs. Harris-White doesn’t like messes.”
Then he’s off, carting away the easels as if they weigh nothing at all. I remain where I am, attempting a few more futile dabs at the grass. When that doesn’t work, I simply pluck the blades from the parched earth and toss them into the air. They catch the dull breeze and scatter, rolling on the wind and out over the lake.
13
Before heading to lunch, I return to the arts and crafts building to root through Casey’s supplies. I don’t find what I’m looking for among the bins of wood glue and colored markers, so I head to Paige’s pottery station. A dime-size chunk of wet clay sits on one of the pottery wheels. Perfect for what I have planned.
“Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”
I whirl around to see Mindy in the doorway, her arms crossed, head tilted. She gives me a too-big smile as she steps inside. Pretend friendliness.
I smile, too. Pretending right back. “I had some things to finish up in here.”
“You do pottery as well?”
“I was just admiring what you’ve done to the place,” I say, curling my fingers around the bit of clay to hide it from her. I’d rather not explain to Mindy what I intend to do with it. She’s suspicious enough as it is. “It looks incredible.”
Mindy nods her thanks. “It was a lot of work and a lot of money.”
“It really shows.”
The extra compliment works. Mindy’s gritted-teeth smile melts into something that almost resembles a human expression. “Thanks,” she says. “And I’m sorry for acting so suspicious. I’m just on high alert now that camp’s in full swing.”
“No worries. I get it.”
“Everything needs to go as smooth as possible,” Mindy adds. “Which is why you should probably get to the mess hall now. If campers don’t see you there, they’ll think they can start skipping lunch, too. We lead by example, Emma.”
First, I got a warning from the groundskeeper. Now here’s one from Mindy. And it definitely is a warning. I’m supposed to tread lightly and not make any messes. In short, do the opposite of what I did last time I was here.
“Sure,” I say. “Going there now.”