Page 31

thirty-one

Hillary

It’s been three days since the last bus drove away. It was, by far, the hardest goodbye of the summer. Because this time, we don’t have another group of campers to look forward to. Tomorrow, or ever.

The sorrow is palpable; it feels like we’re sitting shiva. We might as well be wearing black. Cooper’s constantly trying to feed us, and we’re all walking around like shadows of our camp selves, going through the motions of closing up camp, but our hearts aren’t in it.

All of us except for Jessie. My best friend has been putting on a happy face along with her Camp Chickawah polo each morning, but I know it’s a coping mechanism. She even smiled through the goodbyes this morning: Zac and Zoey went back to California; Dot left to go visit Yvonne in Austin; Mr. Billy grumbled something about picking up trash on the beaches in Florida.

It might take a few weeks for the gravity of this loss to hit her, but when it does, I’ll be there. That’s part of the reason I invited her to come to Chicago. That, and it’s pretty much a dream come true. When I was a kid, I considered sneaking her into my duffel bag at the end of the summer. She was tall, but the bag was long. I daydreamed about her walking into my algebra class—school would have been so much more bearable with her by my side. I hope having me by hers now has helped make these final days less painful.

My next contract doesn’t start until after Labor Day, so I am more than happy to delay my return to Chicago. And not just because I’m also delaying the mother of all lectures from my dad. He sent me another email last week, expressing his disappointment in my decision to turn down Aaron’s proposal.

But that’s a problem for another day.

My problem today is the battery of hulking yellow machines the construction crew started to move in. They aren’t even waiting for the body to get cold.

In a move that lives up to his rat bastard nickname, Jack Valentine is turning the whole ordeal into a dog and pony show. Tomorrow, he’s bringing in a photographer and a reporter to capture the passing of the torch. More like the destruction of his parents’ pride and joy.

After they sign the contract in the Lodge at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, they’ll ceremoniously break ground. After that—this is the real kicker—they requested that Cooper make a celebratory lunch. He said no, which I was happy about. But I was a little disappointed he didn’t take me up on my offer: the best blow job of his life if he’d serve them undercooked chicken. Unfortunately, his ethics slightly outweighed his rage. And his horniness.

My rage? It’s currently at the boiling point, seeing those bulldozers lined up like they’re standing sentry at the edge of the camp. The thought of their metal claws digging into this precious soil makes my stomach churn. I can’t imagine how devastated Jessie feels.

Speaking of my best friend, I’m on my way to deliver another round of snacks from Cooper: elevated ants on a log, chocolate-dipped celery topped with crunchy peanut butter and raisins.

“Knock, knock,” I say, opening the door to her cabin. “Whoa—what happened in here?”

Jessie is sitting on the floor, surrounded by document boxes. Her office, which was meticulous yesterday, looks like a paper war zone.

“I can’t find it.” Her voice quivers as she continues flipping through the loose-leaf pages.

“Let me help,” I say, taking a seat in front of another box. I open it to find stacks of manila folders, all filled to the brim with original and carbon copies of forms. So much history that will soon be shipped off and shredded. “What are we looking for?”

“Lola’s will,” Jessie says. “Something Dot said…I just need to see it.”

“We’ll find it,” I promise, even though I’m not sure what good can come from our search. The Valentines aren’t contesting Jessie’s right to a percentage of the sale—they’re the ones who told her about it.

But if she wants to find the will, we’ll find the will. Maybe it’ll give her the closure she needs.

Seven boxes and three paper cuts later, Jessie lets out a sigh of relief. “Here it is.”

I shove the box wedged between us out of the way and shift over next to her. Jessie feverishly flips the pages, skimming the legalese.

“Dot was right,” she whispers. “It says my name, not just the current camp director.”

She closes her eyes and holds the papers to her chest. I know she’s thinking of Lola and Nathaniel, wishing she could hug them instead of their will. The Valentines were a big part of my childhood, but they were part of Jessie’s family.

“Can I see?” I ask.

She hands it over, and I flip through the last will and testament of Charlotte “Lola” Valentine, which was amended a few weeks after her husband passed away. I skim past the Inventory of Legally Owned Assets, the lists of cherished possessions and charitable donations. I slow down when I get to the beneficiary designations.

Jack and Mary Valentine each own 49.5 percent of Camp Chickawah, with Jessica May Pederson getting the final one percent.

“Wait,” I say, staring at the document. “Did you know that you own one percent of the camp?”

Jessie shakes her head. “No, I just get one percent of the sale.”

I show her the paragraph. “Nope. You’re part owner. A teeny, tiny part, but still.”

“I had no idea,” Jessie says, nodding thoughtfully. “Jack’s been cagey about the will since they told me they were selling the camp. I guess this is why? Not that it matters at this point.”

We’re both quiet—Jessie wrapping her head around the news; me trying to figure out what Lola must have been thinking. Was she hoping Jessie and Mary would team up against Jack as majority owners? She had to know her daughter would never stand up to her son.

I’m searching the paragraph for something, anything, to make this make sense when a provision catches my eye.

It states that if any named beneficiary wants to keep using the land as a summer camp, the other two cannot sell.

The interested party has the right to keep the camp running, splitting the annual profits along the same split of percentages as the ownership.

The hair on my arms stands at attention as I read the line again, focusing on three little words: “any named beneficiary.”

—

Thirty minutes later, Jessie is taking a long, hot shower at my suggestion, and I’m sitting in front of her computer, about to confirm my suspicions.

But first, I have to face the very confrontation I was hoping to avoid. I finger comb my hair and take a deep breath before pressing the button to start the Zoom call.

My father joins moments later, and my heart squeezes at the sight of him sitting in his office, his silver hair perfectly coiffed. I always had the urge to tousle it, but I only made that mistake once. Stephen J. Goldberg doesn’t like being ruffled.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, my voice cracking with emotion. I’ve missed him.

“Hillary,” he says. His voice is stern, but his expression softens as he takes me in. “Is everything okay? Your email said it was urgent.”

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“Clearly you’re not,” he says. “Aaron is devastated, by the way.” My shoulders shoot up, anxiety coursing through my veins. “I told him this camp place turns you into a different person.” He’s not wrong. “When you were a kid, it would take you weeks to get back to your old self.” Again, not wrong. “That was fine when you were a child, but you’re an adult, Hillary. Though recently you seem to have forgotten that.”

My voice is gone, and I find myself nodding, even though I don’t agree with him, not one bit. Not anymore.

“I told Aaron not to worry,” he continues. “When you get back home, you’ll come to your senses and see what’s good for you. That he’s good for you.”

Something happens with his words, like a melding of my mind and my body. And they’re both screaming: No!

In the tiny Zoom box, I see myself shake my head in protest. This is my life. My decision. Apparently, it took me walking away to realize how little I was in control of my own destiny. I’ve been a puppet, doing whatever it took to make my dad and boyfriend happy.

Well, no more. I’m taking the strings back. I’m going to do what makes me happy.

“Stop,” I say.

The sharpness of my voice must catch my dad off guard, because he does in fact stop. He looks at me through the screen, one eyebrow raised. I never interrupt him, and I certainly never tell him what to do.

“I’m not marrying Aaron,” I tell him. “And nothing you say will change my mind. He’d make a great partner for the law firm, but not for my life.”

My father is speechless.

I’m not.

“Besides, my personal life isn’t the reason I wanted to talk. I need your advice. Your legal advice.”

This gets his attention. He clears his throat, then motions for me to continue. I share my screen and show him the pages of the will, which I scanned for his review. He’s not an estate lawyer by trade, but he knows his way around a contract. As he looks them over, I tell him the whole story—starting with how Jack Valentine has been purposefully vague about Jessie’s role in the will, how he and Mary turned down our offer for the co-op to purchase the land, and finally, the clause we just discovered.

When I finish, my father looks impressed. He’s in problem-solving lawyer mode now, not disappointed-dad mode.

“You’re telling me you raised more than two million dollars?”

“We did,” I tell him. “This place means a lot to a lot of people. Including Mom. And me.”

His expression softens again, but only briefly. “Show me the page with that clause again.”

I bring up the page in question and zoom in so he can read it, word for word.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” I ask, crossing my fingers beneath the desk.

“It does. As a named beneficiary, Jessica has the right to keep running Camp Chickawah as a camp.”

“Thank god!” I say, but my relief is short-lived. I haven’t told my father just how imminent the sale is.

He must read the shift in my expression, because he asks, “The contract hasn’t been signed yet, has it?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I tell him.

He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “It won’t be easy—but it’s not impossible. Here’s what you need to do.”

Over the next ten minutes, my father lays out a step-by-step plan involving a judge, an emergency injunction, and a prayer. When he’s finished, I’m filled with hope—no, with confidence—that we’re going to bring that greedy rat bastard down.

And I think my dad and I might be okay, too.

“Good luck,” he says before we end the call. “I may not understand the decisions you’re making, but I’m still proud of you, Hillary. You remind me a lot of your mom. And that’s a good thing.”

I smile at the screen, and he smiles back. “Thanks, Dad. Maybe when I’m back we can get dinner? I’d like to catch up. And maybe we can talk about Mom a little, too?”

He clears his throat. “I’d like that.”

We say goodbye and I sit back in the chair, trying to wrap my head around the roller coaster of emotions I’ve experienced in the last hour. We’re on one hell of a ride.

“Hey,” Jessie says. She’s standing in the doorway, wearing a worn terry cloth robe, her hair up in a towel.

“How much of that did you hear?” I ask.

“Enough,” she says, walking over and enveloping me in a hug. She smells like rose water with a little leftover DEET. The official scent of summer camp. The combination makes me smile, and it gives me the nudge I need to keep going.

“Get dressed,” I tell her. “We need to fill in the guys.”

—

Minutes later, we’re sitting at a table in the dining hall, eating a meal Cooper whipped up from the last of his dwindling supplies. The main course is a breakfast pasta with eggs, parmesan cheese, and extra-crispy turkey bacon. It’s surprisingly delicious.

“How far is the nearest courthouse?” I ask.

“It’s in the county seat, which is about two hours from here,” Jessie says.

I scribble in my notebook, doing a quick calculation: what time Jessie needs to leave to get the judge to sign the paperwork and get back before the official signing of the contract.

“Assuming the courthouse opens at eight, you probably want to leave here by five a.m. Just to give you a little wiggle room.”

“I can do that,” she says.

“I’m going with you,” Luke says, slipping an arm around her waist.

She turns and looks at him. “But your flight?”

“Canceled.”

“Really?” Jessie leans back as if she’s trying to get a better look at Luke. Studying him. “I’m not used to you being so nice to me.”

Luke laughs. “Don’t you worry, it’s all part of my plan. Get you comfortable, then bam !” He hits the table, making us all flinch. “Payback for that syrup stunt when you least expect it.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jessie says, giving him her best mean glare—which honestly isn’t that mean. Luke kisses her forehead and Jessie concedes, resuming her spot in the crook of his arm.

“Back to the plan,” I say. “My dad is emailing the paperwork we need for the judge. It’s an emergency injunction that will stop the contract from being signed and the construction from starting. It’s just a first step, but it’ll buy us time until the judge can fully review the case and make an official ruling.”

“Which’ll be in our favor?” Jessie asks.

I nod. “From what my dad said, you have a contractual right to keep the camp running as a camp. And the Valentines can either continue getting 99 percent of any profits, or they can agree to let the co-op buy it. Either way, Camp Chickawah isn’t going anywhere.”

“Which means I’m not going anywhere,” Jessie says, her eyes filling with happy tears. “I won’t have to leave. I can stay right here.”

Luke stiffens, but Jessie doesn’t seem to notice, even when he shifts slightly away from her, focusing on his plate.

Meanwhile, Jessie’s beaming at me like I’ve single-handedly saved her life. “Thank you, Hill. For everything.”

I reach across the table and grab her hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You still need to convince that judge to sign the injunction and get back before any demolition starts.”

“But if all goes well?” she says, squeezing my hand so tightly it hurts.

“Then this place will be ours,” I tell her, hoping I’m speaking the truth. “Forever.”