Page 6

six

Jessie

After months of prep work, we’re one week away from the start of adult summer camp. Today, my summer staff arrives. Nathaniel and Lola always said that training week was the most important week of the summer, that it sets the tone for the year. I set the tone.

Here we go.

I’m wearing khaki shorts, hiking boots, a green polo shirt with the Camp Chickawah logo across the left breast, and my wide-brimmed sun hat. I’ve braided my hair in two French braids, sprayed myself with bug repellent, and slathered SPF 70 across all exposed areas of my body.

Sunscreen and DEET: the aroma of summer camp.

Years ago, one of my camp flings told me that I’d be a solid six out in the real world, but I’m a nine at camp. I doubt he meant it as a compliment, but I took it as one. All the qualities that make me a good match for camp life—my height, my strength, my Energizer Bunny personality—are “too much” in the real world. No one is impressed that I can heft three duffel bags in each arm, that my loud voice carries over a crowd, that I can stay up until two a.m. comforting a homesick camper, then wake at dawn and work all day with a smile on my face.

But here? I was designed for this.

I head to the dining hall, a big log building with a green shingled roof. It’s one of the busiest buildings on the property, the site of three meals a day and other large group activities—plus, it’s next to my office and personal cabin.

As I heave open the door, I’m happy to see the lights on for the first time in months. Mr. Billy and his seasonal crew have been busy getting the wooden tables and benches in place. On the far end is the kitchen, its two big serving windows currently closed. I can hear the thump of bass coming from inside.

Time for me to greet our camp chef.

Two weeks ago, the chef I had hired sent an email saying he’d taken a higher-paying job on a cruise ship. Panicking, I sent an SOS email to the camp listserv, asking for leads. Within twenty-four hours, I had a response from Cooper, who was in my year at camp and is now a classically trained chef. As part of his application, he created a week’s sample menu. I started salivating just reading the descriptions and hired him immediately.

When I told Dot, she recalled him as “that short, round, asthmatic kid.” An accurate description, though I mostly remember him as the boy I paid three Kit Kats and a Twix to kiss my then–best friend.

I push open the swinging door and hear louder music. The counters are covered with crates of food, and the door to the walk-in fridge is open.

“Cooper?” I call.

A man sticks his head out of the fridge. “Jessie!” he shouts, and runs over to give me a hug.

When we pull away, I stare at him, flabbergasted. He used to be shorter than me, and wider, but now he’s about my height, stocky but solid, with dark, wavy hair under a Red Sox hat.

“You look so different!” I blurt out.

He grins, which calls to mind the Cooper I remember. “Time and puberty work wonders. You look the same, though. Braids and everything.”

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but I smile anyway.

“Wow, you’re already getting started,” I say, motioning at the crates of food.

“I shopped for nonperishables and brought as much as I could. I’ll need to go to town every week for fresh things, but I’ve worked it out with the grocery store to supply what I need.”

“Great,” I say. As Lola always said, A fed camp is a happy camp. “Everything is settled with the kitchen crew? You’re okay with the people Antonio hired?”

“Yeah, they’ll be great,” Cooper says, nodding. “They’re mostly folks from town, plus some college kids who wanted a summer job. I’ll have a breakfast and lunch shift with three people, a dinner crew with four.”

“Amazing,” I say, impressed with how quickly he stepped in and took charge. “Can I help unpack?”

“If you want. I’ve got it, though.”

He easily hefts a large crate of #10 cans and heads to the pantry. I pick up a similar crate, grunting with the effort, and follow him.

“So how are you?” I ask him as I unpack the cans from my crate. “Excited to be the big kitchen boss this summer?”

When we talked over the phone, Cooper told me that after five years working for a trendy restaurant in Boston, he was taking a sabbatical. That this would be a nice stopgap while he decided if he wanted to go back or move on to something new.

“For sure. I’ll do my best to overcome the bland camp food stereotype—though I’m considering wearing a hairnet and support hose. You know, for authenticity’s sake.”

I snort a laugh. “What else is going on in your life? Do you have a significant other? Kids? Pets? Plants?”

“No pets, plants, or kids,” he says, grinning. Then he winces. “No significant other, either.”

I raise my eyebrows and Cooper continues, answering my unspoken question. “I was seeing this waitress at my last restaurant. One of us thought it was casual, and one of us thought it was…something else. It didn’t end well. As in, it ended with a vat of lobster bisque being thrown at my head.”

“Yikes. I’m sorry.”

“Even more reason to get out of Boston for the summer. Single and ready to mingle, right?”

He winks—playfully, but with a hint of flirtatiousness that could be trouble. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. I had my fair share of summer flings as a counselor (throwing a bunch of horny college-aged young adults together for eight weeks leads to plenty of clandestine sex). But as director, I hate dealing with romantic entanglements between staff. It causes so much drama.

And this summer, there’s an added dimension, in that our campers are adults. As long as everyone is consenting and safe, I don’t care what they do with each other. But I don’t want employees hooking up with campers. I need my staff to remain professional and focused.

While we unpack more crates, I catch him up on the staff for the summer—he remembers Dot and Mr. Billy—and the newlywed couple I hired for the lakefront.

“And for the Arts and Crafts cabin…” I grin and bounce my eyebrows up and down. “Remember Hillary Goldberg? You two smooched down by the lake when we were fourteen?”

Cooper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Of course. So you two have kept in touch?”

“No. I…well, we haven’t spoken in years.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised. “You were so close.”

I can feel my smile fading. “You know how it is. Camp ended, and we…drifted apart.”

“Life does that, right?” he says, then claps his hands. “Thanks for your help—I’m going to start dinner prep. I’ll ring the bell when it’s ready.”

—

I’m walking across the big lawn toward the campfire with Dot when I hear a voice call, “Jessie! Dot! Is it really you?”

I turn to see a tiny woman, her dark hair flying behind her as she runs. When she reaches us, she throws her arms around me and squeezes.

“It’s so good to see you!” I say, a little breathless.

Zoey Takahashi was a CIT during my first couple years as an assistant director. She’s bubbly and sweet, and though she can sometimes come across as ditzy, she always took her responsibilities seriously. She and her husband Zac are fresh from their honeymoon, here to run our waterfront—they’re both certified lifeguards, and he’s a sailing instructor.

“Welcome back to camp,” Dot says, then grunts when Zoey gives her a hug, too.

Zoey motions to the man who’s come up beside her. “And this is my husband!”

“Zac Takahashi-Zimmerman. Or Zimmerman-Takahashi. We haven’t decided,” he says, smiling. He grabs my hand in his meaty palm and gives it three big pumps. “Nice to meet ya.”

“You too,” I say, extricating my hand before he bruises it.

I recognize Zac’s Australian accent from our phone conversations, and he looks like I pictured: tall, blond, and broad-shouldered.

“This is Camp Chickawah, baby!” Zoey says, putting an arm around her husband’s waist. “What do you think?”

Zac looks around and whistles. “I think you were right—this place is a beaut!”

“I’m so glad we’re doing this!” she says, smiling up at him.

“Me too.” He leans down and gives her a kiss on the lips, but the quick peck quickly turns into more. And more. And more , until they’re wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing so deeply I’m surprised they can breathe.

I glance over at Dot, who grimaces. We wait awkwardly for them to finish, trying not to watch.

When they break apart, Zoey turns to me, oblivious to any possible discomfort. “Do I have time to show Zac around? He’s never been to a summer camp before.”

“It’s such an American thing,” he says. “It’s surreal—like being on a film set.”

“I’ve given you two the big room in the Lodge,” I tell them. “Your names are on the door. You can get settled whenever.”

Zoey squeals and grabs Zac’s hand. “Let’s go down to the lake.”

They run off, hand in hand, their laughter echoing in the evening air.

“They’re…cute,” Dot says.

“Really cute,” I agree. “That was a lot of kissing for the middle of the day in front of two people they don’t know super well, though. Right?”

Dot’s mouth twitches in a silent laugh. “Let’s hope Cooper and Hillary are deep sleepers, because you know those walls are thin! Oh, and speaking of Hillary…”

“What about her?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be…okay? Seeing her again?” Dot asks, her voice unexpectedly gentle.

My eyes prickle with sudden tears, and I turn away before she can see. “Of course! It’ll be just like old times.”

“Well, except that she—”

“Want to help me set up the campfire for tonight?” I cut in.

Dot hesitates. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.” She glances behind her. “Hey, were you expecting anyone else today?”

“Just Hillary,” I say, following her gaze. There’s a man walking across the lawn toward us. Maybe a delivery guy? “Can I help you?” I ask when he’s a few feet away.

“Checking in,” the man says. Grumbles, really.

Confused, I take a step closer. There’s something familiar about him. He’s a couple inches taller than me, dressed in a gray T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap pulled low like he’s hiding from the world.

It’s not until he lifts his chin that I catch a flash of brilliant blue eyes and realize who he is.

William Lucas Duncan. The Man.

—

“What’s he doing here?” Dot says in a furious whisper as we hurry along the path toward Luke’s assigned cabin. It isn’t ready for him yet, since he was supposed to arrive next week with the other campers.

“I have no idea.” I glance behind me; Luke is heading toward the parking lot to grab his stuff. “He didn’t ask you if he could come early?”

“No. And he sure as shit didn’t mention anything about a dog.”

That’s the other unwelcome surprise. I consider myself a lover of all living things—but Camp Chickawah has never been a dog-friendly summer camp. And I am not about to spend my summer picking up poop.

So I nicely informed Luke that he’d need to make other arrangements.

“At least the dog will be gone soon,” I say.

Dot snorts. “That dog isn’t going anywhere.”

“What do you mean? I told him to find somewhere else for the dog before the other campers arrived, and he said okay.”

We reach the cabin and climb the stairs to the porch. Before going in, Dot turns to face me. “He said ‘sure.’ That was sarcasm, honey.”

I think back to the blank expression on his face. “Really?”

“Yes. He’s one of those deadpan assholes who act like everyone else’s concerns are beneath them,” she says, then opens the door.

Dot despises rule breakers, so Luke is officially on her shit list. I guess I should have expected this, given his email communications. I require a private cabin to write my novel. Pretentious jerk.

Shaking my head in frustration, I join Dot in opening the windows. This smaller cabin, historically used by extra staff members, has four twin-size beds, a table, and a bathroom with a toilet and sink. Luke will have to use the communal shower building, and knowing he’ll be forced to interact with the plebians gives me some satisfaction.

Dot checks the mousetraps while I make sure the bathroom is stocked with toilet paper and hand soap. I hope he isn’t expecting fluffy white towels and little bottles of toiletries.

When I return to the main room, Luke is walking in the door, a duffel in each hand. He shoves his way past me and dumps everything on the closest bed.

Despite my irritation, I find myself smiling, because that is what my mouth automatically does when I’m playing my camp director role. “So, this is where you’ll be—”

He turns and walks back out. I look at Dot, my jaw dropping.

“Dickhead,” she mutters. “Don’t waste your time worrying about him, boss.”

I sigh, but nod. Come Monday afternoon, I’ll be busy with the other campers. He can isolate himself as much as he wants.

But I’m going to stand my ground about the dog. I can’t have it running around the property, barking at squirrels and bothering everyone. Plus, what if some campers are allergic? No, Luke will have to find somewhere else for it to stay this summer.

I head out of the cabin, ready to confront him, then stop short.

Luke is at the bottom of the porch stairs with his dog, bending over to help it up. The dog is struggling, like each step is painful, and my heart reluctantly squeezes.

My soft heart used to embarrass me—I once cried for days after finding a dead bird at school, and a bunch of my classmates teased me—but my teacher told me compassion was a strength rather than a weakness. I’m not sure about that, since soft hearts are easily bruised. Still, I wait until Luke and his dog reach the top of the stairs, and the dog comes over to sniff my shoes.

“Hello, there,” I say, bending down. It’s a golden retriever, its face almost totally white, one eye cloudy with a cataract. I let it sniff me, then gently give it a pat on the chest. The dog leans into me, tail wagging. “What’s your name, puppers?”

“Scout,” Luke says.

I look up, smiling. “Like Scout Finch?”

He nods but doesn’t return my smile. There’s a palpable sense of gloom surrounding him. So different from the way he acted back in the day, when he was The Man, charming and adored, always laughing and joking. I can’t help but wonder what changed.

“She’s beautiful,” I say. And obviously well cared for; her fur is silky soft. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

My heart squeezes again. I can’t separate this elderly dog from her owner all summer.

Sighing, I straighten up. “All right, the dog can stay. Just…make sure she doesn’t bother the other campers. Ticks are a problem here, so check her every day. And pick up her poop, okay?”

“Obviously.”

Luke turns to go into the cabin. There’s something so sad about watching him head into the dark with his elderly dog. My silly, soft heart gives one final squeeze.

On impulse, I say, “Luke?”

He turns.

“Do you want to come to the lake with us later? The staff is planning to hang out and have a drink as the sun goes down. Scout is welcome, too.”

I’m just outside the threshold. He rests one hand on the doorframe and the other on the door, like he’s holding himself upright. For the first time since he arrived, he lifts his eyes to meet mine—they’re so blue it’s startling, and a hot poker seems to hit my spine. His face is lined with exhaustion, or sadness, or both, and when his lips part in a long, heavy sigh, I find myself leaning forward in concern.

He’s lonely.

Not a pretentious asshole. Just lonely.

Then he breaks the silence with one word:

“No.”

And shuts the door in my face.