Summer at Willow Lake (11 page)

“Works for me. And, ah, did I mention the situation with my apartment?”

“Oh, Freddy.”

“You got it. Jobless
and
homeless. I’m a real prize.”

“You’re working with me this summer, and you’re living at Camp Kioga.” He was her best friend. What else could she say?

She slowed down as she saw the white flicker of a deer’s tail from the corner of her eye. A moment later, a doe and a fawn appeared, and Freddy was so excited, he nearly dropped his camera.

In the shuttle van years ago, camp regulars used to call out landmarks along the way, each sighting greeted with mounting excitement as they drew closer and closer to their destination.

“There’s Lookout Rock,” someone would announce, pointing and bouncing up and down in the seat. “I saw it first.”

Others would be named in quick succession—Moss Creek, Watch Hill, Sentry Rock, Saddle Mountain, Sunrise Mountain and, finally, Treaty Oak, a tree so old that it was said Chief Jesse Lyon himself had planted it to commemorate the treaty he signed with Peter Stuyvesant, the colonial governor.

Her twelfth summer, Olivia had ridden in silence. With each passing landmark, her stomach sank a little lower and dread became a physical sensation of cold, dead weight inside. And outside, she reflected. The weight she gained represented the stress of her quietly warring parents, the demands of school, her own unexpressed fears.

They passed a glass art studio with a whimsical sign by the road and then a stretch of riverside land, where the meadows were almost preternaturally green and the forest deep and mysterious. High in a sunny glade sat, of all things, a small Airstream travel trailer with a black-and-chrome Harley parked outside.

“Interesting place,” Freddy commented.

“There are still a lot of counterculture types around here,” Olivia said. “Woodstock’s not that far away.”

Passing Windy Ridge Farm, with yet another whimsical sign, they came around the last curve in the road, turned onto a gravel drive marked Private Property—No Trespassing, which wound through woods that grew thicker with every mile. Finally, there it was, a hand-built timber arch looming over the road—the entrance sign to the property. Built on massive tree trunks, it was the signature trademark of the camp. A sketch of the rustic archway bordered the stationery kids used for their weekly letters home. Across the arch itself was Camp Kioga. Est’d 1932 in Adirondack-style twig lettering.

On the bus, kids would hold their breath, refusing to take another until they passed beneath the arch. Once they were inside the boundaries of the camp, there was a loud, collective exhalation, followed by war whoops of excitement.
We’re here.

“You all right?” Freddy asked.

“Fine,” Olivia said tightly. She slowed down as the dry, sharp gravel crackled under the tires. As they drove along the ancient road, shadowed by arching maple and oak, she had the strangest sensation of stepping back through time, to a place that was not safe for her.

The pitted drive was overgrown, branches swiping at the lumbering SUV. She parked in front of the main hall and let Barkis out. The dog skittered around in an ecstasy of discovery, determined to sniff every blade of grass.

The hundred-acre property was mostly wilderness, with Willow Lake as the centerpiece. There were rustic buildings, meadows and sports courts, cabins and bungalows lining the placid, pristine lake. Olivia pointed out the archery range, the tennis and pickle-ball courts, the amphitheater and hiking trails that were now completely overgrown. Already, she was making mental notes, assessing what it would take to restore the camp.

The main pavilion housed the dining hall. Its deck projected out over the lakeside, where dancing and nightly entertainment used to take place. The lower part of the building housed the kitchen, rec room and camp offices. Now everything had a neglected air, from the weed-infested drive to a patch of rosebushes around the three bare flagpoles. Astonishingly, the roses had survived, growing in riotous profusion on leggy, thorny branches.

As he surveyed the main pavilion and some of the cabins, Freddy said, “I had no idea a place like this still existed. It’s so
Dirty Dancing.
”

“It’s a ghost town now,” she said, though her imagination populated it with kids in regulation athletic gray T-shirts with the Kioga logo. Up until the early 1960s, there was dancing every night. There was even live music.”

“Right here in the middle of nowhere?”

“My grandparents claimed the players weren’t half-bad. You could always find talent because of the New York musicians and actors looking to do summer stock. After the camp converted to kids only, there were sing-alongs and dancing lessons here.” She shuddered at the memory. She was always picked last and usually ended up with another girl, a cousin or a boy who mugged for his friends, his face expressing disgust at finding himself with Lolly, “the tub of lard,” as she was known back in those days.

“Let’s open up the main pavilion, and I’ll show you the dining hall,” she said.

Using the key her grandmother had given her, she unlocked the place, and they opened the heavy double doors. In the foyer, glass display cases were draped in dustcovers, and the walls were hung with glass-eyed trophy heads——moose, bear, deer, cougar.

“That’s disturbing,” Freddy said.

Barkis appeared to agree. He stayed close, casting suspicious glances at the animals’ staring eyes and artificially bared teeth.

“We used to give them names,” Olivia said, “and steal each other’s underwear and hang it from the antlers.”

“That’s even more disturbing.”

She led the way into the dining hall. Timbered cathedral ceilings soared overhead. There were enormous river-rock fireplaces at either end, long wooden tables and benches, tall glass doors leading out to the deck and another railed gallery around a loft. A faint odor of burnt wood still lingered in the air.

“It’s a wreck,” she said.

Freddy appeared to be struck silent by the magnitude of the project. His eyes were wide as he turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“Listen,” she said, “if you don’t think we should take this on, you need to tell me now. We could probably subcontract it out—”

“Get out of town,” he said, walking toward the long wall of French doors facing the lake. “I am never leaving here.”

Olivia couldn’t help smiling at his enchantment. It took some of the sting out of her own memories.

As if in a trance, he went to the glass doors that faced the lake, cranked the lock and stepped outside onto the vast deck. “My God,” he said, his voice soft with wonder. “My God, Livvy.”

Together, they stood for a long time, gazing at the lake. Edged by gracefully arching willows, it resembled a golden mirror, reflecting a ring of forested mountains. It really was beautiful. Magical, even. She didn’t remember that about this place. No surprise there. When your life was completely unraveling, you tended not to notice the charm of your surroundings.

“There, in the middle,” she said, pointing. “It’s called Spruce Island.” It was large enough to house a gazebo, a dock and picnic area yet small enough to still seem like something conjured, a gleaming emerald in the middle of a sea of gold. “My grandparents were married there, fifty years ago. That’s where they’re going to renew their vows in August, provided we get things whipped into shape.”

“What, there’s a question in your mind?”

“Hey, I like your attitude, but we need to face facts. This is not a two-thousand-square-foot prewar needing some paint and ambient lighting. It’s a hundred acres of wilderness with a bunch of old structures, some of them dating back to the 1930s.”

“I don’t care. We can do this. We have to.”

She gave him a hug. “And here I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

He held her just a bit longer and a little tighter than necessary. She was the first to pull back, and she smiled up at him, pretending to see only friendship in his eyes. For the first time, she started to understand what it felt like to be Rand Whitney, looking into her worshipful eyes and unable to return the feeling.

“Thanks for coming, partner,” she said, walking to the deck rail and feeling the cool ripple of a breeze off the water. The blue-green scent of the lake and the woods brought back a swell of memories, and surprisingly, not all of them were bad.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to such an isolated spot,” Freddy said. “It’s like we’re the only people on earth. The first man and first woman, Adam and Eve.”

“Just so you don’t turn weird on me,” she said.

“What, no ‘Here’s Johnny’ routine with the ax?” He gave her a wild-eyed look.

“I think I can do without that, thanks.”

“Fine. But if I had a book in me, this would be the perfect place to write it.”

She headed back inside. “Let’s go figure out where we’re going to sleep tonight.”

Olivia and Freddy ended up sharing a cabin that first night. Neither of them relished the idea of lying in a cavernous bunkhouse, alone in the wilderness, wondering about every secret rustle and snuffle they heard from the impenetrable darkness that closed over the place after twilight. When the others arrived, they’d move to the private cottages, but for the time being, neither wanted to be alone.

The bunkhouses were all named for historic forts and battle sites—Ticonderoga, Saratoga, Stanwix, Niagara—and Olivia picked Ticonderoga for its proximity to the dining hall and to the big, communal bathroom.

After unloading their supplies and luggage, and fixing a meal of canned soup and crackers in the cobwebby but still functional kitchen, they used an air compressor from the utility shed to fill their mattresses. The camp had switched to flocked air mattresses years ago to avoid the problem of being chewed by mice. Then Olivia and Freddy made up their bunks at opposite ends of Ticonderoga cabin and embarked on a thorough decobwebbing and general cleaning.

Evening crept over the forest slowly, the sky turning from iridescent sunset pink to layers of deepest violets and then finally, a darkness so complete that it was like being in a cave. Once night fell, Barkis was completely intimidated. He feinted from every mysterious rustle of leaves or lonely birdcall.

After a harrowing battle with two spiders in the large, institutional bathroom located outside the bunkhouse, Olivia got ready for bed, returning to the cabin in lilac pajama crop pants and a matching tank top. The night breeze through the window swept over her.

Freddy stared at her boobs. “I do love Mother Nature,” he said.

She dived for a sweater and wrapped it around her.

“Okay, now I’m bored,” he complained. “This is usually my night to watch
Dog the Bounty Hunter.
”

“I told you there was no TV. No phone, no Internet, no cell phone signal.”

“What the hell are we going to do?” Freddy asked in despair.

“Talk. Play board games. Read books. Sleep.”

“Kill me now.”

They sat on their respective bunks and stared at each other. Then she reached up and turned off the overhead light. “It’s strange, not hearing the city,” she commented, snuggling under crisp sheets and a thick woolen blanket. “I’m so used to horns and sirens.”

Barkis seemed to miss the sounds of the city as well. He was completely cowed by the beating of wings and the hoot of owls. He tucked himself under Olivia’s bunk and curled into a tight ball.

She stared into blackness and willed herself to sleep. Instead, she felt restless and uneasy. The minutes seemed to crawl by, and instead of getting sleepier, she felt more alert than ever, her mind racing with plans for the project. “Freddy,” she whispered.

No answer.

“Freddy. Are you awake?”

“I am now,” said a disembodied voice. “Where the hell are you? It’s too dark to see.”

“We’re getting more flashlights,” Olivia said.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

Barkis whined, and she recognized the note of urgency in his voice.

“He needs to go out one more time.” Olivia found her flip-flops and a flashlight. “Come with me.”

“I was just getting warm.”

“Chicken.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh, and she shone the beam of light toward him. He looked unexpectedly cute in boxers and a white T-shirt, his hair rumpled. He pulled on a pair of sweats, grumbling the whole time.

In the vast wilderness, drowning in darkness, Barkis stayed within range of the light beam as he skirted the overgrown field surrounding the bungalow area.

“You’re different here,” Freddy remarked. “You’re more at home here than in the city.”

“Oh, right,” she said.

“You are. Mark my words.” He grabbed her hand with sudden urgency. “Turn the light off for a second,” he said.

“What?”

“Humor me, just turn it off.”

She shrugged and clicked it off. “What the—”

“Shh. Look up at the sky, Livvy.”

As she tilted back her head, a blanket of stars seem to rush over them, the Milky Way bright and thick yet filled with mystery. Next to her, she could hear Freddy breathing; it was that quiet.

“Like it?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen the sky like this before. Where the hell did all these stars come from?”

“They’ve always been there. You just have to find a place dark enough to see them.”

“I guess we found it.” He squeezed her hand.

“My grandfather had a telescope,” she said. “It’s probably around somewhere. We could see if it still works, have a closer look.”

“I feel close enough to touch them already.” Without warning, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her close.

Olivia was so surprised that she giggled. “Freddy—”

“Shh.” He kissed her, very carefully and gently, his lips finding hers through the darkness.

The kiss was so unexpected that she struggled a little, pushing her hands against his chest. “Whoa,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“Now that you’ve finally gotten rid of what’s-his-name, it’s about time we did something about us.”

She pushed back farther, surprise giving way to mild panic. “Freddy, you are the best friend I’ve got. Don’t spoil it by trying to turn it into some kind of romance.”