Summer at Willow Lake (17 page)

“…used to be the last one picked,” she was saying, and he realized he’d barely heard a single word she had said.

He had to pretend great interest in a scrolled wooden music stand. “Sorry, what’s that?”

“Never mind. Just going over the defining moment of my youth, no big deal.” She laughed at his expression. “Kidding. I was talking about all my fond memories of dance lessons at camp.”

“I liked the dance lessons.”

She sniffed. “You would.”

“I found them weirdly entertaining.”

“I’m not surprised. You always won the talent contests, too, you big show-off.”

“Why enter if you don’t intend to win?”

She studied him for a moment, her gaze misty with memories. “Do you still sing?”

“All the time.”

“Maybe you can sing at the anniversary celebration,” she said, brightening.

Which was his cue to point out to her that he wasn’t invited, nor did he want to be. “Do you still play piano?” he asked her.

“Almost never.”

Well, now, that was odd. Or maybe not. The fact was, he needed music in his life—he needed to sing—the way some people needed air. It was vital for survival.

Obviously, Miss Olivia Bellamy had found enough fulfillment in her life so far and didn’t have to fill the empty places inside her with noise and light.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “You used to be pretty passionate about your piano playing.”

“It was one of the few things I could do better than the other kids.” She propped open the lid of the piano, coughed a little at the dust. “I don’t need to keep proving myself constantly anymore.”

“Maybe you never did,” he pointed out.

“Easy for you to say, winning all the firsts like you did. You always won the quadrathalon prize and the talent show. You were such an overachiever.”

“Competitive,” he corrected her. “And I don’t remember that.”

“What, winning all the time?” She grinned and shook her head. “Didn’t it get boring after a while?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“The girls in my bunkhouse used to stay up half the night, trying to figure out how to be your partner for the dance competitions.”

That made him laugh. “No way.”

“Huh. Remember Gina Palumbo?”

“Nope.” Actually, he’d lost his virginity to her, his third and final year as a camper, the summer after eighth grade. She’d been sexy and scary and wildly exciting.

“Gina told everyone in the bunkhouse that you’d promised every dance of the summer to her.”

He probably had. “Is that so?”

Olivia nodded. “I always wound up dancing with another girl or one of the counselors who felt sorry for me.”

He looked at her now, in the spill of afternoon light, her hair soft and her smile a little shy. Then he found the remote to the iPod dock, scrolling until he found “Lying Awake,” an old sixties tune sung with irresistible smoothness by Nina Simone. “Okay, I feel sorry for you,” he said. “Dance with me.”

“I didn’t say that to get you to—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and caught her in his arms. It had been a while, but he had an instinctive memory of the dance frame. She was a perfect fit, though he could feel her pulling back, resisting him.

“Hey,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I used to despise ballroom dancing so much. Every year, I begged my grandparents to take it off the schedule.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“Maybe for you it wasn’t. For me, it was excruciating. I still cringe just thinking about it. The choosing of a partner was always torture for me, pure torture.”

“You know, for being such a miserable kid, you managed to turn into a normal, well-adjusted grown-up.”

“Thank you.”

“Not to mention an incredibly hot babe.”

“Fine. Don’t mention it. But honestly, we’ve got a lot of work to do here, so maybe we shouldn’t be—”

“Shut up and dance, Lolly, and I’ll show you why I always won,” he said. In addition to the classic hold, he had a couple of other tricks up his sleeve. The eye contact, the look that said,
I wish we were naked.
So much of dancing had to do with being a good faker. Except at the moment, he didn’t have to fake anything. He loved looking into Olivia’s eyes. He
did
wish they were naked.

She clung to his neck, trembling, which was actually a good thing, because that way, she might not notice that Connor was trembling, too. He felt her soft, warm body against his, inhaled the scent of her skin and felt a jolt of attraction. Even though the dance was a slow one, she was breathing fast, pulling in panicky gasps of air through her teeth. Her mouth was maybe four inches from his, and half-open.

Connor wanted to kiss her so bad it hurt, and even before their lips met, she had a look on her face as if he was already kissing her—eyes shut, lips parted, inches from his…oh, God…“Lolly—”

A door slammed and Freddy strode into the room. “Working hard, kids?”

They broke apart, and he could see the color pouring into Olivia’s cheeks. Connor grinned at Freddy. “That wasn’t hard at all. But I need to get going.” He strode out to the yard, where his Harley was parked, and was surprised when Olivia followed him. He strapped on his gear, piece by piece, but kept his eyes on her.

“What?” she asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were staring.”

“I still am.” He let a slow smile unfurl.

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

He looked at her a moment longer. When she blushed, she looked younger, more vulnerable, more like a girl he once knew. “Do you ever think about us, Lolly?” he asked. “About the way we used to be?”

The blush turned an even deeper shade of red. “No,” she said emphatically. “Not any more than I think about anything else from nine years ago.”

Of course. It was a reminder that they didn’t know each other at all anymore. With unhurried movements, he zipped his leather jacket. “I’d better go get ready for my unexpected company.”

“I never would have picked you out as the biker type,” she said.

“Sure you would have,” he said, and let the motor drown out her reply.

CAMP KIOGA SUMMER EVENING SAIL

One of the most beloved traditions at Camp Kioga is the weekly summer evening sail on Willow Lake. There is no better way to enjoy a peaceful Catskills sunset. Campers are instructed to gather on the dock promptly at 7:30 p.m.

Eleven

Summer 1993

I
t was Connor Davis’s third year at camp, and he knew it would be his last. For one thing, he was going into eighth grade next year and after that was high school, and his mom and Mel always said guys in high school got jobs, period. For another thing, he didn’t know what in holy hell to do about his dad, and coming here each summer, watching Terry Davis stagger and stumble through his days, the laughingstock of the camp, made Connor feel pissed off at the world.

Living with Mel and his mom pissed him off, too, but it was different with his dad. Because here was the saddest, sickest thing of all. Connor loved his dad. Terry Davis was a good man with a bad problem, and Connor just didn’t know how the hell to fix things for him.

What the fuck, he thought. It’s my last summer at Camp Kioga. I’m going to make the most of it. He made a mental list of things he wanted to do. Win the quadrathalon. Go rock climbing at the Shawangunks. Do the wilderness-survival trek, where you had to spend two days on your own with nothing but a compass. Maybe take on Tarik in a chess tournament. Get his ear pierced, just to tick off his stepdad. Kiss a girl and feel her up. Maybe even get to third base or score a home run.

Yeah, he wanted to do all that and more. When school started in the fall and he had to write the requisite “How I Spent My Summer Vacation,” he wanted it to sound so cool, his teacher would think he was making it up.

On the way to the dining hall, he saw Mr. Bellamy, the camp dean and owner, an older guy with a craggy face and a voice like Lawrence Olivier in those old black-and-white movies.

“Hello, sir,” he said, squaring his shoulders and holding out his hand. “Connor Davis.”

“Of course, Davis. I remember you well. How are you, son?”

“Excellent, sir.” What the hell else would he say? That his life was shit, that he still missed his baby brother every day, that he hated his stepfather, hated living in a trailer park in frigging Buffalo? His mother, who had spent his entire childhood dreaming of a career onstage, had taught him to be a good faker, so he pasted on a grin. “It’s good to be back, Mr. Bellamy. I really want to thank you and Mrs. Bellamy for letting me come.”

“Nonsense, son, Jane and I consider it a privilege to have you here.”

Yeah, right. Whatever.

“Well, anyway. I’m real grateful.” He wished there was some way to show the Bellamys his appreciation. He couldn’t think of a thing, though. These people had everything. There was all that Bellamy-family money. And they had the camp, this amazing place in the wilderness where you could stand on a mountaintop and touch the stars. And they had each other, and a bunch of grandchildren who were nuts about them, and they had a perfect, sweet life. There wasn’t a thing Connor Davis could offer them.

The first night’s supper was always a feast, and this year was no exception. Connor sat at a long table with his cabinmates, a loud gang of guys in all shapes and sizes. They consumed huge amounts of something called beef Wellington, guzzled big pitchers of milk. Even kids who didn’t normally like vegetables went for the steamed broccoli and tossed salad at camp. For dessert, they had the renowned berry pies from the Sky River Bakery.

“Didja see the hottie who drives the bread truck?” asked Alex Dunbar, who occupied the bunk under Connor.

Connor shook his head. From his perspective, pretty much everyone with an X chromosome was a hottie. Lately, he had this almost feverish sex drive, one that made him feel like a maniac inside.

“She’s this high-school girl, looks just like Wynona Ryder.” Dunbar reached for the big bowl of buttered potatoes. “Her name’s Jenny Majesky, I found out that much. Now all I have to do is find out how to get her to—”

“Hey, Dunbar.” Their counselor, Rourke McKnight, propped his foot on the bench between Dunbar and Connor. “Word to the wise.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Dunbar tried to act cool, but Connor knew he was intimidated by McKnight. Everyone in Fort Niagara Cabin was. Though just out of high school, McKnight had this hard edge, a scary side that might or might not be a put-on. None of the guys in Niagara wanted to get on his bad side.

“Don’t finish that thought,” McKnight said. “Not about Miss Majesky or anyone else of the female persuasion. Got it?”

“Sure,” Dunbar said, glowering. “Got it.”

“Good.”

When McKnight was gone, Dunbar snickered. “He’s probably doing her himself.”

“He hears you talking like that,” said Cramer, who sat across the table, “he’ll do you, and it won’t be pretty.”

The stupid joshing and joking started up again, but Connor wasn’t listening. When it came to his dad, he had this weird sixth sense. He felt his scalp prickle, felt something like a cool shadow sweep over him. Then he heard it. The crash of breaking glass.

Without asking to be excused, he flung his napkin on the table and bolted for the door. Sure enough, there was his father in the foyer, standing there looking totally bewildered at a glass ceiling fixture, which now lay shattered at the base of a stepladder.

“Dad, you all right?” Connor murmured, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

“Justa little blood,” Terry Davis said, swaying ever so slightly on his feet as he studied the back of his hand. “All I was doing was changing the dadgum lightbulb.”

Connor’s heart sank. He was such an idiot. Every year he hoped this wouldn’t happen, but every year it did. His father smelled like a malt-liquor brewery, and the worst part of it was, he tried to pretend everything was fine.

Inevitably, the crash had brought curious onlookers. Most of them didn’t know Connor and Terry Davis were related. Terry always told Connor not to advertise that fact, but it made Connor feel totally weird to pretend.

“Hey, how many drunks does it take to change a lightbulb?” some kid asked. “One to pour the martinis, and another to read him the directions in twelve steps.”

Connor cringed inwardly, but didn’t let it show as he leveled a deadly glare at the kid. He knew it was deadly because he’d spent all his middle-school years perfecting it. Often it was his only defense. “Back off,” he said.

“What’s it to you?” the kid challenged.

“Yeah,” another kid said, “what’s your problem?”

“Go sit down.” The order came from Rourke McKnight, who appeared in the doorway, drawing himself up to his full height, well over six feet. His appearance caused the kids to scatter. “I’ll clean this up.”

“No, wait,” Terry Davis protested, “I gotta change that lightbulb. I gotta—”

“Hey, Mr. Davis, that’s a pretty bad cut. Let me go with you to the infirmary and we’ll clean it up.” Out of nowhere, Lolly Bellamy showed up. Earlier in the day, Connor had barely had time to say hi to her, but he’d nodded at her from across the room. She was the last person in the world he pictured himself being friends with, but he was glad to see her. Over the past couple of summers, they’d become friends, sort of. He liked her because she was funny and smart and genuine. And because she was the kind of person to take his dad by the arm and lead him out the door and to the infirmary, talking the whole time, calmly averting disaster.

Humbled by her simple act of kindness, and too grateful for words, he followed them into the pristine office, which had a well-stocked medical cabinet and four cots, made up with crisp white sheets. Lolly’s manner was brisk as she turned on the tap. “Just hold your hand under that, Mr. Davis. We need to make sure there’s no glass in the cut.”

“Yeah,” said Connor’s dad. “You bet.”

Connor knew she was all but bathed in the brewery smell, but she didn’t flinch as she cleaned the wound, sprayed antiseptic on it and applied a neat bandage.

“I surely thank you,” Terry said. “You’re a reg’lar Florence Nightingale.”