Читать книгу Summer at Willow Lake - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 13

“Why do I keep flashing on scenes from The Shining?” asked Freddy Delgado. He hummed an ominous sound track as Olivia drove their leased SUV up the narrow, patchwork-paved country road toward the town of Avalon.

“Believe me,” she said, “that’s not as horrific as the flashbacks I’m having. I spent a lot of excruciating summers here.” She still couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. The simple act of driving felt foreign to her, since she never drove in the city. Right up to the last minute, her mother had tried to talk her out of the renovation project, but Olivia was determined. Her father had been more supportive. When she’d told him goodbye the previous night, he’d held her close and wished her luck.

“Why excruciating?” asked Freddy. “It looks like the perfect place for summer.”

She eased up on the accelerator as a chipmunk darted across the road. There were things she’d never told Freddy—or anyone—about her life. “I was sort of a misfit.”

“You?” He snorted with a disbelief that made her feel flattered. “What is this, a camp for freaks and geeks?”

She gestured at the photo album, which lay on the seat between them. The thought of him getting a glimpse of her past was discomfiting, but she had to trust him. Who besides Freddy would drop everything and agree to spend the summer at a remote Catskills camp, trying to bring back the charm of a bygone time? Of course, being jobless and homeless was a clear incentive, but now it was too late. He was already flipping through the old photos.

“Find the group shot from 1993. Saratoga Cabin, Eagle Lodge,” she instructed him.

He flipped it open and scanned the collection of photos. “Looks like a breeding program for the Aryan nation. Geez, did everybody have to be tall, blond and hot to go to camp here?”

“Look closer. Back row, on the end,” she said.

“Oh.” The tone of Freddy’s voice indicated that he had spotted her. “Went through an awkward phase, did you?”

“I wouldn’t call it a phase, I’d call it my entire adolescence. And I wasn’t awkward. I was fat. The Coke-bottle glasses and braces were just kind of a bonus.”

Freddy let out a low whistle. “And look at you now. The ugly duckling became a swan.”

“The ugly duckling got contacts, went blond and did year-round intramural swimming in college. The ugly duckling worked for two years to get to her ideal weight. And you don’t have to be polite. I was horrible. I was an unhappy kid and I took it out on myself. Once I figured out how to be happy, everything got better.”

“Kids aren’t supposed to have to figure out how to be happy. They just are.”

“Some families are different,” she told him. “And that’s all I’m going to say about the Bellamys, so don’t bother to pry.”

“Ha. I’ve got you to myself the entire summer. I’ll learn all your secrets.”

“I have no secrets.”

“Bullshit. I think you’re keeping secrets even from yourself.”

“It’s going to be a real picnic, spending the summer with Dr. Freud.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re doing this project. And I’m glad Rand Whitney is history now.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “That means a lot, coming from you, Freddy. You wanted me to fail.”

“Olivia. You set yourself up for failure every time. Ever wonder why that is?”

Ouch.

“You have a habit of picking the wrong guy,” he went on. “I think it’s because you wouldn’t know what to do if you actually found the right guy. You say you figured out how to be happy. Why don’t I believe that?” She didn’t want to discuss this. “I think Barkis needs a bathroom break.”

“No, he doesn’t. He just peed in Kingston. According to the map, we’re almost there. I’ll shut up, I promise.” True to his word, Freddy fell silent and went back to studying the photos. Olivia had already done so, poring over the old Kodachromes and black-and-white photographs in order to remind herself what the place used to look like. Fortunately, her grandmother kept a concise history of the camp, from its humble beginnings in the 1930s to its heyday in the late 1950s, which was the time period she wanted to replicate in honor of the golden anniversary. She hoped to evoke the simple pleasures of summers past, to make Camp Kioga look like the sort of place people used to go—or wish they had.

Freddy flipped the book shut. “Seeing you as a kid explains a little more about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a master of the art of transforming things. No wonder you’re so good at what you do.”

She’d certainly had plenty of practice. As a child, she had been obsessed with changing things—her room in her mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment, her locker at the Dalton School, even her cabin at Camp Kioga each summer. At camp, it was the one thing she was good at. One year, she’d raided a storeroom above the dining hall and found a stash of old linens. Her cabinmates had returned from a hike to find the bunks covered in handmade quilts, soft and faded with age. The windows were draped with calico curtains, the sills decked with freshly picked wildflowers in jelly jars.

“We’ll see how good,” she cautioned Freddy. “I’ve never staged an entire wilderness camp before.”

“Your grandmother gave you a big fat budget and the whole summer to get the job done. It’ll be an adventure in itself.”

“I hope you’re right. And thanks for agreeing to do this with me. You’re a godsend, Freddy.”

“Trust me, honey, I needed this gig,” he said with self-deprecating candor. “You’re going to need more than me on this renovation, though. Who are you going to use for labor?”

“My grandparents budgeted for a general contractor. We need to find someone as soon as possible. You’re going to meet a few more Bellamys, too. My closest cousin, Dare, is coming. So are my uncle Greg and my cousins Daisy and Max. Greg is a landscape architect, and he’ll be in charge of the grounds. He’s going through a rough spot in his marriage, so spending the summer up here might be good for him and his kids.”

“See, marriage is a bad idea,” Freddy said.

“So I shouldn’t even bother, is that what you’re saying?”

He ignored the question and went back to the photo collection. “What a place. The older pictures look more like a family reunion than summer camp.”

“Way, way back, before our time, the camp was for families,” she said. “Sometimes, it was the only time of year that relatives got together. The moms and kids would stay the entire time, and the dads would come up on the train every Friday. Weird, huh?”

“Maybe. I hear family retreats are coming back in vogue, though. You know, the overscheduled family in search of downtime together, yada yada yada.”

She glanced over at him. “You sound really taken with the idea.”

“Babe, I retreat from my family, not with them.”

“Whoa, where did that come from?” she said. “I didn’t realize you had issues with your family.”

“I have no issues. I have no family.”

She gritted her teeth. Though they’d been friends for years, he’d never told her about his family, except that they lived in Queens and hadn’t been in touch since he left home. “You’ve been poking and prodding at me for the past ninety miles, so now I get a turn.”

“Believe me, it’s not that interesting, unless you’re a huge Eugene O’Neill fan. Now, shut up. I need to navigate.”

Just before they reached the village of Avalon, the railroad-crossing barriers descended, and she put the car in Park as the local train took its time passing by.

“I used to take that train from the city to Avalon.” Olivia could still remember the noise and the excitement streaming through the passenger cars. Some of the more experienced campers would sing traditional songs or boast about past victories at archery or swimming or footraces. There would be nervous speculation about who would wind up in which cabin, because everyone knew that bunkmates could make or break the entire summer. When she was in the eight-to-elevens, she had looked forward to camp. She had three girl cousins in her age group, and the train ride and then van up the mountain was a magical journey into an enchanted world.

Everything changed the year her parents split up. She emerged awkwardly from the cocoon of childhood, no lithe butterfly, but a sullen, overweight preteen who distrusted the world.

The train passed by, the last car disappearing, and the curtain opened on the perfect mountain town of Avalon.

“Cute,” Freddy observed. “Is this place for real?”

Avalon was a classic Catskills village. It looked exactly the way tourists yearned for it to look—a world apart, separated from time itself by the railroad tracks on one side and a covered bridge on the other, with brick streets lined with shade trees, a town square with a courthouse in the middle and at least three church spires. It changed very little from year to year. She remembered Clark’s Variety Store and the Agway Feed & Hardware, Palmquist Jewelry and the Sky River Bakery, still owned by the Majesky family, according to the painted display window. There were gift shops with handmade crafts, and upscale boutiques. Restaurants and cafés with striped awnings and colorful window boxes lined the square. Antiques shops displayed spinning wheels and vintage quilts, and almost every establishment featured homemade maple syrup and apple cider for the tourists who came in the fall for the autumn colors.

In the backseat, Barkis woke up from a nap and stuck his nose out the window as they passed the picnic grounds by the Schuyler River. The most beautiful street in town was Maple Street, which boasted a collection of Carpenter Gothic homes from the Edwardian era, some displaying plaques from the National Historic Register.

“Very Age of Innocence,” Freddy declared. The pastel-painted houses had been converted to bed-and-breakfast inns, law offices, art galleries, a day spa. The last one on the street had a hand-painted sign: Davis Contracting and Construction.

“Olivia, watch out!” Freddy yelled.

She slammed on the brakes. In the backseat, Barkis scrambled to stay upright.

“It’s a four-way stop,” Freddy said. “Take it easy.”

“Sorry. I missed the sign.” Just the sight of the name Davis left her shaken.

Get a grip, she told herself. There are a zillion Davises in the world. Surely the construction firm wasn’t … No way, she thought. That would just be too crazy.

“I’m taking down the number of that construction firm,” Freddy said, oblivious.

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s probably the only one in town, and we’re going to need their help.”

“We’ll find another.”

He twisted around in his seat as they passed. “The sign says they’re bonded and insured, and they give free estimates and references.”

“And you believe that?”

“You don’t?” He clucked his tongue. “A cynic, at such a tender age.” He scribbled down the number.

It was highly unlikely that Davis Construction had anything to do with Connor Davis, Olivia told herself. Even if it did, so what? He probably didn’t even remember her. Which was a strangely depressing relief, considering what a fool she’d made of herself over him.

“Okay, tell me that’s not a covered bridge,” Freddy said, grabbing for his camera. “It is a covered bridge.”

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “This is better than Bridges of Madison County.”

“A lobotomy is better than Bridges of Madison County. “

He snapped away, marveling over the sign that dated the original structure to 1891. It even had a name—Sky River Bridge. Spanning the shallow rapids of the Schuyler River, it had a postcard-pretty quality. Olivia recalled that the camp van from the train depot to Camp Kioga always honked its horn when they entered the shadowy tunnel, creaky and festooned with swallows’ nests. It was the last man-made landmark before the camp itself.

Beyond the bridge, the road meandered along the river, past a chain of mountains with names and elevations posted. Freddy, a city boy through and through, was beside himself. “This is incredible,” he said. “I can’t believe you have a place like this in your family, and you never told me about it.”

“It’s been closed as a camp for the past eight—no, nine—years. A property management company looks after the place. Some of the family come for vacations and get-togethers every once in a while.” Olivia had been invited to the occasional family gathering, but she never went. The place held too many bad associations for her. “In the winter,” she added, “my uncle Clyde brings his family up for cross-country skiing and snowshoe hiking.”

“Crazy,” Freddy murmured. “Almost makes me want a normal family.”

She glanced over at him. “Well, if what you see today doesn’t send you screaming back to New York City, you’ll have a tribe of Bellamys all summer long.”

“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 pickleball 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.”