Chapter Four

four

Jessie

January

Mick's Diner in North Fork has the best breakfasts in a five-hundred-mile radius. Pancakes the size of dinner plates, deep-fried bacon, cinnamon rolls dripping with frosting. During the winter, Dot and I come here most mornings and eat, and work, and eat. We always gain back whatever weight we lost during the busy summer months.

"Morning!" I say to Dot. She scoots into our booth and I slide a mug of coffee toward her as she shakes the snow from her short gray hair.

"Hoo boy, it's comin' down out there. But good news: as of last night, we're seventy-five percent booked."

My jaw drops. We opened registration a week ago. Usually it takes until the end of April to hit this milestone.

"That's…that's fantastic!"

"If things keep going this way, we might even turn a profit this year. Ironic, right? Finally making money and the camp is being sold."

"I have some other good news: Antonio accepted the position as the camp chef. He'll take over the hiring and management of the rest of the kitchen staff."

"That's wonderful," Dot says. "I've been emailing with a young couple about running the lakefront. I'll set up a call with them for an interview."

"Great," I say. They'll need to be certified lifeguards with experience handling canoes, kayaks, and sailboats. We've never had a drowning death at Camp Chickawah, and even though this year's campers will be adults, I'm not about to take chances.

"That just leaves the Arts and Crafts cabin," I say, looking at the to-do list on my laptop. We're planning on hiring a small staff for the summer—we don't need counselors for adult campers, and we do need to save some money.

"We did get one applicant." Dot pauses, then says, "Remember Hillary Goldberg?"

I blink, surprised. "I thought she had some fancy corporate job."

"In finance, I think," Dot says, nodding. "But she has a break this summer."

Hillary, running our Arts and Crafts cabin? Why would she want to spend her summer working at camp? It's exactly what she didn't want when we were eighteen.

"Now, I know you two had a falling-out—"

"That was years ago," I say, waving a hand. "Ancient history. I'm not—"

Dot gives me a stern look. "I know how much it hurt you, Pippi."

Dot usually calls me "boss," but sometimes she slips up—usually when she's thinking of my younger self, that long-ago, inexperienced counselor. In this case, she's probably remembering how much I missed my best friend.

Who was supposed to be there with me.

I clear my throat. "That was a long time ago, and it's fine now. Really."

"If you want to tell yourself that, go right ahead," Dot says. "But she'd do a good job."

"If she's been working in finance, how is she qualified?"

"She'll figure it out—that girl spent hours in the Arts and Crafts cabin," Dot says. She's right. Hillary loved it all: pottery, painting, boondoggle, papier-maché, tie-dye. "Besides, no one else has applied, because, let's be honest, the pay is shit."

"True," I say, sighing. "I guess it's fine, then."

"You got it," she says, and starts working on an email.

I return to my list, but my mind keeps drifting to the image of Hillary Goldberg returning to camp. My chest feels strangely hollow, and I rub it with my palm. Indigestion, maybe. Damn diner coffee.

"Did I tell ya about the reservation we got for the whole summer?" Dot asks, after a while.

I look up, confused. "The whole summer?"

She grins proudly. "Yeah! Someone emailed me about renting an entire cabin for all eight weeks!"

"Are they paying for all twelve spots?"

Dot's smile falters. "Well, no. I figured he'd take the small staff cabin on the boys' side that sleeps four. Sorry, boss."

I give her a reassuring smile; she doesn't know about my plan to maximize profits so I can give her and Mr. Billy a bonus at the end of the summer. "It's okay. I'll reach out and let them know there will be other people assigned to the cabin. Who is it?"

She looks at her laptop. "William Duncan."

"Who?"

"William Lucas Duncan," Dot says, and this rings a faint bell in my mind. "He went by Luke at camp. All the girls had crushes on him—tall, blue eyes, looked like a young Paul Newman?"

That definitely rings a bell.

"The one Nathaniel used to call Cool Hand Luke?"

She gives a knowing smile. "Yeah. He was The Man."

"Ugh," I say, grimacing, and Dot laughs.

Nearly every summer there's one male counselor who receives this title from Dot. "The Man" is good-looking, charismatic, adored by the campers. Everywhere he goes, he's accompanied by an entourage of kids, doting on his words, laughing at his jokes.

I have mixed feelings about counselors like that. Some can be a director's dream, using their influence to make every activity more fun. But others become arrogant, walking through camp with a vibe that says, "I don't give a shit about any of this."

The first summer I knew Luke, he was the former.

The second? Definitely the latter.

"He's an author now, right?" I say. "Nathaniel and Lola had his books in the library, I think."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Dot says. She doesn't read much; neither do I. But I used to. As a teenager, I read nearly every book in the camp library—a dusty bookcase in the Lodge.

That's how I got to know Luke. I was a CIT, he was a counselor; he'd recommend books to me, and later we'd discuss them. That was the first summer. When he came back the next year, he totally blew me off. And somehow got every single other male counselor to ignore me, too.

"I'll send him an email," I tell Dot, shaking the sting of that memory away as I open my laptop.

Hello Luke,

I'm happy you're coming to our adult camp. We're going to have an incredible time!

I think there was a miscommunication when you registered, though. We hadn't planned on campers coming for more than one week at a time, but I'm happy to be flexible. However, we aren't able to reserve an entire cabin for one person, so other campers will be sharing the staff cabin with you. Dot will be in touch with a new registration form to reflect this.

Thanks for understanding! I'm excited for the summer—it's going to be Chick-amazing!

All my best,

Jessie Pederson, camp director

I send the email as our waitress comes up. "Hi, Lisa!"

Lisa gives us a big smile. She's about fifty, with curly hair and an apron tied around her generous waistline. "Morning, ladies. Ready to order?"

Dot orders pancakes and a side of sausage, and I order two eggs over easy with bacon.

Lisa refills our coffee mugs. Then she glances out the window behind me, and her smile fades. She leans in and says, "Have you seen Nick since you've been back?"

The blood drains from my face. Nick and I dated last year, and our breakup was…difficult.

"No," I whisper. "Why?"

"Because he's coming in," Lisa says, straightening as the door chimes. In a louder voice she calls, "Morning! Just the two of you today?"

"Yep." Nick's familiar voice reminds me that the last time we talked, I made him cry. And Nick's a big, tough firefighter.

There's no way he won't see me, so as he's walking by, I say, "Hi, Nick, how's it going?"

He flinches, then turns toward me. Nick is stocky, bearded, and exactly my height—which bothered him. He'd constantly ask me to change my boots to flats when we went out.

He looks good today; his hair is shorter than before, his beard a little longer. A North Fork Fire Department sweatshirt peeks out from under his coat.

Also: he's holding the hand of a very pretty, very petite brunette woman.

"Jessie. Hello," he says. "Uh—do you know Gwen? Her family owns the hardware store."

"I'm sure we've seen each other around," I say, holding out my hand to Gwen. "I'm Jessie. Great to meet you."

She shakes my hand, a pained smile on her face. "Nick's told me so much about you."

By her icy tone, it's clear that whatever he's said, it's not good.

"Do you guys want to take this booth?" Lisa asks, motioning to the one next to ours. "Or—"

"No!" Nick and I say at the same time.

He laughs awkwardly, then says, "We'll take a table over there. See you around, Jessie."

As they follow Lisa, Gwen waves goodbye with her left hand, showing off her pink manicured fingernails—and a sparkly engagement ring. I look down at my hands: calloused palms, short nails that only get painted if a camper asks to do it.

"Didn't you break up with him just a few months ago?" Dot whispers.

"Last June." I take a big swallow of coffee, wincing as it burns my mouth.

Dot does some counting in her head. "Seven months and he's engaged to someone else? Wasn't he talking about marrying you?" She shakes her head and mutters, "And people say lesbians move fast."

"I guess when you meet the right one, you know."

Still, I'm stung. And not just by the fact that he's chosen my exact opposite, at least physically. Nick and I dated all last winter; by spring, things were getting serious. I liked having a boyfriend, someone to snuggle with during the long, cold nights. We'd go snowshoeing and cross-country skiing on his days off. Everything seemed to be going well.

But then I moved back to camp in April. We couldn't see each other as often, though I came to town whenever I could and invited him to visit me on his days off. He seemed frustrated, but I assumed he understood this was the nature of my job.

It all came to a head the week before camp started, when he realized we were about to see even less of each other. He wanted a girlfriend who was actually around, he said. A girlfriend who prioritized their relationship.

I told him that I'd take off one evening per week during the summer. I'd never done this—the director is on duty 24/7 for eight weeks straight—but I was willing to compromise. In reply, he started bringing up our future: What if we got married? Would I still spend summers up at camp? Didn't I want to have children?

Of course I did; he knew I've always imagined being like Nathaniel and Lola, running the camp with my husband and raising our kids there. I knew it was unrealistic and unfair to expect Nick to leave his job, but I asked if he could find a way to compromise. Instead, he suggested I think about a more "family friendly" career.

Then he tearfully said he loved me, and I faltered. This was the most serious romantic relationship I've ever had, and I did care about him. He's a good person; he'll probably make a good husband and father. I thought I could even love him someday.

But when I tried to explain how much camp meant to me, he told me that my priorities were wrong. And that pissed me off, so I ended things. It felt like the right decision at the time…but now, with this summer being our last at camp?

Maybe I did have my priorities wrong.

My computer chimes with an email. It's from [email protected].

The terms are clearly stated in the contract I signed. A full cabin for eight weeks. My deposit has been paid. I trust you will work out the details.

–WLD

I press my lips together, annoyed. It's not only the response; it's the tone. Guess his "I don't give a shit" attitude hasn't changed.

"What?" Dot asks.

"Luke—er, William Lucas Duncan—is being a pain about his reservation." She gets a guilty look on her face, and I add, "No, no, it's fine—I'll work it out."

I type a reply:

Good morning! I'm truly sorry, but it won't be possible to have you take the entire cabin. I'll send you an amended contract with the corrected cost.

Also, camp runs from Monday afternoon through Sunday morning, so the standard cost includes dinner on Monday, three meals Tuesday through Saturday, and breakfast on Sunday. Since you'll be here every day of the week, I assume you'll need an additional four meals (lunch and dinner on Sunday, breakfast and lunch on Monday). As an apology for the confusion, I'll cover the cost of those meals for you.

Sincerely and with warm regards,

Jessie

I read the email to Dot. "That's reasonable, right?"

"Very reasonable," she agrees, and I press send.

A reply pings back:

I'll pay for the extra meals. But I cannot share my cabin. I'm writing my next novel this summer and I require privacy.

–WLD

A prickle of irritation runs down my spine. So he's writing a novel—good for him! That doesn't give him the right to do whatever he wants with no regard to how it affects the rest of the camp.

Hi again! I understand your concerns, but the cost of those four extra meals doesn't cover the revenue I'll lose from not having three other campers in the cabin with you.

How about this: I can offer you the counselors' quarters in one of the regular cabins. You'll have a separate room, all to yourself. It normally sleeps two, but I'll make an exception. I can also find you a quiet room in the Lodge for writing. Thank you for understanding!

With warm regards,

Jessie

I press send as Lisa arrives with our food. Dot and I move our laptops to make room. Before I can take my first bite, though, my laptop chimes with another email.

That won't work. I need an entire cabin to myself, as promised.

–WLD

Fine. If that's what he wants, he'll have to pay for it.

Unfortunately, that means I'll need to charge you for four campers. I'm sure you can understand we can't afford to lose that revenue.

Let me know if you'd like an amended contract reflecting this, or if you'd prefer to cancel and be refunded your deposit.

Warmly,

Jessie

Two minutes later:

Eight weeks. Full cabin. Original price. I assume you do not wish to face a lawsuit due to breach of contract.

I feel a scream building in the back of my throat. I hack into my eggs, letting the yolk ooze onto my plate, and take a bite.

"Who does he think he is?" I say to Dot after swallowing. "And no, it's not your fault. Any reasonable person would understand. I've been more than fair!"

"You have," she agrees, nodding.

"He can't actually sue us, can he?"

Dot scowls. "I mean, he could…"

" Ugh. Why? Why is he doing this?" Groaning, I put my head in my hands. I'm going to have to swallow my pride and beg.

Dear Luke,

I understand it must be frustrating to have your plans changed unexpectedly, and I recognize that this was an error on our part. But it would be so appreciated if you could find it in your heart to be flexible on this. This camp means everything to me. I'm just trying to make the last summer special.

I would be eternally grateful if you would consider.

Please.

Within thirty seconds of pressing send, I receive his answer:

No.

What an absolute ass . I grab a piece of bacon and take a vicious bite. Not even the smoky, deep-fried goodness can assuage my anger.

"Boss?" Dot says. "You okay?"

I clench my teeth. "Looks like we're stuck with William Lucas Duncan, aka The Man, all summer."