Dockside at Willow Lake

“I understand. You deserve a chance to do that. I’m sure Greg will understand, too. He made you a business proposition, not a marriage proposal.”

“Yeah, heaven forbid I should get one of those.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said she wants a single life.” Jenny smiled and said, “Come on, Nina. This could be a great opportunity for you.”

“Oh, man, you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“That mysterious wisdom-of-the-married thing. I can’t stand that.”

“I’m not doing anything of the sort.”

“You are, too. Look at you. You’re so … so happy.”

“And your point is?”

“That just because being married makes you happy doesn’t mean it’s what I need.”

“I know. What you need is to be running the Inn at Willow Lake. That’s what this whole discussion is about.”

“Fine. You know what? Maybe you’re right. Greg has no idea what he’s taking on. I do. He won’t last the summer—you mark my words.”

“You’re not thinking of scheming against him, are you?” asked Jenny.

“I won’t need to. He’ll fail on his own.”

“With you in charge?” Jenny eyed her skeptically.

“See, that’s the dilemma.” Nina finished her wine and poured another glass. “It’s crazy. One way or another, Greg Bellamy has been a thorn in my side ever since we were kids.”

Part Two

Then

The Galahad Chamber is named for Sir Galahad of legend, known for his purity and gallantry. Located high in the main lodge, the room pays tribute to the natural surroundings of the inn, appointed with a hand-crafted birchwood bed frame—topped by birdhouses—antler lamps and antique prints by pre-Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Fresh flowers are provided in every room. A penny and an aspirin tablet dropped in the water will keep the flowers fresh longer. The copper acts as a fungicide and aspirin provides acidic properties to the water. Noted florist, author and social reformer Constance Spry reminds us, “When creating a floral arrangement, always allow some space between the flowers to prevent a crowded effect. One should leave room for the butterflies.”

Four

Nina blamed all her troubles on a boy named Greg Bellamy. It was irrational for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he didn’t know she existed. That was maybe the main trouble of all.

The first day she met him, she had driven up to Camp Kioga with her best friend, Jenny Majesky. Once a bungalow colony for rich families from the city, it was now a tony summer camp for their children. Not that Nina was going to camp or anything. As if.

No, she was heading up the lakeshore road to the historic, exclusive summer camp in a bakery truck. The truck belonged to Jenny’s grandparents and the girls were helping with a delivery. Jenny’s grandpa let them play the radio as loud as they wanted, being as he was hard of hearing, and Metallica and a delicious breeze rushed over them with equal strength. As the van lumbered through the rustic archway that marked the entrance, Nina inhaled the green scent of the woods and tried to imagine what it would be like to actually be a camper here. Boring, that’s what, she thought defensively. Yet it seemed too good to be true, an entire summer away, with a cabin full of friends. She would never know, of course. Families like hers didn’t send their kids to camp.

Besides, she reminded herself, summer camp was for people who had too much money and not enough imagination. This was what Pop said, anyway—people didn’t know how to take their own kids on vacation these days so they packed them off to summer camp. Of course, Nina and all eight of her brothers and sisters knew this was Pop’s way of making everybody feel better. The Romano family could barely afford shoes, let alone a vacation. Pop was a civics teacher at Avalon High, a career he loved. But with nine kids, a teacher had to stretch his salary thin. Very thin.

Each summer, Pop got involved in politics. He worked as a volunteer for local candidates—Democrats, of course—campaigning passionately and tirelessly for candidates he believed in. Some people criticized Pop for this. They said with that many kids, he ought to be out mowing lawns or digging ditches in the summer to earn extra money, but Pop was unapologetic. He truly believed the best thing he could do for his family was to try to change the world for the better by supporting candidates who shared his ideals.

Nina’s oldest brother, Carmine, said Pop could accomplish the same thing if he would learn to use a condom.

When Nina’s mother wasn’t having babies—or nursing them or changing diapers—she worked during the summer as a cook up at Camp Kioga. She said she didn’t mind the work. It was something she could do in her sleep—cook for a ton of people. Getting paid to do it was a bonus. At the summer camp, she prepared three squares a day for kids who probably had no clue what it was like to wear the same pair of shoes until they pinched, or to beg your sister not to write her name on her backpack because you knew it would be yours the following year, or to pay for your school lunch with the shameful blue coupons, handing them over furtively and praying the kid behind you didn’t notice.

Nina had a summer job, too, at the Inn at Willow Lake, where she cleaned rooms and made beds. To most people, it didn’t sound like much, but Nina liked working there. Unlike home, it was quiet and serene, and after you cleaned something, it actually stayed clean for a while instead of getting immediately trashed by grubby brothers or messy sisters. And sometimes, a guest might even leave her a tip, a crisp five-dollar bill in an envelope marked Housekeeping.

Jenny nudged Nina out of her reverie. “Let’s get going,” she said.

Jenny’s grandfather went into the giant industrial kitchen of the camp where Nina’s mother worked. The girls hurried through their chores so they could go exploring. Even though Pop had nothing good to say about summer camp, Nina thought it was beautiful beyond all imagination, a wonderland of lush forests and grassy meadows, rock-strewn streams and the glittering lake. The main pavilion, where the campers were just finishing lunch, was a bare-timbered Adirondack-style lodge that housed a vast dining hall.

“There they are,” Jenny said, scanning the groups of campers from the stairway leading down to the kitchen. The different age groups were seated at long tables, raising a clatter of dishes and utensils, chatter and laughter. Jenny homed right in on the twelve-to-fourteens. “Isn’t he amazing?” she whispered in a smitten voice.

Nina couldn’t speak, although every cell in her body said yes. He was impossibly tall, with perfect posture, sandy hair and a killer smile. He wore navy blue camp shorts and a gray T-shirt stenciled Counselor.

Jenny saw where Nina was looking and gave her an elbow nudge. “Not him, ninny,” she said. “That’s Greg Bellamy. He’s old, like eighteen or something.” She pointed at the younger group. “I meant him.” Her adoring gaze settled on one of the campers, a quiet, lanky boy studying his compass.

“Oh …” Nina said, “him.” She studied the object of Jenny’s enraptured affection, a golden boy named Rourke McKnight. Jenny had first met him two summers ago, and she’d convinced herself that they shared some grand destiny. Destiny, schmestiny, thought Nina.

A smaller dark-haired boy went to sit by Rourke. “Joey Santini,” Jenny said on a fluttering sigh. “They’re best friends. I don’t know which one’s cuter.”

I do, thought Nina. Her gaze kept straying to the older boy. Greg Bellamy. The name played itself over and over in her head with full symphonic sound. Greg Bellamy. First of all, the name Bellamy was a clue that he was special. In these parts, being a Bellamy was like being a Kennedy in Boston. People knew who you were, and who your “people” were. You had this aura of prestige and privilege, whether you’d earned it or not.

“Hey, you two,” Nina’s mom called from the kitchen. “Lunch is just ending. Go on up and grab something to eat.”

Jenny hung shyly back, hovering between the kitchen and dining hall.

“Bashfulness is a waste of time,” Nina murmured. In her family, people got lost if they didn’t speak up and make their preferences known. She grabbed Jenny by the arm and drew her into the dining room. At the buffet, they helped themselves to sandwiches and drinks. Taking care not to slosh the lemonade from the glass on her tray, Nina made a beeline for Greg Bellamy. He was perusing the desserts table, laden with a rich assortment from the Majeskys’ bakery—lemon bars and peach shortcake, walnut brownies and slices of pie. There was one piece of cherry pie left. If there was anything that could make Nina forget a cute boy, it was cherry pie from the Sky River Bakery.

She reached for the plate. At the same moment, so did someone on the other side of the serving table—Greg Bellamy. She looked up and met his eyes. His Bon-Jovi-blue eyes.

He winked at her. “Looks like we’re both after the same thing.”

Usually when a guy winked at a girl it was totally cheesy. Not with Greg Bellamy. When he winked, it nearly made her knees buckle.

“Sorry,” she said, tossing back her thick dark hair. “It’s mine. I saw it first.” Wink or no wink, she wasn’t backing down.

He laughed, his voice like melted chocolate. “I like a girl who knows what she wants.”

She beamed at him. He liked her. He’d said so aloud. “I’m Nina,” she said.

“Greg. So are you a visitor?” He studied her as though she was the only person in the crowded dining hall.

“That’s right.” It wasn’t a lie. She simply omitted the information that she was the underage daughter of the camp cook. Fleetingly she wondered if that would change his opinion of her. Of course it would, she admitted to herself. It was the whole reason such things as “social class” existed right here in the good old US of A. At Camp Kioga, the lines were sharply drawn: the nobs versus the slobs.

But if she stayed anonymous, the lines went away.

She could feel a keen interest in the touch of Greg’s gaze, and it made her stand up straighter. Nina had always looked older than her age, a combination of dark, vivid features and early development. Though she flaunted this fact with pride, her confidence was merely a cover for the fact that she had always felt slightly different. Not radically so, but just a little, because she was a year older than the rest of the kids in her grade.