by Susan Wiggs
“There’s a five-second rule,” he said.
“Right.” She gingerly picked up the bundle and laid it on an empty table. There were three of them—the flags of the state of New York and of the U.S., and Camp Kioga’s signature banner. The faded fabric was covered in cobwebs and creepy-looking spider-egg cases. She rolled the flags up and brought them outside to the commercial Dumpster that had been delivered first thing in the morning.
You weren’t supposed to put the flag in a Dumpster, though. She remembered that from civics class. You were supposed to burn it to show reverence, though she had no idea why that showed more reverence than putting it in a Dumpster.
Then she had another thought. In front of the main pavilion at the entrance circle, the three flagpoles stood, stark and denuded as trees in winter. The sight of the three flags flying would certainly be an improvement.
Decisively, she shook out each flag with a snap. The cables on the flagpole seemed to be in working order. Within minutes, she had raised the Camp Kioga flag, which depicted a kitschy tepee by a lake. Then came the state flag, with its two goddesses holding a shield. Finally, on the center and tallest pole, she raised the U.S. flag. She felt oddly virtuous and patriotic, tugging at the cable and humming the national anthem under her breath. This flag was a true antique, because it had forty-eight stars. Like her grandparents, it had seen a half-century of history—wars and the birth of rock and roll, disaster and abundance, social movements and national crises.
This flag…was upside down.
In her patriotic fervor, Olivia had raised it the wrong way. An upside-down flag was a sign of distress. She didn’t want to give that impression, surely.
She reversed the direction of the cable, but the pulley seemed to be snagged. She tugged a few times and swore at the thing, but it did no good.
“A ladder,” she muttered, heading for a storage shed. She found one, brushed away the cobwebs and marched back to the flagpole area. By now, the sun had burned away the cool of the morning, and she peeled the sweatshirt down to her tank top. It took some maneuvering to lean the ladder against the slender pole, but she found that by keeping herself centered, it didn’t wobble too much.
Halfway up, she heard the wind in the trees and paused to survey the area from her high vantage point. She could see the layout of the camp from here, the quaint wooden structures in the distance, the lake shimmering in the sun and the wind. From here, the view was majestic and intimidating. It struck her then that this job was bigger than she’d ever imagined. It would be a miracle if she could pull it off.
I can do this, she thought, moving up each rung with determination. Nana liked to say that everything happened for a reason, and you don’t always get to know what that reason might be.
Olivia climbed as high as she dared, and then reached, stretching to her limit. As she extended her arm upward to tug at the snag, she felt the ladder shift.
No, she thought. No. But before she could even open her mouth to yell for help, the ladder canted sideways. She hugged the pole, cringing as she heard the ladder hit the ground with a crash.
Six
Connor Davis couldn’t remember ever meeting an Olivia Bellamy. There were a bunch of Bellamys and in the past, he’d encountered his share, but not lately. Thank God. High-strung and overbred, the Bellamy women he’d known were the French poodles of the fairer sex. Most of them, anyway.
Still, her message had intrigued him. The promise of a project intrigued his bottom line. So far, it had been a lean spring season on the heels of a brutal winter. The weather that had turned the landscape into a regular Currier and Ives postcard had also put the big freeze on most building projects. He was ready for the dry spell to end. There were a dozen guys on the payroll and he wasn’t keeping them busy enough.
Because the work truck was in use by one of his crews, he rode up to Camp Kioga by the only other means he had, his Harley. To someone who didn’t know his situation, the bike looked like a huge extravagance. In reality, a cash-poor client had given it to him a few years back as payment for a project.
Connor was happy enough to ride today. It was the kind of late-spring day that promised that winter was finally over. The sky was a deep blue bowl and sunlight sliced down through the tree branches, dappling the road with coins of gold. Chilly, though. He was glad he had taken the time to put on all his gear—jacket, gloves, boots, chaps. And hell. Might as well admit it. People like the Bellamys tended to pay closer attention when he dressed head to toe in scuffed black leather.
He didn’t get up this way very often, not anymore. No one but the most dedicated autumn leaf-lookers did. But as a kid, the road to Camp Kioga represented an emotional roller-coaster ride. Each summer he’d come here, it was the same. He made the journey with a heart full of hope and possibility. This year, it would be different. This year, his father wouldn’t let him down. This year, his father would keep his promise to stay sober. This year, his father wouldn’t humiliate him and make him wish he could disappear. This year, he could just be a kid, instead of taking care of the man who was supposed to take care of him.
That was a long time ago, though. Now the camp was closed and its boundaries posted Private Property—No Trespassing.
The sign arching over the main entrance looked the same. A little more rusty, maybe a tad crooked. But it had been built to last, and seemed to be as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and trees.
Time fell away as he rolled under the arch. He was a kid again, clutching his duffel bag and making a run for it, hoping he got a good cabin this year.
The three flags that flew in front of the main hall looked…Connor touched his sunglasses. Something was wrong. On the tallest flagpole, the U.S. flag hung crookedly by one corner. And someone—a very blond someone in extremely short shorts—clung to the pole as though hanging on for dear life.
Connor accelerated, the Harley blasting an announcement of his arrival. This should be interesting.
CAMP KIOGA CODE OF CONDUCT
The use of alcohol, tobacco and drugs is strictly prohibited.
In matters of dress, modesty must prevail. Halter tops, short shorts, etc., will not be allowed. Wear shoes at all times. See the Official Camp Dress Code.
Radios, tape players, magazines, comic books, etc., are a distraction to camp. The dean has the privilege of confiscating such items.
No camper is to be out of his or her cabin after lights-out.
Food is not allowed in the cabin at any time; it attracts bugs and animals.
The camp kitchen is off-limits except at mealtimes.
Do not push the beds together; it’s a state law.
Seven
Summer 1991
His first summer at Camp Kioga, in the middle of water-safety practice, Connor Davis discovered firsthand what a woody was. Sure, guys talked about it all the time, and a morning woody was nothing new, but the actual wide-awake experience was…startling. All it had taken was one look at Gina Palumbo in her red swimsuit, and his elastic warrior instantly got a mind of its own. His regulation dark blue swim trunks were suddenly way too tight. Tent pole time.
Schwing. And worse, Connor couldn’t make it go away.
He and a group of kids had been sent up to the top of the lookout tower, a platform thirty feet above the swim and dive area. They were supposed to be watching the swimmers as part of their safety-certification training. Instead, he found himself staring at Gina Palumbo, whose boobs belonged in the hall of fame.
Some of the guys in the cabin told dirty stories about her. Connor doubted if any of them were true, the stuff they said she did behind the boathouse or on the floating dock at night. Sometimes there was even an extra girl in the story, or a German shepherd, which was plain gross. Anyway, he wasn’t even thinking about the late-night, whispered stories when he saw Gina and two of her friends strolling down the beach. It was the furthest thing from his mind. But once he spotted her and her friends, he couldn’t think of anything except those stor
ies.
Why was it that hot girls always went around in packs of three? he wondered, biting his lip to keep in a groan. It made it three times harder not to stare. Down, Simba.
But Connor couldn’t help himself. Even though there was a rule—universally hated by the girls—that they had to wear one-piece regulation camp suits, Gina still looked like a Madonna CD cover. The stretchy fabric showed off those huge melons and pulled tautly over the curves of her rear end.
It was said that guys weren’t even supposed to look at Gina. Her father was this mafioso gazillionaire whose goons would break your kneecaps if they caught you having impure thoughts about his daughter. Impure didn’t even begin to describe what Connor was thinking. If there was a mafia goon around, Connor Davis would be toast.
Fordham, the swim and dive safety instructor, was droning on and on about how to methodically scan the area in an invisible grid pattern so you didn’t miss anything. A good lifeguard could quickly spot trouble, distinguishing between normal horsing around and genuine distress.
“So where’s the trouble?” Fordham asked the group, gesturing at the busy swimming area.
In my damn pants, that’s where, Connor thought, hanging back and praying no one would notice. Once you were busted, the guys gave you no peace. Earlier in the week, J. J. Danforth had popped a woody in the shower, and ever since, the guys called him flagpole and saluted when he went past.
Go away, Connor thought, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead and in his armpits. That was another weird change in his body lately—sweating armpits. Sweating, hairy armpits.
He wasn’t even looking at Gina now, but the damage was done. He tried diverting himself, thinking about stuff that didn’t excite him.
Like his mother getting married to her boss at the club in Buffalo. Or that his new stepfather, Mel, wanted Connor gone for the summer. Or the fact that Connor had a baby brother in New Orleans he never got to see, and a completely pathetic father, who could build practically anything with his hands, when they weren’t shaking from needing a drink.
Even thinking about his screwed up family didn’t help. Nothing would help. Connor was dizzy now, so filled with an urge he’d never felt before that he almost couldn’t breathe. And—shit—Fordham was going down the line, quizzing everybody about the safety features of the tower. And suddenly, it was all about sex. The round holes of the life rings. Mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration. Pumping a victim’s chest. Geez, everything was pure sex. In a second, it would be Connor’s turn to be questioned, and then they’d notice him and he would be totally busted.
He couldn’t let that happen. Glancing around like a trapped animal, he tried to concentrate on the view of the lake and the camp, the bunkhouses connected by a network of paths, the main hall, where a white panel truck from Sky River Bakery was making its daily delivery. A little farther out was a cluster of cottages and bungalows in the trees, where the counselors and workers lived, including his loser father, who told Connor to pretend they weren’t related if he knew what was good for him.
And Connor hadn’t told. So far, only that stupid Lolly Bellamy knew, and she wasn’t talking. Maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe he was the stupid one, with his stupid shorts sticking out a mile. He needed to escape, and fast.
His gaze fixed on the dive platform. They had been told repeatedly that the platform was never, ever to be used except under supervision or in cases of extreme emergency. Like when someone was in distress.
Well, hell. If this wasn’t an emergency, Connor didn’t know what was. He sure as hell was in distress.
Except…the platform was ten meters above the diving area. That was like skyscraper height. Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly the Empire State Building, but when you were looking down at the surface of the lake, it looked like forever.
Dang it. His turn was coming up and the situation in his pants was not improving. In fact, it was getting worse. He had seconds to make up his mind. Take action now, or spend the rest of the summer as the joke of Ticonderoga Cabin.
That did it. Without another thought, he broke for the diving platform. The breeze whipped over him as he sped past the others. He ran to the end of the platform with shouts and warning whistles ringing in his ears, but he ignored them and kept running, even when there was nothing but thin air beneath his paddling feet.
He didn’t dive, of course. Who the hell would dare to do this headfirst?
He forgot to be scared but remembered to tuck one leg up in a jackknife—a position he’d been told would protect the family jewels. Although at the moment, they didn’t feel that fragile.
The fall took forever. He was a skydiver without a chute, plummeting toward the earth. He hit the water so hard it slammed up his nose and snapped his neck back. It felt as if his head was about to explode. He kept going down, down, down, deeper than he thought the lake could ever be, so deep he didn’t think he’d ever reach the surface alive.
Then he felt the soft sand and algae of the bottom beneath his feet, and pushed off with all his might. He could see the murky darkness of the depths growing lighter and lighter, and he followed the glow of the sunlight upward. It seemed to take forever, but at last he broke the surface, instantly gulping in a giant breath of air with a loud and desperate gasp.
With that breath of air, his brain kicked in. He was in deep shit now. He had just majorly violated a camp safety rule. They would put him in solitary for hours. Or worse, they’d kick him out. It wasn’t like he was a paying customer, anyway. They’d send him to stay at his dad’s pathetic caretaker’s cottage, and the rest of the summer nights would be filled with the queasy crack and hiss of a beer can opening, his dad sliding nightly into drunkenness and talking, endlessly talking about nothing, nothing at all.
Connor swam as if there was a giant alligator after him, and grabbed the first swimmer he could find, winding his arm around the designated victim in the rescue hold they’d been taught.
“Just relax,” he shouted. “I’ve got you. I’ll take you to shore.”
The surprised swimmer fought like a mad cat, writhing and scratching. Crap, thought Connor. Of all the kids in the lake today, he had managed to grab loudmouthed Lolly Bellamy.
“Let go of me, you freak. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m your new best friend,” he told her, mimicking something she’d once said to him.
“Let me go,” she spluttered, blowing droplets of water from the braces on her teeth. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Rescuing you.” He was struggling toward shore, awkwardly dragging his victim along. Her rubber swim cap and goggles made her look like a Teletubbie.
“I don’t need rescuing.” She fought with a sturdy determination and a strength that took him by surprise.
“Too bad,” he said, trying to subdue her. “I’m doing it anyway.”
“You’re crazy. Let go of me, you stupid freak.”
“When we get to shore.”
She was pretty much the most annoying girl at camp. The most annoying girl he had ever met. She was a complete know-it-all and a diehard when it came to stuff she was good at, like Scrabble and cribbage and playing piano and reciting every rule of the flag. When she couldn’t do something, she pretended it was beneath her.
Except swimming. He saw her practicing every day, doing laps from the shore to the floating dock, back and forth, back and forth. Clearly, the practice had made her stronger. She fought him all the way to shore, spluttering and telling him he was crazy, a freak and an idiot.
She did do him one favor, though. By the time he slogged ashore to make his excuses for going off the platform—I really thought she was drowning, honest— Lolly Bellamy had proven she was good for one other thing. His woody was completely gone.
CAMP KIOGA CHRONICLES, 1941
Camp Kioga was founded on the principles of good sportsmanship, equality, the value of hard work and the importance of character.
Eight
“Holy shi
t.” Connor Davis’s voice was incredulous, echoing across the flagpole yard. “Lolly?”
All right, thought Olivia as she dusted off her hands after her climb down the ladder, so maybe it was a little bit fun, watching the expression on his face, a mildly amusing look of wonder and confusion.
The flags, now properly hung, snapped in the brisk morning breeze, and somewhere hidden in the woods, a bobwhite called. Time felt frozen, suspended somewhere between the past nine years. What a temptation it was to summarily dismiss him, announcing that she would be giving the project to his competitor. But she hadn’t located a competitor, and she wasn’t likely to find one.
Besides, Olivia had to be honest with herself. This was Connor Davis. Why would any normal, red-blooded American girl want to work with anyone but him?
So here he was, in the flesh. In old black leather and faded denim, to be more accurate. He was still freakishly good-looking, not in the polished, privileged way of, say, a Rand Whitney. There was nothing pretty about Connor Davis. His features were too rough-hewn, his black hair was a little too long, his piercing blue eyes too intense. He had always been the bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks and he’d always looked the part. She found the sight of him disconcerting and, appallingly, she felt a warm little thrum of physical awareness. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. He was a member of the same club as Rand Whitney, Richard and Pierce, she reminded herself. The four of them belonged to a fraternity whose membership was expanding. Men who had dumped her. Connor was simply the first—and admittedly, the most inventive.
“Can you give me a hand with this ladder?” In truth, she didn’t need help, but she was desperate to find some kind of equilibrium. Seeing him again was like having a flashback to a nightmare. When she looked at him, she still felt that same crazy crush of attraction, the feeling that had driven her to make a complete and total fool of herself, once upon a summer.