by Susan Wiggs
They passed under the arched sign. Wrought iron twig lettering spelled out, Camp Kioga, Est’d. 1924. “Everything looks so different,” Kim remarked.
“It’s all been renovated.”
The original main pavilion now housed a restaurant. The deck had been expanded, and near the lake was a covered gazebo with a sizable hot tub with puffs of steam rising into the afternoon sky. Bo glanced over to see that Kim’s face had turned thoughtful. “My parents sent me to summer camp here when I was little,” she said. “I used to love it so much.”
He tried to imagine what summer camp was like. For him, summers were a time for hustling, so he could earn enough to pay his Little League fees. He used to work for tips at the auto-detailing place, or go door-to-door, asking for odd jobs. A summer of just being a kid was unimaginable.
This made him wonder what AJ’s summers were like. It was a good bet there weren’t any trips to camp.
Daisy’s studio was a big, mostly empty room in a building constructed in the old days of the camp. Surrounded by windows, the studio was filled with the white light of winter, streaming in through the windows and reflecting off the frozen lake. Daisy and her crew were busy getting ready. She had an array of lights set up on tripods, reflecting shields of all sizes and a variety of backdrops. Fans and props lay on a table near a laptop setup. The old wooden floor creaked as Bo and Kim stepped into the room.
The minute she spotted Bo, Daisy’s jaw dropped. “Ho-lee cow,” she said.
“Yeah, two hours of being fussed at in a salon, and I’m a natural beauty.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Daisy said. “You’re going to need hair and makeup first. Then we’ll talk about natural beauty.” She introduced them to Chantal, the wardrobe and makeup stylist, and Zach, her assistant.
Daisy was all pro, and Bo could sense Kim’s confidence in her growing. After seeing the setup of cameras and lighting, the computer, electrical cords and reflectors, she relaxed and asked how she could help out.
Bo thought Daisy was kidding about the makeup. Then Chantal opened a huge tackle box full of the stuff—lipstick and brushes, pots of color, clippers and cotton balls and strange devices. He looked at Kim, who didn’t say a word, just nodded at a stool.
“Oh, man,” he said. But he cooperated. This was his career, after all. His future. He sat through the humiliating ritual, resigned to his fate. After the salon ordeal, nothing else that happened to him was apt to freak him out. He mentally retreated to his happy place again while Chantal brushed on face makeup called “foundation” and traced around his lips with a pencil. But as in the salon, his retreat didn’t help much. When she came at his eyes with something pointy, he put his foot down.
“Uh-uh, no way,” he declared.
“She’s almost done,” Kim said encouragingly. “Be still a few minutes longer.”
“Forget it. You’re not putting eyeliner on me. I’m done.” All this stuff was starting to make his skin crawl. He peeled off the towel they’d put around him. “If I’m not pretty enough now, I never will be.”
She surrendered with a little wave of her hand. “You’re the client.”
As the day progressed, he sensed a subtle shift in their relationship. He’d allowed himself to be transformed. He trusted her. And he could tell, by the way she looked at him when she didn’t know he was watching, that she thought he was sexy. Damn, he hoped he was right about that.
Daisy stepped in and started lining up the shots, assisted by Zach. “You look amazing,” she remarked.
“You think?” He grinned, relaxing a little now that sharp-object-girl had backed off.
Kim nodded in agreement. “I’ve always thought there was something weirdly attractive about a guy in a baseball uniform. Couldn’t say why. Under any other circumstances, a guy would look like a dork in knickers and knee socks. But a baseball uniform...” She and Daisy nodded their approval. He could tell the two of them were going to get along fine. Both were determined to make him look larger-than-life. Like a baseball god, Kim said.
What a world, he thought. One day he was mopping beer off the floor of a dive bar. A few months later, he was being made into a god. The moment he slipped on the coveted gray-with-navy pinstripes, he felt like a different person. The uniform reminded him why he was doing all this in the first place.
“I am so ready to just play baseball,” he muttered.
“You know there’s more to this career than playing baseball.”
“I had no idea how much more.”
“The photos are critical,” Kim said. “A great photo can really enhance a career, assuming the player has the talent to back it up.”
“It should be all about talent.”
“You know it’s not,” she said. “Image is everything. Remember Cal Shattuck? He was driving a meat truck in the off-season, and then they ran that iconic shot of him on the cover of Vanity Fair, and the next day, he was a star.”
“I’ve seen that shot,” Daisy said. “He was buck naked.”
“The grapes were strategically placed,” Chantal said.
“Yeah, don’t get any ideas,” Bo said.
“As if.” Daisy shuddered. “Ew.” Because of his connection with Noah, she had always regarded him as someone not of her generation. An older guy, one of her stepdad’s friends.
At long last, Daisy declared it showtime. He quickly found out that posing for photographs was not for sissies. In fact, it amazed him that something so simple could be so much fuss and bother. You looked at a player on a baseball card or roster sheet and you never thought about the work that went into the shot. Models who did this for a living were nuts.
Everybody worked nonstop. They turned him every which way but loose, posing him like a double-jointed action figure. He was on the stool, off the stool. He was holding a bat, then a ball and mitt. Cap on, cap off. Then they tried some creative artsy stuff—Bo playing his bass. Brooding out the window at the snowy woods as though willing spring to come. Every time they paused to review the shots on the laptop, he stood back, discomfited by the dozens of images.
“These are not quite right,” Kim said.
“Come on, I look good.”
“She’s right,” Daisy said. “These are okay, but we can do better.”
“You look...stiff,” Kim said.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You look scared of the camera, see? You look like someone who’s having his picture taken.”
“Okay, so I’m supposed to look like some guy who just happens to be sitting here?”
“Exactly. The best shot makes me forget it’s a set-up.”
“Here we go.” Daisy advanced to some other frames. “You’re better when you have the gear in your hands. Still not quite right, but better.”
“There, that one’s my favorite so far.” Kim indicated a shot of him with his electric bass. “See how natural you look?”
Not really, but he nodded his head.
“This is good because you’re a left-handed pitcher and the focus here is on your left hand. And you’ve got a look of concentration on your face.”
“Some models get into their role by telling themselves stories in their heads,” Daisy suggested. “It’s a subtle thing, but it adds dimension.”
They went back to work, and he tried telling himself a story. However, with Kim standing there, checking him out the whole time, the only story he could tell himself was X-rated. In his story, she was wearing leather and lace, and not very much of either. In his story, he held her pushed against a wall and did it fast and hard, and later, he laid her down on a cloud-soft mattress and made love to her so slowly and so tenderly that she wept.
“Oh,” she said, moistening her lips. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah?” He chuckled softly. “I’m telling a story in my head.”
“Keep doing that,” she said. “It’s working. You’re taking me somewhere else, and it makes me want to come with you.”
“In that case, the story’s got a happy ending.”
After a while, they exhausted all the props, including his twin amps, the wind machine and even articles of clothing, like his Under Armour shirt and spike-soled shoes. Daisy looked out the window. “There’s a little bit of sun, but it’s fading fast,” she said. “I’d like to get a series of exterior shots. We’ve got to work quickly.”
A glare from Kim convinced him not to bellyache about the cold. Daisy explained that the “golden hour,” the deep amber of the lowering sun, was a gift this time of year. In winter, the sun didn’t like to show itself, but when it did, the light was strong and intense, creating a natural drama everywhere the camera pointed.
“I love this idea,” said Kim, bundling into her parka.
“The key is going to be for you to look totally cool but not cold,” Daisy explained. She did a series of shots in front of the lake, saying she wanted him to look like he was dreaming of summer in the dead of winter.
“I’m dying here,” he said, steeling himself to keep from shivering. “I am flat-lining.”
“You look great,” Daisy objected. “Let’s hurry before your nose turns red. Let’s go over here.”
Despite the cold, Bo knew it was a one-of-a-kind backdrop. Meerskill Falls was a cascade that started high in the secret reaches of the hills and spilled down a steep gorge spanned by a footbridge. In winter, it turned into a wall of ice so thick and layered that it seemed to conceal a different world within its depths.
“This is genius, guys,” said Zach, holding a reflector on Bo as he strode along in front of the frozen falls.
“Try it with these shades.” Chantal tossed him a pair of sunglasses.
“We’ve only got a few more minutes of sunlight,” Daisy said. “Knock yourself out. Do whatever you like.”
“That would be running for the fire to thaw myself out.”
“Baby,” Kim teased.
He scooped up a snowball and lobbed a line drive at her.
“Hey!” She threw one back and he fielded it with ridiculous ease, his mitt so soft he barely broke it.
“You don’t want to get in a snowball fight with me,” he said.
“Ha. You don’t scare me.”
He packed a snowball, gave it a fine windup and pitched it straight at her. The ball exploded against her shoulder, right where he’d aimed it.
Her laughter taunted him to keep up the attack. She looked like a supermodel herself, laughing and completely in her element in the snow. She was the one who should be in pictures, not him.
As the late golden sunlight slanted across the snow, Daisy declared a wrap. “And guess what, the best shots of the day are going to be the ones I just took. It’s so often the case that the best come last.”
That was probably because the subject was so beaten down, he’d do anything to get the shoot over with. He was shivering by the time they got back inside. Mercifully, they let him scrub off the makeup and brush out the hair spray. After he put his street clothes back on, he found Daisy and Kim going through the shots on the laptop.
“These are just what we need,” Kim said, stepping back so he could see the screen.
He winced. There was something painful about staring at shot after shot of himself, especially those that inadvertently revealed something. “Do I really look so pissed off all the time?” he asked.
“That’s not anger,” Daisy said.
“It’s intensity,” Kim agreed, clicking through the frames. “And here—that’s yearning, and this one is smoldering.”
Bo flushed. It was one of the fake-sweat shots. They had misted him with water and shot him with his jersey unbuttoned. “Yeah, that’s me, smoldering.”
“We’ve got some happy shots, too.” Daisy showed him. “You look good when you laugh.”
“Everybody looks good when they laugh.”
She shook her head. “You’d be surprised.”
The outdoor shots looked weird to him, but according to Kim, that was what made them good. The contrast between the baseball uniform and the arctic surroundings was striking. He looked as if he’d landed on another planet.
“It’s stunning work.” Kim pointed to a shot of him walking toward the camera with a purposeful stride, his long hair fanning out behind him, his eyes intensely blue. “That’s my favorite.”
The frozen waterfall created a dramatic backdrop, glittering in the setting sun. “Yeah, I love that,” Daisy agreed. “And this one, where he’s throwing a snowball like it’s a winning pitch.”
“Thanks, Daisy,” Bo said.
“I appreciate the work,” she said. “I’ll have all the retouching done by the end of the week.”
“You’re just like your mom,” he said. “Hardworking and talented.”
At that, she laughed. “Sorry, I’m not used to being compared to my mom.”
That surprised Bo. Daisy and Sophie were cut from the same cloth—fiercely smart and ambitious, determined to balance work and family.
“You’ve been great,” Kim said to Daisy, then turned to Bo. “You were totally right about her. What a find.”
“I’m surrounded by talented women,” he said. “I just can’t beat you girls off with a stick.”
“Right.” Daisy carefully stowed her camera equipment.
“You’re going to see these photos everywhere,” Kim said. “I’m sure of it.”
Olivia Bellamy Davis, who ran the resort, arrived to see how the shoot had gone. Clicking through the frames on the laptop, she gave her stamp of approval. “You made him a star,” she said to Daisy.
“No, I made him look like a star,” Daisy clarified. “Kim is the one who has to make him a star.”
“Hey, what am I?” Bo asked. “Chopped liver?”
All of them responded in unison: “Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll shut up.” He made himself useful, helping Zach lug the gear to Daisy’s van. A few minutes later, Kim and the others came out.
“Can you stay?” Olivia asked. “I can offer you a drink and a soak in the hot tub.”
“Sounds tempting,” Daisy said, “but I have to pick Charlie up by six. He’s been with his dad all afternoon.” She noticed Kim’s expression and said, “Charlie’s my son. He’s a year and a half old.”
“I hope I get to meet him one day,” Kim said. “I love kids.”
Bo studied her face. She’d told him sometimes a diplomatic lie worked better than the truth. Ever since, he found himself wondering about some of the things she said—like I love kids.
As the van pulled away, Olivia turned to Bo and Kim. “What about you two?”
“Sure,” said Bo. Dino had taken AJ for pizza and bowling, so there was no hurry to get back.
Kim elbowed him in the ribs, hard.
“She’d love to,” he added, pretending he hadn’t felt it.
“Great,” said Olivia, and led the way.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves in borrowed swimsuits in a big hot tub under a gazebo at the lakeshore. Olivia was the ideal hostess, serving chilled champagne and then—conveniently—disappearing.
“Nice place,” Bo commented, tasting the champagne. Honestly, he preferred beer, but he remembered what Kim had taught him about being a good guest. He floated in the comforting heat of the water and looked around at the wilderness surrounding the camp, now purple in the twilight. A few of the lakeside cabins were occupied, and a good number of diners were at the restaurant in the distance, visible through the glowing windows. “I’ve never been here in the winter. Last summer, when the place reopened, I came up to teach a baseball clinic.”
“When I was a kid, I used to mark off the days on m
y calendar until I could come here.”
“I wish I’d known you back then,” he said, picturing a girl with knobby knees and fiery red hair.
“No, you don’t,” she said. “I was a brat.”
He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “My favorite kind of girl.”
“A brat?” Steam swirled up from the surface of the water surrounding her.
Setting aside the champagne glass, he slipped his arms around her, pulled her close and said, “You. You’re my favorite kind.”
“Bo—”
“Hush. Wait a second.” He moved to the opposite side of the hot tub, bringing her with him and turning her so they were both facing the lake. “There, that’s better.”
“What’s better? What are you doing?”
“I want it to be perfect the first time I kiss you.”
“The first... Why?”
“Because it’s important and I want to treat it that way. I want you to remember that the first time I kissed you, the moon was coming up over the lake, and it was so quiet we could hear the snow fall, that we were in the most beautiful spot on earth.”
“But why?” she persisted, but the tremor in her voice told him she understood.
“Because you’re different from other women. We’re different, together. I’ve kissed women in cars and movie theaters and on their front porches, and under the bleachers after a game. Never in a place like this.”
“I don’t...know what to say to that.”
“You’re not meant to say anything. You’re supposed to kiss me back, and then we’ll hold each other and watch the moon rise. And for the rest of our lives, we’ll remember our first kiss.”
“Bo Crutcher,” she said, relaxing against him. “You’re a true romantic.”
“I am,” he agreed. “And you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because when it comes to you, I think mushy thoughts and I’m not embarrassed or anything.”
“I’m not embarrassed, either,” she said, her voice shaking in a way that touched his heart. “And you’re right—this is the most beautiful place on earth, and I’m glad we’re here. And—” She broke off.