“So, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you don’t have a boyfriend,” Rachel said.
I laughed. “Thanks! Do I appear that undatable?”
“Undatable? No! I just don’t see someone leaving her boyfriend two thousand miles away during the summer.” She turned to me, eyeing me again, and continued. “Plus, you don’t have that love-is-in-the-air glow.”
“First, it’s fewer than eighteen hundred miles, and, second, you don’t necessarily love every guy you date, do you?”
“I suppose not,” she agreed. “But was I wrong?”
“No,” I admitted. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’m guilty of being a hopeless romantic. Long walks on the beach, fireworks during a first kiss. Rocks thrown at your window in the middle of the night because he can’t stop thinking about you.”
I didn’t have much to say to that early-nineties description of romance, so I just nodded.
Rachel blushed. “Sorry, I went to an all-girls high school. Romance novels with those scenarios were all I had to understand what love is.”
I shook my head. “Sounds pretty perfect, but I’m sure there’s a little more to it than that.”
“Your parents still married?” she asked after a short moment. It wasn’t a ridiculous question, considering how many marriages were ending quicker these days.
“They probably would have been,” I said looking ahead and glancing up. “My mother died when I was twelve.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rachel said. She looked back at her scoop and frowned.
Guess I really put a damper on our lighthearted conversation. She asked a very simple question, which, unfortunately, had a difficult answer. My mother had lived a lot longer than expected. She’d been diagnosed with cervical cancer when I was nine. And it was a roller-coaster until she died just after my twelfth birthday.
I shook it off, as if it wasn’t a big deal anymore. And it really wasn’t; I was used to people asking me about my mother and the uncomfortable silence that followed. Luckily, I’d become somewhat of an expert at brightening the mood again.
“I tell ya, though, she’d never let me eat ice cream.” I scooped up my last bite and chucked the cup at the nearest trash can. “How do you keep a kid from cookies and cream?” I asked, throwing my hands up in the air dramatically. Rachel laughed, and I was glad we were officially off the subject. We walked back to Bays House, predicting some of the cliché camp events and taking turns coming up with predictable verses of how the end-of-summer song would go.
Later, after I’d completed all the forms, I stuck my driver’s license and lifeguard cert in my back pocket and decided to go check if the staff lounge was open. It was just after eleven o’clock, and I sincerely hoped they were open till at least midnight.
“Be back in a few,” I called out to Rachel while she was in the shower.
I walked out, finding it to be chillier than when we had been out earlier. The moon was low and round, and I wondered what the weather would be like the next day. I walked down the stairs of the open beachside complex and headed down to the first level, where the lounge was. It wasn’t a good sign that the lights were out. I turned the knob: locked. I glanced up at the other units in the building and didn’t see many lights on anywhere. All the in-house counselors and staff were probably either still out—it was, after all, a Saturday night—or sound asleep.
I sighed and stood there for a moment. Since I was already out, I decided to take a quick walk around the campgrounds. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go back and have a slumber party with my new roommate. Hopefully, she’d be asleep by the time I got back.
A few minutes later, I was walking around the perimeter of the campus, and my eye caught on the shimmering wrinkles in a bright-blue swimming pool. Only the slightest bit of it was visible from where I stood, so I headed in that direction. I’ve always loved the iridescence of the water in a swimming pool at night. It might even catch the reflection of the moon, since it was so low and round that night.
I walked over and unhooked the metal latch on the gate. Well, no moon reflection, but there were little LED lights in the pool that gave it a nice glow. I started walking along the side. The smell of the chlorine doesn’t exactly hold the same draw as the salty ocean, and it isn’t exactly as peaceful as sunrise or a sunset at the beach, but it still made me smile and excited for the summer.
I swung my head around at a figure I noticed at the other side of the pool. A man wearing a dark-gray hooded sweatshirt and sweat pants sat against the black fence. His hood was on, and he blended into the night so easily that I was surprised I noticed him. He had an unlabeled black backpack, and I began to panic.
Oh crap, I thought. Okay, stay cool. Bums don’t usually carry bombs or guns…do they?
“Hey, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. This is a private pool, and it’s closed,” I said. The guy was holding a silver can, which I assumed was beer. He didn’t look up at me or respond right away. He just held up his can and finished it off.
“Then what are you doing here?” he asked calmly. His voice surprisingly was not one of an old drunk bum, but one younger and more alert than I would have expected.
“I work here.” That wasn’t exactly true yet, so I corrected myself in case this led to official statements. “I’m staying at Bays House. You need to leave. Now.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he picked off the metal opener of the can and flicked it inside the empty container. Even from across the pool, I could hear the clatter it made. It almost echoed in the empty space. That irritated me.
“You need to leave,” I repeated. “I will call security.”
“I don’t remember this pool having a patrol crew.”
“It doesn’t.” At least I didn’t think so. “But you’re trespassing.”
“I’m not trespassing.” Again with the calm deep voice.
“Are you a member at the beach club?” Maybe the guy was lost or confused.
“No,” he answered hesitantly.
“Are you staying at Bays House?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then, please gather up your beer cans and leave before I call security.”
“Relax. It’s only one beer can, and I was just about to leave,” he said, slightly more irritated, as he stood. I was relieved to see him get up. And although he was still wearing his hood, he seemed less threatening standing up straight.
“Sure, I’ll relax. I walk into a private pool where I work at a quarter to midnight and see a bum hanging out and drinking, but hey, no, nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t have to call anyone.” He threw his backpack over his shoulder. “Look, I’m not trespassing, and don’t worry, I’m not a bum.” He started to circle around the pool, which made me a little nervous, and I hoped it didn’t show. He laughed. “I actually—”
“How would I know? I’m just calling it like I see it,” I said defiantly.
“Well, you call it what you will, then,” he said after a moment with a light shake of his head. He started making his way toward the gate, which was a few feet behind me.
As he moved closer toward me, I took a giant stride backward to give him all the room he needed to walk out of there. I’m not sure why I got so nervous. Actually, it was probably because he was still wearing that hood, and I couldn’t really see his face—just that he was in need of a shave. But in truth, he did look and sound less seedy than what I imagined when I saw him sitting there. Then again, what did I know? I’d been slightly sleep deprived and had had cookies and cream ice cream for dinner.
I stepped back again just as he was walking past me and lost control as the heel of my sandal was caught on the edge of the pool. My reflexes kicked in, and I started flapping my arms around like a madwoman to keep myself from falling backward into the pool. I let out a gasp and felt myself falling. Just as I was convinced I was about to hit the water, I felt a strong grip on my arm tugging me forward and then a gentle hand landing on
my back, pulling me until I was safely on my feet.
Out of breath for what seemed like forever, I realized that this stranger, who not only had just saved me from an embarrassing and possibly dangerous fall, was still holding me.
At a loss for words that would resemble any kind of gratitude, I slipped out, “Pretty quick reflexes for someone who’s intoxicated.” Not exactly what I wanted to say, but it was too late now.
He stared at me for a moment, nodded to himself, and calmly replied. “You’re welcome.” He turned back toward the gate and started walking away. “See you around.” He called out without turning back to me.
CHAPTER 3
The next morning I woke up shortly after sunrise. For a first night in a new place far from home, I’d slept surprisingly well. It felt like ages since I’d indulged in my morning routine: a few stretches, a hot shower, a hair dryer. The kitchen was relatively small, but it was open with a small island, giving it a more spacious feel and separating it from the living room. The cabinets were a natural oakwood finish with a silver back-splash and a gas stove. I eyed the standard department-store coffee machine on the counter by the microwave and, against my better judgment, decided to give it a try. It wasn’t like me to consider a brew of Kanes Prime Beverage an acceptable cup of coffee—but it would have to do for now.
Especially since I wasn’t sure I was ready to get back out there. How often did this place have drunk guys lurking around their property? No, I needed to be fully recharged before I headed out. My thoughts strayed on the mystery man last night. Should I have alerted security about the man? Or Sarah?
I thought about his strong but surprisingly tender grip on my arm and back as he pulled me from what would have been a major disaster. I could live with getting a little wet, but how would I explain that to Sarah? I hadn’t even completed my application yet, and already I was causing a disturbance at the club grounds. And who was to say that I didn’t sneak that guy in with me? Technically, the mystery man was right: I didn’t belong there either.
I heard the last drops of my coffee brewing and reached for a mug from the overhead cabinet. I heard Rachel waking up and stretching just as I took my first sip. She sat up on her bed and narrowed her eyes at me.
“Blugh…ugh.” I cringed in disgust as I poured the remaining contents over the sink.
“Yeah, I know, I did that yesterday,” she said, getting out of bed. “Let’s go get some real breakfast.”
Within a few minutes, Rachel and I were walking down the boardwalk. Living right by the beach had its perks—one being there was no reason to spend much time getting dressed.
The beach club had a few restaurants. We chose to eat at Bays Grille, which was open for breakfast with optional outdoor seating. The place was trendy yet had a cozy, welcoming atmosphere. The walls and ceiling were constructed of mostly bamboo panels. Several colorful vellum-paper-made lights hung from the ceiling in a variety of heights and sizes. The indoor area was pretty empty, except for a few older couples. We were seated at a table outside near a closed-in white gate, a section closest to the beach. It was no mountain view, but the ocean was stunning and peaceful.
We ordered coffee right away and were handed a couple of menus. Rachel followed my gaze at the ocean.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Nice?” I echoed.
“You’re from Colorado. There are so many gorgeous mountains and rivers and sights just outside your window that we don’t really get here. So to you, this is probably just…nice.”
I laughed. “I guess.” I wondered if I should tell her about the guy from the pool.
“So, where’d you run off to last night?” she asked, as if reading my mind.
I decided against it and casually looked at my menu. I didn’t want to alarm anyone about what was probably a rare incident. “Oh, I just went down to the staff lounge to make some photo copies, but it was cl—” I jerked my head up from the menu and looked at Rachel in horror. “Oh, my god!”
I ran through the door to my room and quickly grabbed the folder. I glanced at the clock on the wall before pulling the door open again—10:15 a.m.
I wondered what Sarah considered to be “first thing” and then remembered I had one more stop to make. Sure, I could have made copies at the office, but if I was showing up late, I was going to be prepared. I ran down the exterior stairwell toward the lower deck and ran straight into the room at the end of the deck. I hurriedly made my copies from the only copy machine in the lounge, which thankfully took only a sign-in of my room number.
I was still stuffing the folder into my bag when I ran out of the lounge and back onto the deck. Turning the corner that led to the stairs, I pulled the strap of my messenger bag over me, blocking my view for only a second, when I crashed into someone. Hard. The crash caused the lid of his hot coffee to pop open and the majority of it to spill over his tan linen shirt. I could feel the softness of his shirt and didn’t pull away fast enough to miss the impressive hard, muscular chest. I was only five-foot-three, and this guy had to be about six feet. Extremely embarrassed, I turned and ran. The only thing that seemed logical was to get out of there right away before anything else happened.
“I’m so sorry; I’m in a rush,” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran down the three steps to street level.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” he yelled after me.
Despite my rush and adrenaline, the voice sounded familiar. It could have been my imagination or the lack of coffee in my system that was making me lose my mind.
I stopped a few feet from the main office just to regain composure and catch my breath. I walked into the office with a look I hoped read that this was my idea of first thing. On a Sunday, at least.
I found a redheaded woman, who looked like she could be reaching seventy, sitting at the reception desk. She looked up at me and smiled.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hi, I’m looking for Sa—Ms. Thornton. I’m dropping off some papers and…”
“I’ll make sure she gets them,” she said, looking down at her magazine and pointing to the edge of the desk, motioning for me to leave my folder. I would have, but I would have liked to solidify my job, and my room and board, as soon as possible.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“She’s gone to the main lodge to hang up some flyers and the camp schedule. The campers are coming tomorrow, and we always post it on the main bulletin in the gym so that they know what activity they’re scheduled for.”
“Of course.” I was still hesitant to leave anything up in the air. I was going to find her.
I started walking down the strip between the club and the camp and noticed something different about the front end of it. But I couldn’t quite place what it was.
The welcome sign, I remembered. It was gone. I started looking around to see if it had flown away and saw Sarah folding it up near the corner of the building. I ran up to her, still carrying my folder.
“Ms. Thornton,” I said, running up to her.
She looked up to acknowledge me and went back to her work.
“Morning,” I said, slowly catching my breath.
She was crouched down and looked up at me with one eye shut from the sunlight. “Is it still morning?”
I looked at my watch: 10:41.
“Here at camp, our mornings start at eight a.m.”
For heaven’s sake, it was Sunday. “Ms. Thornton, I am so sorry. I…” I tried to think of something, an acceptable, logical reason for my tardiness. But the truth was that I had nothing. I wasn’t only at a loss for words of reason, I couldn’t remember how I got there. I was just under eighteen hundred miles from home and practically begging for a job, one I wasn’t convinced anymore I was qualified to handle. The only person I knew was Rachel, who probably thought I was crazy for running out on her. But let’s face it, everyone here was as much a stranger as that guy from the pool. I took a deep breath. “I have nothing.”
She stood from he
r crouching position. “Look, Amy, I want to help you. I do. And I love your nature art class idea. But I just don’t think you’re ready to handle a group of kids. Especially when part of the program is taking them off camp grounds.” She looked sincerely at me, then looked down at my folder. “I’ll tell you what, leave that with me, and I’ll call you in February to see if we can find a spot for you here.”
I felt defeated. And I had no energy and no compelling argument in me. But I was still creative.
“What are you doing?” I asked looking at the sign.
“The welcome banner fell. It hangs on these hooks.” She pointed to the ends of the sign. “And these are hooked to those.” She pointed restlessly about ten feet high on the building.
“Oh.” I looked up and saw the problem. The nail was loose, and the hole had gotten too big. “I’m going to guess that you’ve already considered a thicker nail.”
“The property owner won’t let us put any more holes in the building or expand existing ones,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ve been here for eighteen years, and they’ve remodeled six times since we’ve been here. Great for business; not exactly practical for a camp.” She pointed up. “The holes we’ve been using were sort of grandfathered in, so no holes, no banner.”
Now Sarah was the one who looked defeated. More than that, sad almost. I could tell from the aging outlines of the sign that it had been used for years. I wanted to help. Not for any self-interested reason, but because my heart went out to this woman who took pride in the camp’s old-fashioned and sentimental ways. Because to her, they were authentic, traditional. It was the probably the first thing the campers saw when the bus pulled up to the driveway, and this summer it wouldn’t be there. She didn’t have to say it. That much I understood.
A Summer of Chances Page 2