message Jane got on her laptop occasionally. A half hour earlier, Jane had been pitying Allison. Now she was very nearly jealous of her. What a full, satisfying life Allison Titus lived out in the wilds.
“Is anybody but me an unrepentant smoker?“ Al asked the group when they’d finished eating.
Jane and Edna admitted as much and walked down to the road to indulge themselves well away from Bob Rycraft’s more-in-pity-than-in-anger gaze. Al brought along a tin can with a half inch of water in it to serve as an ashtray. They found a log to sit on and Edna said, “Al, what do you do for a living?“
“I work for a bank,“ he said.
“Oh? I used to work at a bank as a teller when I was young. What do you do there?“
“I’m the president,“ he said with a grin.
Edna and Jane simultaneously yelped with laughter.
Al looked embarrassed. “Well, it’s a really small bank.”
They smoked in companionable silence for a few minutes, then returned to the group just as Benson was unveiling a pineapple-upside-down cake that had been cooking in one of the reflector ovens. Almost everyone protested that they were too full to eat any more; well, maybe just a bite or two. The cake disappeared at an alarming rate.
“What a lot of stuff you’ve got to carry back,“ Jane said to Benson.
“We’ll just take back the food tonight. The boys will come back for all the cooking utensils in the morning. They’re too hot to carry around now,“ he said with a satisfied grin. His party had been a great success.
The young men, who had already packed up most of the leftover food, now dragged out a banjo and a guitar and prepared to entertain them. They played a couple folk-song-sounding numbers that Jane didn’t recognize, but liked, and then began to play “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”
To nearly everyone’s astonishment, Sam Claypool started singing with them. He had an amazingly good voice. The young men kept playing and quit singing in honor of the superior performer. When the last note died away, they were all silent for a long moment, then John started clapping. “Still got the talent, haven’t you, Sam? Good job!”
Everybody else joined in the applause. Sam actually smiled, and Jane realized he was quite a good-looking man. It was a shame his smile was so infrequent. Everyone urged him into singing some more, and after consultation with the young men with the instruments, he obliged. He sang another folk song and then one of Jane’s favorites, “Love Hurts,“ which always reduced her to tears. Jane was surprised that a man who appeared to have so little personality and social grace could put so much feeling into a song.
The concert was cut short by a crack of thunder and a sudden, short burst of rain. The campfire hissed and steamed. The young men put their instruments back in their protective cases. Edna and Allison started gathering up silverware and linens. Jane and Shelley tried to help, but were shooed away.
“You’re our guests. We don’t let guests help,“ Edna said firmly. “Scoot on back to your cabins before you get drenched.“
“The rain’s already stopping,“ Jane protested, but to no avail. She and Shelley got their flashlights and picked their way down the short incline to the road. Eileen was somewhere behind them, fretting about her pink slipper getting wet. Liz was advising her on the proper care of blisters.
The cabin was warm and cozy. They got out of their ponchos and the top couple layers of their clothing. Jane went to pull the drapes and realized that it had stopped raining and there was moonlight filtering down through the trees. “What bizarre weather,“ she said.
“That was one of the best meals and nicest evenings I can remember. Want a cup of coffee?“
“I don’t suppose you have tea, do you?“ Jane asked. She lighted the fire she’d prepared and abandoned the night before. The kindling crackled, spit, belched smoke, and suddenly burst into tiny flames that
“Is anybody but me an unrepentant smoker?“ Al asked the group when they’d finished eating.
Jane and Edna admitted as much and walked down to the road to indulge themselves well away from Bob Rycraft’s more-in-pity-than-in-anger gaze. Al brought along a tin can with a half inch of water in it to serve as an ashtray. They found a log to sit on and Edna said, “Al, what do you do for a living?“
“I work for a bank,“ he said.
“Oh? I used to work at a bank as a teller when I was young. What do you do there?“
“I’m the president,“ he said with a grin.
Edna and Jane simultaneously yelped with laughter.
Al looked embarrassed. “Well, it’s a really small bank.”
They smoked in companionable silence for a few minutes, then returned to the group just as Benson was unveiling a pineapple-upside-down cake that had been cooking in one of the reflector ovens. Almost everyone protested that they were too full to eat any more; well, maybe just a bite or two. The cake disappeared at an alarming rate.
“What a lot of stuff you’ve got to carry back,“ Jane said to Benson.
“We’ll just take back the food tonight. The boys will come back for all the cooking utensils in the morning. They’re too hot to carry around now,“ he said with a satisfied grin. His party had been a great success.
The young men, who had already packed up most of the leftover food, now dragged out a banjo and a guitar and prepared to entertain them. They played a couple folk-song-sounding numbers that Jane didn’t recognize, but liked, and then began to play “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”
To nearly everyone’s astonishment, Sam Claypool started singing with them. He had an amazingly good voice. The young men kept playing and quit singing in honor of the superior performer. When the last note died away, they were all silent for a long moment, then John started clapping. “Still got the talent, haven’t you, Sam? Good job!”
Everybody else joined in the applause. Sam actually smiled, and Jane realized he was quite a good-looking man. It was a shame his smile was so infrequent. Everyone urged him into singing some more, and after consultation with the young men with the instruments, he obliged. He sang another folk song and then one of Jane’s favorites, “Love Hurts,“ which always reduced her to tears. Jane was surprised that a man who appeared to have so little personality and social grace could put so much feeling into a song.
The concert was cut short by a crack of thunder and a sudden, short burst of rain. The campfire hissed and steamed. The young men put their instruments back in their protective cases. Edna and Allison started gathering up silverware and linens. Jane and Shelley tried to help, but were shooed away.
“You’re our guests. We don’t let guests help,“ Edna said firmly. “Scoot on back to your cabins before you get drenched.“
“The rain’s already stopping,“ Jane protested, but to no avail. She and Shelley got their flashlights and picked their way down the short incline to the road. Eileen was somewhere behind them, fretting about her pink slipper getting wet. Liz was advising her on the proper care of blisters.
The cabin was warm and cozy. They got out of their ponchos and the top couple layers of their clothing. Jane went to pull the drapes and realized that it had stopped raining and there was moonlight filtering down through the trees. “What bizarre weather,“ she said.
“That was one of the best meals and nicest evenings I can remember. Want a cup of coffee?“
“I don’t suppose you have tea, do you?“ Jane asked. She lighted the fire she’d prepared and abandoned the night before. The kindling crackled, spit, belched smoke, and suddenly burst into tiny flames that
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