Read Online Summer at Willow Lake by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Wiggs
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escape.
“Mom, do you think you’ll go?”
“It would be petty to do otherwise.”
“Good for you,” Olivia said. “It’ll be fine. Listen, I have to dig out some things from the basement.” She studied her mother’s lovely, composed face. “My duffel bag and sports equipment. And I need Dad’s old footlocker,” she added. Then her heart sank. “Tell me you didn’t throw it out.”
“I never throw anything away. Ever,” her mother said.
Which explained much about Pamela. Fresh as yesterday, Olivia could remember the day her father had moved out. She could still picture the way he looked through a blur of tears, as if he was on the other side of a rain-smudged window. He’d sat down so he could look her in the eye. “I have to go, honey,” he’d told her.
“No, you don’t. But you’re going to, anyway.”
He’d refused to be dissuaded. The unspoken tension that had always existed between Olivia’s parents had finally reached the breaking point. It should have been a relief, but Olivia could never recall feeling relieved.
“I’m leaving some boxes of my stuff in the basement,” her father had told her, “including all my sports equipment and camp gear. It’s all yours now.”
Every once in a while, she’d take out his old Kioga sweatshirt and put it on, or wrap herself in the Hudson’s Bay blanket, which smelled of mothballs.
She took the service elevator, descending alone into the bowels of the old building, and let herself into the storage unit. She found her duffel right away. The stiff canvas was covered with a patchwork of badges from Kioga, marking every summer from 1987 to 1994. Most campers avidly collected the coveted patches, each of which represented a magical summer at sleepaway camp. Not Olivia. Though she had dutifully sewn on her patches in order to keep from offending her grandparents, the colorful badges held no sentimental value for her. Nana and Granddad were convinced that the camp was Shangri-la and it would hurt their feelings to say otherwise.
Olivia set aside the duffel bag and looked around the crowded but well-organized basement room, dank with disuse and old memories. There were framed photographs of Olivia and her father and leather-bound albums labeled Bellamy. Pulling out the large, heavy footlocker her father had left behind for Olivia all those years ago, she opened the lid and was hit with a musty smell she could immediately put a name to: camp. It was an unforgettable combination of mildew, wood smoke and outdoors, an essence that resisted laundering and airing out.
Rifling through the locker, she helped herself to a lantern and a book on wilderness survival, and grabbed a vintage Kioga hooded sweatshirt with the words Camp Counselor stenciled on the back. In the Bellamy family, it wasn’t enough to be a camper. As each individual came of age, working as a counselor was a rite of passage. Olivia’s father, all her aunts and uncles had spent college summers there, leading camp activities by day and partying at night with the rest of the staff. Olivia and the next generation of cousins had done the same, right up until the camp had closed nine years ago. It was a summer that had begun with great promise but ended in disaster. She was surprised by how vividly she recalled the sounds and smells, the quality of the light and the stillness of the lake, the dizzying joy and nauseating disappointment she’d experienced that summer. I’m crazy for going back there, she thought.
She stuffed a few key items of memorabilia into the duffel bags—the striped Hudson’s Bay blanket, the sweatshirt, an old tennis racquet that needed to be restrung. There were wooden pins with campers’ names burnt in, canoe paddles that had been painted with surprising skill, the shafts autographed by other campers. Songbooks, friendship bracelets, dipped candles and birch-bark craft projects—it was a treasure trove.
The key to staging a property was in the details—the
“Mom, do you think you’ll go?”
“It would be petty to do otherwise.”
“Good for you,” Olivia said. “It’ll be fine. Listen, I have to dig out some things from the basement.” She studied her mother’s lovely, composed face. “My duffel bag and sports equipment. And I need Dad’s old footlocker,” she added. Then her heart sank. “Tell me you didn’t throw it out.”
“I never throw anything away. Ever,” her mother said.
Which explained much about Pamela. Fresh as yesterday, Olivia could remember the day her father had moved out. She could still picture the way he looked through a blur of tears, as if he was on the other side of a rain-smudged window. He’d sat down so he could look her in the eye. “I have to go, honey,” he’d told her.
“No, you don’t. But you’re going to, anyway.”
He’d refused to be dissuaded. The unspoken tension that had always existed between Olivia’s parents had finally reached the breaking point. It should have been a relief, but Olivia could never recall feeling relieved.
“I’m leaving some boxes of my stuff in the basement,” her father had told her, “including all my sports equipment and camp gear. It’s all yours now.”
Every once in a while, she’d take out his old Kioga sweatshirt and put it on, or wrap herself in the Hudson’s Bay blanket, which smelled of mothballs.
She took the service elevator, descending alone into the bowels of the old building, and let herself into the storage unit. She found her duffel right away. The stiff canvas was covered with a patchwork of badges from Kioga, marking every summer from 1987 to 1994. Most campers avidly collected the coveted patches, each of which represented a magical summer at sleepaway camp. Not Olivia. Though she had dutifully sewn on her patches in order to keep from offending her grandparents, the colorful badges held no sentimental value for her. Nana and Granddad were convinced that the camp was Shangri-la and it would hurt their feelings to say otherwise.
Olivia set aside the duffel bag and looked around the crowded but well-organized basement room, dank with disuse and old memories. There were framed photographs of Olivia and her father and leather-bound albums labeled Bellamy. Pulling out the large, heavy footlocker her father had left behind for Olivia all those years ago, she opened the lid and was hit with a musty smell she could immediately put a name to: camp. It was an unforgettable combination of mildew, wood smoke and outdoors, an essence that resisted laundering and airing out.
Rifling through the locker, she helped herself to a lantern and a book on wilderness survival, and grabbed a vintage Kioga hooded sweatshirt with the words Camp Counselor stenciled on the back. In the Bellamy family, it wasn’t enough to be a camper. As each individual came of age, working as a counselor was a rite of passage. Olivia’s father, all her aunts and uncles had spent college summers there, leading camp activities by day and partying at night with the rest of the staff. Olivia and the next generation of cousins had done the same, right up until the camp had closed nine years ago. It was a summer that had begun with great promise but ended in disaster. She was surprised by how vividly she recalled the sounds and smells, the quality of the light and the stillness of the lake, the dizzying joy and nauseating disappointment she’d experienced that summer. I’m crazy for going back there, she thought.
She stuffed a few key items of memorabilia into the duffel bags—the striped Hudson’s Bay blanket, the sweatshirt, an old tennis racquet that needed to be restrung. There were wooden pins with campers’ names burnt in, canoe paddles that had been painted with surprising skill, the shafts autographed by other campers. Songbooks, friendship bracelets, dipped candles and birch-bark craft projects—it was a treasure trove.
The key to staging a property was in the details—the
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