Acclaim for Just Breathe and NYT bestselling author SUSAN WIGGS
“this is a beautiful book”
—Bookbag on Just Breathe
“ … Unpredictable and refreshing,
this is irresistibly good.”
—Closer Hot Pick Book on Just Breathe
“ … Truly uplifting …”
—Now Book of the Week
“A human and multi-layered story exploring duty
to both country and family.”
—Nora Roberts on The Ocean Between Us
“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships
with the finesse of a master.”
—Jodi Picoult, author of Nineteen Minutes
“The perfect beach read.”
—Debbie Macomber on Summer by the Sea
Summer at Willow Lake
Susan Wiggs
To the real-life golden anniversary couple,
Nick and Lou Klist
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Deepest appreciation to Elsa Watson, Suzanne Selfors, Sheila Rabe and Anjali Banerjee; also to Kysteen Seelen, Susan Plunkett, Rose Marie Harris, Lois Faye Dyer and Kate Breslin for their enormous stamina and patience in reading early drafts.
Thanks to Dale Berg and Mike Sack for sharing their reminiscences of Catskills camps. Special thanks to Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to my terrific editor, Margaret O’Neill Marbury.
Welcome to Camp Kioga
Franklin Delano Roosevelt once said, “America’s greatest contribution to the world is the summer camp.” Anyone who visits Camp Kioga discovers this for himself. Camp Kioga is a place where dreams still live and breathe, where you can dive into the crystalline waters of a pristine lake, hike to a mountaintop and lift your eyes to heaven, gaze into the brightly glowing embers of a campfire at night, and imagine all that life has in store for you.
Camp Kioga Rules
Camp Kioga flies three flags—the official camp flag, and the flags of the state of New York and the United States—which are raised each morning at sunrise and saluted by all campers at reveille. When flags are flown on the same halyard with the flag of the United States, the latter should always be at the peak. When the flags are flown from adjacent staffs, the flag of the United States should be hoisted first and lowered last. No flag or pennant may be placed above the flag of the United States or to the right of the flag of the United States. When the flag is half masted, both flags are half masted, with the U.S. flag at the midpoint and the other flags below.
Prologue
Olivia Bellamy tried to decide what was worse. Being trapped at the top of a flagpole with no help in sight, or having help arrive in the form of a Hells Angel.
Her plan to raise the flags over Camp Kioga for the first time in ten years had seemed so simple. Then the cable and pulley snagged, but Olivia was undaunted. She had set up an old aluminum ladder and climbed to the top, only to discover she still couldn’t reach the snag. Shinnying up the pole was no big deal, she told herself—until she accidentally kicked over the ladder.
You idiot, she thought, hugging the pole for dear life. It was a long way down, and this was not exactly the Batpole. The galvanized steel was old and corroded, and if she slid down, she’d rip the skin from her hands and inner thighs.
She had just begun to inch toward the ground when a loud snort of unmuffled exhaust sounded from the road. She was so startled that she nearly let go of the pole. Instinctively, she clung tighter and shut her eyes. Go away, she thought. I can’t deal with whoever you are right now.
The blast of the engine grew louder, and she opened her eyes. The intruder turned out to be a biker clad in black leather, his face concealed by a menacing black helmet and shades. Behind the black-and-chrome motorcycle, a rooster tail of dust rose in a tall plume.
Just my luck, she thought. Here I am in the middle of nowhere, and Easy Rider comes to my rescue.
Her arms and shoulders were starting to tremble. So much for all those hours of strength training at the gym.
At the base of the flagpole, the biker stopped, dismounted and engaged the kickstand. Then he leaned back to look straight up at her.
Despite the circumstances, Olivia found herself wondering what her butt looked like from his perspective. Growing up as she had, comforting herself with food until she’d earned any number of unflattering childhood nicknames, she’d never quite gotten over feeling self-conscious about her figure.
Play it cool, she decided. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey. What’s up?” Though she couldn’t see his face, Olivia thought she detected a grin in his voice. She became sure of it when he added, “Okay, sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
Great. Just her luck. A wise guy.
To his credit, he didn’t make her suffer. He picked up the ladder and leaned it against the flagpole. “Take it slow,” he coached her. “I’ll hold this steady.”
Olivia was sweating now, having reached the limit of her endurance. She scooted downward inch by inch, while her denim shorts rode upward. She hoped he wouldn’t notice they were giving her an enormous wedgie.
“You’re almost there,” called the stranger. “Just a little more.”
The lower she shinnied, the less he sounded like a stranger. By the time her foot touched the top rung of the ladder, she was having seriously bad premonitions about this guy. She hadn’t been anywhere near this place in years, this camp where she’d found both her wildest dreams and her worst nightmares. These days, she didn’t know a soul in the remote mountain wilderness … did she?
In true neurotic fashion, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she hadn’t done anything to her hair that morning. She wasn’t wearing a smidge of makeup. She couldn’t even recall whether or not she’d brushed her teeth. And the denim cutoffs she was wearing were too short. The tank top, too clingy.
Climbing down the ladder, she knew with each step that what awaited her at the bottom would be, at best, awkward humiliation. In order to reach solid ground, she was forced to descend into his waiting arms, which were braced on either side of the ladder to hold it steady. He smelled of leather and something else. The wind, maybe.
Her muscles, which had been screaming in protest a moment ago, now threatened to go slack with exhaustion. She used the last of her strength to give his arm a push so she wasn’t trapped. He let go of the ladder and held up his cyborg hands, palms out, as if to show he came in peace. They were huge, in their black gloves. Darth Vader hands. Terminator hands.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
She leaned back against the ladder. When she looked up at him, the ground beneath her feet didn’t feel so safe. Nothing felt safe.
He was huge, his bulk enhanced by all that leather, including chaps. A biker in chaps over faded Levi’s, the leather worn to softness in all the most interesting places. She eyed the ripped T-shirt