“Oh, for heaven’s sake, never mind me.” Her mother made a clucking sound. “I simply want you to be happy, that’s all. That’s my main concern.”
“I’ll be all right,” Olivia assured her. To her amazement, a telltale gleam of tears flashed in her mother’s eyes. She realized Pamela was taking this harder than she was. “It’s not the end of the world, right?” Olivia said. “There are worse things in life than being dumped by your boyfriend. And now that I think about it, I wasn’t even dumped.”
“You weren’t?” she patted her forehead and cheeks with a tissue.
“Rand asked me to move to L.A. with him.”
“I didn’t know that. Dear, perhaps you ought to consider—”
“Don’t even go there.”
“But once you take that step, once you’re sharing a life, you’ll both realize you’re happy together.”
“I think I’ve realized we’re happy apart.”
“Nonsense. Rand Whitney is perfect for you. I don’t know why you’re giving up without a fight.”
Olivia’s heart sank. This was what made Pamela Lightsey Bellamy tick—the quest to look happy and successful at all costs, even if it meant a fight. Even if it meant hiding the fact that you still hadn’t gotten over a divorce, seventeen years earlier.
Once, long ago, Olivia had asked her mother if she was happy. The question had excited a short laugh of disbelief. “Don’t be silly,” Pamela had said. “I am supremely happy and it would seem ungracious to appear any other way.”
Which wasn’t even close to providing the answer Olivia sought, but she had dropped the subject.
“I’m done with Rand Whitney,” she concluded, “and you’re sweet to worry about me. But my mind is made up. I’m going to do this for Nana. I wanted to grab a few things while I’m here.”
“This is insane,” her mother said. “I don’t know what Jane was thinking, asking you to do such a thing.”
“Maybe she was thinking that I’m good enough at my job to make a success of this.”
Pamela stiffened her spine. “Of course she was. And she is a very lucky woman, because that place is going to look amazing once you finish with it.”
“Thank you, Mom. You’re absolutely right.” The distress on her mother’s face wasn’t all about Rand. Olivia knew that the upcoming anniversary put her mother in an awkward spot. Pamela’s father, Samuel Lightsey, was best friends with Charles Bellamy. This was probably another reason her mother had finalized the divorce on paper but never in her heart. Her family’s close ties with the Bellamys created a bond she couldn’t 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 more authentic, the better. Things like this would bring the camp back to life, and she was counting on her aunts and uncles to contribute to the collection. In the bottom of the footlocker, she found a tennis cup, tarnished and battered. It had a pedestal, a domed lid and double handles. The piece would look handsome in the glass trophy case in the dining hall of the camp, assuming the display case was still there.
When she picked up the tennis cup, something rolled around inside it. She pried off the lid, and an object fell out. A button? A cuff link. It, too, was wrought of tarnished silver, with a fish design—maybe a zodiac sign? She looked around for its mate, but there was only the one. She put the cuff link in her pocket and rubbed the trophy, trying to make out the engraving: Counselors Classic. First Place. Philip Bellamy. 1977. Apparently her father had won the cup at the annual staff games while working as a counselor at Camp Kioga that year. He would have been twenty-one, getting ready to go off for his senior year at college.
She found an old photograph stuck down inside the cup. The edges of the picture were curled, the colors fading, but the image made her catch her breath. She saw her father as she had never seen him before, holding the sparkling new trophy aloft. He appeared to be laughing with joy, his head thrown back and his arm around a girl. No, a young woman.
Olivia wiped the dusty photograph on her sleeve and angled it toward the light. On the back, the photo bore the date—August