Summer at Willow Lake

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

www.mirabooks.co.uk

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 visible through the half-open jacket. His battered boots appeared as though they belonged to a man who actually worked in them. Except for the chains. She could see no earthly purpose for that bit of bling, except that it was sexy. Oh, God. It was.

“Thanks,” she said, quickly stepping out from between the guy and the ladder. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.” In his mirrored glasses, she could see her own reflection—flushed cheeks, wind-tossed hair. She wiped her hands on her shorts. “What, um …” She fumbled. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe all this fresh air and sunshine had muddled her brain. She adopted a neutral tone and decided to play it cool. “Can I help you?”

“I think it’s the other way around. You left a message on my voice mail. Something about a construction project?” With that, he peeled away the sunglasses, then unstrapped the helmet and took it off.

Oh, God, Olivia thought. I wanted it to be anyone but you.

He removed the gloves, keeping his eyes on her as he tugged them off, finger by finger. He squinted. “Do I … have we met?”

Was he kidding? she wondered. Did he really not know?

When she didn’t respond, he turned away and expertly raised the flag. Immediately, the wind filled it like a sail.

Watching him, Olivia forgot to move. To breathe. To think. With one look at those heartbreaker eyes, she was hurled back in time, the years peeling away like pages from a calendar. She wasn’t looking at Easy Rider. She was looking into the face of a man, but in those ice-blue eyes, she could see the boy he was so long ago.

And not just any boy. The boy. The one who owned all the firsts, every significant milestone of her troubled and painful adolescence—the first boy she’d ever loved. The first she’d ever kissed. The first she’d ever—The first to break her heart.

Her whole body flared to life with a fiery blush. Maybe that was why the term “old flame” had been invented. Somebody always got burned.

“Connor Davis,” she said, speaking his name aloud for the first time in nine years. “Fancy meeting you here.” Inside, she was thinking, I want to die. Let me die right here, right now, and I’ll never ask for another thing as long as I live.

“That’s me,” he said unnecessarily.

As if she could forget. The promise of the boy he had been was fulfilled in the man standing before her. He would be twenty-eight now, to her twenty-seven. Lanky height had filled out with solid breadth. His cocky grin and twinkling eyes were still the same, though the GI Joe jawline had been softened by a day’s growth of beard. And he still—Olivia blinked, making sure she wasn’t seeing things—yes, he still wore a tiny silver hoop in one ear. She herself had done the piercing, thirteen years ago, it must have been.

“So you’re …” He studied the back of his left hand, where it appeared that he had scrawled something in purple ink. “You’re Olive Bellamy?”

“Olivia.” She prayed for him to recognize her the way she had recognized him, as someone from the past, someone important, someone who’d had a life-changing impact on his future. God, someone who’d risked getting sent home from camp for piercing his ear.

“Yeah, sorry. Olivia.” He studied her with blatant male appreciation. He clearly misinterpreted her look of outrage. “Didn’t have a piece of paper handy when I checked my messages,” he explained, indicating the purple ink with which he’d scrawled a message on his hand. Then he frowned. “Have we met before?”

She gave a short, harsh laugh. “You’re kidding, right? This is a joke.” Had she really changed that much? Well, okay, yes. Nearly a decade had passed. She’d lost a ton of weight. Gone from nut brown to honey blond. Traded her glasses for contacts. But still …

He just stared at her. Clueless. “Should I know you?”

She folded her arms, glared at him and summoned a phrase he’d probably remember, because it was one of the first lies they’d ever old each other. “I’m your new best friend,” she said, and watched the color drain from his tanned, handsome face.

His gorgeous blue eyes narrowed and then widened in dawning wonder. His Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed, then quickly cleared his throat.

“Holy shit,” he said in a low murmur. His hand went up in an unconscious gesture and touched the little sliver hoop. “Lolly?”

CAMP KIOGA CODE OF CONDUCT

Everyone is expected to participate in all planned activities as defined by the camp schedule and to be in regulation dress. Counselors are responsible for ensuring that campers participate in all sessions of the planned program activities, unless excused by the camp nurse or the director.

One

Summer 1991

“Lolly.” The tall, lanky boy hiking up the trail behind her spoke for the first time since they left base camp. “What the hell kind of name is Lolly?”

“The kind that’s stenciled on the back of my shirt,” she said, flipping a brown pigtail over one shoulder. To her dismay, she felt herself blushing. Cripes, he was just a dumb boy, and all he’d done was ask her a simple question.

Wrong, she thought, hearing a game-show buzz in her head. He was pretty much the cutest boy in Eagle Lodge, the twelve-to-fourteens. And it hadn’t been a question so much as a smart remark designed to rattle her. Plus, he said hell. Lolly would never admit it, but she didn’t like swearing. Whenever she tried saying a swearword herself, she always stammered and blushed, and everyone could instantly see how uncool she was.

“Got it,” the kid muttered, and as soon as the trail curved around a bend, he passed her with a rude muttering that was probably meant to be an “Excuse me.” He trudged on, whistling an old Talking Heads tune without missing a note.

They were doing a pairs hike, the first activity of the season. It was designed to familiarize them with the camp layout, and with another camper. They had been paired up as they’d gotten off the bus, while their duffel bags and belongings were being sorted and taken to their cabins. She had wound up with the lanky boy because they had both been last to disembark. She had folded her arms across her chest and sniffed, “I’m your new best friend.”

He’d taken one look at her and shrugged, saying with an air of false nobility, “‘Barkis is willing.’”

The show-off. Lolly had pretended not to be impressed to hear him quoting from David Copperfield. She had also pretended not to see the way some of the other boys snickered and elbowed him, ribbing him for getting stuck with Lolly Bellamy.

He wasn’t the typical Kioga camper, and as someone who had been coming here since she was eight years old, she would know. This boy, a first-timer, was rough around the edges, his hair too long, his cargo shorts too low-slung. Maybe he even looked a little dangerous, with his pale blue eyes and dark hair, a combination that was both cool and disconcerting.

Through gaps in the trees, she could see people walking in pairs or foursomes, chattering away. It was only the first day of camp, yet already, kids were figuring out who they were going to be friends with this year. Lolly already knew they had ruled her out, of course. They always did. If it wasn’t for her cousins, she’d be up a tree, for sure.

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and felt a dull thud of envy in her gut as she looked at the other campers, who already seemed totally at ease around one another. Even the new ones, like the lanky boy, seemed to fit in. Fresh off the camp bus, they strolled side by side, yakking away and laughing. Some of the girls wore their camp hoodies slung nonchalantly over their shoulders, their innate fashion sense evident even with the regulation clothes. Most of the boys had their Kioga bandannas tied around their foreheads, Rambo style. Everybody strutted about as though they owned the place.

And of course, that was kind of funny. None of these kids owned Kioga. But Lolly did.

Well, in a way. The summer camp belonged to her nana and granddad. Back when she was in the Fledglings, the eight-to-elevens, she used to lord her status over the other kids, but it never really worked. Most kids didn’t give a hoot about that.

The tall boy found a hickory stick and used it to beat at the underbrush or to lean on as he walked. His gaze darted around watchfully, as though he expected something to jump out at him.

“So I guess your name is Ronnoc,” she said at last.

He scowled and shot a glance over his shoulder at her. “Huh?”

“Says so on the back of your shirt.” “It’s inside out, genius.” “It was just a joke.”

“Ha, ha.” He stabbed the hickory stick into the ground.

Their destination was the summit of Saddle Mountain, which wasn’t exactly a mountain, more like a big hill. Once they finally reached the top, they’d find a fire pit with log benches arranged in a circle around it. This was the site of many camp traditions. Nana once said that in the days of the first settlers, travelers would make signal fires at high points like this one in order to communicate longdistance. It was on the tip of Lolly’s tongue to share the bit of trivia with her partner, but she clamped her mouth shut.

She had already made up her mind not to like this kid. Truth be told, she had made up her mind not to like anybody this summer. Her two favorite cousins, Frankie—short for Francine—and Dare, usually came with her, and they always made Lolly feel as if she had actual friends. But this year, they were driving to California with their parents, Aunt Peg and Uncle Clyde. Lolly’s own parents didn’t do that kind of traveling. They only did the kind you could brag about afterward. Her parents pretty much liked anything they could brag about—trips, real estate, antiques, artwork. They even bragged about Lolly, but that was a stretch. Especially now, after sixth grade, the year her marks went down and her weight went up. The year of the divorce.

Now, there’s something to brag about, she thought.

“We’re supposed to learn three things about each other,” said the boy who had no sense of humor, the boy she didn’t want to befriend. “Then when we get to the top, we have to introduce each other to the group.”

“I don’t want to know three things about you,” she said airily.

“Yeah, well. Ditto.”

The getting-to-know-you fireside chat was always tedious, which was a shame, because it didn’t have to be. The little kids were best at it because they didn’t know which things to keep to themselves, and which to share. Lolly was a perfect example of that. A year ago, she’d blurted out, “My parents are getting a divorce” and had dissolved into tears, and her life had been a nightmare ever since. But at least back then, her admission had been genuine. In this age group, she already knew the introductions would be totally boring or phony or both.

“I wish we could skip it,” she said. “It’s going to be a complete drag. The younger kids are more interesting because at least they’ll say anything.”

“What do you mean, anything?”

“Like if their uncle is being investigated by the SEC or their brother has a third nipple.”

“A what?” Lolly probably shouldn’t have brought it up, but she knew he’d bug her until she explained. “You heard me,” she said.

“A third nipple. That’s total BS. Nobody has that.”

“Huh. Bebe Blackmun once told the whole group that her brother has three.”

“Did you see it?” he challenged.

“Like I would even want to.” She shuddered. “Ew.”

“It’s bullshit.”

She sniffed, determined to appear unimpressed by his swearing. “I bet you have an extra one.” She didn’t know why she said it. She knew the chances of him having three nipples were zip.

“Yeah, right,” he said, stopping on the trail and turning. In one graceful motion, he peeled off his T-shirt right there in the woods, in front of her face, so fast she didn’t have time to react.

“You want to count ‘em?” he demanded.

Her face lit with a blush and she marched past him, staring straight ahead. Idiot, she thought. I am such an idiot. What was I thinking?

“Maybe you have three nipples,” he said with mocking laughter in his voice. “Maybe I should count yours.”

“You’re crazy.” She kept marching.

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I was just trying to make conversation because you’re totally, one hundred percent boooring.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s me. Boooring.” He sashayed around her, mimicking her walk. He hadn’t put his shirt back on but had tucked it in the back waistband of his cargo shorts. With the First-Blood headband and the shirt hanging down like the back half of a loincloth, he looked like a savage. Very Lord of the Flies.

He was a total show-off. He—

She stumbled over a tree root, and had to grab for a nearby branch to steady herself. He turned, and she could have sworn she’d seen his arm flash out to keep her from falling, but he quickly resumed walking without touching her. She stared at him, not to be rude or nosy but this time out of concern.

“What’s that on your back?” she asked bluntly.

“What?” Mr. Lord of the Flies scowled unpleasantly at her.

“At first I thought you forgot to bathe, but I think you have a really huge bruise.” She pointed to the back of his rib cage.

He stopped and twisted around, his face almost comically contorted. “I don’t have any stinking bruise. Man, you’re kind of creepy. Extra nipples and now phantom bruises.”

“I’m looking right at it.” In spite of her annoyance at him, she felt a small twinge of compassion. The bruise was healing. She could tell by the way the color bloomed in the middle and faded at the edges. But it must’ve really hurt when it happened.

His eyes narrowed and his face turned hard, and for a second, he looked menacing. “It’s nothing,” he stated. “I fell off my bike. Big deal.” He whipped around and kept going, hurrying so that Lolly had to rush to keep up.

“Look, I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he barked at her, and walked even faster.

That was quick, she thought. Her first enemy of the summer. There were sure to be many more to follow. She had a knack for bringing out dislike in people.

Even though Connor said he wasn’t mad at her, he was mad about something. There was fury in his taut muscles, his sharp movements. Big deal, so he hurt himself riding a bike. Usually when you fell off a bike, though, the casualties were elbows and knees, maybe the head. Not the back, unless you went tumbling down a hill and slammed into something really hard. Unless you were lying about what really happened.

She was both intrigued by and disappointed in this boy. Disappointed because she desperately wanted to dislike him and not have to think about him again, all summer long. And intrigued because he was more interesting than he had a right to be. He was kind of edgy, too, with that too-long hair, low-slung pants, high-tops repaired with duct tape. And there was something in his eyes besides the usual stupid boy stuff. Those same ice-cube eyes that had read David Copperfield had probably seen things a girl like Lolly couldn’t even imagine.

They hiked around a hairpin bend in the path, and a loud, steady rush of water greeted them.

“Whoa,” Connor said, tilting back his head to look at the hundred-foot waterfall. It gushed from some unseen source high above, tumbling over rocks, droplets turning to mist on impact. Everywhere the sunlight shone through, rainbows glowed. “That’s awesome,” he said, his cranky mood apparently forgotten.

“Meerskill Falls,” she said, raising her voice over the roar of the falling water. “One of the tallest in the state. Come on, you can get a good view of it from the bridge.”

Meerskill Bridge had been constructed in the 1930s by a government work crew. Dizzyingly tall, the arched concrete structure spanned the gorge, with the falls crashing wildly below. “The locals call this Suicide Bridge because people have killed themselves jumping from it.”

“Yeah, sure.” He seemed drawn to the cascade, which misted the trail on either side, cultivating a carpet of moss and lush ferns.