Authors: Kathleen Irene Paterka
But from the look on Max’s face, I've definitely inherited her sharp tongue.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Go ahead and have your drink."
"You sure?" He eyes me hesitantly.
"Absolutely." I shake my head so hard, I feel my ponytail swing.
"Make it a beer." He smiles up at Nettie. "Whatever you've got on draft."
She doesn't budge. "Let's see some I.D."
"No problem." He pulls out a leather wallet and flashes his driver's license. "I'm legal."
"Barely," Nettie says with a sniff and turns away.
Barely?
What exactly is that supposed to mean? He has a day's worth of stubble grazing his chin, but so do teenage boys. "How old are you?"
"Why?” Max asks. “You worried?"
The sparkle in his eyes catches me off guard, as does the zing shooting straight down my spine and into my toes as I realize he’s flirting with me. The thought is intriguing, exhilarating, and utterly ridiculous. Doesn't he know I'm romantically challenged?
"You've got the rules mixed up," I loftily inform him. "It's supposed to be the other way around."
His eyebrows lift.
"It's a woman's prerogative to keep her age a secret," I explain, “not the man’s.”
His eyebrows rise even higher, but one corner of his mouth turns up. "That's rather sexist, don't you think?"
"What I
think
is that you're trying to evade the issue." I tap his wallet with one finger. "Exactly how old are you, anyway?"
"Old enough to know better and young enough not to care." He slides his wallet into his pocket. "How's that for an answer?"
"Not nearly good enough," I shoot back.
He props an elbow on the table, leans forward, chin in hand and squints a smile. "You're a very nosy woman, Lucy Carter. Anybody ever tell you that?"
"All the time, but I never let it stop me. I'm a reporter, remember? Being nosy and persistent is part of the job." Keeping up a sober expression is proving hard work. Who knew I'd enjoy hassling him like this? "Not to mention I have access to records," I add. "I can always check you out with the DMV."
"Touché," Max fingers his forehead in mock salute. "Okay. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he says as Nettie plunks a plate and beer in front of him. He waits as she disappears, then turns to me with a cocky grin. "You first."
"Twenty-five," I challenge.
"Twenty-two," he says, devouring a French fry.
Three years younger than me? I stink when it comes to math, but even I can figure this one out. Max is barely out of college.
If
he went to college. Do people need degrees to work at summer camp?
He eyes me casually as he spears a piece of fish from his plate. "You have a problem with younger guys?"
A problem with him being younger? For having no degree? For making my toes curl, and suddenly wishing I'd paid attention while the other seventh-grade girls primped in front of the bathroom mirror?
Yes, I have a problem.
With a ponytail scrunched high atop my head and glasses perched on my nose, I’m not exactly the kind of girl men are interested in. My closet is crammed with banker boxes full of books instead of fashionable clothes. Keeping up with the latest styles requires time and money, and I have neither to spare. I'm plain old Lucy Carter. No man would look twice.
Who cares?
Sitting across from Max, I suddenly realize someone cares.
Me.
I care very much. Until now, my femininity or lack thereof never seemed particularly relevant. But sitting here any longer will only prolong the inevitable. Why make Max suffer?
"Sorry, but I've got to go. It was nice meeting you." I bounce up, chair screeching against the scarred wooden floor. "Enjoy your dinner."
"Wait, you're leaving?" His eyebrows arch as he leaps to his feet. "What's wrong? What did I say?"
"Nothing," I stammer. "Believe me, it's nothing."
I'm the one who's nothing. And if I stay any longer, Max will figure that out.
"Look, Lucy, I'm not sure what's going on, but I didn’t mean to say something to make you mad. I get joking around sometimes, but I don't mean anything by it. I guess it comes from being around kids. Don't hold that against me."
"Never mind, it's okay." I grab my purse.
He sighs. "If you're that intent on getting home, give me a minute. I'll get this in a to-go box and meet you at the door. My car isn't far." He flags Nettie over.
I swallow hard, not an easy task when the inside of your mouth feels as parched as the Sahara desert. "That’s not necessary. I don't live far."
"No problem. I’m parked right around the corner."
And my apartment is just down the street. Damn Kris Henderson. Now I have to 'fess up and admit the truth. Why did she ask him to drive me home? Kris has a big heart, and an even bigger mouth. First thing Monday morning, she and I are going to have a little chat and establish some ground rules.
Rule No. 1. No messing with Lucy's love life.
"I don't need a ride." I ball up my fists, jam them in my pockets. "I live right here downtown, one block away."
His face scrunches up like he's trying to figure out why he got an incomplete on a final exam after pulling an all-nighter. "But I thought Kris said... "
It's worse than I thought. Max still doesn't get it. No wonder he didn't go to college.
"She lied," I blurt out. "She told you that I needed a ride because... well, because she thinks I need some excitement in my life. And I guess she thought that you... that you might... "
We stare at each other for what seems like forever as he ponders my explanation and I ponder diving under the table. But the thought of crawling around on top of those crunchy little peanut shells littering the floor isn't one I relish.
Then suddenly he gets it, and the sympathetic look that washes across his face is more than I can handle. A man feeling sorry for me is the last thing I want.
Lucy's Pity Party
is an exclusive club with sole membership limited to myself and the occasional guest, like Kris.
"Look, Lucy, it's okay—"
I hold up a hand, suck in a deep breath, blink back hot tears threatening to spill over. I am not going to cry. I refuse to be reduced to tears, especially in front of a man.
"Honest, Max, you seem like a nice guy, but I can fend for myself. I've been doing it for years." I fling my purse over my shoulder and head for the door...
He grabs my arm before I make it two feet.
"Did I mention how much I hate eating alone? It's a hang-up I've had since I was a kid." His voice softens and his hand on my arm loosens a bit. "Come on, Lucy, stay and keep me company. You'd be doing me a favor."
And he smiles. Actually, merely one corner of his mouth lifts, but it's good enough to qualify as a smile. Maybe Kris is right. If I leave now, I'll never know what's got me scared, why I'm constantly running away from life instead of embracing it. And if nothing changes, nothing changes. If not now, when will I learn?
Maybe my first lesson is standing right in front of me.
"I'll even share my French fries," he offers.
My eyes narrow. "Are you trying to bribe me with food?"
"Only if you think it will work." He grins and I feel the Lucy-deep-freeze beginning to defrost.
"I wasn't kidding about hating to eat alone," he adds. "Plus, I'd appreciate a chance to pick your brain and find out what you think about the re-zoning on Loon Lake."
"I'm not allowed to have an opinion," I say. "I'm covering the story for The
Journal
. I'm supposed to be neutral."
A flat out lie. When it comes to Loon Lake, they can turn the place into a swamp, a desert or a firing range, for all I care. I fought from the get-go not to be assigned to cover the story. A conflict of interest, I argued with Charles Kendall, citing my family history. But, as usual, the
Journal
's Managing Editor blew off my concerns.
“At least tell me the latest,” he says.
I drop my purse on the table and plop down across from Max. "What do you want to know?"
"The Planning Commission recently passed the application on to the Township Engineer for review and approval. Think they're close to a resolution?"
"Maybe." For once I'm not in the loop with the Township officials. I thought it odd they're being so closed-mouthed, but seeing how it's Loon Lake, I haven't pushed the issue. "Why do you ask?"
Max leans forward. "You might say I've got a vested interest in the matter. Our camp is surrounded by the property they're debating."
"I think I'm beginning to understand." The Loon Lake rezoning has been controversial from the beginning, and it's not going away anytime soon.
"It's a disaster waiting to happen." He shakes his head in disgust. "Our camp has been around for fifty years. If the rezoning passes, we might as well board up the cabins and call this our final season."
I get what he’s saying. If money makes the world go around, Northern Michigan has been spinning out of control for the past ten years. It wasn't like this when I was growing up. It used to be that a family cottage on the lake meant an idyllic summer retreat. But times have changed, and inheriting property uncaps the land value. In this economy, especially with lakefront property taxes soaring, heirs are desperate to sell. That's when developers with cash in hand swoop in like ugly black crows and buy up the property. With more than enough acreage for a Planned Unit Development, the PUD application was filed one month ago.
"They're trying to force us to shut down," he says. "Once they do that, they'll grab our property, too. They know there's no way we can run a boy's camp smack in the middle of mega-mansions and an eighteen-hole golf course."
Like it or not, I get the point. Loon Lake is an inland lake, and one of the last pristine bodies of water in our region. Jet skis, powerboats, thirty-five foot cruisers will destroy it.
Not that I care. I've hated that lake since I was five years old.
"Hey, I've got an idea." Max straightens, brightens. "Why don’t you come out and see the place for yourself? I can give you a guided tour. We’ll hike the property."
I swing my head so hard, my ponytail whips in my eyes. "Sorry, Max, but you're talking to the wrong girl." Loon Lake is the last place on earth I want to visit. "I hate bugs and dirt. I hate anything to do with the great outdoors."
He chuckles. "Obviously your parents didn't send you to camp when you were a kid."
"No, they didn't," I say flatly. Summer camp is for kids with loving parents who can afford it. I had neither.
"Come on, Lucy, at least give it a try. What have you got to lose?"
The thought of a path overgrown with slimy moss, of dark hiking trails winding through the forest brings a shudder down my spine. Who knows what dangers might lurk beyond the tree line?
"Did I mention snakes?" I add. "I hate snakes."
Max grins. "I’ve seen some garter snakes around camp, but they won't hurt you."
"You're right," I agree with a fierce nod. "Because I won't be around to give them a chance."
"It's not the jungle, Lucy. It's only a summer camp."
His eyes gleam and I know he's teasing, but somehow it's okay. He's having fun
with
me, not
of
me. There's a huge difference between the two and Max seems to understand the difference.
Being with him feels safe.
"The famous Lucy Carter, afraid of snakes. Who would believe it?" He grins, shakes his head. "You come across so brave and fearless in those articles you write."
"It's called literary license. I use it to full advantage."
"Okay, forget about hiking the property. Come out and see what we've got to offer. I'll even throw in dinner." His eyes crinkle in a smile. "Roasting hot dogs over an open camp fire. No one in their right mind could call that dangerous."
"Depends on how sharp the stick is that you're cooking them with," I say with a quick smile. I can almost hear Kris cheering me on from the sidelines. Max is trying so hard to be nice. The least I can do is meet him halfway. Plus, there's a free meal involved. "Okay," I relent.
"Great. I'll call you at the
Journal
and set something up."
"Give me a few days." Reporter or not, I’m still a girl. And before I go anywhere near that camp, I intend to pay a visit to our local hardware store and buy myself a pair of thick rubber boots. A pair of boots a snake can't bite through. I'm not sacrificing my toes to some slimy reptile.
"I can't wait to show you around. You’ll love the place, Lucy."
"Don't be too sure about that," I warn him. Poor Max. He has no clue what he's gotten himself into. Unfortunately, I do. And while I knew this day would eventually come, I didn't expect it to arrive so soon. I was counting on having another twenty or thirty years—or better yet, never—before facing the truth.
But being a reporter means following leads, taking risks, and facing facts. I guess it's time I did just that.
I'll start with Camp Call of the Loon.
Maybe then I'll find the courage to finally face Loon Lake.
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