“That would be wonderful,” Olivia said, flustered now. “Dare will be thrilled to hear you think it can be done. And keep the photograph for reference. It’s a copy.”
“I’ll show it to my grandmother.” Jenny beamed and closed the file. “You know, Zach’s dad, Matthew Alger, might be a good resource for details about the camp. He went to Kioga as a kid, and then he worked there. He’s lived in Avalon for decades.”
“I’ll look into that.”
“Thanks for stopping in.”
Olivia left feeling a little unsettled by the encounter. She didn’t mention it to Dare, and was quiet as they drove back to the camp. When they arrived, Uncle Greg and the kids were busy exploring, with Barkis trotting at their heels. Greg was like the Pied Piper, leading them around the lake to the boathouse and dock. Max sent up whoops of glee, clearly thrilled with everything. Even Daisy looked eager as she skipped stones across the water.
“So far so good,” Dare said.
“Yes, but they’ve only been away from their TV, cell phones and Internet for half a day.”
“I never missed TV when I was a camper here,” Dare mused. “I think kids are kids. Put them around a campfire and start telling scary stories, and they’ll have a ball. If you don’t hand them their fun on a platter, they figure it out for themselves.”
Laden with parcels, they went into the main pavilion. “Looks like trouble,” Dare murmured as they entered the dining room. Freddy’s design plans were laid out on tables and tacked to a wall. In front of a big drawing of an elevation, Freddy and Connor Davis were locked in a stare-down.
Dare lowered her voice even more. “My Lord,” she said, sizing up Connor, from his shoulder-length black hair to his battered work boots. “He’s Conan the Barbarian.”
“Hey, guys,” Olivia said cheerily, ignoring the fury on their faces. “What’s up?”
“I quit, that’s what,” Freddy snapped, still glowering at Connor.
They hadn’t liked each other from the start, and Olivia suspected she knew why. They were like two aggressive dogs, marking their territory.
“You can’t quit,” she said simply. “You need this job, and I need you.”
“Tell that to him,” Freddy said, jerking his head in Connor’s direction.
In a calm voice, she said, “I need him, too.”
Equally calm, Connor said, “It appears we’re mutually exclusive.”
“Come on,” she said. “You’re both here for different reasons. I need you both. What’s going on?”
“I already told you, I’m quitting. He’s already ruined my vision for the gazebo.” Freddy made an inarticulate gesture at his marked up plans. Then he brushed past her and strode out of the hall.
“I’ll go,” Dare said, patting Olivia’s arm.
Ten
C
onnor was just as glad to be rid of the annoying little shit for a while. Freddy, with his city-boy hair and two-hundred-dollar jeans.
Olivia appeared to be unaware of the fact that he had just been inches from rearranging Freddy’s pretty face. She was probably used to working with girlie-men who had hissy fits when somebody messed with their “vision.” Studying the elevation of the gazebo, which now bore Connor’s modifications in permanent marker, she said, “I take it you didn’t like Freddy’s design.”
“It’s structurally unsound. The first big wind would sweep the thing away. He makes stage sets, for chrissake. I build things to last awhile.”
She thought for a moment, pushing a finger against her full lower lip in a gesture Connor found unsettling. “We’ll go with your design because we don’t want it getting blown away. But do me a favor. Try to get along with Freddy. He’s important to me.”
How important? Connor pressed his mouth shut to keep from asking, and offered only a noncommittal grunt. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
They headed out together to inspect the staff cottages at the far edge of the property. No work had been done here yet. This was where the help had lived when the camp was in operation. It was a row of plain cottages that had housed the dishwashers and groundskeepers, the security guards and laborers. And, of course, the maintenance man and caretaker, Terry Davis, who lived at the camp year-round.
The sight of the bungalow on the end had a curious effect on Connor. He slowed his steps, balking. He didn’t want to be here. There were too many memories of darkness, of humiliation and despair.
Olivia clearly had no inkling of his thoughts as she wrote a list on a clipboard. Then she headed to the cottage on the end, up the three steps to the door. “We should check out these buildings,” she said. “See what needs to be done.”
He stayed where he was.
No.
The screen door screamed on its hinges as she opened it and then used the master key to unlock the main place. “Stuffy in here,” she said, turning back to him. “Are you coming?”
My God. Didn’t she remember that this was where his father had lived?
Apparently not. Connor forced himself to move, climbing the stairs, crossing the porch, brushing past her to step into the musty bungalow. Immediately, memories flashed in nightmare images through his head. There was the fridge, which never held much more than a pack of baloney and several cases of beer. The broken-down sofa was gone but there was a pale rectangle on the linoleum where it had been, and against his will, he could see his father passed out on the gray cushions, a dozen or so beer cans lined up on the floor.
“Something the matter?” she asked with phony innocence. “You’re cranky today.”
“What the hell did you think I’d feel like?”
She took a step back, flinching a little at his tone. “Let’s see,” she said. “A building contractor, maybe?”
Her very confusion put Connor in his place. To imagine even for a moment that she would remember who had occupied this particular bungalow, and to suppose she was sensitive to the effect it would have on him was definitely a stretch. Yet somehow, he had imagined that he’d been important enough to her to rate this consideration.
Maybe, on the other hand, maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe this little guided tour was supposed to serve as a reminder to him: This is who you are. This is why I walked away from you and never looked back.
“Right,” he said. “That’s me. The building contractor.”
Her frown deepened. “Look, if you want me to talk to Freddy, I will, but—”
He laughed bitterly, splayed a hand through his hair. “You do that, Olivia. You talk to Freddy.”
She backed away, seeming more mystified than ever, and went through a doorway to the kitchen area, which was barren except for an ancient calendar pegged to the wall, its picture faded beyond recognition. Even from the doorway, Connor recognized his father’s shaky handwriting in some of the squares. Up to his final days as a drunk, Terry Davis had struggled to function normally. He wasn’t a bad guy or even a bad drunk. He’d never raised either a hand or his voice to Connor. In a way, it would have been easier for Connor if his dad had been abusive. At least then Connor could have hated him, stopped wishing he’d get sober. Maybe Connor could have walked away that night nine years ago, instead of sacrificing himself to protect his father.
Olivia surveyed the room, opening a cabinet here and there. Finally, she figured out where she was. Connor could tell the moment she put two and two together. Something written on the faded, yellowed calendar clued her in. She turned to him, set her clipboard on the counter. “Oh, God. Connor, I didn’t realize…Why didn’t you say something?”
“Say what?” he asked evenly. That this was where he’d spent some of the worst, most painful hours of his youth? That his helpless, broken father still haunted the place like a ghost?
“I am so, so sorry.” She crossed the room and took one of his hands between hers. “I truly had no idea this was your father’s place, I swear it.” Her touch was tender, oddly expressive.
He hadn’t been expecting this. Compassion and even understanding. She couldn’t have known, he realized. As a youth, he’d taken great pains to distance himself from his father, to keep the family secret, as all good sons of alcoholics were wont to do.
He looked down at their joined hands, hers dainty and his rough, and then he looked at her face. Since he’d last seen her, she had effectively banished the funny, smart, awkward Lolly he used to know, the one he’d fallen in love with. In her place was a cool-eyed, beautiful stranger, poised and successful, and yet the moment she’d understood what was going on with him, the compassion came back.
“Please forgive me, Connor,” she whispered. “Please.”
Very carefully, without letting his gaze waver, he disengaged his hand from hers. At the same time, his anger drained away. Simply looking into her eyes made his heart lighter. She was the only person who had ever affected him this way. “There’s nothing to forgive, Lolly.”
She let out a sigh. “Really? You’re not going to quit on me?”
“Nope. That seems to be your buddy Freddy’s specialty.”
“It’s just that he’s really passionate about his designs. I, um, I need him, Connor. He came here with me after something…after I went through a really rough time, and…I need him,” she repeated.
He had no idea what to make of that. A rough time? He waited but she didn’t explain herself. “We’ll get everything done,” he assured her. “And I’ll try to be nice to your boy.”
“Freddy is not my boy.”
“He’s a she?”
She laughed and shook her head. “You haven’t changed much,” she said.
“You have.”
“Not really.” Again, she didn’t elaborate, but turned away, picked up her clipboard and left.
As he watched her lock the bungalow, Connor had a funny feeling he’d said the wrong thing. All right, he thought. Clearly this arrangement would work better if they kept it on an impersonal level.
Not possible, he quickly discovered. Each day, their work brought them together, and it was clear that keeping things impersonal was simply not going to work for them. There was no way to deny what they’d once been to one another, or to ignore a shared past.
Between the two of them, they had been assigning tasks like a pair of battle commanders. Everyone had a job, even Max. He and his sister were in charge of getting the big pontoon deck boat shipshape, so it could be used to ferry guests back and forth to and from the lake island.
Connor listened and made notes, but he was often distracted by Olivia, this self-possessed blond bombshell who was both a stranger and hauntingly familiar. She smelled like fresh flowers, and he wanted to bury his face in her shiny hair.
Down, Simba.
He reminded himself to concentrate on their discussions of the gazebo, the main pavilion, the outbuildings and physical plant. Most of the time, he found it pleasant—in an unsettling way—to work with her side by side. Sometimes he noticed her looking at him with quiet absorption. Like now. She seemed to have lost her train of thought as she rested her arms on the worktable and studied him.
“What?” he asked.
“I forgot what we were talking about.”
He loved it when she said things like that. It reminded him of the old Lolly, who was blunt and awkward. “Then let’s talk about something else,” he suggested.
She paused, looked at him a bit longer. Briefly, she pressed her teeth into her lower lip, then looked away. “Do you know Jenny Majesky, from the bakery?”
“I know who she is. Why?” He tried to read Olivia’s expression but couldn’t. Not anymore.
“I met her the other day. She…So you don’t know anything about her or her family?”
“Her grandparents have had the bakery in town forever. A few years ago, there was a big expansion to a commercial facility over in Kingston. I think Jenny was in charge of that, which I’m sure she’d tell you herself if you asked.”
She got up and poured herself another glass of tea. “Sorry. I must sound horribly nosy.”
“Just nosy,” he said, and grinned.
“I’m surprised you don’t know her better.”
“Why surprised?”
Her cheeks flushed, and for a second she looked like she was a kid again. “It’s a small town. I thought maybe you’d dated her.”
“Nope.” He wasn’t about to tell her more.
“You were the one who was going to see the world, never spend more than one night in the same place. What happened to those plans?”
“I did that,” he said. “For a while.”
She sat back down across from him. “Really? Where did you go?”
He paused, looked at her. Hell, it wasn’t a secret. But he didn’t feel like answering more questions.
She figured out that he wasn’t going to tell her more, so she said, “You kept your ear pierced.”
He touched the little silver loop. “Uh-huh.” Christ, she had to know why. Didn’t she? He made an observation of his own: “You named your dog Barkis.”
She folded her arms, probably in a protective gesture. Yet instead of shielding her, the stance only accentuated her incredible female curves. “It’s a perfectly good name for a dog.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He grinned because he suspected she had used the name for the same damn reason he’d kept the earring. It was a part of their history—together. For the time being, he dropped the subject. He crossed to the dais where the musicians had played, back in the days of live music. A baby grand piano still occupied the space, draped with a thick padded vinyl cover that zipped up the sides.
He unzipped the piano cover and pulled it off the old baby grand. “What are the chances that this still works?”
“I’ll get the tuner up here ASAP. We’ll definitely need a working piano, the sooner, the better.”
She flipped up the keyboard cover and a mouse ran out. At least he assumed it was a mouse. The thing moved so fast he could barely tell. He expected Olivia to do what most women did, to scream as though the mouse were an armed assassin. Instead, she simply went over to one of the French doors and propped it open, and the panicked mouse skittered out.
Then she turned back to him. “God. Am I crazy, thinking we can pull this off by the end of the summer?”
“We’ll get it done.”
She stepped up to the dais ahead of him, giving him an excellent view of her ass. Was that sway in her hips natural or did she exaggerate it for his benefit? He couldn’t tell, but regardless, it was working. There was something about the way the afternoon light through the windows struck her, adding a soft, golden glow. She was wearing jeans rolled up to mid-calf, and a sleeveless pink blouse and little white sneakers. He was abruptly overwhelmed by the need to touch her. Really touch her, not just graze her accidentally, or brush past her like some loser in an Edith Wharton novel.