Page 15 of Until Next Summer
Time for me to greet our camp chef.
Two weeks ago, the chef I had hired sent an email saying he’d taken a higher-paying job on a cruise ship. Panicking, I sent an SOS email to the camp listserv, asking for leads. Within twenty-four hours, I had a response from Cooper, who was in my year at camp and is now a classically trained chef. As part of his application, he created a week’s sample menu. I started salivating just reading the descriptions and hired him immediately.
When I told Dot, she recalled him as “that short, round, asthmatic kid.” An accurate description, though I mostly remember him as the boy I paid three Kit Kats and a Twix to kiss my then–best friend.
I push open the swinging door and hear louder music. The counters are covered with crates of food, and the door to the walk-in fridge is open.
“Cooper?” I call.
A man sticks his head out of the fridge. “Jessie!” he shouts, and runs over to give me a hug.
When we pull away, I stare at him, flabbergasted. He used to be shorter than me, and wider, but now he’s about my height, stocky but solid, with dark, wavy hair under a Red Sox hat.
“You look so different!” I blurt out.
He grins, which calls to mind the Cooper I remember. “Time and puberty work wonders. You look the same, though. Braids and everything.”
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but I smile anyway.
“Wow, you’re already getting started,” I say, motioning at the crates of food.
“I shopped for nonperishables and brought as much as I could. I’ll need to go to town every week for fresh things, but I’ve worked it out with the grocery store to supply what I need.”
“Great,” I say. As Lola always said,A fed camp is a happy camp.“Everything is settled with the kitchen crew? You’re okay with the people Antonio hired?”
“Yeah, they’ll be great,” Cooper says, nodding. “They’re mostly folks from town, plus some college kids who wanted a summer job. I’ll have a breakfast and lunch shift with three people, a dinner crew with four.”
“Amazing,” I say, impressed with how quickly he stepped in and took charge. “Can I help unpack?”
“If you want. I’ve got it, though.”
He easily hefts a large crate of #10 cans and heads to the pantry. I pick up a similar crate, grunting with the effort, and follow him.
“So how are you?” I ask him as I unpack the cans from my crate. “Excited to be the big kitchen boss this summer?”
When we talked over the phone, Cooper told me that after five years working for a trendy restaurant in Boston, he was taking a sabbatical. That this would be a nice stopgap while he decided if he wanted to go back or move on to something new.
“For sure. I’ll do my best to overcome the bland camp food stereotype—though I’m considering wearing a hairnet and support hose. You know, for authenticity’s sake.”
I snort a laugh. “What else is going on in your life? Do you have a significant other? Kids? Pets? Plants?”
“No pets, plants, or kids,” he says, grinning. Then he winces. “No significant other, either.”
I raise my eyebrows and Cooper continues, answering my unspoken question. “I was seeing this waitress at my last restaurant. One of us thought it was casual, and one of us thought it was…something else. It didn’t end well. As in, it ended with a vat of lobster bisque being thrown at my head.”
“Yikes. I’m sorry.”
“Even more reason to get out of Boston for the summer. Single and ready to mingle, right?”
He winks—playfully, but with a hint of flirtatiousness that could be trouble. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. I had my fair share of summer flings as a counselor (throwing a bunch of horny college-aged young adults together for eight weeks leads toplentyof clandestine sex). But as director, I hate dealing with romantic entanglements between staff. It causes so much drama.
And this summer, there’s an added dimension, in thatour campers are adults. As long as everyone is consenting and safe, I don’t care what they do with each other. But I don’t want employees hooking up with campers. I need my staff to remain professional and focused.
While we unpack more crates, I catch him up on the staff for the summer—he remembers Dot and Mr. Billy—and the newlywed couple I hired for the lakefront.
“And for the Arts and Crafts cabin…” I grin and bounce my eyebrows up and down. “Remember Hillary Goldberg? You two smooched down by the lake when we were fourteen?”
Cooper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Of course. So you two have kept in touch?”
