Page 15 of The Last Time I Lied

Back on shore, I go to Chet and shake his hand.

“Emma Davis,” I say. “You probably don’t remember me.”

It’s wishful thinking. A hope that he remembers nothing about me. But the brow over Chet’s only visible eye lifts slightly. “Oh, I remember you well,” he says, not elaborating.

“Before you get settled in, Franny needs to see you,” Mindy says.

“About what?”

“There’s a slight problem with the rooming situation. But don’t worry. Franny’s going to sort it all out.”

Leaving Chet behind, she loops an arm through mine, guiding me up the slope and into the Lodge. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside, and I’m surprised to see it’s not at all what I was expecting. As a girl on the outside looking in, I had pictured something fromArchitectural Digest. The kind of tastefully rustic retreat where movie stars spend Christmas in Aspen.

The Lodge isn’t like that. It’s musty and dim, the air inside tinged with a century’s worth of wood-fed blazes in the fireplace. The entrance hall we stand in leads to a general living area stuffed with worn furniture. Covering the walls are antlers, animal skins, and, oddly, an assortment of antique weapons. Rifles. Bowie knives with thick blades. A spear.

“Everything’s so old, right?” Mindy says. “I’m all for antiques, but some of this stuff is ancient. The first time Chet brought me here, it felt like sleeping in a museum. I’m still not used to it. But if it takes spending a summer working at a camp to impress my future mother-in-law, then so be it.”

She’s clearly a talker. Exhausting but also potentially useful.When we pass a small office on the left, I pause and ask, “What’s in there?”

“The study.”

I crane my neck to peek into the room. One wall is filled with framed photos. Another contains a bookshelf. As we pass, I glimpse the corner of a desk, a rotary telephone, a Tiffany lampshade.

“I use the electrical outlet in there to charge my phone,” Mindy says. “You’re welcome to do the same. Just don’t let Franny catch you. She wants all of us to disconnect and commune with nature or whatever.”

“How’s service up here?”

Mindy makes a dramatic gagging sound. “Horrible. Like, one bar most of the time. I honestly don’t know how these girls are going to cope.”

“The campers can’t use their phones?”

“They can until their batteries run out. No electricity in the cabins, remember? Franny’s orders.”

To my right, a staircase rises to the second floor, the steps tiny and impossibly narrow. Under the stairs sits a door intended to blend into the wall. The only things giving it away are a brass doorknob and an old-fashioned keyhole.

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“The basement,” Mindy says. “I’ve never been down there. It’s probably nothing but old furniture and cobwebs.”

We move on, Mindy playing tour guide, giving a running commentary about various family heirlooms. A portrait of Buchanan Harris that, I swear, might have been painted by John Singer Sargent, elicits a solemn “That’s worth a fortune.”

Soon we’re at the back deck, which spans the entire width of the Lodge. Wooden boxes crammed with flowers line the twig-work railing. Scattered around the deck are several small tables and the obligatory Adirondack chairs, all painted as red as the front door. Two of the chairs are occupied by Franny and Lottie.

Both are dressed in the same khaki shorts and camp poloensemble as Chet and Mindy. Franny surveys Lake Midnight from the heightened view provided by the deck. Lottie, meanwhile, taps the screen of an iPad, looking up when Mindy and I step outside.

“Emma,” she says, her face brightening as she pulls me into what feels like my fifth hug of the day. “You have no idea how nice it is to see you back here.”

“It is,” Franny agrees. “It’s wonderful.”

Unlike Lottie, she doesn’t get up from her chair to greet me. I’m surprised, until I notice her wan and tired appearance. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our lunch meeting months ago, and the change is startling. I had assumed being back at her beloved Lake Midnight would make her robust and hearty. Instead, it’s the opposite. She looks, for lack of a better word, old.

Franny catches me staring and says, “There’s worry in your eyes, my dear. Don’t think I can’t see it. But fear not. I’m just tired from all this activity. I’d forgotten how exhausting the first day of camp can be. Not a moment to spare, it seems. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“You need to rest,” Lottie says.

“And that’s what I’m doing,” Franny replies, somewhat testily.

I clear my throat. “You needed to see me about something?”

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