Page 37 of Lady and the Camp
I scratched at my neck. Warm, like my face. “It’s not a bother. Besides, I have extra stuff here at the owner’s suite for when I stay.”
Her eyes lit up. “You said it was the owner’s cabin. Now you’re calling it a suite?”
I laughed, which caused her to flinch. I guess I didn’t do that often. “It’s technically a cabin. Alan and Alice, they would call it that—the owner’s suite. It’s a cabin with a full kitchen, living space, and a bedroom. It’s not too much bigger than where you’re staying with Maggie.”
Her shoulders slumped a little, which made me laugh to myself. She was grasping for any hint of luxury in this well-worn camp. “It’s no big deal if you’d like me to bring you food,” I said. “Just tell me what you want.”
Her own cheeks colored. I’d say they matched the shade of mine, but her skin was perfect. Mine was bearded.
“What I want…” she trailed off.
A thick and weighted sensation hung in the air between us. I desperately wanted to know what she wanted. And it had nothing to do with food from town.
Shoot. Maybe she could sense my thoughts focused on something other than food from town. “I didn’t mean anything weird by that,” I told her. “I meant like, hamburger or sub sandwich.”
She snickered. “Yeah, I got that. I guess I’m in a more contemplative head space right now.” She straightened, as if gathering herself together. “I’m going to go back to my cabin. It’s been a long day.”
“Okay.” The day had felt long for me too, but with brighter moments I found myself enjoying. Brighter tinged with pink.
She tugged at her hair again, then took off toward the heart of camp.
I replayed her comment about me being sweet. It didn’t fit, but that didn’t mean I found the comment unwelcome.
Fridays were always hectic. As a weekly overnight camp, that meant parent pick-ups beginning mid-afternoon.
And parents who visited the office for all sorts of unnecessary reasons. Their visits kept Twila and me glued to our desks for the afternoon. While Twila thrived, offering parents and guardians doughnuts and lemonade as they waited or poked around unprompted in the camp office, I merely survived. And not in the way I preferred, which was outdoors with a simple pack and a weekend free of obligation.
One of those parents sat in front of me now, in my office, yammering about score sheets.
I cracked my knuckles, causing the woman to flinch. “Camp Junebug doesn’t use score sheets.”
She appeared reasonable, dressed in a yellow top and jeans, but the words coming from her mouth might as well have been alien. “What do you have that we can show the school about her accomplishments? The kids are graded on their summer curricula.” She waved a piece of folded construction paper covered in stickers and marker drawings. “Thisdoes not count.”
I couldn’t believe I had to say these words after she had registered, paid, and sent her child to live here for a week. “This is a summer camp. We are not a school with grades.”
I then regurgitated the paragraph on the website that stated exactly what the camp entailed. Camp Junebug was a traditional summer camp with cabins and crafts and nature trips in the woods. Light structure with time to explore, safely, under supervision.
She interrupted me. “Camp Trail Blazers has a full report-out waiting for each parent. There’s a syllabus with the training program mapped out—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” Interrupter, meet your match. I stood. “The Trail Blazers have their own agenda and process. Camp Junebug is a children’s summer camp. That’s it.”
The woman appeared non-plussed with my response. In fact, she fumed with disgust. She stood herself. “We need to show our private academy proof of an enriching educational experience. I demand you score my child!”
I grabbed the nearest scrap of paper and a pen. I scribbled what she wanted and handed it to her. “Here. A plus.”
Ifthe threatGo directly to your room without dinnercould be personified, it was this woman, right now. Her cheeks bloomed red and her eyes bulged like something out of a cartoon. I hadn’t seen eyes that scary since my cousin Matteo suffered a severe allergic reaction to prairie grass during our ninth-grade class field trip. Poor guy rubbed his eyes and the eyeballs swelled past the socket.
The furious woman grew very still other than a slight quiver in her jaw. “This isunacceptable. I want to talk to your supervisor.Immediately.”
So much fury had to be bad for the blood pressure. I’d suggest a walk in the woods, but I wanted this lady off the property.
I grinned. “Oh, the camp owner would love to discuss the merit of grading a child’s camp activity. Old Alan will talk your ear off on that one. I’ll get you his home number. That speech you interrupted? He wrote that. It’s on our website for a reason.”
Red-faced and now offering a verbal assault worthy of a ranting sailor, the woman stomped out. She paused by the table between my office and Twila’s desk, touched no fewer than three doughnuts before choosing a maple glazed, sniffed it, then tossed it back on the tray. She grabbed what looked like a sample-sized container from a bowl and left.
“Ooh, she was one for the books!” Twila cooed with near glee. “The helicopter types crack me up. My book club loves when I bring them unhinged parent stories.”
“Is that…normal?” Hudson emerged from the kitchenette. She hovered at the entryway as if testing the room for lingering fumes.
