Page 61 of The Weekend Crashers
“It’s just me,” she says cheerily.
“Humph,” Barclay says. Then, putting a hand on Aidan’s shoulder, he says, “Friends that go camping on a Saturday night.”
“What?” says Maggie.
“Nothing,” Aidan says quickly. “Let’s get your bags into one of the tents.”
The campsite is fifteen minutes from the inn but feels like a world away. Out in the wilderness, in the darkness, gathered with a bunch of—well, let’s face it—virtual strangers, Maggie tells herself she can drive back to her room and cozy bed anytime. Then, after a round of whiskey hot toddies around the open fire, she forgets all about that idea.
They’re all sitting in a circle, the guys dressed in flannel shirts and hoodies and draped in blankets. Barclay stokes the flame with fresh kindling and Aidan’s brother-in-law refills everyone’s mug using a thermos. The sky is vast and velvety, a deep, dark blue dotted with countless stars that are unobstructed by city lights. The moon casts a silvery glow illuminating the silhouettes of tall oaks and maples, their branches now half bare.
The guys are teasing one of Scott’s friends, calling him a teacher’s pet because he was the most proficient knitter by the end of the workshop. A few of them got stitches onto their needles, but he showed a genuine aptitude. She doesn’t understand why this should be something embarrassing.
“Knitting isn’t afemininething,” she says. “Not anymore. Just look on TikTok if you don’t believe me.”
Scott opens a package of graham crackers and passes around bars of chocolate. Aidan pops marshmallows on top of sticks and hands one to her.
“For s’mores.”
She’s never roasted marshmallows over an open flame before, and when she gives it a try she burns it to an inedible charred lump. Aidan shows her how to hold it an optimal eight inches from the flame, and to rotate the marshmallow slowly and steadily.
“I guess my team’s lucky this wasn’t one of the challenges,” she says.
“Hate to break it to you, but you might be the only oneeven in your own group who doesn’t know how to do this. Roasting marshmallows is a basic life skill.”
“I’d be offended if I didn’t think you’re probably right.”
Clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. If it weren’t for the fire, they’d be in pitch darkness. If Piper were there, Maggie would scoot closer to her. But she’s sitting alone, in between Aidan and Scott. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out with a melancholy hoot.
“I think it’s story time,” Barclay says in a mock-spooky voice.
“The Soldier in the Woods,” Scott says. She looks over at Aidan, and he’s nodding in recognition.
“That’s right: The Soldier in the Woods,” Barclay says. “Do you boys know this story?”
Scott’s friends tell him no, and a silence falls, the only sound is the crackle of the fire. Barclay starts to speak in a slow, exaggeratedly low voice: “Centuries ago, during the Revolutionary War right here in Bucks County, PA, a young private named James Douglas Finch fled his regiment, desperate to escape the bloodshed. As punishment for desertion, his fellow soldiers dragged him deep into the woods, bound his hands with rough rope, and tied him to a massive oak tree. He begged for mercy, but none came. They left him there to starve, his cries of suffering swallowed by the rustling leaves. Centuries passed, but James Douglas Finch never left. It’s said that on nights when the fog rolls through the woods, you can hear the scrape of boots dragging through the underbrush and the creak of a rope swinging from a tree branch. Walkers who linger too long feel an unnatural chill wrap around their necks like cold hands...”
He falls silent, and Scott says, “Boo!” making her jump.
“Okay, no more of that,” she says. “How about something less nerve-racking?”
“Like what? We got nothing but time out here,” Barclay says.
She thinks about sleepovers from when she was a teenager. “How about Two Truths and a Lie?”
“Where’s Cole? He’d be good at this game,” Scott says, mostly to himself, but loud enough that Aidan hears and says, “That’s enough.”
Scott stands up and says he’s going to turn in for the night. His tent-mates follow.
“Not so fast,” Barclay says. “And by the way: I know that’s code for going off to smoke the devil’s lettuce. But before you leave: a toast.”
Maggie turns to Aidan and mouths,The devil’s lettuce?
Barclay stands up and raises his glass. “I want to take a moment to remind us what we’re all celebrating here this weekend: My grandson Scott is getting married. Now, our friendly competition this weekend has been all about teamwork. And what a coincidence: So is marriage. In fact, there’s no more important teammate than the person you choose to spend your life with. So, Scott, I congratulate you on taking this step with Ashley. May the fire you two build together burn long and bright.”
It’s a little corny, but Maggie feels a lump in her throat.
“Hear, hear,” Aidan says, standing up. Everyone joins them, and Maggie self-consciously gets to her feet, feeling like an interloper. Drinking by the campfire is one thing. But it’s clearly a family moment, and she doesn’t belong. Clearly, it’s time for her to go to her own tent too.
