style="font-size:15px;"> “I tried to tell you and Dad that every summer when I was growing up, but you never listened.”
“I thought you liked going to summer camp.” Her mother held out her hands, palms up, in a helpless gesture.
Olivia had no reply. The misconception summed up her entire childhood.
“I assume you’ve already discussed this with your father,” Pamela said, her voice iced with indifference.
“Yes. Nana and Granddad are his parents, after all.” Olivia felt weary already. Her mother had a way of wearing her down with a steady rain of words. Yet Olivia was determined not to be talked out of this. At least her father hadn’t tried to stand in her way. Last night, when she’d explained her sudden decision to take on the Camp Kioga project, he’d been supportive and encouraging. By noon today, arrangements were already under way. She had leased a huge SUV for the summer, organized her office for her absence and arranged for another real-estate enhancement firm to take referrals and maintain her current properties.
“You’re running away,” her mother said. “Again.”
“I guess I am.” Olivia took out her day runner and flipped it open to a lengthy list she’d made in the taxi ride over here.
“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Her mother looked genuinely crestfallen.
“Yes, well. It happens.” Just once, Olivia wished she could snuggle up to her mother and cry on her shoulder. It didn’t work like that, though. Not between her and Pamela. “I’m sorry too, Mom,” she said. “I know you had your hopes up this time.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, never mind me.” Her mother made a clucking sound. “I simply want you to be happy, that’s all. That’s my main concern.”
“I’ll be all right,” Olivia assured her. To her amazement, a telltale gleam of tears flashed in her mother’s eyes. She realized Pamela was taking this harder than she was. “It’s not the end of the world, right?” Olivia said. “There are worse things in life than being dumped by your boyfriend. And now that I think about it, I wasn’t even dumped.”
“You weren’t?” she patted her forehead and cheeks with a tissue.
“Rand asked me to move to L.A. with him.”
“I didn’t know that. Dear, perhaps you ought to consider—”
“Don’t even go there.”
“But once you take that step, once you’re sharing a life, you’ll both realize you’re happy together.”
“I think I’ve realized we’re happy apart.”
“Nonsense. Rand Whitney is perfect for you. I don’t know why you’re giving up without a fight.”
Olivia’s heart sank. This was what made Pamela Lightsey Bellamy tick—the quest to look happy and successful at all costs, even if it meant a fight. Even if it meant hiding the fact that you still hadn’t gotten over a divorce, seventeen years earlier.
Once, long ago, Olivia had asked her mother if she was happy. The question had excited a short laugh of disbelief. “Don’t be silly,” Pamela had said. “I am supremely happy and it would seem ungracious to appear any other way.”
Which wasn’t even close to providing the answer Olivia sought, but she had dropped the subject.
“I’m done with Rand Whitney,” she concluded, “and you’re sweet to worry about me. But my mind is made up. I’m going to do this for Nana. I wanted to grab a few things while I’m here.”
“This is insane,” her mother said. “I don’t know what Jane was thinking, asking you to do such a thing.”
“Maybe she was thinking that I’m good enough at my job to make a success of this.”
Pamela stiffened her spine. “Of course she was. And she is a very lucky woman, because that place is going to look amazing once you finish with it.”
“Thank you, Mom. You’re absolutely right.” The distress on her mother’s face wasn’t all about Rand. Olivia knew that the upcoming anniversary put her mother in an awkward spot. Pamela’s father, Samuel Lightsey, was best friends with Charles Bellamy. This was probably another reason her mother had finalized the divorce on paper but never in her heart. Her family’s close ties with the Bellamys created a bond she couldn’t escape.
“Mom, do you think you’ll go?”
“It would be petty to do otherwise.”
“Good for you,” Olivia said. “It’ll be fine. Listen, I have to dig out some things from the basement.” She studied her mother’s lovely, composed face. “My duffel bag and sports equipment. And I need Dad’s old footlocker,” she added. Then her heart sank. “Tell me you didn’t throw it out.”
“I never throw anything away. Ever,” her mother said.
Which explained much about Pamela. Fresh as yesterday, Olivia could remember the day her father had moved out. She could still picture the way he looked through a blur of tears, as if he was on the other side of a rain-smudged window. He’d sat down so he could look her in the eye. “I have to go, honey,” he’d told her.
“No, you don’t. But you’re going to, anyway.”
He’d refused to be dissuaded. The unspoken tension that had always existed between Olivia’s parents had finally reached the breaking point. It should have been a relief, but Olivia could never recall feeling relieved.
“I’m leaving some boxes of my stuff in the basement,” her father had told her, “including all my sports equipment and camp gear. It’s all yours now.”
Every once in a while, she’d take out his old Kioga sweatshirt and put it on, or wrap herself in the Hudson’s Bay blanket, which smelled of mothballs.
She took the service elevator, descending alone into the bowels of the old building, and let herself into the storage unit. She found her duffel right away. The stiff canvas was covered with a patchwork of badges from Kioga, marking every summer from 1987 to 1994. Most campers avidly collected the coveted patches, each of which represented a magical summer at sleepaway camp. Not Olivia. Though she had dutifully sewn on her patches in order to keep from offending her grandparents, the colorful badges held no sentimental value for her. Nana and Granddad were convinced that the camp was Shangri-la and it would hurt their feelings to say otherwise.
Olivia set aside the duffel bag and looked around the crowded but well-organized basement room, dank with disuse and old memories. There were framed photographs of Olivia and her father and leather-bound albums labeled Bellamy. Pulling out the large, heavy footlocker her father had left behind for Olivia all those years ago, she opened the lid and was hit with a musty smell she could immediately put a name to: camp. It was an unforgettable combination of mildew, wood smoke and outdoors, an essence that resisted laundering and airing out.
Rifling through the locker, she helped herself to a lantern and a book on wilderness survival, and grabbed a vintage Kioga hooded sweatshirt with the words Camp Counselor stenciled on the back. In the Bellamy family, it wasn’t enough to be a camper. As each individual came of age,
