“I used to take that train from the city to Avalon.” Olivia could still remember the noise and the excitement streaming through the passenger cars. Some of the more experienced campers would sing traditional songs or boast about past victories at archery or swimming or footraces. There would be nervous speculation about who would wind up in which cabin, because everyone knew that bunkmates could make or break the entire summer. When she was in the eight-to-elevens, she had looked forward to camp. She had three girl cousins in her age group, and the train ride and then van up the mountain was a magical journey into an enchanted world.
Everything changed the year her parents split up. She emerged awkwardly from the cocoon of childhood, no lithe butterfly, but a sullen, overweight preteen who distrusted the world.
The train passed by, the last car disappearing, and the curtain opened on the perfect mountain town of Avalon.
“Cute,” Freddy observed. “Is this place for real?”
Avalon was a classic Catskills village. It looked exactly the way tourists yearned for it to look—a world apart, separated from time itself by the railroad tracks on one side and a covered bridge on the other, with brick streets lined with shade trees, a town square with a courthouse in the middle and at least three church spires. It changed very little from year to year. She remembered Clark’s Variety Store and the Agway Feed & Hardware, Palmquist Jewelry and the Sky River Bakery, still owned by the Majesky family, according to the painted display window. There were gift shops with handmade crafts, and upscale boutiques. Restaurants and cafés with striped awnings and colorful window boxes lined the square. Antiques shops displayed spinning wheels and vintage quilts, and almost every establishment featured homemade maple syrup and apple cider for the tourists who came in the fall for the autumn colors.
In the backseat, Barkis woke up from a nap and stuck his nose out the window as they passed the picnic grounds by the Schuyler River. The most beautiful street in town was Maple Street, which boasted a collection of Carpenter Gothic homes from the Edwardian era, some displaying plaques from the National Historic Register.
“Very Age of Innocence,” Freddy declared. The pastel-painted houses had been converted to bed-and-breakfast inns, law offices, art galleries, a day spa. The last one on the street had a hand-painted sign: Davis Contracting and Construction.
“Olivia, watch out!” Freddy yelled.
She slammed on the brakes. In the backseat, Barkis scrambled to stay upright.
“It’s a four-way stop,” Freddy said. “Take it easy.”
“Sorry. I missed the sign.” Just the sight of the name Davis left her shaken.
Get a grip, she told herself. There are a zillion Davises in the world. Surely the construction firm wasn’t … No way, she thought. That would just be too crazy.
“I’m taking down the number of that construction firm,” Freddy said, oblivious.
“Why would you do that?”
“It’s probably the only one in town, and we’re going to need their help.”
“We’ll find another.”
He twisted around in his seat as they passed. “The sign says they’re bonded and insured, and they give free estimates and references.”
“And you believe that?”
“You don’t?” He clucked his tongue. “A cynic, at such a tender age.” He scribbled down the number.
It was highly unlikely that Davis Construction had anything to do with Connor Davis, Olivia told herself. Even if it did, so what? He probably didn’t even remember her. Which was a strangely depressing relief, considering what a fool she’d made of herself over him.
“Okay, tell me that’s not a covered bridge,” Freddy said, grabbing for his camera. “It is a covered bridge.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “This is better than Bridges of Madison County.”
“A lobotomy is better than Bridges of Madison County. “
He snapped away, marveling over the sign that dated the original structure to 1891. It even had a name—Sky River Bridge. Spanning the shallow rapids of the Schuyler River, it had a postcard-pretty quality. Olivia recalled that the camp van from the train depot to Camp Kioga always honked its horn when they entered the shadowy tunnel, creaky and festooned with swallows’ nests. It was the last man-made landmark before the camp itself.
Beyond the bridge, the road meandered along the river, past a chain of mountains with names and elevations posted. Freddy, a city boy through and through, was beside himself. “This is incredible,” he said. “I can’t believe you have a place like this in your family, and you never told me about it.”
“It’s been closed as a camp for the past eight—no, nine—years. A property management company looks after the place. Some of the family come for vacations and get-togethers every once in a while.” Olivia had been invited to the occasional family gathering, but she never went. The place held too many bad associations for her. “In the winter,” she added, “my uncle Clyde brings his family up for cross-country skiing and snowshoe hiking.”
“Crazy,” Freddy murmured. “Almost makes me want a normal family.”
She glanced over at him. “Well, if what you see today doesn’t send you screaming back to New York City, you’ll have a tribe of Bellamys all summer long.”
“Works for me. And, ah, did I mention the situation with my apartment?”
“Oh, Freddy.”
“You got it. Jobless and homeless. I’m a real prize.”
“You’re working with me this summer, and you’re living at Camp Kioga.” He was her best friend. What else could she say?
She slowed down as she saw the white flicker of a deer’s tail from the corner of her eye. A moment later, a doe and a fawn appeared, and Freddy was so excited, he nearly dropped his camera.
In the shuttle van years ago, camp regulars used to call out landmarks along the way, each sighting greeted with mounting excitement as they drew closer and closer to their destination.
“There’s Lookout Rock,” someone would announce, pointing and bouncing up and down in the seat. “I saw it first.”
Others would be named in quick succession—Moss Creek, Watch Hill, Sentry Rock, Saddle Mountain, Sunrise Mountain and, finally, Treaty Oak, a tree so old that it was said Chief Jesse Lyon himself had planted it to commemorate the treaty he signed with Peter Stuyvesant, the colonial governor.
Her twelfth summer, Olivia had ridden in silence. With each passing landmark, her stomach sank a little lower and dread became a physical sensation of cold, dead weight inside. And outside, she reflected. The weight she gained represented the stress of her quietly warring parents, the demands of school, her own unexpressed fears.
They passed a glass art studio with a whimsical sign by the road and then a stretch of riverside land, where the meadows were almost preternaturally green and the forest deep and mysterious. High in a sunny glade sat, of all things, a small Airstream travel trailer
