which he thought was an Algonquin word for “tranquillity,” but which he later learned was meaningless. After the camp closed in 1997, none of the Bellamy offspring was inclined to take it on.
Her grandmother helped herself to a cornet filled with chocolate ganache. “We’ll discuss it after the anniversary celebration. Best to get everything settled so no one will have to make a decision about that after we’re gone.”
“I hate it when you talk like that. You’re sixty-eight years old, and you just did a senior triathlon—”
“Which I never would have finished if you hadn’t trained with me.” Jane patted her hand, then looked pensive. “So many important moments of my life took place there. The camp floated my family through the Great Depression, just barely. After Charles and I married and took over, the place became a part of who we are.”
So typical of Nana, Olivia reflected. She always looked for ways to hold on to things, even when she would be better off letting go.
“That’s all in the future.” Nana’s manner turned brisk as she took out some pages she’d obviously printed off from Olivia’s Web site. “We have business to discuss. I want you to prepare the property for our gala celebration.”
Olivia let out a short laugh. “I can’t do that, Nana.”
“Nonsense. It says right here you provide expert research, design and services to stage and enhance real estate for optimum market presence.”
“All that means is that I’m a house fluffer,” Olivia said. Some of the designers in her field objected to the expression, which definitely lacked a certain gravitas. They preferred house stager or property enhancer. Fluffer sounded … well, fluffy.
The expression was fairly descriptive of what the job entailed. In the service of people seeking to display their property at its best, Olivia was a master of illusion. An artist of deception. Making a property look irresistible was usually a simple, low-cost process, incorporating elements the seller already owned, but combining them in different ways.
She loved her job and did it well, and her reputation was growing accordingly. In some parts of Manhattan, agents would not even consider listing a property until it had been fluffed by Olivia Bellamy of Transformations. The job was not without its challenges, though. Since she’d launched her own firm, Olivia had learned that there was a lot more to property staging than weeding the flower beds, painting everything white and turning on the bread-making machine.
Still, a project the size of Kioga was not in the realm of her expertise.
“You’re talking about a hundred acres of wilderness, a hundred fifty miles from here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I would.” Jane pushed an old-fashioned, leather-bound photo album across the table to her. “Everyone has a notion of summer camp in their mind, whether or not they even went to camp. All you have to do is create that illusion once again. Here are some pictures taken through the years to get you started.”
The photos were, for the most part, classic views of rustic cabins clustered on the shores of a lake in a pristine forest. Olivia had to admit that there was something both peaceful and evocative about the place. Nana was right about the illusion—or maybe it was a delusion. Olivia had had a terrible time at summer camp. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, there lived an idealized summer place, free of taunting children, sunburns and mosquitoes.
Her imagination kicked in, as it always did when she viewed a property. Despite her reluctance, she almost immediately started seeing ways to dress it up.
Stop it, she told herself.
“I don’t exactly have the best memories of my summers there,” she reminded her grandmother.
“I know, dear. But this summer could be your opportunity to exorcize those demons. Create new memories.” Interesting. Olivia hadn’t realized her grandmother had known about her suffering. Why didn’t you stop it? she wanted to ask.
“This project could take the entire summer. I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”
Nana lifted an eyebrow, high over the rim of her glasses. “Why?”
Olivia couldn’t keep it in any longer. Her excitement spilled out, along with her next words. “Because I think I have a reason to stay.”
“That reason being a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Harvard law degree?”
Deep breath, Olivia, she cautioned herself. You’ve been here before, and you’ve been disappointed. Take it easy. She couldn’t, of course. She nearly came out of her seat as she said, “I think Rand Whitney is going to ask me to marry him.”
Nana took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Oh, my dear, darling Olivia.” She used her napkin to dab her eyes.
Olivia was glad she had decided to tell Nana. There were some in her family who would react with more skepticism. Some—her mother being one of these—would be quick to remind her that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Olivia already had two failed engagements under her belt.
As if she could ever forget.
She pushed aside the thought and added, “He’s selling his apartment downtown. It’s my latest project, in fact. I need to check on the finishing touches this afternoon because it’s going on the market tomorrow. When he gets home from the airport, I’ll be there, waiting for him. He’s been in L.A. all week at the West Coast office of his firm. He said when he gets back, he’s going to ask me.” “To marry him.”
“I assume so.” Olivia felt the slightest flicker of unease. He hadn’t actually said that.
“So selling his place is a good thing.”
Olivia felt herself smiling all over. “He’s looking at properties on Long Island.”
“Oh, my. The man is ready to settle down.”
Olivia’s grin widened. “So you’ll understand … I need to think about your offer.”
“Certainly, dear.” She signaled for the check with a familiar, regal gesture that never failed to bring a white-gloved waiter scurrying. “I hope it all turns out perfectly for you.”
As she hurried up the stairs to Rand’s apartment near Gramercy Park, Olivia felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Here she was, enjoying the rare privilege of setting the scene for her own engagement, right down to the last detail. When Randall Whitney asked her to marry him, he would do so in a place created by her own imagination and hard work. So often in these situations, it was the job of the gentleman to create the proper ambience, and so often, he failed.
Not this time, Olivia thought, enjoying a delicious tingle of excitement. This time, everything would be just right.
Unlike the other times. With Pierce, the engagement had been doomed from the start by something Olivia refused to acknowledge until she discovered him taking a shower with another girl. With Richard, the moment of humiliation had come when she’d caught him using her ATM card to steal from her. Two strikes had left her doubting her own judgment … until Rand. This time, she wouldn’t get it wrong.
She opened the front door, turned and pictured the way the
