aspen. Inviting paths hugged the riverbank and skirted smooth huge boulders where one could sit for an idle moment or a few minutes of meditation. She wondered if Steller’s jays still nested in the high ponderosa pines growing close to the recreation and cafeteria building. This was the beauty she wanted to share with Randy, Cathy and the other children.
The abandoned air of the camp mocked her mission. The cabins were closed. No woodpiles had been collected on the porches to feed the fireplaces. The larger buildings were dark and shuttered, and as her eyes anxiously traveled over the rustic three-storied log-and-rock house that had been Sam’s home, she failed to see any sign that it was occupied. She had assumed because Scott’s voice was on the telephone answering machine that he must be staying here.
She forced herself to ignore a rising sense of frustration as she parked in a wide clearing in front of the main house, and let the car door shut with a bang that echoed her uneasiness.
As she hurried up a flight of wooden stairs leading up to a veranda porch that skirted the front of the log house, she thought she saw a flicker of movement behind the large front window. Her breathing quickened.
So someone was here!
The front door opened before she reached it. As he stood just inside, filling up the doorway, she let out her breath in giddy relief. “Scott, you’re here! I was beginning to think that I’d made the trip for nothing.” When he didn’t answer, she said quickly, “I hope you don’t mind…my coming like this?”
She knew nervousness was making her talk too fast, but the man standing there staring at her was not the Scott Davidson she remembered at all. Instead of soft lips easing into a boyish smile, his mouth was held in a firm line and his unsmiling grayish-green eyes narrowed. His dark hair no longer drifted in unruly waves around his face but was precisely layered in a short, fashionable cut that matched his expensive slacks and monogrammed sports shirt.
When his frown was her only answer, she added pointedly, “It’s important that I speak with you.”
Allie felt a rising sense of defeat just looking at him. This was a stranger who eyed her with obvious annoyance. What has happened to you, Scott? She firmed her chin. “When you didn’t return my call I decided to drive up and see you.”
His expression didn’t change. “I’m trying to get everything taken care of in a few days and get back to my brokerage business. I’m sorry, but I haven’t had time to return all my calls,” he added in way of apology, but there was no warmth in his voice. “You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about the cancellation of a church camp. I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing, Allie. The property is already in the hands of the Realtor, and I’ve had several offers on it already.”
“I understand, but surely you can spare a few minutes to talk about it,” she said pointedly, determined that he wasn’t going to turn her away from her mission so easily.
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Still got that streak of dogged stubbornness, I see. All right, come in, and we’ll talk. I have to admit that when I got your message, I thought about that optimistic nature of yours, Allie, and wondered if you were still looking at life as some kind of a great adventure.”
“You were pretty much of an optimist, yourself,” she reminded him.
He didn’t answer as he waved her into the living room that seemed unchanged to Allie after all these years. The same Indian rug was spread in front of the fireplace, and the lingering tobacco scent of Sam’s pipe still mingled with an aromatic residue of pine log fires that had warmed chilly evenings for many years. Small tables and wall shelves held bits of driftwood, polished rocks from the riverbed, dried wild-flowers and other treasures that Sam had brought in from the outdoors. The same Western pictures hung on the wall, and Sam’s old scarred upright piano stood in the corner with its wobbly piano bench. Allie remembered the evenings some of the young campers had collected around the old piano, singing a rollicking tune or quiet hymn. As before, a couple of lumpy couches faced each other in a conversational grouping near the large front window.
Scott must have been sitting there when she drove up because there were papers scattered on one of the cushions. He motioned for her to sit down on the clean couch while he scooted papers into a pile on the other one. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.” Her stomach was much too tight to even think about drinking or eating. “I’m truly sorry about your father,” she said, seeking neutral ground for the moment. “He was a wonderful man.”
Allie was taken back by the emptiness in Scott’s reply. “In some ways he was, and in other ways he was a fool. He lived from hand to mouth, barely managed to pay the taxes, let alone keep the place up the way he should have. Dad had dozens of opportunities to sell the property because of the nearby ski resorts, but, no, he turned them all down.” Scott ran agitated fingers through his raven hair. “Stubborn. Pig-headed. Wouldn’t listen to anyone. I begged him to come to California with me. I’ve done well with my investments. He didn’t have to die here alone, almost penniless.”
“But your father loved this place,” she protested. “And he gave of himself to many young people whose lives were changed because of him. He was rich in ways that really matter.”
Scott stared at her for a long moment, and then said sadly, “You haven’t grown up at all, have you, Allie? I can tell that you’re still caught up in the illusion that depriving yourself of all the good things in life is akin to holiness.”
“It would depend upon your definition of good things.”
The ring of a telephone in the hall stopped him from answering, and brought him to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m expecting a call.” He disappeared through the doorway.
She heard him answer the phone and say, “No, Mother, it’s all right, things are moving slower than I expected.”
Allie had never met Scott’s mother, Madeline. The Davidsons were divorced when both sons were small, but from the things Scott and Jimmy had said about their mom, Madeline was a no-nonsense, worldly businesswoman. Allie could tell from Scott’s end of the telephone that he was being pressured to leave the property in the hands of a Realtor and come back to California. She wondered where Jimmy was, and if he was as eager to get rid of the property as Scott and his mother were. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring so there must not be any Mrs. Scott Davidson.
While waiting for him to finish his telephone conversation, Allie got up from the couch and idly walked over to one of the bookcases. Drawing out a couple of photo albums that caught her eye, she remembered that Scott’s father loved to take pictures with his small camera.
Sitting back down on the couch, Allie started thumbing through one of the albums. She smiled at photos of a boyish Scott and grinning Jimmy as the boys grew with each summer visit. Three years younger than Scott, Jimmy idolized his older brother and Allie chuckled seeing their grinning faces as they held up a prize fish, or showed off by walking across the river on a fallen log.
In the second album, she found some pictures taken the summer when she and Scott were teenage counselors at the church camp. Glowing-faced young people she’d forgotten were pictured eating hot dogs, or squealing as they dipped their feet into the white-foamed stream. She quietly laughed at a photo of herself sitting on a log, her shoulder-length blond hair flying in every direction and her bare legs dangling in the water. There were a couple of photos of her and Scott walking hand in hand, and she remembered the midnight walk with Scott that ended with her first romantic embrace and kiss.
How
