worn baseball glove lay on the shelf where Allie had removed the photo albums, and in a nearby corner of the room stood several fishing rods where his dad had left them.
Scott put his hand on the mantel of the fireplace, and bent his head as his ears were suddenly filled with remembered sounds; his dad thumping out a hymn on the old piano, and Jimmy’s boyish voice on the stairs. His shoulders went slack.
You know what they would want you to do.
Finally, he lifted his head, turned around, and looked at Allie with those intense eyes of his. She drew in a prayerful breath as she waited for him to speak.
Please, God.
“All right, Allie. You win,” he said in a thick voice of surrender. “In memory of Dad and Jimmy, you can have your church camp one more time.”
“Thank you.”
She could have hugged him in joyful relief, but he was already walking toward the door, opening it, as if anxious to have her gone.
Chapter Two
Why did you agree to her request? Scott asked himself as he endeavored to put his thoughts in order after a restless night.
His time plan for turning the property over to a Realtor for immediate listing had been ambushed by a blue-eyed charmer from his past. When he’d heard Allie Lindsey’s voice on his answering machine, he’d felt an undefinable quiver of excitement, but as soon as she had stated her business, the joy had died. The few days he’d spent in the old house had been trying enough, but enduring a two-week church camp would only create a situation that he’d been trying to avoid. The last thing he wanted to do was to surround himself with a past that had promised so much, and delivered only heart-wrenching disappointment.
The camp was, also, far from being ready for twenty kids and their chaperones. His father’s death six weeks ago had put an end to any preparations for the summer. Scott had been slow in picking up the reins and canceling reservations because his father had not kept any kind of organized records. Fortunately, the Irish couple, Patrick and Dorie O’Toole, who worked for his dad had filled him in on the summer schedule.
The O’Tooles had helped Sam run the camp for more than fifteen years. They’d been friends with Scott since he was eleven years old, and all the summers that he and Jimmy had spent in Colorado, the couple had been almost family. The boys had spent lots of nights at their house, listening to Patrick play the guitar, and eating Dorie’s good cooking whenever they got the chance. Patrick was a raw-bone handyman who did everything from handling the camp’s maintenance to supervising exuberant youngsters during the summer and playing a mean game of chess with Sam. His chubby, outgoing wife, Dorie, ran the camp dining room, and her plump figure was a testimonial to her own cooking. She always had a ready hug and smile, and having children around her seemed to make up for the lack of her own. Scott knew how much his dad depended upon the O’Tooles to keep things in the camp running smoothly.
A sense of urgency suddenly overtook Scott. Right after the funeral, Scott had told them that he was closing down the camp and selling the property. They seemed to understand that it was the only thing he could do. Property values were at a premium in this mountain area because of the developing ski areas close by.
What if Pat and Dorie had already sold their own house across the river and moved away? How on earth will I get the camp ready by myself? he asked himself with a start. The last time he’d seen them at the funeral, the grief in their eyes and the slump of their shoulders had told him how much they loved his father. With so many other things on his mind, Scott hadn’t given them a thought—until now. With a jolt, he realized that he hadn’t seen either of them in the few days that he’d been back.
Throwing back the bed covers, he slipped into a pair of cords and a sportsman’s pullover. A valiant sun was breaking through the low, misty clouds as he left the house, and the promise of a lovely June day was in the offing. Breathing in deeply the high mountain air, he drew in pungent smells of pine resin and tangy cedar. He’d almost forgotten how beautifully clear and fresh everything looked with the sparkle of sunshine deepening nature’s tapestries. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing waters lapping and sucking over rocks in the swift-flowing river, and he remembered early morning fishing treks with his dad along the banks. They’d catch their breakfast, and the taste of fresh rainbow trout cooked in butter would always linger in his memory. He’d tried ordering trout in fancy Los Angeles restaurants, but the meal had always been a disappointment.
Just like life, he thought, and he stiffened against memories that taunted him. He should have handled everything through a Realtor. Coming back was a mistake, a big mistake.
He broke into an easy run and his footsteps echoed on the planked bridge as he crossed the river. Patrick and Dorie’s log house was built on the side of a hill on the opposite side of the river from the camp. He bounded up the roughly hewn steps, and knocked briskly on the thick pine door. Homemade chimes hanging from a porch rafter moved in the early morning breeze, making sounds like the muffled notes of an organ.
“Well, saints preserve us, look who’s here,” Dorie said, wiping her hands on her voluminous apron as she opened the door. “We were thinking that you were still in Californy.”
“I’ve been back a few days. I’m trying to go through some things at the house.” He knew his excuse was lame for not coming by and seeing them.
“Pat! Pat, we got company,” she called to her husband. Then she winked at Scott. “Sure, and I knew there was some reason for making a batch of buttermilk pancakes. It isn’t every day a handsome fellow comes calling.”
“You must have heard my stomach growling all the way here,” he teased back, his spirits suddenly made lighter by her laughter. He remembered all the times that he’d found comfort in her good humor. More than once through the years she’d put loving arms around a lonely boy who missed his mother. She’d never met Madeline Davidson, but Scott could tell Dorie didn’t hold much with a mother who could be away from her sons three months out of the year.
“Come on to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way.
Patrick was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a mug of coffee. He was a lanky fellow with a short, reddish beard that covered his bony chin, and a thatch of sandy-colored hair that never wanted to smooth down. There was a surprised lift to his eyebrows as he looked at Scott, but his expression wasn’t friendly like his wife’s. “We didn’t expect to see you in these parts again,” he said gruffly.
Patrick’s briskness made it clear that he didn’t look upon a visit from Scott as a cause for celebration. “What you come over for? Need some help tearing down the place? Can’t them high-flying land speculators bring in their own crews?”
The gravel in his voice warned Scott that he’d put himself in the enemy camp by deciding to sell out to investors. He knew that Pat was like a lot of people who had homes in the canyon. For years they’d fought to keep out any kind of modern developments. They didn’t like progress or change, and his father had been one of them.
“Now, Patrick,” Dorie said with a warning shake of her pancake ladle—she always called him by his full name when she was irritated with him. “Don’t you badger Scott. He’s just trying to do the right thing.”
“I’m here because I need yours and Dorie’s help,” Scott said frankly. He knew better than to try and outfox the Irishman. As plainly as he could, he told them about his visit from Allie Lindsey.
“Oh,
