mother and little kids, including a new baby, at home. The rest of the summer was already booked for baby-sitting.
So the raft it would be, she decided, wading into the shallow water of Whitefish Lake. But distances were deceiving in the midday glare, and Kate wasn’t an experienced swimmer. Less than a yard away from the raft, she could barely keep her head above the water. Her legs seemed like lead weights, pulling her down, as her arms flailed the surface.
“For heaven’s sake, take my hand so I won’t have to come in after you.”
The command—really a peeved drawl—came from the raft, and Kate barely caught a glimpse of a bronzed arm reaching toward her as she went down for the second time. Her own arms kept thrashing but contact was made. A strong grip pulled her to the raft’s edge where a beautiful face, framed by an ear-length swoop of jet-black hair, loomed over her.
An angel’s face, Kate was thinking as she clung to the ladder at the side of the raft, and was suddenly glad she’d gone to confession before leaving for Limberlost.
“Catch your breath before you climb up,” the woman said. “I’ve just slathered myself with sunscreen, and I don’t want it to come off if I try to haul you out.” Then she disappeared from the edge and shifted toward the center of the raft.
Kate waited until she knew she could pull herself up on her own. When she finally rolled onto the warm, dry surface, she lay on her back, her chest heaving.
After a moment, the woman raised her head from the paperback she’d been reading and said, “I’m Joanna Barnes and you must be one of the Bronx kids.”
Kate shot up. “My name is Kate Reilly and I’m not one of the Bronx kids. I live in Queens.”
Joanna Barnes shrugged, turning her attention back to her novel. “Whatever,” she said.
THE ORGAN SWELLED to a crescendo as the minister walked toward a podium a short distance from Joanna’s casket. Kate rose with the others, reaching automatically for a hymn book and the page the minister directed the congregation to. But she could still see Joanna sprawling on a beach towel, apparently oblivious to the eleven-year-old kid gawking at her.
“ARE YOU RELATED to the people who run this place?” Kate asked when she’d caught her breath.
“My parents,” Joanna mumbled from behind her book.
Kate tried to connect the white-haired plumpish couple she’d met her first day with the beautiful woman in the bikini, but couldn’t quite do it. She swiped at a drop of water hanging from the tip of her nose. “So do you work here, then?”
The novel came down. “Hardly.” There was the faintest of smiles.
“I haven’t seen you before and I’ve been here a week.”
The crimson smile widened. “I don’t exactly hang out with the campers. But I used to work here when I was a kid. My parents have owned Limberlost for twenty years.”
“Did you like coming here when you were a kid?”
“We lived here year-round in those days.”
“You lived here?”
A peal of laughter burst from Joanna. “For several years—until I finally made my escape.”
“That’s what I’d like to do,” Kate muttered bitterly. “Make my escape.”
“It’s not that bad here…or is it? I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a kid in a godforsaken place like Limberlost.”
“The place itself isn’t that bad,” Kate admitted. “And neither are the counselors, except for Mary Lou Farris—or the ferret, I call her. Your parents seem pretty nice,” she added, not wanting to offend the person who’d saved her life.
“Then it’s the other kids,” Joanna guessed.
Kate nodded. “They all knew one another before they came here. And I’m the only one from Queens.”
Joanna shook her head. “Kids can be mean. Usually Mom and Dad try to get a mix from all over.”
“If I’m lucky, they’ll send me home soon, anyway.”
“You miss home that much?”
Kate pictured her foster mother walking wearily around the cluttered house, rocking the baby and snapping orders left and right. She herself would be chasing the two-year-old away from the family cat. She’d been in that particular foster home almost four months.
“No,” she finally mumbled.
“Maybe even Limberlost can look good compared to other places—and other people.”
Kate gave that some thought before asking, “Are you on a holiday here, too?”
“Not really. More like on leave. At the moment I’m unemployed and between marriages,” she said. “What my dad calls footloose and fancy-free.”
Kate wasn’t certain what the phrase meant, but she thought it a good one for the woman sitting next to her. The painted fingernails and matching toes seemed to go perfectly with the splashes of color on her bikini. Up close, Kate could see that her makeup was also perfect, which made her wonder how she’d made it to the raft without getting wet. Her eyes drifted past Joanna and spotted, for the first time, the tip of a paddleboat tied to the far side of the raft.
They sat in silence for a while. Then Joanna put her book down and, turning to Kate, said, “I’m sorry about lumping you in with those other kids. I can see now that you’re an entirely different type.”
That was when Kate decided Joanna Barnes was an okay person—for an adult.
THE MINISTER’S resonant baritone drew Kate from the past. He’d begun to speak about Joanna, and in spite of herself, Kate’s attention began to wander. Mainly because he wasn’t talking about the woman she’d known briefly for a week when she was eleven years old. He referred to the well-known fashion writer and columnist, world traveler, friend of many and wife. Kate’s ears pricked up at that. Had Joanna married again?
She peered discreetly around, trying to guess which somber-suited man in the congregation had been Joanna’s latest husband. Trouble was, the small church was full of black-suited men. In fact, she just realized, there seemed to be more men than women.
She wondered briefly if any of Joanna’s family were here, then remembered the reference in the obituary to Joanna’s late parents. She frowned, trying to recall their faces. The minister coughed, then, lowering his voice, alluded to the cause of Joanna’s death. He knew every euphemism for suicide, Kate thought. But his oblique references only revived the anger she’d been feeling since she’d read Joanna’s obituary in the New York Times three days before. No way, she’d fumed, would Joanna Barnes commit suicide. Not in a million years. And especially not just before their promised reunion—a promise made nineteen years before at Camp Limberlost.
AFTER THAT FIRST MEETING, Kate found herself swimming out to the raft every afternoon. Those few hours had saved Kate’s summer for her. The remaining week at camp flew by. Joanna talked about growing up in the country, laughing at Kate’s reference to it as “wilderness.”
