“If you’re going to give me crap about being famous, I’m going to live the famous life. Drive, Jeeves.”
She snorts. “Okay, Tabs. You are not super famous. You are medium famous. Now sit in the front.”
“Not even medium famous. I’m known only by kitchen nerds.”
“Tabs, that lady—”
“Must be a kitchen nerd. Say it.”
“All right, Tabitha. You’re not famous at all.”
I scramble out of the car and hop in the front seat.
She shuts the back door, then comes around and climbs behind the wheel and grins at me before merging us into the exiting airport traffic.
Her hazel eyes show softer lines than the last time I saw her over dinner with her husband, Ben—another former camp counselor—in DC several months before.
“You look good,” I say. “Rested.”
She shakes her head. “Working harder than ever, but I’m happy. That’s what you’re seeing.”
“Tell me about it, and start with this car. Major upgrade from the Rust Bucket.” That’s what we’d named the battered old Ford van that had chugged in and out of the camp all summer, doing runs into town.
“This is our personal vehicle, not the camp vehicle, if that clears things up for you. The Rust Bucket kicked the bucket a couple of years ago, we heard. Our campers will get a preowned ten-passenger van with air conditioning, so that’s something.”
“Air conditioning? Fancy,” I tease.
“That’s nothing. Wait until you see the kitchen. And your guest quarters. We should be charging people five-star hotel prices.”
I love hearing the pride in her voice. Natalie and Ben’s memories of Camp Oak Crest are uncomplicated, and they’ll be perfect as the new owners. “I can’t wait.”
“You won’t even recognize it. We’ve got big plans. I’m dying to give you a tour.”
We talk easily all the way back to the camp. Natalie has always been that way, an undemanding presence who can sit with you quietly or keep up a conversation as the situation requires.
She was doomed—um, destined—to become a therapist. Watching her face light up as she describes the activities she and Ben are planning make her look like the girl I met a million years ago when we’d both come to Oak Crest as nervous first-year campers.
It feels like old times already, so when we turn off for Camp Oak Crest an hour later, I’m not prepared for the pang in my chest at the sight of the updated camp sign.
“Like it?” Natalie asks. “Our investment partner has an in-house graphic designer, and she did it.”
I don’t like it, but it’s not the designer’s fault. It’s larger than the old one, using the kitschy font from the national park signs on a silhouette of oaks. It’s stylish but inviting…and nothing like the slightly crooked weather-beaten sign that had welcomed us back to camp every year.
“It looks great,” I say. Which is true. I also don’t ask point-blank about their “investment partner.”
It’s Sawyer. I know it’s Sawyer. I’ve google-stalked him enough over the last nine years to know that he’s the only person who would have both the money and interest to fund their Oak Crest takeover. But we don’t bring up Sawyer…ever. He’s Ben’s best friend, and I never want to make Natalie feel like she has to choose.
I brace myself to crunch onto the dirt road leading down to camp, but it’s paved now, and the ride is smooth. That makes my chest feel weird too. Will my whole week here be me missing the way things used to be?
The view is the same, tall evergreens and oaks shutting out the late May sun except for a few spots where light dapples the road. A hush falls, quieting everything but the soft hum of the engine.
As if she understands, Natalie doesn’t say anything and lets me enjoy the forest as we wind farther into it. The gentle curves of the road carry us ever-so-slightly down until it opens into the familiar bowl of Camp Oak Crest.
“Wow.” I peer through the windshield and try to take it all in. Everything is where I remembered it: the office off the parking lot, the mess hall behind it, the flagpole flying the American flag with the seal of the Virginia Commonwealth below it. But they’re all glowed-up versions of themselves. Shiny green roofs gleam over freshly painted red doors, each building hewn from new lumber.
Natalie climbs down to get my bags from the back. I open my door and step out, taking in the fresh earth and pine smell of Oak Crest.
“Tabitha!”
