Chapter One
To the uninitiated, my office looks like it’s been ransacked by a classroom of unruly kindergartners stuck indoors on a rainy day. Anyone who’s been around me long enough, however, knows this is all part of my organizational process.
Spread papers around floor.
Group them by categories only I would understand.
Find a place to store them until the papers turn yellow with age.
I’m terrified of throwing anything away in case some governmental entity or business decides to harass me for proof of something or other and I can’t provide it. Some people have nightmares about monsters or a violent death. The majority of my nightmares involve bureaucracy. Another one involves a talking Elmo doll and a blowtorch, but I keep that one close to the vest.
A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Funny. This is exactly how I left you last year.”
I spin around on my backside to greet my visitor. “You made it.”
Gloria Landry is the tallest short person I’ve ever met. If police were taking witness statements about her, people would describe the stout five-foot-two woman as an Amazon on cocaine.
“Sorry I’m late. My mother?—”
I wave her off. “You don’t need to explain. You’re here now.” I hop to my feet and give her a warm hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too, Cricket.”
Gloria is fifty-two, single, and always arrives at camp a couple days before I open for the season. She cleans in exchange for free room and board; otherwise, she couldn’t afford to come. The rest of the year, Gloria cares for her elderly mother, a task that is physically, emotionally, and financially draining for her. She lives for these two weeks at camp, a fact that makes me simultaneously happy and sad.
“Seriously, though. Still with the papers?” Gloria shakes her head in dismay. “You know you can scan them into your computer and toss the copies, right?”
“Where’s the fun in that? Then I can’t play The Floor Is Lava with all my essential paperwork.”
“I wouldn’t call any of that essential.”
I swipe a sheet of paper off the floor. “Are you telling me that the property tax bill in my grandfather’s name from 1988 isn’t a critical document? Sheesh. And you call yourself a friend.”
“When you hold on to things that aren’t important, it becomes harder to identify the things that are.”
I suck in a breath. “Why, Gloria Landry. You’ve missed your true calling as a fortune cookie writer.”
“I’ve missed all my callings.” She shrugs. “But at least I get to be here for the next two weeks and forget my real life.”
I hug her again. “This is your real life, too. Where’s Buffy?”
“Hold me a little tighter and you’ll figure it out.”
I let go and look down at her front pocket. “Snoozing away?”
“The car ride knocked her out. She travels like an infant.”
Buffy is Gloria’s 70-gram emotional support sugar glider. The animal is her constant companion, except when said companion panics, flies away, and needs to be tracked down by yours truly. It happens at least once every summer. Sometimes twice. It seems Buffy could do with her own emotional support animal.
“Are the cabins unlocked? I can get started.” Gloria is a whirling dervish with a mop. The cabins are spotless in the same amount of time it would take me to fill a bucket with water. I’m not exactly a sloth, but Gloria treats each cleaning opportunity as an outlet for the feelings she represses fifty weeks of the year.
“I haven’t had lunch yet. Are you hungry? We can eat together first.” I know Gloria, and there’s no way she stopped to eat on the drive here from Harrisburg. Anything that would delay her arrival is a hard pass.
“Is the kitchen stocked?”
I crack a smile. “Delivery came this morning.” I loop my arm through hers. “Chocolate chip brownie from Sweetie’s?”
“Not this year. My doctor suggested I cut back on saturated fats. Gotta get the bad cholesterol under control.” She pats her soft middle. “This is what happens when you pass fifty. You’ll see.” She looks me up and down. “What am I saying? Even in the glory days of my youth, I wasn’t built like you.”
