I scoop the animal out of my pocket and transfer her to Gloria. “On the contrary, her timing was impeccable. She gave our visitor a little gift.”
Gloria glances past me to where the Audi had been parked. “Was that the man who wants to buy the camp?”
I sigh. Can’t get anything past Gloria. “He works for the man who’s trying unsuccessfully to buy the land. LandStar doesn’t care about the camp.”
Gloria smiles her appreciation. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I can’t live without this place. It’s my oasis.”
I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know. It’s mine, too.”
In truth, the money would be helpful. My personal bank balance is so low that instead of a number, my statement yields a voice note from Whoopi Goldberg that says, “You in danger, girl.” But there’s no way I’m selling this land. Pops would roll over in his grave if he had one. Fine, his cremains would circle his hourglass like a drain. My family left me a legacy, and I fully intend to honor it.
“Most of the cabins are done. I’m going to break for lunch,” Gloria says.
“Thanks. I’ll eat with you, if you don’t mind.”
Gloria lights up. “Picnic table?”
“I’ll meet you there in five.” I duck into my office to grab my water bottle and the peanut butter and jam sandwich I’d stuck in the mini fridge.
I join Gloria at the picnic table that’s closest to the lake. She’s already tucked into her salad.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she says.
It is. And this view never ceases to amaze me. It changes by the hour as well as by the weather. Sometimes it’s moody and gray. Other times, with beams of sunlight bouncing off the water’s surface, it’s downright magical. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
“If they’re going to send someone else to plead LandStar’s case, at least they sent a good-looking one this time. Maybe if you keep saying no, they’ll get progressively hotter.”
I laugh. “I think they might’ve peaked with Mr. Marble.” I swill my cold water. “How’s your mom?”
Gloria’s face crumples. “Her memory is rapidly declining. To be honest, I feel guilty for coming this year. What if she doesn’t remember me by the time I get back?”
“Gloria, you deserve to have a life of your own. Your mom would want that for you, too.” Like me, Gloria is an only child with only child problems. There are no other family members to pitch in, and she can’t afford full-time care. She saves what she can to pay the home aides for the two weeks she spends at camp, which is why I’m willing to barter with her. I won’t deprive a woman of her only joy in life.
“I know.” Gloria closes her eyes to bask in the sun’s warm glow. “I’m so happy to be back, you have no idea. This year was harder.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how you do it.”
She opens her eyes and focuses on her salad. “Buffy helps.” She tugs a lettuce leaf from her container and holds it over her pocket. The sugar glider’s head sticks out to accept the offering.
“Any dates to speak of?” I ask.
Gloria blows a raspberry. “Please. You know I gave up on relationships years ago. It’s too challenging with Mom. At least you don’t have to worry about that.” She winces. “Sorry, that was thoughtless of me.”
“It’s okay, and you’re right. The definite upside to being an orphan is there’s no risk of aging parents to care for.” My mom died first—cancer when I was sixteen. That’s when my father began his downward spiral. I had a good relationship with my mom, but Dad and I didn’t tend to see eye-to-eye, which only worsened after my mom’s death. He was so different from his father. Sometimes it’s hard to believe one was raised by the other. Pops would be mortified to learn about his son’s years of gambling and general irresponsibility. It was a miracle the camp managed to stay afloat. If my father hadn’t suffered a heart attack and died five years ago, it probably wouldn’t have.
Gloria offers an encouraging smile. “This will be the best year yet, you’ll see.”
I choose to believe her.
* * *
My fingers clench the steering wheel as I drive south along the Blue Route toward Center City. I crank up the volume on Mozart’s “Sonata for Two Pianos.” My brother, the venerated surgeon, told me that classical music is a good way to reduce stress, so I immediately went home that night and created a playlist on Spotify. I only listen to it when I feel the need—and I definitely feel the need after my encounter with Miss Batshit Crazy.
Riggieri didn’t warn me that she was feisty and slightly off her rocker, only that she’d turned down his previous offer. Based on her response, it sounds like our client dangled more than one carrot. I wish I’d had all the information before I drove all the way there. In this traffic, I was in danger of missing a three o’clock meeting.
My phone bleeps and the screen on the dashboard lights up with the one person I’m not in the mood to hear from—Matt Lyman. Still, I answer. I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Hey, buddy,” His voice is as slick as the oil he uses in his hair. “How’d your meeting go?”
