“How much does each site rent for?” I ask.
“$50 a night.” Elinor grimaces. She knows the price is too low.
“And the cottages?”
“$150.”
“Couldn’t we charge more?”
“Yes, but the cottages are quite rundown. If we fix them up, we could easily charge double.”
Or more,I think.
“What do you think of glamping?” I ask. Our current plans for the resort convert the entire campground into safari tents for glamping.
Elinor makes a face. “I’d rather not. This is the only space that would work for that. And I would hate to see Norland Park lose tent camping. Campers and backpackers are essential to our brand.”
“I’m not sure if I’m clear on what our brand is?”
Elinor doesn’t answer right away. She looks up through the layers of redwood branches to the pale blue sky. Nearby a stream gurgles through a shady ravine of ferns and moss-covered stones.
“Remember,” she begins, “that summer when we first met? How the days were long, but never long enough? I want to give our guests that—a timeless escape from the daily stress of life. I want to give people rest and hope and maybe room to dream. And I want it to be affordable so working class families can save up and vacation here.” As she speaks, Elinor has that same far-off look I observed when she was painting. “And that’s why we need camping, not glamping. The Norland Park I know and love is affordable for your average family. And this might come as a shock to you, Mr. Ferrari, but $150 a night for cottages is still too expensive for a lot of people.”
“Well, this might shock you,” I say playfully, “but my dad is a school teacher. And his wife is a dental hygienist, raising two kids. Basically the definition of middle class.”
“I didn’t know that,” Elinor says, surprised. “I’m still not convinced that qualifies you as an expert.”
“True.” I laugh at myself. “My monthly dinner with my dad hardly makes me an expert on his finances. If he were struggling, I’d be the last to know. When we go out, he always pays for dinner, no matter how often I offer. He’s determined to make up for the first ten years of my life when he was basically a deadbeat dad.”
“Are you close?” Elinor asks with real interest.
“Surprisingly so. It feels unfair because my mom did the heavy lifting raising me. But I relate more with my dad. I’m afraid I’m more like him than my mom or grandpa.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m a bit of a disappointment to them,” I say ruefully.“They were always baffled by me. I’m sorely lacking their competitive streak. It was a mystery to them how I kept my temper when I lost board games, and they could never understand how I was content with my A-minuses and B-pluses. And no matter how much they wheedled and coaxed me, I absolutely refused to run for student government.”
“You, a disappointment? That’s ridiculous!” Elinor’s rush to my defense is gratifying. Her eyes flash with adorable outrage. A stray lock of her hair spirals in the wind and I almost lift a hand to tuck it behind her ear, but then I remember our precarious situation—and the inconvenient fact that I’m sort of seeing someone. I jam my hands in my pockets to keep me from doing something foolish.
“Maybe not a true disappointment. But suffice it to say I’ve fallen short of high expectations.”
There’s something about Elinor that makes me want to tell her everything that has ever happened in my life. I find myself drifting toward her like water running to the ocean. Every so often my eyes land on her soft pink mouth, and my mind flashes back to that moment last night when I came this close to kissing her. Not kissing her was definitely the right call, but I still regret it. For a second, I lose the thread of the conversation entirely. I drag my attention back to what she is saying.
“I mean, you went to Dartmouth and Wharton. That’s not exactly shabby.”
“No, but not impressive enough for my mom,” I explain as we walk up a steep shady road. “She hates that I haven’t started my own business or become active in politics. At the very least I should have married someone important by now. None of that interests me. She wants me tobesomebody, while all I want is to be happy.”
“She sounds...” Elinor pauses, probably looking for a polite adjective. “Interesting.”
“My mom is a force of nature. She’s not nurturing and warm like your mom. I don’t think she’s ever made a batch of cookies—let alone fried chicken. But honestly, I’m lucky to have her. She and my dad were barely dating when she found out she was pregnant with me. At the time, my dad didn’t handle it well. So my mom raised me on her own while going to school and starting her own business. Can you imagine? She was just twenty when I was born. We both lived with my grandpa. So I basically had a grumpy old multi-millionaire as my nanny.”
“This explains so much about you,” she says, sounding delighted. “It’s why you feel like such a throwback.”
“Throwback?”
“Like you’re from another time. The way you dress so formally, how you carry yourself—even some of the words you use.”
“I suppose I am a bit old fashioned. I worshiped my grandpa. I try to emulate his best qualities—–his good manners, informed mind, and sharp wit. But I’m well aware that the man was flawed—he had plenty of faults.”
