“Yes. I remember that from Lisa.”
“That was part of the deal, that the developers would build a house for my family, which they did. I’ve lived there my whole life.”
I nod.
“But the other half of the land was the farm. We had a barn and animals and acres of forest and beach. It was too much, and my father felt a lot of it was going to waste, but he didn’t want to disrespect his parents by selling it all off. My mother had the idea to build a camp on the land. That way we could keep the farm but utilize the other space. That was back in 1960, when I was still just a girl.”
“Those pictures.” I point to the framed old 8x10 pictures above the fireplace on the far side of the Lodge. “Are those of your family?” The pictures in question had been a fixture above the fireplace for as long as I could remember. The one in the middle is of a large teepee with a group of children posed in front of it, and the other two are just of groups of people in outdated clothing.
“My mother, Dorothy, is in the one by the tee-pee. The others are pictures from that first summer. She had such grand plans,” Dottie says longingly.
“What happened?”
“She passed away suddenly over the winter of the following year. I was only eight years old. From then on, it was just me and my dad. He didn’t know the first thing about kids, and didn’t want to run the camp, but couldn’t bear to consider parting with it, since it was my mom’s dream.”
I blow on my cocoa before taking a sip.
“The one thing my dad did well was hire people. So, he found the first camp director, Kenny Porter, who stayed with us for seven years until he retired. His son, Charles, took over for the next dozen or so years, but he got injured in the great barn fire of 1979. Then he hired Pat O’Donnell. You remember him, don’t you?”
Remember him? He was like family.“Of course.”
“Pat stayed with us for 40 years, long after my dad passed away in 1998. The camp was left to me, but I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to run it. I just liked to cook, so I stayed in the kitchen, where I was comfortable.” She smells the air. “In fact, I think our cake is ready.” Dottie smiles, rises from the table and heads back over to the oven. She removes the pan of simple butter cake with cinnamon sugar topping and sets it on the stovetop. She uses the spatula to expertly maneuverit onto a plate, and she brings it, along with a small stack of dishes and forks, over to the table.
“Care for some?” she asks Brett, who nods happily.
Dottie serves up a square of steaming cake to Brett and another to me, warning us to give it some breathing time to cool down before indulging. She dishes out a third piece for herself and settles back into her chair. “Where was I?” she wonders aloud.
“You were saying that you didn’t know how to run the camp.”
Dottie snorts. “That’s for sure. I hadn’t the faintest clue. But I was lucky, because Pat was so good, and he stayed with us right up until the cancer got him that last year.”
“Pat had cancer?”
“Skin cancer. He didn’t want to stop working, but Callie begged him. She just wanted him to slow down. And I’m sure she was right. Him finally retiring gave him a chance to be with his grandbabies and rest a bit.”
“Hmm,” I grunt. “I had no idea.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, of course. Pat was always quite stoic that way. Private about private things. He saved all his energy to be a leader here.” She takes a careful bite of cake, closing her eyes to savor the perfect balance of butter, vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon. “When he left, this place unraveled. There was too much to be done, too much to be fixed, and I didn’t have the skill of being able to hire the right people like my dad did. I did my best, though, for six years. But this year, I decided it was time. It’s just too much for me. So, I put the camp on the market.”
“What about Lisa? Didn’t she have an opinion?”
Dottie shrugs. “She moved down south. Her husband’s got family down in Florida, and they’re all very close. And he’s in hedge funds,” she adds. “That’s a far cry from managing a summer camp.”
I nod sadly. “I can’t believe this whole entire time I didn’t know you were theownerhere.”
“Oh, dear, I never wanted anyone to know. I certainly didn’t feel as though I was doing the job. Not like my father did, certainly. I just knew how to keep people fed. Were you happy with the food?”
I take a forkful of the perfect cake in my mouth. Chewing, I say, “Always.”
She smiles, satisfied with my answer. “So then, now that the cat’s out of the bag, tell me. What brings you out here?”
“Actually,” I swallow, “I called the realtor about a week and a half ago.”
“Wait. That was you? I remember he gave me a message about a young family who grew up out here. The father was ill?”
I blush. “It wasn’t entirely true. I’m sorry, Dottie.”
“Oh. So, he’s not sick? Well, thank God for that.”
