“I think you've got something there," John Claypool said to Bob. "When Sam and I were kids, our folks sent us to camp for a couple summers and it was great!”
Sam, precise and tidy in his blazer, tie, and city-neat hair, just cocked an eyebrow.
John caught the look and said, "Yeah, I know you didn't like it as well as I did, but you were always a brainy kid, more interested in schoolwork than a good tussle with the boys."
“The 'boys' were savages," Sam said coldly.
Sam's wife, Marge, leaped in to avert controversy, as if by long habit. "This camp plan isn't just for boys, is it?" she asked too brightly.
Bob Rycraft answered. "We're hoping for two sessions. Either one for boys and one for girls, or possibly two mixed sessions — depending on a lot of factors."
“Like what?" Eileen Claypool said with a suggestion of a leer.
“Like the room arrangements," Bob said, apparently missing the leer. "You can't physically lock the kids up to keep the boys and girls apart. I'm sure there are fire regulations about that, and if there aren't, there should be. If the boys and the girls came at the same time, we'd have to pay for extra staff just to make sure they weren't sneaking out and meeting in the woods at night."
“On the other hand, how many of the girls are going to want to go camping if boys aren't involved?" Shelley asked.
Jane was on the point of echoing this sentiment when she realized she'd somehow slopped some gravy on her sleeve when she passed it to John Claypool. Since she'd brought a minimum of clothes, she thought she'd better wash it out. "Where's the rest room?" she said quietly to Benson, who was sitting at her end of the table.
“Next to the front desk," he replied.
She excused herself and went to wash out the cuff of her blouse. When she returned through the main lobby area, she noticed an older woman sitting by the fireplace. Wondering if this was Liz Flowers and not particularly eager to rejoin the group wrangling over sexual separation of teens, Jane approached the other woman and introduced herself.
“I'm Edna Titus, Benson's mother," the woman said. "You look chilled, Jane. Sit here with me for a minute."
“Gladly," Jane said, putting her hands out to the fire.
“Are you enjoying yourself?" Edna Titus asked.
“Oh, yes. But I'd underestimated my responsibility. I guess the word 'Wisconsin' has always meant `vacation' to me. This is a lovely place."
“It is. We've been here about ten years, and I still wonder at the beauty. You're not a smoker, are you?"
“I'm afraid I am," Jane admitted. "I've been trying to stop for years and I can manage on about five cigarettes a day, but go berserk on any fewer."
“Oh, good! Somebody to be sinful with," Edna said. "This fireplace has such a nice draw that the smoke goes right up if you sit close enough.”
She rose from her chair, sat on the raised flagstone hearth, and drew a battered pack of cigarettes from her sweater pocket. Jane studied her as Edna searched for a lighter. She was a tall, rangy woman who had probably never been pretty, but had an air of handsome dignity. Her gray hair was pulled into a casual knot on top of her head, her slacks and striped shirt were well worn and well kept. She was a woman who cared about her appearance, but not excessively so. She finally found her old-fashioned wick lighter, lit Jane's cigarette, then her own, and said, "So. .? What do you think?"
“Of what?"
“Of the chances the school board and city council will contract with Benson.”
Jane felt instinctively this wasn't a person who could be tactfully lied to. "I have no idea. I really haven't been involved in the discussion until tonight: I assumed it was all but a done deal and we were just here to give a final approval, but now I'm not so sure.”
Edna nodded. "Thanks for your honesty. Oh, it looks like our stragglers have arrived," she said as headlights swept across the front door. "I need to get their dinners ready. Would you mind greeting them?”
She hurried back to the kitchen. Jane put out her cigarette and went to the door. A tall, stately black woman with very short hair and a red, fringed poncho was coming across the parking lot with long, determined strides. She stepped onto the porch and took Jane's hand in an almost painfully firm grasp. "I'm Liz Flowers," she said. "You must be Jane Jeffry. And this is my husband—" She turned around and realized she was alone. "Al? Have you lost yourself in the woods already? Where are you?"
“Just coming, hon." Al emerged from the darkness. He was taller and much darker skinned than Liz, and considerably heavier. Jane thought he looked like a Masai warrior who'd let his weight get out of hand.
“The owner's mother is warming up your dinner," Jane said. "Come on inside."
“See, Al? I told you that you wouldn't have to starve," Liz said. "You didn't need to stop and get that packet of Oreos. Everyone else is here, I guess?" she added to Jane, who was holding the door open. "Thanks.”
Jane trailed along, bemused by the couple. Liz headed straight for the dining room without a moment's hesitation, as if she had an internal compass. She greeted those she knew, introduced herself to everyone else, told Al where to sit, and took Benson's now vacant place at the end of the table. Liz was forceful, energetic, and brisk.
Al Flowers appeared to be a mellow man happily caught in her force field. He gazed around the room, shaking his head slowly in approval. "Nice place," he said, smiling vaguely.
“Well, of course it's nice," Liz said. "We knew that from the brochures. Now, what's the plan?" she demanded of the others. She hauled a large tote bag out from under her colorful poncho and plunged her hand into it. "I've made some notes of things we need to look at, and propose that at least two people, working independently, evaluate each.""Now, Lizzie," Al said softly.
Amazingly, she stopped talking for a second, and stashed the notebook. "Okay, okay. But we have limited time and shouldn't be wasting it."
“There's plenty of time, Liz." He had a deep, rumbly voice.
Benson came through the kitchen doors with a tray of desserts just as Marge Claypool screamed.
Four
"There There was a face at the window!”
Marge was white with fear and embarrassment at having made a scene.
“Must have been Lucky Smith," Benson said an- grily. "I'm going to call the sheriff right now and see if Lucky can be watched more carefully. This is trespassing at the least and I won't have it!"
“No, no! Don't call the sheriff. Please," Marge said. "I don't want to make trouble for anyone."
“Marge is right," her husband, Sam, said. "It's late and we're all tired and we'd be up half the night if you call and get the sheriff out here.”
Benson unwillingly agreed, but added, "He really is harmless. Obnoxious and distasteful, but harmless. I'm sorry he upset you, but don't let it spoil your dessert. It's my wife, Allison's, special recipe."
“Your wife?" Jane asked.
“Right. Allison's a little under the weather tonight and let the cook make dessert, but she'll be up and around tomorrow.”
The dessert was divine — a shortcake that nearly floated off the plate, crushed raspberries, and real clotted cream. Jane wasn't hungry after her big dinner, but she polished off dessert and barely restrained herself from licking the plate.
A couple of "Now, Lizzie's" from Al kept them from enduring an extra hour of planning sessions, which Lizzie dearly wanted to inflict on them, but it was still nearly ten o'clock when they started back to their cabins. Without anyone mentioning it openly, they agreed to move out in a group. Marge's fright had gotten under everyone's skin and made them all realize how far they were from their usual habitat.
“Benson and Allison," Jane said quietly to Shelley as they walked along the road, all four Claypools in a bunch in front of them, and the Flowerses following with Bob Rycraft. "I once dated a guy named Jan, but I refused to marry him because I didn't want to go through life as half of 'Jane and Jan.' "
“You're making that up," Shelley said.
“How'd you know?"
“Al, will you keep your flashlight pointed at the road?" Liz demanded. "You're going to trip and hurt yourself.”