Page 24 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

It’s silly to believe that a clock can detect true love, even if the guy who created it was supposedly a genius. And no one really agrees on what the tolling of the bell means anyway. Climax kids love to scare each other with Klaus Clijsters ghost stories, claiming that when the bell rings, he sees whatever naughty thing you’re up to. Mayor Diaz has pushed the true love legend, but most reasonable Climaxians recognize that story for what it truly is: a marketing angle.

It’s just a broken clock, and I should be thankful that its random clanging kept me from embarrassing myself. Even if I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss since the moment I walked—or possibly ran—away from Josh.

Just because it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever experienced does not mean that he and I are meant to be together. He’s a widower who is probably still grieving, for fork’s sake. He has two children he needs to focus on. He probably wouldn’t be interested in anything other than a fling, and I can’t afford to get my heart broken all over again.

Apparently, I haven’t entirely convinced myself that I should ignore all signs pointing to Josh because the minute I get to work, I stick my head into Leia’s office and blurt, “Have you ever had the Climax Clock go off on you?”

I’m surprised when she instantly answers in the affirmative, but before I can ask for details, she snorts and adds, “But that relationship didn’t last, so the clock’s love legend is obviously a fairy tale.”

Before she can ask why I’m asking, I make an excuse and hightail it to my office. But the moment my seat hits my office chair, I find a hole in her logic. Travis and Leia may not have stayed married for long, but they will be connected forever by their twins. So maybe the clock does know when two people are fated to share their lives.

It just doesn’t say how.

Or maybe you have to do the work to make the fairy tale come true.

The next day, when Wanda buzzes me with a call from Josh Harmon, I take it. But instead of asking about children’s programming or addressing the kiss I can’t stop thinking about, he asks, “I don’t suppose CPR has any sudden openings in its day camp?”

There’s worry in his tone, and I immediately switch to problem solving mode. “We do, but Percy’s a little young. The cutoff is five.”

“I wasn’t asking for Percy. My daughter Mabel is six. Things have been so bad at the camp she’s been going to that they gave up and refunded my money.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“It’s not Mabel, at least not in any bad way. I think it was just a poor fit. To me it sounded great. It’s just outside of town and they have all these outdoor activities like fishing and rock climbing. But for her, it was one disaster after another, from getting hives after being stung by a bee to getting a fish hook stuck in her thumb. All topped off by some mean girl drama.”

My heart squeezes in sympathy for the little girl. “Poor thing.”

“When I checked earlier in the summer, CPR’s camp was full. But you have openings now?”

“Our prices are much lower than the private camps, so we fill up fast. But at the end of August, there’s a big drop off when the summer people go back to Manhattan or Albany or wherever.” I click open our current camp roster. “You said Mabel is six?”

Clicking between the upcoming week’s staff list and the camper list tells me that it’ll be tight, but of course I can’t say no. “We lost some of our college-aged counselors, but I could take one little girl who sounds like she needs a positive camp experience.”

“The thing is, she’s just not outdoorsy. Or athletic, really.”

“Got it. She’ll be on the Leia track, then.” I create a record for Mabel and begin to copy and paste contact info from Percy’s.

“Leia as in the CPR director?”

“Yes, but it’s not like she’s a counselor or anything. Before kids start camp, they rank the activities by interest. For the most part, I find they divide themselves in two groups. I call them Leias and Travises. Leias are mostly indoors doing imaginative or learning activities; Travises are mostly outside playing sports. I say mostly because I make the Leias go outside for some fresh air and the Travises come inside for a break.”

“What do the Leias do?”

“I’m going to send you a questionnaire to fill out when we hang up, so you’ll see what’s offered, but it depends on the skill sets of the summer hires. Like, this year we have improv and puppetry; last year we had drumming. But there’s always art, crafting, library visits, puzzles, board games… things like that.”

“What do you teach?”

“Oh, I don’t teach. I’m the administrator.”

“But you teach Playgroup.”

“That’s just because it was my mom’s program, and I’d helped her out a lot over the years. So when we needed someone to take over, I was the best candidate. Even though I really have no business doing it.”

“Why? You’re great at it.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but I’m not a parent, nor did I study child development. I just have my mom’s notes. And I’ve done a lot of research since I took it on,” I add, to make sure he knows I’m not just winging it. And it was a gradual process, really. I went from assisting my mom with any heavy lifting, to subbing occasionally when she didn’t feel well, to taking over the class because she just didn’t have it in her anymore.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom. Is she…” He lets the question hang in the air, but there’s an empathetic wince in his tone.

---