Page 103 of Until Next Summer

“That’s an interesting idea,” Mary says, so quietly I barely catch it.

I turn to her. “You could join the co-op. It would mean a lot to everyone if we had a Valentine on the board.”

And if Mary doesn’t want to sell, we’d only need the co-opto purchase half the camp, which would reduce the risk for our members.

“There’s no way,” Jack snaps. “You can forget it.”

“But why?” Hillary asks. “Why does it matter to you who purchases the property?”

“First off, if I back out of the contract, I’ll have to pay a penalty—”

“Which we already said we’re prepared to cover,” I cut in, but Jack goes on as if he hasn’t heard me.

“Secondly, I’m selling to a developer that’s going to put this place on the map,” he says, tapping his finger on the table between us. “Make it an important destination.”

“It already is an important destination,” I protest. “And we’re going to preserve it for future generations. It’s what your parents always talked about.”

I direct the last part at Mary; she’s about to respond when Jack shoots her a glare, and she shrinks back in her seat.

Jack then turns his glare on me. “You don’t need to tell me what my parents always talked about—I know very well. Everything in their lives revolved around this damn camp! As for the current buyer underpaying me?” He leans forward, his small eyes locked onto mine. “You don’t have all the information about this sale.”

Hillary and I exchange glances.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“As part of the contract, Mary and I are each keeping a prime piece of property. The plans for my lake house are already underway—it’s being designed by a world-renowned architect whose work is regularly featured inArchitectural Digest,” he says proudly. “I’ll finally feel at home in this place!”

My heart sinks.

“Isn’t there anything we can do to change your mind?” I say, desperate. “You know how much this place meant to your parents. Do you really think they’d be okay with you selling it?”

I glance between the two siblings, panic rising in my chest. Mary’s eyes are shining with tears, but Jack’s jaw is set. My heart plummets into my stomach. All the time we’ve spent on this plan, wasted.

“The decision has been made,” Jack says. He wipes his mouth and leans back, waving at Zac. “Take us back to the dock, please. Now.”

“Mary,” I say to her, “is there any way—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking down. “I can’t.”

We wait in awkward silence as Zac pulls the anchor up and navigates the sailboat back to the dock. I’m struggling to contain my emotions, refusing to break down in front of Jack Valentine. Under the table, Hillary grabs my hand, and I concentrate on the feeling of her warm palm against mine.

As soon as we reach the dock, Jack heads off, followed by Mary, who trails after him like a sad duckling.

I look at Hillary. Her face is white; she looks as stunned and devastated as I feel. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I really thought—”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. My throat is so tight I can barely get out the words. “I—I need a minute. Okay?”

I stumble off the boat, onto the deck, and away.

—

Tears flood my eyes as I take the path that leads north, past the boys’ cabins, before diving into the wooded, undeveloped part of the property. It hits me all over again that this won’tbe undeveloped for long—a year from now, most of these trees, some of them a hundred years old, will be gone. Wiped away. Along with everything else.

Stepping off the path, I rush through the trees, branches catching on my clothes and hair. A sob collects in my throat and my knees feel like they’re going to buckle, so I lean against a tree, wrap my arms around myself, and cry.

It’s over.

I will never welcome another group of children to camp. I’ll never tell another ghost story to a wide-eyed group of eight-year-olds, never take the fourteen-year-olds on their overnight backpacking trip, never cook tinfoil dinners in the firepit with the new counselors during training week. This place, these experiences, are an essential part of my soul.

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