Page 126 of Until Next Summer

But that’s a problem for another day.

My problem today is the battery of hulking yellow machines the construction crew started to move in. They aren’t even waiting for the body to get cold.

In a move that lives up to his rat bastard nickname, Jack Valentine is turning the whole ordeal into a dog and pony show. Tomorrow, he’s bringing in a photographer and a reporter to capture the passing of the torch. More like the destruction of his parents’ pride and joy.

After they sign the contract in the Lodge at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, they’ll ceremoniously break ground. After that—this is the real kicker—they requested that Cooper make a celebratory lunch. He said no, which I was happy about. But I was a little disappointed he didn’t take me up on my offer: the best blow job of his life if he’d serve them undercooked chicken. Unfortunately, his ethics slightly outweighed his rage. And his horniness.

My rage? It’s currently at the boiling point, seeing those bulldozers lined up like they’re standing sentry at the edge of the camp. The thought of their metal claws digging into this precious soil makes my stomach churn. I can’t imagine how devastated Jessie feels.

Speaking of my best friend, I’m on my way to deliver another round of snacks from Cooper: elevated ants on a log, chocolate-dipped celery topped with crunchy peanut butter and raisins.

“Knock, knock,” I say, opening the door to her cabin. “Whoa—what happened in here?”

Jessie is sitting on the floor, surrounded by document boxes. Her office, which was meticulous yesterday, looks like a paper war zone.

“I can’t find it.” Her voice quivers as she continues flipping through the loose-leaf pages.

“Let me help,” I say, taking a seat in front of another box. I open it to find stacks of manila folders, all filled to the brim with original and carbon copies of forms. So much history that will soon be shipped off and shredded. “What are we looking for?”

“Lola’s will,” Jessie says. “Something Dot said…I just need to see it.”

“We’ll find it,” I promise, even though I’m not sure what good can come from our search. The Valentines aren’t contesting Jessie’s right to a percentage of the sale—they’re the ones who told her about it.

But if she wants to find the will, we’ll find the will. Maybe it’ll give her the closure she needs.

Seven boxes and three paper cuts later, Jessie lets out a sigh of relief. “Here it is.”

I shove the box wedged between us out of the way and shift over next to her. Jessie feverishly flips the pages, skimming the legalese.

“Dot was right,” she whispers. “It says my name, not just the current camp director.”

She closes her eyes and holds the papers to her chest. I know she’s thinking of Lola and Nathaniel, wishing she could hug them instead of their will. The Valentines were a big part of my childhood, but they were part of Jessie’s family.

“Can I see?” I ask.

She hands it over, and I flip through the last will and testament of Charlotte “Lola” Valentine, which was amended a few weeks after her husband passed away. I skim past the Inventory of Legally Owned Assets, the lists of cherished possessions and charitable donations. I slow down when I get to the beneficiary designations.

Jack and Mary Valentine each own 49.5 percent of Camp Chickawah, with Jessica May Pederson getting the final one percent.

“Wait,” I say, staring at the document. “Did you know that you own one percent of the camp?”

Jessie shakes her head. “No, I just get one percent of the sale.”

I show her the paragraph. “Nope. You’re part owner. A teeny, tiny part, but still.”

“I had no idea,” Jessie says, nodding thoughtfully. “Jack’s been cagey about the will since they told me they were selling the camp. I guess this is why? Not that it matters at this point.”

We’re both quiet—Jessie wrapping her head around the news; me trying to figure out what Lola must have been thinking. Was she hoping Jessie and Mary would team up against Jack as majority owners? She had to know her daughter would never stand up to her son.

I’m searching the paragraph for something, anything, to make this make sense when a provision catches my eye.

It states that if any named beneficiary wants to keep using the land as a summer camp, the other two cannot sell.

The interested party has the right to keep the camp running, splitting the annual profits along the same split of percentages as the ownership.

The hair on my arms stands at attention as I read the line again, focusing on three little words: “any named beneficiary.”

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