Page 2 of Until Next Summer

I’ve spent every summer at Camp Chickawah since I was eight years old. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, splitting custody fifty-fifty because they both “loved me so much.” I believe them—but the fact is, packing up and moving to a different house each week does a number on a child’s sense of stability. It’s not only adjusting to a different home—it’s an entirely different culture. Different food in the fridge, different neighbors, different rules and expectations. Every week, just as I’d settled in at one home, I’d have to readjust all over again.

Which is why that first summer at camp felt revolutionary. Eight whole weeks sleeping in the same bed. Associating with the same people, following the same routine. Camp was the stable home I’d never had. Every summer I returned, and when I was sixteen, I applied for the counselor-in-training program, where I was able to teach and mentor the younger campers.

More than anything, I wanted to become a real counselor during my summer breaks in college. My best camp friend and I were going to do it together, but in the end, she bailed on me. It was painful—the kind of hurt that takes years to heal—but I took the job anyway. When I graduated (with a bachelor’s in recreation administration—yes, it’s a real degree), Nathaniel and Lola offered to keep me on as an assistant director, one of the few year-round positions at Camp Chickawah. When they retired, I became head director.

Nathaniel and Lola were more than my mentors—they were like an extra set of grandparents who instilled in me the values of hard work and integrity, who taught me the importance of giving our campers a place to learn skills, make friends, and grow. Even though they’ve passed away, itfeels like they’re still with me. And like Dot said, I think they’d be proud.

An hour later, I’m pulling the canoe onto the shore when I hear footsteps. Turning, I see Dot and two other people: Jack and Mary, Nathaniel and Lola’s son and daughter. He’s short and stocky, with his dad’s square shoulders, and she’s short and soft, like her mother. They inherited the camp, but neither of them has any interest in running it, so they’ve left it in my hands.

“Hi!” I say, putting my earbuds away. “So nice to see you both. What brings you to camp?”

Jack gives his sister a quick glance. “We’re wrapping up Mom and Dad’s estate. Can we talk?”

—

“You’re selling the camp?” I say, dumbfounded.

The three of us are sitting in the Lodge, a rustic two-story building overlooking the lake.

“The camp hasn’t made a profit in years,” Jack says, which of course I know. But making money was never Nathaniel and Lola’s goal.

“But—but it’s been in your family since 1914!” I protest. “Parents depend on this place for their kids each summer.”

Mary gives me a sad smile and her eyes crinkle around the edges, just like Lola’s. “I’ve tried to find a buyer who wants to keep operating it, but no one’s interested—”

“I could reach out to the camp community,” I say, my voice tinged with desperation. I’m part of a huge online group of summer camp directors throughout North America. There has to be someone who understands how important this place is. How irreplaceable.

Jack shakes his head. “Mary’s already tried that.”

“I’d buy Jack out if I could,” Mary says. “But there’s no way I can afford it—”

“And your health, Mary,” Jack cuts in.

Mary closes her mouth and nods. “Yes. Well, that too.”

I don’t know what they’re referring to, and it doesn’t feel appropriate to ask. But Mary looks thinner than I remember, the shadows under her eyes deeper.

Panic is rising in my chest. This can’t be happening.

“So…what does this mean?” I ask.

Mary and Jack exchange glances again. Mary’s eyes fill with tears, like she’s silently pleading with him, but Jack gives a shake of his head before turning to me.

“We’re listing the property as residential real estate,” Jack says, his voice brisk. All business.

I know what this means—I’ve seen it happen throughout our area. Luxury vacation developments, condos, and town houses crowding the lakefront, rustic cottages torn down to make way for huge, fancy lake houses.

“Of course, you’ll get a portion of the sale, Jessie,” Mary says brightly.

I startle. “Wait—what?”

Mary turns to her brother. “I thought you sent her a copy of the will, Jack?”

“I’ll send it when I get home,” Jack says, shooting his sister a peeved glance. Then, to me: “You get one percent. Should be a tidy sum with a sale this large.”

He seems offended by this, as if losing a fraction of his own profit is a profound injustice.

For my part? I don’t care about the money. I’m not sure I even want it—it would feel tainted somehow, though it was thoughtful of Nathaniel and Lola to think of me.

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