Page 85 of Until Next Summer

“Sure.”

I do a double take. “Really? You feeling okay?”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Is this a bad time to ask if you’d write poems on demand to raise money?”

“I don’t write poetry.”

I hang up my life jacket and face him. His eyes dip down my body, snagging on my chest. But then he clears his throat and takes a step back.

“Oh, it can’t be that difficult,” I say. “Go ahead, make one up about me.”

“There once was a camper named Jessie,” he says.

I smile. “Starting off strong.”

“With hair in two braids, never messy.” He gives one of my braids a tug, making my heart flip. “She paddles at dawn, and listens to songs…”

“Okay?”

“And wears a life jacket, no stressy.”

I grimace. “Yikes. That last line could use some work. But since we don’t have anyone else, you’re hired. See you there!”

—

The art show is a hit: all our campers from this week attend, and some from prior weeks return to show off their projects or purchase others. Everyone’s milling about on the big lawn, munching on Cooper’s baked goods (also sold to benefit our co-op). Dot invited her sweetie, Yvonne, back up; they’re holding hands and beaming like two people who never got the chance when they were teenagers.

Hillary, who has spent the past few days running around like a headless chicken, now looks relaxed and relieved.

“It’s going so well!” I say, walking over to her.

She beams. “Thank you!” Inclining her head toward him, she adds, “And it looks like Luke’s poems are a hit.”

He’s sitting under a canopy, surrounded by elderly women. For the first time this summer, he seems at ease. Maybe even cheerful.

“Has anyone told you that you look like a young Paul Newman?” one woman says to him. The other ladies murmur their agreement.

“I’ve never heard that in my life, but thank you,” Luke says, his eyes twinkling.

“When I was young,” a third lady says, “everyone said I looked like Elizabeth Taylor.”

“I can see that,” Luke says, smiling. It’s a genuine smile, teeth showing, the corners of his eyes crinkling, so different from the tiny, guarded smiles he’s given me. Half the ladies visibly swoon. “Now, what’s your name?”

“Nora Burbridge,” the woman says, and Luke starts working on her poem.

—

Later that evening, after a delicious dinner by Chef Cooper, the staff—plus Luke—work together to clean up, putting away tables and chairs. Zac and Zoey peel off to the lake, where some campers are taking a sunset kayak ride. Dot and Yvonne go on a walk; Cooper heads to the kitchen, and Hillary goes with him. Mr. Billy’s wandering around with his trash picker-upper, grumbling about how litterbugs never change.

Which means it’s just me and Luke. He’s sitting at a picnic table, scribbling in his notebook. He must have gone back to his cabin to get Scout, because she’s curled up at his feet, asleep.

“What are you working on?” I ask, walking over. His face brightens when he sees me. “Redoing my poem?”

I bend down to pet Scout; she barely lifts her head, but shifts her body toward me.

“No, just some ideas for the next book.”

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