Page 91 of Until Next Summer

We whirl toward the lake, see bobbing heads in the water, a few yards off the dock.

“Dot?” I ask, squinting. I recognize her and Yvonne, plus a bunch of the campers, silver and white hair glinting in the moonlight. I’m pretty sure they’re skinny-dipping.

“Come on in! Water feels great,” Dot calls, and the women around her agree.

I glance at Hillary. “You want to?”

She cringes. “Ew, no. That water is like—”

“Fish and poop soup,” we say at the same time, and laugh again.

“Who cares?” I say, then put my hands together like I’m praying. “Come on,please, Hilly Bean?”

“Okay, fine.” Standing, she strips down to her bra and underwear. “I’m not going totally naked, though.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

I strip everything off, which makes the women in the water hoot and holler, then grab Hillary’s hand. We take off, running down the dock until we reach the edge, then launching ourselves into the air, where we hang suspended for one glorious moment before crashing into the cool water below.

twenty-three

Hillary

At Cooper’s request, we’re having the Sunday staff meeting over brunch today, because he’s busy tonight. He’s being cagey about it, avoiding my questions about his plans. I stopped short of reminding him about rule number five—he can end this thing between us at any time, but if he’s sleeping with other women, he won’t be sleeping with me.

Which is a depressing thought, and the reason I’ve been in a funk all day.

In the last two weeks, Cooper and I have more than made up for our slow start, giving Zac and Zoey a run for their money. Cooper’s a quick study, learning how and where I like to be touched. He’s more attentive than anyone I’ve ever been with. And probably more experienced…

I think back to what that woman from Boston said, and to Jessie’s gentle warning. It’s true; the old Hillary wouldn’t have been comfortable with such a casual relationship—but maybe I’m changing, going through a metamorphosis like those butterflies in my belly. A caterpillar about to get her wings.

As always, we start the meeting with roses and thorns. We all agree on one big rose—no one broke a hip!The septuagenarian campers seemed to have the time of theirlives, as evidenced by their generous pledges toward the co-op. We even sold our first naming rights—from here on out, the bench at the spot separating the boys’ side from the girls’ side (the one we used to call the French Bench) will be known as the Cohen Canoodling Bench. It’s got a nice ring to it!

Jessie’s going over the details for the week ahead—we’re staging the camp talent show, and a few VIP former campers are coming—when the door opens and Luke stomps in, fury radiating from him like a thundercloud. Not unlike the last time I saw him, only now he isn’t covered in syrup and feathers.

“Who did it?” Luke snaps, his terrifying ice-blue eyes sweeping over us all.

Everyone goes silent. Jessie looks up, her face the picture of innocence. “Did what?”

“You know damn well. Where were you last night?”

“In my cabin,” Jessie says evenly.

“I was with her,” I chime in, but my voice wavers. I’m not convincing anyone.

Luke’s eyes widen. “You—”

“We were all together,” Zoey cuts in.

Dot nods in solidarity. Jessie told her and Yvonne everything while we were skinny-dipping, and Dot must have told Zoey, which means Zac and Cooper are the only ones in the dark.

And Luke.

“Doing what?” Luke demands.

“Girl stuff. Face masks, mani-pedis, that sort of thing.” I slide my hands under the table, hoping Luke didn’t notice my nails are polish-free.

“Skincare is important,” Jessie says. “Gotta take care of my freckles. Someone once said they could write awhole paragraphabout them.”

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