Summer at Willow Lake

“Why Camp Kioga?” Olivia asked, fiddling with the tea strainer. She hadn’t been there since her last summer before college. By choice, she had put all the drama and angst behind her.

“Camp Kioga is a special place to me and Charles.” Next, Nana sampled a tiny finger sandwich spread with truffle butter. “It’s the place where we first met, and we were married there, under the gazebo, on Spruce Island in the middle of Willow Lake.”

“You’re kidding. I never knew that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“Trust me, what you don’t know about this family could fill volumes. Charles and I were a regular Romeo and Juliet.”

“You never told me this story. Nana, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. Most young people don’t give a fig about how their grandparents met and married. Nor should they.”

“I’m giving a fig right now,” Olivia said. “Spill.”

“It was all so long ago, and seems so trivial now. You see, my parents—the Gordons—and the Bellamys came from two different worlds. I grew up in Avalon, never even saw the city until after I was married. Your granddad’s parents even threatened to boycott the wedding. They were determined that their only son would marry well. In those days, that meant somebody with social status. Not some Catskills girl from a mountain camp.”

Olivia was startled by the flicker of hurt she recognized in her grandmother’s eyes. Some wounds, it seemed, never quite healed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Nana made a visible effort to shake off her mood. “There was a lot of class consciousness back then.”

“Still is,” Olivia said softly.

Nana’s eyebrows shot up, and Olivia knew she’d better change the subject, or she’d be trapped into explaining what she meant by that. She looked expectantly at the teapot. “Is it ready?”

They always split a large pot of Lady Grey, which carried a whisper of lavender along with the bergamot. Olivia’s grandmother nodded and poured. “Anyway,” Nana said, “you have more important things than my ancient history to think about.” Behind her chic black-and-pink glasses, her eyes sparkled and for a moment she looked decades younger. “It’s a grand story, though. I’m sure you’ll hear it this summer. We hope everyone will come for a nice long stay. Charles and I are going to renew our vows at the gazebo, in the exact spot where we first spoke them. We’re going to reenact the wedding as much as we’re able.”

“Oh, Nana. That’s a … wonderful notion.” Deep down, Olivia was cringing. She was sure the idyllic picture in her grandmother’s mind was a far cry from the reality. The camp had ceased operating nine years before and had lain fallow ever since, with minimal maintenance performed by a skeleton crew that mowed the grounds and made sure the buildings were still standing. Some of the Bellamy cousins and other relatives used the place for reunions or vacations, but Olivia suspected the camp had gone to ruin. Her grandparents were sure to be disappointed in the setting for their golden anniversary.

“You know,” Olivia said, determined to be diplomatic, “some of your friends are getting on in years. As I recall, the camp is not wheelchair accessible. People would be more likely to attend if you had the affair at the Waldorf-Astoria or maybe right here at the Saint Regis.”

Jane sipped her tea. “Charles and I discussed it, and decided to do this for us. Much as we love all our friends and family, our golden anniversary is going to be the affair we want. That’s what our wedding was, and that’s what we’ll do fifty years later. We’ve chosen Camp Kioga. It’s a way to celebrate what we’ve been in the past and what we hope to be for the rest of our lives—a happy couple.” Her cup rattled, just slightly, as she set it down in its saucer. “It will be our farewell to the camp.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The golden anniversary celebration will be our last event at Camp Kioga. Afterward, we’ll need to decide what to do about the property.”

Olivia frowned. “Nana? Did I just hear that right?”

“You did. It’s time. We’ve got to come up with a plan for the property. It’s a hundred acres of prime real estate, and it has been privately owned by my family since 1932. Our hope is that we can keep it in the family for our children.” She looked pointedly at Olivia. “Or our grandchildren. Nothing’s sure in this life, but we hope the property won’t be sold to a developer who will put up roads and parking lots and rows of those dreadful tract mansions.”

Olivia didn’t know why the prospect of her grandparents letting go of the property made her feel wistful. She didn’t even like the place. She liked the idea of the camp. Nana’s father had received the property during the Great Depression as payment for a debt, and had built the compound himself, naming it Kioga, which he thought was an Algonquin word for “tranquillity,” but which he later learned was meaningless. After the camp closed in 1997, none of the Bellamy offspring was inclined to take it on.

Her grandmother helped herself to a cornet filled with chocolate ganache. “We’ll discuss it after the anniversary celebration. Best to get everything settled so no one will have to make a decision about that after we’re gone.”

“I hate it when you talk like that. You’re sixty-eight years old, and you just did a senior triathlon—”

“Which I never would have finished if you hadn’t trained with me.” Jane patted her hand, then looked pensive. “So many important moments of my life took place there. The camp floated my family through the Great Depression, just barely. After Charles and I married and took over, the place became a part of who we are.”

So typical of Nana, Olivia reflected. She always looked for ways to hold on to things, even when she would be better off letting go.

“That’s all in the future.” Nana’s manner turned brisk as she took out some pages she’d obviously printed off from Olivia’s Web site. “We have business to discuss. I want you to prepare the property for our gala celebration.”

Olivia let out a short laugh. “I can’t do that, Nana.”

“Nonsense. It says right here you provide expert research, design and services to stage and enhance real estate for optimum market presence.”

“All that means is that I’m a house fluffer,” Olivia said. Some of the designers in her field objected to the expression, which definitely lacked a certain gravitas. They preferred house stager or property enhancer. Fluffer sounded … well, fluffy.

The expression was fairly descriptive of what the job entailed. In the service of people seeking to display their property at its best, Olivia was a master of illusion. An artist of deception. Making a property look irresistible was usually a simple, low-cost process, incorporating elements the seller already owned, but combining them in different ways.

She loved her job and did it well, and her reputation was growing accordingly. In some parts of Manhattan, agents would not even consider listing a property until it had been fluffed by Olivia Bellamy of Transformations. The job was not without its challenges, though. Since she’d launched her own firm, Olivia had learned that there was a lot more to property staging than weeding the flower beds, painting everything white and turning on the bread-making machine.

Still, a project the size of Kioga was not in the realm of her expertise.

“You’re talking about a hundred acres of wilderness, a hundred fifty miles from here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I would.” Jane pushed an old-fashioned, leather-bound photo album across the table to her. “Everyone has a notion of summer camp in their mind, whether or not they even went to camp. All you have to do is create that illusion once again. Here are some pictures taken through the years to get you started.”

The photos were, for the most part, classic views of rustic cabins clustered on the shores of a lake in a pristine forest. Olivia had to admit that there was something both peaceful and evocative about the place. Nana was right about the illusion—or maybe it was a delusion. Olivia had had a terrible time at summer camp. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, there lived an idealized summer place, free of taunting children, sunburns and mosquitoes.

Her imagination kicked in, as it always did when she viewed a property. Despite her reluctance, she almost immediately started seeing ways to dress it up.

Stop it, she told herself.

“I don’t exactly have the best memories of my summers there,” she reminded her grandmother.

“I know, dear. But this summer could be your opportunity to exorcize those demons. Create new memories.” Interesting. Olivia hadn’t realized her grandmother had known about her suffering. Why didn’t you stop it? she wanted to ask.

“This project could take the entire summer. I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”

Nana lifted an eyebrow, high over the rim of her glasses. “Why?”

Olivia couldn’t keep it in any longer. Her excitement spilled out, along with her next words. “Because I think I have a reason to stay.”

“That reason being a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Harvard law degree?”

Deep breath, Olivia, she cautioned herself. You’ve been here before, and you’ve been disappointed. Take it easy. She couldn’t, of course. She nearly came out of her seat as she said, “I think Rand Whitney is going to ask me to marry him.”

Nana took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Oh, my dear, darling Olivia.” She used her napkin to dab her eyes.

Olivia was glad she had decided to tell Nana. There were some in her family who would react with more skepticism. Some—her mother being one of these—would be quick to remind her that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Olivia already had two failed engagements under her belt.

As if she could ever forget.

She pushed aside the thought and added, “He’s selling his apartment downtown. It’s my latest project, in fact. I need to check on the finishing touches this afternoon because it’s going on the market tomorrow. When he gets home from the airport, I’ll be there, waiting for him. He’s been in L.A. all week at the West Coast office of his firm. He said when he gets back, he’s going to ask me.” “To marry him.”

“I assume so.” Olivia felt the slightest flicker of unease. He hadn’t actually said that.

“So selling his place is a good thing.”