Susan Wiggs - Summer at Willow Lake

Outside the pavilion, he stopped walking.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Dance with me. Right here, right now.”

“These shoes aren’t doing so well in the grass,” she protested.

“Then take them off. I want to dance with you in private where no one can see, so I can hold you exactly the way I want.” Once they made an appearance at the pavilion, they would have to go their separate ways, pretending they were just friends. For now, he wanted to dance with her like a lover.

With a silky laugh, she kicked off her shoes and slipped into his arms. The house band was playing a passable rendition of “Stairway to Heaven,” and they danced in the dark, where no one could see them. She felt wonderful in his arms, and his heart soared at the thought that, very soon, the whole world would know she was his.

Pulling her close and swaying to the music, he bent and whispered in her ear, “It didn’t happen all at once. Me, falling in love with you. I think it started four years ago, when you first started delivering stuff to the dining hall.” He could still picture her, sun browned and serious, a hardworking girl who couldn’t quite hide her envy of the privileged city kids whose parents could afford to send them to summer camp. She had moved him then, a beautiful girl wanting something she couldn’t have. And she moved him now, a beautiful woman whose dreams were finally within reach.

“Each summer when I came here,” he said, “I was more and more into you.”

“You never did anything about it until this summer,” she pointed out, a note of gentle chiding in her voice.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Oh, I did. I wanted you to sweep me off my feet.”

He laughed and did exactly that, scooping her up with one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders. “Like this?”

She made a sound of surprise and clung to his neck. “Exactly.”

He kissed her then, slowly and hungrily, and wished he had acted on his feelings long before this summer. What an idiot he’d been, thinking those feelings weren’t real, expecting each summer that the attraction would be gone. Maybe he’d spent a little too much time with his father’s parents, the redoubtable Grandmother and Grandfather Bellamy, who claimed it was impossible to love someone from a different class. They were fond of reminding Philip that he was a young man of sophistication, with a first-class education and the brightest of prospects for his future. A girl like Mariska, who attended a smalltown high school, who worked at her family’s bakery and part-time at the local jewelry store, would be considered an unfortunate mismatch for him.

Pamela Lightsey, on the other hand, seemed to have been created just for him. She had everything a man in his position wanted in a wife—brains, beauty, heart, social status. Her parents were best friends with his own. The Lightsey fortune came from a jewelry empire, and they had given their daughter all the same advantages Philip enjoyed—private school, personal coaches, foreign travel, Ivy League college. She was blond and beautiful and accomplished, having mastered two languages and piano. This summer she was in Positano, perfecting her Italian.

Yet Philip had discovered one missing ingredient. When he looked into Pamela’s eyes, he didn’t get dizzy with love. That only happened with Mariska.

He forced himself to stop kissing her and set her down. “We should get a move on,” he said. “People will start to wonder where we are.”

By people, he meant his fellow counselors and staff. Most were guys like him who had spent their childhood summers at Kioga, guys who were jealous of Philip because he was going to marry Pamela Lightsey. Or so they thought. It was comforting—just a little—to know so many of them would be willing to catch her on the rebound.

His stomach churned every time he thought of breaking their engagement. He didn’t have a choice, though. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone—not to Pamela, nor to Mariska—to pretend nothing had changed over the summer. It wouldn’t be fair to the children he and Pamela had talked about having one day; kids deserved to grow up in a house full of love.

He should never have proposed to her last spring, on her birthday. But she had wanted him to, so much. One of the designers who worked for Lightsey Gold & Gem had created a one-of-a-kind ring, a 1.3 carat marquise-cut solitaire in a free-form setting of gold. He had knelt down before her in the middle of New Haven Green on campus—and in that starry-eyed moment, he could have sworn he loved her.

He was a fool. It had taken Mariska Majesky to finally show him what love was.

Outside the pavilion, he paused and squeezed her hand, then leaned down to say, “I love you.”

She rewarded him with a smile, then freed her hand. They walked into the dance side by side, like a couple of old friends.

The party was in full swing. His parents were circulating among the guests, always the perfect hosts. Even more perfect, he observed, trying not to cringe—the Lightseys were here. Pamela’s parents and his own were lifelong friends, another factor that complicated Philip’s plans. They went way, way back. Mr. Lightsey had been the best man at the Bellamys’ wedding, and the couples had been close ever since. It was almost as if a match between Philip and Pamela had been preordained. Each year, Pamela’s family came up at season’s end to help close up the camp and steal a few final days of summer before heading back to the city.

With the Lightseys around, he had to be extra careful. He had to be the one to tell Pamela, face-to-face. If she heard the news from her parents … He didn’t even want to think about that. And just to complicate matters, Mariska’s mother stood behind the buffet table, keeping the dessert trays filled. Helen Majesky’s berry pies and kolaches were legendary, and they didn’t last long.

Spying Mariska, Helen waved, though her smile appeared forced. Philip was pretty sure Helen suspected something was going on between him and Mariska, and disapproved. Of course she did. She knew he was engaged to Pamela and undoubtedly feared he’d break her daughter’s heart.

He wanted to reassure Helen, let her know he meant to spend the rest of his life making Mariska happy. Soon, he thought. I’ll straighten everything out soon.

Under the pavilion, he and Mariska went their separate ways, though he had a hard time keeping his eyes off her. A glow seemed to surround her, and even though he knew it came from the fairy lights strung along the railing, he thought it made her look magical, like someone from another world.

“Yo, Phil.” Earl, his best friend and college roommate, clapped him on the back. “You just missed the staff meeting at the boathouse.” That was code for getting high. Anthony George Earl the Third was extremely fond of weed, and indulged in it nightly. Sucking a bong almost seemed like another camp ritual.

“I’ll live. Let’s get something to eat.”

“Good plan. I’m starved.” His eyes were puffy and bright, evidence that he’d made the most of the staff meeting.

They moved along the buffet table, raising their voices to be heard over the music. “I’m going back on the morning train,” Earl said, munching on a mouthful of Bugles. “Man, I hate to leave this place.”

“I hear you.” Philip sneaked a glance at Mariska. She was dancing with Terry Davis, a local kid who did maintenance work around the camp. As usual, Davis was toasted. Built like a linebacker, he was known to drink a six-pack of beer in only minutes.

“She’s something, huh?” Earl commented, adding an extra scoop of potato salad to his plate.

“What? Who?” Philip played dumb. He’d been doing it all summer long.