Susan Wiggs - Summer at Willow Lake

“Sweet Mariska. Damn. Look at her.”

It took all of Philip’s self-control to keep from smacking the leer off Earl’s face. That, too, had been going on all summer long. Every guy in camp had the hots for Mariska.

“Man,” Earl continued, “I’d kill to have a piece of her.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Philip said, hanging on to his patience by a thread.

Unperturbed, Earl shrugged. He balanced his plate on one hand, grabbed a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers with the other and found a seat at one of the tables placed along the periphery of the dance floor. “Well,” he said, “I would.”

“You are so full of shit,” Philip said, joining him.

“Nope, just horny. I think it’s affecting my mental health. I don’t know how you stayed so calm all summer long without getting laid.” Earl shoveled in several bites of potato salad. Like Philip, he was engaged, and his fiancée was overseas. Lydia had gone to Biafra to work as a Red Cross volunteer. Unlike Philip, Earl had stayed faithful, though he complained loudly about his noble sacrifice.

“So when does Lydia get back?” Philip asked.

“Two more weeks. Damn, I can’t wait. What about Miss America?” Earl called Pamela Miss America because she embodied the qualities of a beauty queen. She bore herself with a regal self-assurance, as though walking down a pageant runway. And there was always an invisible but impenetrable distance between her and the rest of the world.

“Next week,” Philip said.

“The waiting is hard, eh?”

“More than you know,” Philip admitted.

Earl dug into the barbecued ribs. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How do you know you’ve found the right girl? I mean, sometimes I know Lydia’s perfect for me. But other times, I see something like that—” he gestured at Mariska, who was now fast-dancing with a group of her local girlfriends “—and I can’t imagine sticking with one girl for the rest of my life.”

I can, thought Philip. But it’s not Pamela.

“Your parents make it look easy,” Earl said, giving them a wave.

Philip watched his mom and dad as they stepped onto the dance floor together. Despite the fact that they claimed to know nothing about rock and roll, they were lost in each other’s arms while Eric Clapton’s voice rasped from the speakers.

“See what I mean?” Earl commented. “I wonder how they knew.”

“Nobody knows for sure,” Philip said. “That’s why so many people make mistakes. Not because they’re stupid, but because they can only hope they’ve made the right choice.”

Although his parents did indeed have a happy marriage, Philip knew for a fact that they’d gotten off to a rough start. The Bellamys had been completely opposed to the marriage. Philip’s dad, Charles, had defied his family to be with Jane Gordon, whose family had founded Camp Kioga. Charles had dropped out of Yale in order to marry her and take over the running of the camp.

Eventually, there was a reconciliation between Charles and his parents. Maybe it was the four kids Jane had in quick succession, or maybe it was that the Bellamys finally understood that Charles and Jane’s love would not be denied.

That was how it would work for him and Mariska. He was sure of it. They would encounter doubts and resistance at first. Then the world would come to realize what he had discovered for himself this summer. He and Mariska belonged together forever.

“Dance with us,” ordered the Nielsen girls, striding over to the table as the music changed. “No way can you guys sit through ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

“Okay, you twisted my arm.” Earl got up, wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Sally and Kirsten Nielsen were fraternal twins. Guys at Kioga nicknamed them the Valkyries because of their size and handsome Nordic features, and their fearless tendency to grab guys they liked and carry them off. Philip was glad enough for an excuse to get out on the dance floor where Mariska was.

He noticed his parents and the Lightseys watching him, and felt a crushing weight of responsibility. There was so much he was expected to do once he finished college—Marry Pamela. Go to business school or law school. Have a family.

Mariska was dancing with Matthew Alger now. Philip felt a surge of possessiveness when he saw them together. Although he was heavyset, with straight blond hair, Alger tried to emulate his idol, John Travolta, right down to the blow-dried hair and polyester shirt open to display his chest. What a loser. Yet girls seemed to like him, for no reason Philip could figure.

The music glided into a slow song and Philip caught Mariska’s wrist, slipping between them. “My turn.”

“Back off,” said Alger, always spoiling for a fight. “You’re not wanted here.” “That’s up to the lady.”

“You two.” Mariska laughed, then turned to Alger. “I haven’t danced with Philip yet, and you’re all leaving tomorrow.”

“Not me,” Alger informed her, squaring his shoulders with self-importance. “I’m going to be living in Avalon. Doing my senior thesis on city administration, and Avalon is the subject.”

Alger didn’t come from money but apparently had his share of brains. Suddenly Philip was on fire with envy. Alger got to stay in Avalon while Philip would be exiled to campus for another year.

With phony expansiveness, Alger backed off. “I guess I’ll see you around anyway, Mariska.”

Alger was sharp, an ambitious guy, Philip supposed, though a little off. Despite working as a bookkeeper and counselor for the camp all summer, he never quite fit in. “He’s a weirdo,” Philip said. “You should stay away from him.”

“I have to live in this town,” Mariska reminded him. “I can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Don’t be silly. After I finish school, we’ll live anywhere you want—New York, Chicago, San Francisco.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said, excitement sparkling in her eyes. Then her gaze darted to the sidelines. “So those are Pamela’s parents. They’re scary.”

Philip frowned. “Not really. They’re just—”

“Just like your family,” she said. “They’re made of money.”

“They’re people, same as anyone.”

“Sure. Anyone with Gold & Gem after their name.”

He didn’t like it when she talked like that, as though coming from a working-class background set her apart from him. “Forget it,” he said. “You worry too much.”

The deejay announced that everyone should head down to the lakeshore for the final bonfire of the year, and everyone surged out of the pavilion en masse. The fire had a practical function as well as a traditional one. It was a way to get rid of the wooden delivery pallets and scrap lumber that had accumulated over the summer.

As people moved toward the pyramid of fire, Philip pressed his hand to the small of Mariska’s back and veered off the path.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“As if you didn’t know.”

“Someone will see.” All summer long, she’d been as concerned about discovery as he was, determined not to earn a reputation for stealing other girls’ fiancés.

He took her hand and steered her toward the row of bunkhouses. “No, they won’t.”

Someone did see, though. As they headed away from the lake, a match flared, illuminating the contemplative, inebriated face of Terry Davis. He held the match at arm’s length so that its weak light winked over Philip and Mariska.

“‘Night, kids,” he said, an ironic smile on his face.

“Shit,” Philip said under his breath. “She’s not feeling well,” he explained to Davis. “I’m walking her … to her car.”

Davis’s gaze flickered. “Uh-huh.” He brought the match to the tip of his cigarette.