39. Jake
39
JAKE
Standing at the edge of the summer camp’s lake, I hear the car pull up the long drive. Gravel crunches under slow-moving tires, a sharp contrast to the hush of the surrounding pines. I don’t turn around. There’s only one person in the world who could have found me here.
My grandfather insisted we share locations when I first returned to Skylark, as if I was a teenager who needed monitoring.
To be honest, I didn’t mind. After so many years on my own in the mostly solitary life of a writer, there were moments—particularly during grueling deadlines—when I wondered if anyone would notice if I disappeared completely.
Isn’t that what I’ve done in a lot of ways? Disappeared into the books? Into the role of Spencer Charles, reclusive author. Only crawling out from my self-imposed exile when absolutely necessary. Sure, I’ve started doing more with the foundation in Austin recently, but that had more to do with appeasing my long-term guilt over losing Mike and appropriating the career that should have been his than some philanthropic fire burning inside me.
But it’s not really his. This life is mine. My unwillingness to claim it might have cost me not only the career I love, but also the woman I love—a woman I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving. As stupid as I was at seventeen, falling for Iris remains one of my smartest moves.
I pick up another smooth stone, test the weight in my hand, and run my thumb over the flat top. The surface is warm from the day’s sun, but the air around me has cooled as dusk approaches. With a flick of my wrist, I send the stone skipping across the water. One, two, three hops before it sinks below the surface.
“I taught you well,” Grandpa says in his gravelly voice as he comes to stand next to me. “But you’re releasing too soon.”
I hand him the rock I’m holding in my other hand. “Show me how it’s done, Obi-Wan.”
He chuckles but takes the stone. I watch his fist curl around it, testing the weight the way he taught Mikey and me to do when we were kids. He shifts his feet on the uneven shoreline, then, with more grace than I’d expect, he pulls back his arm, and in one fluid motion sends the stone flying. Five skips across the water, nearly making it to the lake’s center, before it sinks.
“The old man still has it,” I say with a slow clap.
“The dancing has limbered me up. It’s good for the old joints—lubricates them.”
I huff out a devilish laugh. “You know, the find my phone app goes both ways,” I tell him, wiggling my brows. “I’ve noticed your location at Gloria Johnson’s house several times in the past few weeks. Looks like your joints aren’t the only thing being lubricated.”
My grandfather shakes his head. “You need to mind your own business and show more respect to your elders.”
“All respect,” I clarify. “Glad those dance lessons paid off.”
He scowls, but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Gilbert Byrne still has the rizz.” I’m enjoying myself now. “The old man has moves.”
“Enough.” He holds up a hand. “Do you want to hear my go-to move?”
“Absolutely not,” I answer.
“Listen anyway.” He puffs up his chest. “My best move is getting out of my own way. I don’t let the past predict my future.”
I pick up another rock and hurl it toward the water, not surprised when it lands with a plop instead of skimming the surface. “I’ll take your word that it works.”
“I didn’t come up here to skip stones, Jakey. We need to talk.” He draws in a deep breath and turns to survey the property that has been in our family for years. “This is the first time I’ve come up here since that summer you were here.”
The wind picks up slightly, rustling through the tall grass further up the shoreline. A hawk swoops overhead but doesn’t dive toward the water.
“Why haven’t you sold the camp? I’m sure there are people who’d want to make something of it.”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t force myself to come up here or let it go. This place reminds me of your brother. Of the two of you and happier times. I didn’t mean to stay away. In my mind, I told myself I was going to tear down the old structures and build something new. Maybe a retreat center, or...”
He bends down, picks up a rock, and holds it out to me. “Someplace where kids who need help could go and actually get it. Not like that hellhole your father owned in North Carolina.”
I take the rock from him, amazed that it’s the perfect size and shape for skipping. The sun has slipped behind the distant peaks, but the stone is warm in my palm, still holding onto the afternoon light.
“When we give the past too much power, it becomes bigger than we can handle,” Grandpa says, running a hand through his white hair. “It overtakes not only the future but the present, too. Everything.”
“I get it, Grandpa. If you don’t learn from those lessons, you’re bound to repeat them.”
“But if you stay stuck without learning, you’ll stay stuck.”
“You should embroider that on a pillow.”
“You should stop hiding behind the kid you used to be.”
“Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me you’re putting Dad in charge of the foundation? Because I can’t be trusted?”
“Who said anything about you not being able to be trusted? No. You’re so deep in your head, pretending it’s my voice or your father’s voice or your brother’s voice talking all this shit—” He jabs me in the bicep with one gnarled finger. “It’s you. You’re the one telling yourself you can’t do this.”
“Or I’m repeating what I’ve heard my whole damn life.”
“Then change the channel if you don’t like what’s playing. You’re not a T-Rex with tiny little arms.”
I laugh at that comparison. “Scientists now think the T-Rex had a bigger brain than they used to believe.”
“Then you have that in common,” Grandpa says, smirking. “For the record, a brain works better if you use it.”
“Duly noted. Back to the foundation’s future…”
“Jake, you are Spencer Charles. Or he’s you. You have a natural, God-given talent. Do you really want to give up being a writer in order to run the foundation?”
“I want to do right by Mikey’s memory.”
“Stop. Do you know how pissed your brother would be to know you were using him and his memory as an excuse to play small? You and Mike came up with those first stories together—but you are the writer. Everything else aside, do you love writing books?”
I swallow when emotions try to clog my throat. “Fuck yeah,” I whisper.
“Finally some truth. Do you want to keep doing it?”
“I don’t want Dad to get his hands on the foundation, Grandpa. Not just because of my shitty relationship with him. I might have only been involved from the periphery, but I know what you do is important. The values, our family’s name, your legacy…it means something to me.”
Grandpa swipes a hand across his cheek. “You mean the world to me.”
He watches the water for a long time before speaking. “I’m naming Daniel Pearson Executive Director of the foundation,” he says. “He’s got the experience to run the whole thing day to day. But I want you to take on a piece of it—your own program area. Something that reflects your values. Maybe you bring this camp back to life, turn it into a retreat center, a space for healing.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s serious. “You want me to run part of the foundation? And keep writing?”
He nods, grinning. “That’s the idea. You’ve got a good head and a bigger heart than you let on. Use both. Build something that lasts, Jake. Not just for yourself.”
My breath whooshes out of my lungs as I think about what I want to make last in my life. Who I want to build it with. “I don’t know if I’m the right guy for?—”
“You are,” he says, like it’s already been decided. “You’re the right guy for Iris, too. I see the way you look at her. Don’t let fear rule the day. Be a man who’s willing to fight, Jake.”
I stare out at the lake stretching wide in front of us and feel a spark catching fire inside me. Like I finally know what’s worth fighting for—my future, this place, and Iris.