Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sun set and the temperature fell along with it. But it’s still a beautiful night under the stars, with a three-quarter
moon shining in a cloudless sky.
The campout, a late addition to the weekend itinerary, was Barclay’s idea—a nostalgic nod to all the times he’d taken Cole
and Scott camping when they were kids. Making it doubly disappointing that Cole bailed out.
Aidan still hasn’t told the rest of the group, hoping Cole will change his mind. Maggie was right: They couldn’t indulge Cole’s
bad mood. Time to lead by example.
He also hasn’t yet told the guys that the ladies are joining them. Maybe he’ll get shit for it, but ultimately, he doesn’t
care. Maggie and Piper have been a little silver lining in what otherwise has a been a disappointing weekend.
“So where’s my grandson?” Barclay says.
Barclay insisted on helping Aidan pitch the tent. It’s sturdy, high-quality, and essentially idiotproof. Aidan can manage
himself, but with Cole missing, he’s the only one not paired up.
“He’ll be here later,” Aidan says. “Probably.”
“What do you mean, probably?”
Aidan hesitates before saying, “You know he and Scott aren’t getting along.”
“Well, you need to put a stop to that.”
“They’re adults, Dad.”
It’s a good time to tell him about Maggie and Piper—to change the subject. He does, and Barclay raises an eyebrow.
“Something going on that I should know about?” His tone is light, teasing. But it makes Aidan uncomfortable.
“Wasn’t my idea,” he grumbles.
“Pretty little lady, that Piper,” he says. “I’m glad to see Cole moving on to greener pastures.”
“They’re just friends.”
“Friends that go camping on a Saturday night,” Barclay deadpans.
Maggie appears, lugging a suitcase and wearing impractical footwear—black leather boots with a heel. She’s bundled in a faux-fur
coat and a thick knit cap with a pom-pom on top. It’s chilly out, but not that chilly.
“We’re not sleeping out in the elements,” Barclay says. “These tents are insulated.”
“Hello to you too, Barclay,” she says, unruffled. Her dark hair peeks out from the cap, framing her heart-shaped face.
“Where’s Piper?” Aidan says.
“Oh—she can’t make it. She has a headache.”
Aidan feels Barclay’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t meet his gaze.
“So . . . just you?”
“It’s just me,” she says cheerily.
“Humph,” Barclay says. Then, putting a hand on Aidan’s shoulder, he says, “Friends that go camping on a Saturday night.”
“What?” says Maggie.
“Nothing,” Aidan says quickly. “Let’s get your bags into one of the tents.”
The campsite is fifteen minutes from the inn but feels like a world away.
Out in the wilderness, in the darkness, gathered with a bunch of—well, let’s face it—virtual strangers, Maggie tells herself she can drive back to her room and cozy bed anytime.
Then, after a round of whiskey hot toddies around the open fire, she forgets all about that idea.
They’re all sitting in a circle, the guys dressed in flannel shirts and hoodies and draped in blankets. Barclay stokes the
flame with fresh kindling and Aidan’s brother-in-law refills everyone’s mug using a thermos. The sky is vast and velvety,
a deep, dark blue dotted with countless stars that are unobstructed by city lights. The moon casts a silvery glow illuminating
the silhouettes of tall oaks and maples, their branches now half bare.
The guys are teasing one of Scott’s friends, calling him a teacher’s pet because he was the most proficient knitter by the
end of the workshop. A few of them got stitches onto their needles, but he showed a genuine aptitude. She doesn’t understand
why this should be something embarrassing.
“Knitting isn’t a feminine thing,” she says. “Not anymore. Just look on TikTok if you don’t believe me.”
Scott opens a package of graham crackers and passes around bars of chocolate. Aidan pops marshmallows on top of sticks and
hands one to her.
“For s’mores.”
She’s never roasted marshmallows over an open flame before, and when she gives it a try she burns it to an inedible charred
lump. Aidan shows her how to hold it an optimal eight inches from the flame, and to rotate the marshmallow slowly and steadily.
“I guess my team’s lucky this wasn’t one of the challenges,” she says.
“Hate to break it to you, but you might be the only one even in your own group who doesn’t know how to do this. Roasting marshmallows is a basic life skill.”
“I’d be offended if I didn’t think you’re probably right.”
Clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. If it weren’t for the fire, they’d be in pitch darkness. If Piper were there, Maggie would
scoot closer to her. But she’s sitting alone, in between Aidan and Scott. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out with
a melancholy hoot.
“I think it’s story time,” Barclay says in a mock-spooky voice.
“The Soldier in the Woods,” Scott says. She looks over at Aidan, and he’s nodding in recognition.
“That’s right: The Soldier in the Woods,” Barclay says. “Do you boys know this story?”
Scott’s friends tell him no, and a silence falls, the only sound is the crackle of the fire. Barclay starts to speak in a
slow, exaggeratedly low voice: “Centuries ago, during the Revolutionary War right here in Bucks County, PA, a young private
named James Douglas Finch fled his regiment, desperate to escape the bloodshed. As punishment for desertion, his fellow soldiers
dragged him deep into the woods, bound his hands with rough rope, and tied him to a massive oak tree. He begged for mercy,
but none came. They left him there to starve, his cries of suffering swallowed by the rustling leaves. Centuries passed, but
James Douglas Finch never left. It’s said that on nights when the fog rolls through the woods, you can hear the scrape of
boots dragging through the underbrush and the creak of a rope swinging from a tree branch. Walkers who linger too long feel
an unnatural chill wrap around their necks like cold hands . . .”
He falls silent, and Scott says, “Boo!” making her jump.
“Okay, no more of that,” she says. “How about something less nerve-racking?”
“Like what? We got nothing but time out here,” Barclay says.
She thinks about sleepovers from when she was a teenager. “How about Two Truths and a Lie?”
“Where’s Cole? He’d be good at this game,” Scott says, mostly to himself, but loud enough that Aidan hears and says, “That’s
enough.”
Scott stands up and says he’s going to turn in for the night. His tent-mates follow.
“Not so fast,” Barclay says. “And by the way: I know that’s code for going off to smoke the devil’s lettuce. But before you
leave: a toast.”
Maggie turns to Aidan and mouths, The devil’s lettuce?
Barclay stands up and raises his glass. “I want to take a moment to remind us what we’re all celebrating here this weekend:
My grandson Scott is getting married. Now, our friendly competition this weekend has been all about teamwork. And what a coincidence:
So is marriage. In fact, there’s no more important teammate than the person you choose to spend your life with. So, Scott,
I congratulate you on taking this step with Ashley. May the fire you two build together burn long and bright.”
It’s a little corny, but Maggie feels a lump in her throat.
“Hear, hear,” Aidan says, standing up. Everyone joins them, and Maggie self-consciously gets to her feet, feeling like an
interloper. Drinking by the campfire is one thing. But it’s clearly a family moment, and she doesn’t belong. Clearly, it’s
time for her to go to her own tent too.