Chapter Twenty-Six
T he wind was no help for the summertime humidity. By the time Brooke reached Camp Dogwood, the engine of Dottie’s little jon boat smelled like burned oil and Brooke’s hair was as poofy and knotted as a robin’s nest. Nate waited for her on the half-sunk dock, and she barely had time to pull it back into a ponytail before he offered her a hand up and out of the boat. He tied a knot to hold the boat to the dock and led her along the wobbly old structure until they reached solid ground.
“Fred said he’d be here in an hour with the duck,” Brooke said, scanning the grounds. Longleaf pines and oaks gave shade to rotting branches that littered the dirt from past storms. Patches of stinging bull nettle settled near dense thickets of wax myrtle, and round pennywort sprawled up toward the main building where the roof sagged into an old bench that had lichen growing between the wooden slats. “This is going to be a lot of work.”
“We can do it,” Nate said, sounding genuinely excited.
“We’ll triage,” Brooke began, her mind spinning. “The most important things first. We’ll get enough done for Libby’s wedding, and then make this place better than your grandfather ever imagined.”
“It’s strange to be back here now when I know the owner,” he said. “Just as strange as when it was turned into Camp Dogwood and was no longer in my family.”
Brooke wasn’t sure how to respond. Was he upset? “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He looked at her with such admiration that her heart did a little flip. “Have you ever heard of spilled juice?”
“What?”
He smiled like the thoughtful little boy she once knew. “You spill the juice in the morning, and because of that, you have to clean it up. That causes you to be late for work. But what you didn’t know was that there was a three-car pileup and two fatalities at the exact time you would’ve been at that spot on the freeway. The spilled juice may have saved your life.”
“Right. So?”
“I might not have my career and we might not be here together right now if it hadn’t been for me getting kicked out of camp.”
“You think that was your spill?”
“I do.”
By the time Fred approached, Nate and Brooke’s triage list was three pages long. He showed up in a dark red state-of-the-art fishing boat, which was in direct opposition to the old brownish houseboat on blocks behind the gas station where he lived. Fred was an enigma. Yet, there was something safe about the bearded Harvard grad who left corporate law for a simple life on Goose Island. He represented strong minds, tough choices, and straight priorities. Plus, he was the kind of guy who would happily save a duck.
On the bow of the boat, a little green head took on the wind like a dog hanging its head from a car window. Brooke watched as he extended his wings and allowed the generated lift to take him airborne. He flew ahead of the boat like he was leading the way. Just as Fred pulled up to the dock, the duck skidded and splashed, coming to a stop near the shore. Clearly, he was fine to be released.
“Hey!” Fred said, waving from behind the wheel. “Nice place you got here.”
It wasn’t her place. It was Nana’s. Yet it felt like it should be hers. She had a connection to the land that filled her with the greatest intrinsic motivation she’d ever felt. She would work day and night to do right by Camp Dogwood. For now, that was going to mean hiring a cleanup crew, architects, a contractor, overseeing months and most likely years of work, and trying to keep everything on schedule. One month of cleaning up the place for Libby’s wedding was nothing compared to the mountain of details she would undertake afterward. Her life was about to go from working forty hours a week to every waking second, and she didn’t want it any other way.
She looked up at Nate, a happy set to his mouth as he watched Fred tie the boat to the cleats on the un-sunken side of the dock, and was grateful he was there with her. Her passion for the place would take her a long way, but it was nice to have a professional nearby for questions.
Fred’s shiny new trawler parked next to Dottie’s old metal flat-bottomed boat seemed like a picture of this season of her life. She had to find a way to make things hers—to stop borrowing a boat from Dottie, living at her parents’ house, and even eating meals provided by someone else. She was an adult, and it was time to embrace it. She might be the lowly jon boat in the metaphor before her, but she would work up to being a boat of real value.
Whew, did she ever need a quacking duck in that moment. The little green-headed guy limped up the beach straight toward her.
“Hey there, Zippy,” Nate said. His old camp nickname, once meant to be a slur, seemed to fit the happy little waddler perfectly.
Fred ambled up behind him. “I guess he’s officially free.”
“Fly away, little guy.” Brooke flapped her arms like it was a game of Simon Says. Zippy stood staunchly on his flat orange feet and stared at her defiantly. “Go on back to your people. Your duck people. Your kin.”
“He may think he’s found them.” Fred laughed. “If I remember correctly, you said he was trying to break into your mama’s vegetable garden.”
Brooke immediately clued in. “And you fed him last night.”
“And again this morning,” Fred said.
“He’s not stupid,” Nate laughed. “He’s not going anywhere if he’s getting free food.”
“Welcome to Camp Dogwood, Zip,” Brooke said. “I guess I’ll be buying duck food today.”
“You want a tour?” Nate asked Fred.
“A quick one. I’ve got to get back to the store.” He spat pieces of a chewed toothpick onto the dirt. They’d walked a few steps toward the main building when Fred asked, “Your nana okay, Brooke?”
Why was he asking about Nana?
“Fine. Just saw her at breakfast. I believe she was dressed for golf today.”
Fred looked at Brooke strangely. “She’s golfing?”
“No. Just dressed for it.”
“Good to hear. She must be feeling better.”
Brooke stopped at the building’s double doors. Feeling better? Was she sick?
Fred’s face fell, and his eyes shifted to Nate for help. He got none. “Guess I can’t say.”
“Can’t say what?”
“Well, she and Sam were talking in the shop. She wasn’t trying to hide anything. Like all the folks around here, she told me that Sam is the only doctor she trusts.”
“Sam? The guy with the big dog? He’s a doctor?” Nate asked.
“I mean, he’s an EMT and he’s applying to med school, but we’re just happy to have someone on the island with healthcare expertise. Anyway—” Fred opened the door and walked into the dark, musty space, but Brooke wouldn’t budge. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” he said. “Just typical old folks stuff. I’m probably on the verge of it myself.”
Nate shot Fred a look that said, You brought it up, dude. Now you have to tell her.
Fred dramatically looked around the old cafeteria. “This is a wedding venue right here!” He sounded far too chipper. “Clean this place up and that friend of yours is gonna be a happy little bride monster. Are you gonna add chandeliers? A bar? I mean, you gotta get the roof fixed, but—”
It was a failed attempt at distraction. “Fred. What is wrong with my nana?”
He moved to the nearest table and sat his tall body on the attached round stool. “It could be nothing, but the reports say she’s been having TIAs.”
“Reports? And what’s a TIA?”
“She said Duke took her in for an MRI. She’s been getting it all figured out. So far, they’re just ministrokes.”
Brooke felt like she’d been sucker punched. “Does my mother know?”
“I should do better than to make assumptions,” Fred said. “I thought your whole family knew.”
“Well, if they did, they didn’t tell me.” She felt her face flush. Nana. It shouldn’t be a surprise, Nana was no spring chicken, but she was such a force, so free and full of life, she was supposed to be invincible. “I’m sorry, but I think I need to get home. If Nana’s talking about this all around town, and my parents don’t know, it’s gonna be bad.”
There was nothing Trigger and Cornelia hated more than their private family business being aired, especially if it was something they were not yet aware of. “Do you mind if we head out soon?” she said to Nate. She had to get to Nana before word spread. She had to get to Nana before—She couldn’t even think it. But the word stroke was busy fueling fear in her heart. Strokes could happen at any time.