36. 2 Summers Later
Chapter thirty-six
“This is it,” I proclaim. “Opening Day. Can you believe it?”
Dottie pops her head up from the oven, twisting back to look at me. “Not even a little. I swear, if you had told me two years ago that we’d be up and running again—ever!—I would have said you were crazy.”
“It was a labor of love, that’s for sure.”
“Have another cup of coffee,” Dottie suggests. “You’ll need it. Pat always said the first day was the hardest.”
“I’m okay, actually. Pure adrenaline. Cake smells great, by the way,” I say.
A bubbly brunette skips over, slipping her arm around my shoulders. “I’m so excited! My first real day of my first real job. I just can’t believe it’s here.”
I give Mackenzie Brooks a warm smile. “You’re going to be an awesome junior counselor, kid.” I check my watch. “It’s time.” I blow into the metal whistle around my neck, two short blasts. “Hey, everyone? Can I have your attention, please?”
My staff, a group of almost 40 young people, along with Callie, Marilyn, and Dottie (who share the helm with me), all settle down over the clang of shifting plates and juice cups at our continental breakfast of bagels and cream cheese. They quiet to listen to my instructions.
“Good morning, and happy first day of camp, everyone!” I begin.
I’m met by an overwhelming swell of applause.
“I’m so excited for today, and even though I’m sure there will be hiccups, I want you all to know that I trust and believe in you.
Just remember our most important rule: to make the kids feel like we do this all year.
Make them feel like they’re just joining a family.
Whether they’re here for a week or for the whole summer, they’re a part of this camp family now, and they’re trusting us to nurture them during their time here.
Don’t forget to keep a special eye on the eight-weekers,” I add, winking at Mackenzie. “They need us most of all.”
I stop to blow out a breath. “Now, you all know your stations. Car line, office, beach, lice checks, program people, Marilyn’s Health Lodge crew,” I list. “You’ll all head to your locations in a minute or so.
Gates open at nine sharp. Counselors, you guys can head to your cabins to check the kiddos in and help them get situated.
Remember, you’re about to give these campers the best summer of their lives, so it’s good to be excited about it!
And I’m here if you have any questions or need anything. Now, let’s go make some memories.”
The group cheers, then stand and clear their breakfast dishes before heading to their stations. Callie approaches me as I wipe down the counter. “You ready?” she asks.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.
“Dad would be so proud of all this, Taylor. I hope you know that.”
I grin. “He taught me well,” I reply, tossing the rag in a wash bucket and wiping my hands on my shorts. “Come on. Let’s get out there.”
To be fair, I had a lot of help. When I first came up with the idea for how to save the land, I spoke to members of my board of directors at Trinity for advice.
They all agreed that it would be an amazing investment in their community if they could offer a sleepaway camp for inner-city youth, designed to get them out of their surroundings and into nature.
I sold Dottie on the idea of donating the land, which was worth a fortune and would offer tremendous tax benefits, and I asked my dad to put his smarts to good use to help me construct a budget for a one-year operation.
We were able to qualify for a reverse mortgage against the property to fund the cost of the summer camp for year one, which would buy me time to steward donors to help offset the cost of future years of camp.
Donors like the Brooks family, who credited Sound Hollow with giving their daughter a safe, happy outlet to grow into her best self, despite their absenteeism.
In fact, the Brooks’ socialite circles were more than happy to spearhead a capital campaign to replace the roofs on eight cabins, the Lodge, and one of the washhouses.
The existing infrastructure of Trinity was excited to support my new passion project, and the community rallied around me to host work weekends, helping clean, rake, re-screen cabins, seed the garden, paint, and more.
Every weekend of that first fall and the following spring, a team of volunteers could be counted on to head out east, tasked with a project to complete.
Anyone who wanted to help was welcome. I even got the school bus company to donate bus trips out there in exchange for the promise of future business shuttling kids to and from the camp from the city each week of the summer.
It took almost two years to get the space back in shape and ready to welcome its first new batch of campers.
At the one-year mark, I decided I needed to spend more time out there, so I hired a replacement for myself at the center and moved out to the Gate House to become the full-time, year-round camp director.
I put my condo on the market and was pleased when it sold quickly.
The money offered a great nest egg for my future, whatever it held.
I dreamed up ways to engage the community during the year by offering family camp retreats, high ropes challenges, garden shares, and a CSA.
It really was a full time job, even without all the work of sprucing the place up.
I worked incessantly, but it made me happy to have something so special to be invested in.
What little spare time I had was spent repainting and decorating the Gate House, turning it into a home that might one day be a nice place to raise a little family of my own.
Family took on new meaning to me. My dad’s resurgence in my world reminded me that life can give you second, third, and even fourth chances, but it’s up to you to take them.
His letters to me from prison gave me the idea to chronicle my plans for Sound Hollow.
So I began sending a weekly letter to Diana Thompson.
It was important to me to respect Matt’s anger; he wasn’t wrong to be upset.
But I loved him fiercely, and if the only way to show it was by leaving him alone, then I vowed to do that.
Still, I wrote to Diana, updating her on the status of the camp, on my relationship with my father, and reminding her that I was rebuilding Matt’s favorite place—his home away from home—so that, if he ever wanted to take a chance on me again, he would know where to find me.
I was building our happily ever after. All Matt had to do was show up, and it would be there, waiting for him.
So as not to make Diana feel conflicted, I asked her not to write back to my letters unless she wanted them to stop.
This was the best way I could think of to prove that my feelings and intentions were true, keeping my promise that I wouldn’t leave when things got hard.
This time, I didn’t leave. I just went back to the place I knew we both belonged, tending to it, restoring it lovingly day after day, building it back for future generations.
Now, finally, opening day was here, and it was time to celebrate the fruits of all my labor.
As expected, the morning was a whirlwind.
A bugle blew and parents lined up with their children to check in at the office with Callie.
Then, they progressed through a variety of stations in a giant circle on the lawn in front of the Lodge.
Parents handed in medicine with the nurse, reviewed program selections, and each camper was given a white Sound Hollow T-shirt, which would be used for tie-dyeing later that day.
Parents could then unload their campers’ belongings from their cars and carry them to their cabins, where they were greeted by the staff there.
The smiling faces of youth leaders—fired up and ready to take on a summer of fun—were contagious, and before long, nervousness gave way to eager anticipation for what the week would bring.
Parents hugged their kids, trying not to cry, saying “I’ll see you soon” before trudging through the cedar chips and dirt back to their cars, feeling an odd combination of relief at the thought of a week off from parenting combined with the sadness of leaving a little piece of their hearts behind.
That was growing up, for better or for worse. It was ugly and amazing, beautiful and tragic, and it never stopped, no matter how old you got.
At around 10:30 that morning, the line of cars is gone, and Callie’s finishing checking in the last of the new campers for the week.
I’m busy at the end of the road by the office, stacking parking cones and running through the rest of the morning’s activities in my mind, when one last vehicle turns into the drive.
It’s an older model, black GMC Sierra pickup truck carrying a father and his 8-year-old daughter.
The man parks the truck on the field by the other cars as I stand and watch, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He hops out, and I notice he looks stronger than the last time I saw him.
Healthier. More filled out, like the Matt I remember from back in the day.
Brett emerges from the passenger side. Her silky black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her glasses have blue rims now.
She is easily a whole head taller than she was two years ago when we came to this place together for a hooky day.
They hold hands and walk toward the office.
We lock eyes as he approaches.
“We heard there was a camp here,” he says.
A tear spills down my cheek as I nod. “There is.”
“She’s not registered,” he replies, jutting his chin down at Brett. “Are we too late?”
“No,” I say, closing my eyes. I breathe in the air, filled with pine and cedar and dirt that now mixes with a hint of fabric softener and Old Spice. It’s the exact perfect scent.
Matt uses his thumb to gently wipe the tear from my jawline. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
I open my eyes. “It’s okay,” I reply. “You’re home now.”