Chapter 12
I wish as well as everybody else to be perfectly happy; but like everybody else it must be in my own way. —Sense and Sensibility
Edward
Entering the campground feels a little like walking into a fairytale.
The tall old growth trees filter the bright July sun so the light is soft and dreamy.
The campsites are spaced far enough apart to give campers privacy.
Each one has a picnic table, a fire pit, and three parking spots.
It’s a camper’s paradise—and, from a business standpoint, a surprisingly inefficient use of space.
As if anticipating my thoughts, Elinor says, “As you can see, each campsite has plenty of room. That’s what sets us apart from other resorts. It’s car camping, but you still have privacy.”
“How much does each site rent for?” I ask.
“$50 a night.” Elinor grimaces. She knows the price is too low.
“And the cottages?”
“$150.”
“Couldn’t we charge more?”
“Yes, but the cottages are quite rundown. If we fix them up, we could easily charge double.”
Or more, I think.
“What do you think of glamping?” I ask. Our current plans for the resort convert the entire campground into safari tents for glamping.
Elinor makes a face. “I’d rather not. This is the only space that would work for that. And I would hate to see Norland Park lose tent camping. Campers and backpackers are essential to our brand.”
“I’m not sure if I’m clear on what our brand is?”
Elinor doesn’t answer right away. She looks up through the layers of redwood branches to the pale blue sky. Nearby a stream gurgles through a shady ravine of ferns and moss-covered stones.
“Remember,” she begins, “that summer when we first met? How the days were long, but never long enough? I want to give our guests that—a timeless escape from the daily stress of life. I want to give people rest and hope and maybe room to dream. And I want it to be affordable so working class families can save up and vacation here.” As she speaks, Elinor has that same far-off look I observed when she was painting.
“And that’s why we need camping, not glamping.
The Norland Park I know and love is affordable for your average family.
And this might come as a shock to you, Mr. Ferrari, but $150 a night for cottages is still too expensive for a lot of people. ”
“Well, this might shock you,” I say playfully, “but my dad is a school teacher. And his wife is a dental hygienist, raising two kids. Basically the definition of middle class.”
“I didn’t know that,” Elinor says, surprised. “I’m still not convinced that qualifies you as an expert.”
“True.” I laugh at myself. “My monthly dinner with my dad hardly makes me an expert on his finances. If he were struggling, I’d be the last to know.
When we go out, he always pays for dinner, no matter how often I offer.
He’s determined to make up for the first ten years of my life when he was basically a deadbeat dad. ”
“Are you close?” Elinor asks with real interest.
“Surprisingly so. It feels unfair because my mom did the heavy lifting raising me. But I relate more with my dad. I’m afraid I’m more like him than my mom or grandpa.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m a bit of a disappointment to them,” I say ruefully.
“They were always baffled by me. I’m sorely lacking their competitive streak.
It was a mystery to them how I kept my temper when I lost board games, and they could never understand how I was content with my A-minuses and B-pluses.
And no matter how much they wheedled and coaxed me, I absolutely refused to run for student government. ”
“You, a disappointment? That’s ridiculous!
” Elinor’s rush to my defense is gratifying.
Her eyes flash with adorable outrage. A stray lock of her hair spirals in the wind and I almost lift a hand to tuck it behind her ear, but then I remember our precarious situation—and the inconvenient fact that I’m sort of seeing someone.
I jam my hands in my pockets to keep me from doing something foolish.
“Maybe not a true disappointment. But suffice it to say I’ve fallen short of high expectations.”
There’s something about Elinor that makes me want to tell her everything that has ever happened in my life.
I find myself drifting toward her like water running to the ocean.
Every so often my eyes land on her soft pink mouth, and my mind flashes back to that moment last night when I came this close to kissing her.
Not kissing her was definitely the right call, but I still regret it.
For a second, I lose the thread of the conversation entirely.
I drag my attention back to what she is saying.
“I mean, you went to Dartmouth and Wharton. That’s not exactly shabby.”
“No, but not impressive enough for my mom,” I explain as we walk up a steep shady road.
“She hates that I haven’t started my own business or become active in politics.
At the very least I should have married someone important by now.
None of that interests me. She wants me to be somebody, while all I want is to be happy. ”
“She sounds . . .” Elinor pauses, probably looking for a polite adjective. “Interesting.”
“My mom is a force of nature. She’s not nurturing and warm like your mom.
I don’t think she’s ever made a batch of cookies—let alone fried chicken.
But honestly, I’m lucky to have her. She and my dad were barely dating when she found out she was pregnant with me.
At the time, my dad didn’t handle it well.
So my mom raised me on her own while going to school and starting her own business.
Can you imagine? She was just twenty when I was born.
We both lived with my grandpa. So I basically had a grumpy old multi-millionaire as my nanny. ”
“This explains so much about you,” she says, sounding delighted. “It’s why you feel like such a throwback.”
“Throwback?”
“Like you’re from another time. The way you dress so formally, how you carry yourself—even some of the words you use.”
“I suppose I am a bit old fashioned. I worshiped my grandpa. I try to emulate his best qualities—–his good manners, informed mind, and sharp wit. But I’m well aware that the man was flawed—he had plenty of faults.”
“Five wives, for instance?”
“That’s not quite as bad as it sounds. Two of them died.” Elinor gives me an incredulous look. “Fine, he was a bit of a philanderer. He had this bad habit of starting a new relationship before he was finished with an old one.”
Saying this aloud, I have the cold realization that I’m currently behaving like my grandfather. Technically I’m sort of dating Caroline, but I can’t stop flirting with Elinor. Maybe I’m more like Reginald than I want to admit.
I need to be more like Elinor, stiff and all business-like. But she also seems to struggle with reserve. One minute she’s calling me Mr. Frechette, the next she’s catching my eye to share a joke.
“His longest gap between women was after your grandma. They divorced shortly before I was born—and then she died, I don’t know how.”
“She had a stroke when I was a baby.”
“Oh, that’s right. My mom said he was devastated.
Anyhow, he stepped back from work and devoted himself to taking care of me.
That lasted until I was ten or so, when he met the next “love of his life.” I didn’t see him as much after that.
But by then my mom had her business established, and my dad started dating my stepmom, who encouraged him to be more involved with me.
And to give him credit, he really stepped up. ”
We follow the road and take a sharp left, emerging from the woods to a sunny hillside.
After walking in the twilight of the tree canopy, it’s surprising to see the bright blue sky and the dazzling surface of the ocean.
A dozen or so clapboard cottages line the road facing the spectacular view.
The snug cottages are all the same shade of not-quite white.
Whether they were once a bright white or were originally this hue of antique white, it’s hard to say.
The paint is peeling, and the wood-shingled roofs have a thick layer of moss.
From one roof I spy a young fern growing.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a look inside right now,” Elinor says.
“They’re all booked, and I hate to interfere with housecleaning.
But you’re not missing much, I’m afraid.
” She makes a face. “They look much cuter on the outside than on the inside. Most of the cottages don’t have AC or bathrooms attached.
Guests have to share the communal bathroom.
Your friend Brandon is staying in one of the two larger cottages with multiple rooms and an attached bathroom. ”
I calculate how much it would cost to fix up each unit.
It makes more sense to tear down the cottages and replace them with slightly bigger ones with indoor plumbing.
Then we could easily charge $700 a night.
Although even with the peeling paint and the mushrooms sprouting on the front steps, the cottages are undeniably charming.
Each one has an overflowing flowerbox at the front window.
“You can’t afford paint, but you can pay for flowers?” I ask. I’ve stopped trying to make nice with Elinor. If I’m going to help her save Norland Park. I need to ask the hard questions.
“The flowerboxes are Annie’s project. I don’t pay a dime for them.”
“Is that so? Brandon told me they decided to stay here after Pepper saw a photo of these cottages with their flower boxes.”
“Annie will be tickled. Not that it’s a surprise. These cottages are a social media darling.”
“I can see why. She’s very good with flowers.”
“She does all the flowers in the park. She has such a knack. Last week a guest asked her to make a bridal bouquet, and it turned out amazing
“Do you guys hold events here?”
“No, we’re not set up for that. This was just a couple of hikers eloping. Annie did the bouquet for free.”
“Of course she did.”
“What do you mean?”
“You gave me your painting; Annie does free poetry lessons. Do any of you want to make money?” I say with some exasperation. “This is not a commune.”
“Edward, you’ve seen the books. Norland Park brings in plenty of money.”
“Nickels and dimes compared to what it could be earning. You think that I’m out of touch with the middle class, but maybe you lack vision when it comes to what this park could be.
And I’m not talking about charging a little more for the cottages.
Even Disneyland has stopped catering to the middle class.
They focus on attracting wealthy customers.
You have to know that’s where the money is. ”
“I know that—I just hate it. All the best things in life shouldn’t be enjoyed by the rich.
There’s got to be a way to grow a thriving business while still keeping options for families who struggle.
” Elinor is such a refreshing blend of idealism and pragmatism.
And I admire that, I do. But in practice .
. . well it’s so much easier to get the funding for a project with high returns.
“It’s not like I’m opposed to catering to the wealthy,” says Elinor. “In fact, one of my favorite schemes would be for wealthy travelers. You want vision, Mr. Frechette, I’ll show you vision. Right this way.” She marches ahead and I follow.