My younger brother Michael is married, and his wife Kayla is pregnant with their first. He’s also a highly regarded surgeon, which my parents remind me at every opportunity. My sister Elizabeth isn’t married, but she’s in a serious relationship with another professional golfer. My parents don’t mind as much that she isn’t married because a husband and children would interfere with her golf tournaments. They could care less about the money; it’s all about collecting those shiny trophies.

  I see my neighbor across the street clutching a pile of mail, but he ducks inside before I can lift my arm in greeting. Strange that my instinct is to wave when I’ve barely exchanged more than ten words with anyone on my street. For the most part, they park their cars in their massive garages and enter their houses from there. We all have lawn services and gardeners, so even in the nice weather, there’s no reason to linger outside. Those who don’t have a home gym have a club membership elsewhere.

  People in the city talk about the epidemic of loneliness, but I think it’s far worse in the suburbs where you indulge in the misguided belief that you ought to be interacting with your neighbors. In the city, there’s no such expectation.

  I enter the house and immediately check the fridge for leftovers. Then I remember that I attended a client dinner last night. No such luck. I’m mildly disappointed. I don’t mind cooking, but I’m tired. My workload has been piling up, which puts my job at eighty percent of my day, with the remaining twenty percent divided between sleeping and eating. Not much of a life, but I know some people have it far worse for far less money, so I can’t complain.

  I give my set of weights a passing glance. Not today, Satan. At this point in my life, exercise is a necessary evil. I wish I enjoyed it, but I’d much rather play a game of 21 with some of the guys and get in a workout that way. Not many opportunities for shooting hoops these days, though. Not many friends either. The ones I had got tired of me canceling plans because of work and eventually stopped texting.

  I plug in the camp’s address and check the travel time. Ninety minutes without traffic. I mentally add an extra ten minutes for rush hour if I hope to get to the Poconos by midmorning tomorrow.

  At 10 p.m., my phone rings on my nightstand and I recognize Riggieri’s personal number. I immediately hit the accept button. “Charlie Thorpe speaking.”

  “Charles, it’s James Riggieri. I understand you’re driving out to the Poconos tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought a face-to-face meeting would be better.” I learned from a young age that it’s much harder to say no to someone when they’re standing in front of you.

  “She doesn’t know you’re coming, does she? She’ll only lock the door and pretend not to be home.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. Her tactic sounds eerily similar to mine when unwanted company darkens my doorstep.

  “I haven’t given her a heads up.”

  “Good. I don’t need to remind you how badly I want this deal, Charles.”

  “I’m aware, sir, and I have every intention of making it happen.” For both of us.

  “Call me afterward with a full report.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  He hangs up. I leave my phone face up and the ringer on in case he calls again, which has been known to happen. I stare at the whirring ceiling fan for another hour and try to visualize my success. It’s a practice that’s served me well over the years. I picture myself placing a contract with two signatures in Joel’s hand. He slaps me on the back, congratulating me.

  I’m pretty sure I’m smiling when I fall asleep.

  Chapter Two

  “Cricket, I need your help!”

  I pause my pretense of filing and look up at Gloria. “Buffy?”

  She nods. “I had the windows open to air out the cabin. She heard a bird squawk, and it scared her.”

  “On that basis, you’d think she’d stay inside.”

  “She has more drops in the cute bucket than the smart bucket.”

  I push away from my desk and stand, happy to have an excuse to go outside and stretch my legs. “I’ll take the trees near the parking lot. You take the copse.”

  Gloria sets a blueberry on my desk. “Incentive.” She disappears before I manage to reach the door.

  I head outside with the lure, scanning the tree line for a sugar-glider shaped outline. As I reach the parking lot, I notice an unfamiliar car rolling to a stop. An Audi coupe.

  The driver’s door opens and out steps a tall man, maybe six-four, in a very nice suit. At least I assume it’s very nice, based on the price of his car. He’s conventionally handsome, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am not. Give me Kylo Ren’s sexy awkwardness over pretty blond boy Luke Skywalker any day of the week. He looks like the professional guy they send to serve divorce papers, yet also good-looking enough to be the stripper version.

  Wait. Do people hire strippers to impersonate service processors?

  I push my glasses to the bridge of my nose. “Hey, do you see a bat? Not the kind you swing, unless you’re abusive, in which case, you should be barred from adopting an animal, or quite frankly, from breathing.”

  Versatile Handsome Man glances skyward. “Aren’t bats nocturnal?”

  Smart, hot, and driving a car with all four of its hubcaps? Clearly, he’s a jerk. The universe wouldn’t bestow too many blessings on one person, unless that person is Pedro Pascal.

  “She’s nocturnal, normally, but Buffy’s not a bat. She’s a sugar glider. I assumed you wouldn’t know what that is, so I thought it was easier to call her a bat.” I look up. “No offense, Buffy, wherever you are! I know the difference!”

  His eyebrows pinch together, like he’s trying to decide if he should continue to converse with this deranged individual.

  “If you’re here for camp, you’re early, but you should know we’re not a business-attire establishment. We’re not even business casual. We are full-on casual.” I snap the elastic waistband of my terry cloth shorts.

  His gaze lowers to my abdomen, and I suddenly feel self-conscious, which is strange because I haven’t experienced self-consciousness since the onset of puberty.

  In my peripheral vision, I catch a blur of movement as Buffy swoops down to land on the overdressed visitor’s shoulder. To his credit, he remains as still as a statue, which tracks because he looks like he’s been chiseled from stone; I’m talking the fancy granite you choose for your kitchen countertops when you have an unlimited budget, not that I would know. My countertops are laminate.

  “Congratulations, you found Buffy, or more accurately, Buffy found you.”

  He doesn’t seem as pleased by the development as I am, possibly because of the trail of excrement that now streaks his suit jacket. I quickly remove Buffy from his shoulder before he offers to send me his dry-cleaning bill.

  He stares at me with a dazed and confused look on his face, as though this is his first time being christened by a gliding possum, which it probably is. I mean, what are the odds?

  He finally recovers his voice. “Are you Courtney Abernathy?”

  “I am.”

  “Charles Thorpe, from Melvin, O’Reilly, and Gaines LLP.” He hands me a business card.

  I glance at the card before tucking it in my back pocket. “How can I help you, Charles Owen Frederick Thorpe the Fourth, Esquire?” What a mouthful. His parents must be Very Self-Important People.

  “I’m here on behalf of our client, LandStar.”

  He has to be kidding me. “You work for James Riggieri?”

  “I do.”

  Buffy seems skittish, so I switch her to the deep nether regions of my shorts pocket. “And your client James Riggieri asked you to pay me a visit?”

  “He did.”

  “Riddle me this, Mr. Esquire. Why would Riggieri send his lawyer when I’ve shot down all his previous proposals? It’s not like there are documents to sign.”

  “He decided to try another angle.”

  “What’s the angle?” I point to his shirt. “Does he think that tie might bore me into submission?”

  He glances down. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

  “Nothing. You look like a Brooks Brother.”

  “That’s a perfectly acceptable store.”

  “Sure, if your favorite color is neutral. Tell your client what I’ve already told him—I’m not interested in selling.” I turn around and start back toward the ring of cabins where my office is located. Today is busy enough without needing to entertain another pointless offer from LandStar.

  I’m not entirely surprised to hear the pitter-patter of size 11 Guccis scurrying to catch up with me. Like his client, I get the distinct impression that Charles Peter Parker Henry VIII isn’t well acquainted with the word ‘no.’

  “Here, take a look at the contract and tell me how we can do better,” he says, falling in step beside me. He thrusts a document at me, and I push it away.

  “Why bother? I don’t speak legalese.”

  He exhales his frustration. “Aren’t you at least interested to hear the latest offer?”

  “I don’t care if it’s a trillion dollars. The answer is an unequivocal no.” I stop outside my office door. I don’t want his presence to contaminate my personal space.

  “Look, we both know your camp is bleeding money. Unless you have deeper pockets than your well-loved T-shirt suggests, I highly recommend you consider my client’s generous offer.”

  I look down at my blue T-shirt with ‘Nerdy By Nature’ written across the chest in a stylish script. He’s right—it is well loved and there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everybody can identify a luxury brand at thirty yards. Not everybody wants to either.

  “Tell your generous client that this area doesn’t need mega mansions or upscale condos for rich weekenders.”

  “Don’t be silly. Rich weekenders go to the nice parts of the Jersey shore. This would be for upper middle-class weekenders and summer homeowners.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “There are nice parts of the Jersey shore?”

  That smart remark results in a smile that owes a heavy debt to a skilled orthodontist. His teeth probably cost more than my truck.

  “I take it you’re a big fan of deforestation, Mr. Gucci.”

  “I wouldn’t describe myself as a fan, and my name is Charlie Thorpe.”

  “When you actively support a cause, you’re a fan.”

  “Deforestation can sometimes be a byproduct of real estate development, that’s true.”

  I spread my arms wide. “Look around. This land is mainly forest. I doubt your client intends to squeeze his luxury buildings between the pine trees.”

  “Be straight with me, Miss Abernathy. Is your resistance due to a legitimate reason or are you just plain stubborn?”

  “Can’t it be both?” I tap the door with my knuckles. “This camp belonged to my grandparents. It has sentimental value.”

  “When do the kids arrive?”

  “Not for another two-and-a-half weeks.”

  He flashes a grin. “Perfect. Plenty of time for us to discuss the future of the camp.”

  “I said the kids arrive in two-and-a-half weeks. The adults arrive tomorrow.”

  He blinks twice. “Adults? Like the counselors?”

  “No, the adult campers. The first two weeks of the season are devoted to the adult version of Comic-Camp, before the kids arrive.” I enjoy watching his reaction. It isn’t often I get to see one anymore. The locals know me and the camp.

  The information works its way from his brain to his lips. “Nerd camp for grown-ups?”

  I cluck my tongue. “And here I thought you were a top-shelf lawyer. Shouldn’t you have done your research before driving all the way up here? What was the drive from Philly—two hours?”

  “Thereabouts.” He surveys the background. “What does that entail? Science labs?”

  “Not that kind of nerd. We’re more of the pop-culture variety. Activities designed for people with common interests. Comic-Camp gives them a sense of belonging that they don’t necessarily get in their daily lives. Two weeks of sword fights, zombie battles, tabletop games…” I wave a hand at the campground. “All set in peaceful tranquility.”

  His gaze shifts to the lake. “Nothing about that sounds peaceful.”

  “I’m talking about inner peace.”

  “And your grandparents were the first ones to let their freak flag fly?”

  “No. It was a regular summer camp for kids back then. I added the adult portion five years ago, but I grew up here.” I look around at the thriving landscape. “I have memories of every tree branch. Every stone.”

  “I’m sure my client won’t object if you stuff a few rocks in your pockets on the way out.”

  I want to wipe the smug look off his chiseled face. Seriously, did he source those cheekbones straight from an underground quarry in Italy? His stone-cold features suit him.

  “It isn’t only the setting. It’s the experience. The same campers come back season after season. It’s a home away from home for many of them. One place they know they’ll be among like-minded people.”

  “Sounds like law school.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh? Do they have combat archery in law school?”

  “The law used to offer trial by combat. Does that count?” He snort-laughs and it annoys me that the sound does nothing to detract from his good looks. Life is so unfair.

  “Unless you’re here to register for camp, you’re a trespasser. I’m friends with the chief of police and trust me when I say he’ll have no problem escorting you from the premises on my say so.”

  The look on his face says he doesn’t doubt it. “Well, you have my contact information. If you change your mind...”

  I fold my arms. “I won’t.”

  He seems uncertain what to do next, which I have to admit, I kind of enjoy. “Bye now,” I say with a friendly wave. Okay, friendly is a stretch. More like mocking.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Abernathy.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, which I would think is a job requirement for you. Maybe you ought to consider another line of work.”

  A shadow passes over the slab of marble. I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t gazing so intently at his face.

  Wait. Not gazing. Looking. Because that’s what people do during a conversation, unless you’re one of my neurodivergent campers who struggles with eye contact.

  “Have a good day.” Charles turns on his heel and strides toward the dirt parking lot. I’m surprised his Audi didn’t reverse in horror at the lack of blacktop.

  “May the Force be with you,” I call after him. There’s no way a jerk like him would get a Star Wars reference.

  I spin toward my office and nearly collide with Gloria. “Sorry about that,” I say.

  “It’s okay. Who was that man?”

  “A lawyer.”

  Her eyes widen. “Are you in trouble?”

  I plaster on a smile to ease her anxiety. “No, not at all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, good. Do you have Buffy?”

  I pat the pocket of my shorts. “She’s safe and sound.”

  “I hope she didn’t cause any trouble.”

  I scoop the animal out of my pocket and transfer her to Gloria. “On the contrary, her timing was impeccable. She gave our visitor a little gift.”

  Gloria glances past me to where the Audi had been parked. “Was that the man who wants to buy the camp?”

  I sigh. Can’t get anything past Gloria. “He works for the man who’s trying unsuccessfully to buy the land. LandStar doesn’t care about the camp.”

  Gloria smiles her appreciation. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I can’t live without this place. It’s my oasis.”

  I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know. It’s mine, too.”

  In truth, the money would be helpful. My personal bank balance is so low that instead of a number, my statement yields a voice note from Whoopi Goldberg that says, “You in danger, girl.” But there’s no way I’m selling this land. Pops would roll over in his grave if he had one. Fine, his cremains would circle his hourglass like a drain. My family left me a legacy, and I fully intend to honor it.

  “Most of the cabins are done. I’m going to break for lunch,” Gloria says.

  “Thanks. I’ll eat with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Gloria lights up. “Picnic table?”

  “I’ll meet you there in five.” I duck into my office to grab my water bottle and the peanut butter and jam sandwich I’d stuck in the mini fridge.

  I join Gloria at the picnic table that’s closest to the lake. She’s already tucked into her salad.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she says.

  It is. And this view never ceases to amaze me. It changes by the hour as well as by the weather. Sometimes it’s moody and gray. Other times, with beams of sunlight bouncing off the water’s surface, it’s downright magical. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

  “If they’re going to send someone else to plead LandStar’s case, at least they sent a good-looking one this time. Maybe if you keep saying no, they’ll get progressively hotter.”

  I laugh. “I think they might’ve peaked with Mr. Marble.” I swill my cold water. “How’s your mom?”

  Gloria’s face crumples. “Her memory is rapidly declining. To be honest, I feel guilty for coming this year. What if she doesn’t remember me by the time I get back?”

  “Gloria, you deserve to have a life of your own. Your mom would want that for you, too.” Like me, Gloria is an only child with only child problems. There are no other family members to pitch in, and she can’t afford full-time care. She saves what she can to pay the home aides for the two weeks she spends at camp, which is why I’m willing to barter with her. I won’t deprive a woman of her only joy in life.

  “I know.” Gloria closes her eyes to bask in the sun’s warm glow. “I’m so happy to be back, you have no idea. This year was harder.”