“I’ll help,” Christy volunteered.
“Thank you, my love,” Wren said.
“What’m I?” I said facetiously. “Chopped liver?”
“You too,” she added with a smile. Then she stretched up and kissed my cheek, although she grimaced almost immediately. “Sorry, I’m just cranky. A four-hour car ride didn’t help. I’ll be fine. It’s time for more Tylenol anyway.”
“Okay. Then Christy and I’ll run to the grocery store for you.”
“Not me,” Christy said immediately. “I wanna stay and help with the computer.”
“Hold on, you were serious?” Trip said in surprise.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll go to the store by myself,” I said.
“No, I need to go too,” Wren said. “I don’t have a list. Besides, I need to see everything myself. It’s easier that way.”
“That’s fine too,” I said. “I’ll load the cart and do everything else. All you have to do is point.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “What would I do without you? All of you.”
“Eat stale cereal?”
“Complain about your back?” Christy added.
“Strain your fingers?” Trip finished. He wiggled his suggestively, and Wren’s eyes flew open in disbelief.
“Just for that…” she threatened.
“Look at the time,” I said quickly. “We’d better get to town before the store closes. Have fun with your new toy,” I added to Christy and Trip. Then I hustled Wren toward the door. She calmed down as soon as it closed behind us.
“Thanks,” she said sincerely. “I know this isn’t what—”
“Nonsense. This is exactly what I want to be doing. Besides, that’s what friends are for.”
“Well, I owe you.” She thought of something and laughed softly. “What is it she says? I owe you a million-billion times?”
“Yep. Lucky for you, I take credit.”
“And sex.”
“Ha! That too!”
* * *
On Monday I drove to Granville’s for my normal design review. As usual, he reminisced for the better part of an hour. He’d led an interesting life, and he honestly believed he was imparting pearls of wisdom, but I had work to do, real work. When we finally got around to my drawings, the review took less than twenty minutes, and he didn’t suggest any changes.
I wasn’t exactly rude when I packed my things and said goodbye, but Granville was clearly nonplussed. I drove like Carter on the paved roads and as fast as I could on the camp road itself. My poor old Land Cruiser rattled and squeaked and sounded like it might come apart at the seams. I finally skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust at the Retreat, where I leapt out, dumped my things in the clubhouse, and ignored Trip as I ran into the bungalow to change into work clothes.
“Nice of you to show up,” he said when I joined him next door.
“Don’t start,” I warned.
“Seriously. Did you stop and smell the roses on the way back?”
“No, and you know it. I told you about Granville.”
“What? I’m just kidding.” Except he wasn’t.
“Let’s just get to work.”
“I’ve already been working.”
“So’ve I,” I snapped. I felt like breaking something, starting with Trip’s face.
He immediately realized he’d gone too far, so he backed off. He even took a step back, and I forced myself to calm down. After a couple of deep breaths, I surveyed the porch and its jumble of furniture and boxes.
“What’re we doing?”
“Unboxing everything,” he said. “Now that you’re here, we can start moving things inside and putting the bed together.”
“Yeah, all right, let’s go. I’m tired of talking. Besides, time is money.”
“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself.”
I eventually calmed down, especially without Trip needling me. The work was relatively easy, and we finished the first bungalow by the end of the day. I spent a couple of hours before dinner working on drawings, while Trip dealt with paperwork of his own.
We finished another four bungalows in two days, and I called Granville to reschedule for the afternoon on Thursday. Trip and I finished the last bungalow in the morning. Then I drove to my meeting, while he installed a bunch of little things like faceplates, vent covers, and doorstops.
On Friday we inspected our work and made last-minute fixes. The bungalows still looked bare without any decorations other than the furniture, but at least they were complete and ready to occupy. We spent the afternoon with Susan going over them and doing a final punch list.
“Looks good,” she said when we finished. “What’s next?”
“Demo on the houses,” Trip said.
“I like the idea of turning one of them into a rec center,” she said. “The hotels are adding arcades, so I ordered a couple of video games for here.”
Trip made a note. “When do they arrive? And where do you want us to put them?”
“Next week. You’ll have to pick them up. From the hotel by the interstate. Put them in the clubhouse for now.”
“Are you sure? They make a lot of noise. Some of the older residents…?”
“I’ll handle them,” she said. “You just worry about your end.”
“You’re the boss.”
She frowned and massaged the bridge of her nose. She looked so much like my mother that I felt an odd sense of déjà vu. She even sighed and shook it off like my mother did.
She asked Trip, “Would you like a job? As a resort manager?”
He smiled deferentially.
“The pay isn’t great, but the fringe benefits are nice. Or so they tell me.”
“They’re very nice,” he chuckled.
“But you aren’t interested?”
“In the job? No, sorry.”
She glanced at me, hopeful but clearly in jest.
“Why haven’t you hired someone?” I asked. “You can afford it.”
“I can, yes. But the camp can’t. It doesn’t make enough money.”
“Operate at a loss,” Trip suggested. “You should get a nice break on your taxes between that and all the capital investments you’re making.”
“My accountant said the same thing.” She nodded at me. “Your mother agreed. Doug and Olivia too. As a matter of fact, everyone seems to think I should have someone running this place. But… I don’t want to let go.”
“It’s a business whether you like it or not,” Trip said. “You need someone.”
Her expression went through the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—all in the span of a few heartbeats. It was such a thorough transformation that I couldn’t help but laugh. They both looked at me.
“It’d take way too long to explain.”
Susan returned her attention to Trip. “You’re right. And I know it.” After a moment she sighed, heavy and final. “I miss Jeremiah. I never knew what I had.”
“Don’t it always seem to go,” Trip said, and it was his turn for blank stares. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “Christy’s a Joni Mitchell fan, so I figured you’d know the song. ‘Big Yellow Taxi.’” He sang, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone…”
“Pave paradise,” Susan wondered, “and put up a parking lot?” She laughed bitterly. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Not really,” he said. “I was talking about Jeremiah. Gunny,” he added for my benefit. “You need a good manager. You have bigger things to deal with, and you need someone to make decisions for the camp. It’s basically your private estate.”
“Your demesne,” I added, mostly as a joke to lighten the mood.
Susan frowned and tried to place the word.
“Lands of an estate, used by the lo— lady of the manor.”
“So I’m landed gentry now? And that’s what this is? My manor?”
“Yes,” Trip said simply.
“That’s what manor houses were,” I added, “family businesses.”