The man grunts again and says, “Mrs. Harris-White doesn’t like messes.”
Then he’s off, carting away the easels as if they weigh nothing at all. I remain where I am, attempting a few more futile dabs at the grass. When that doesn’t work, I simply pluck the blades from the parched earth and toss them into the air. They catch the dull breeze and scatter, rolling on the wind and out over the lake.
13
Before heading to lunch, I return to the arts and crafts building to root through Casey’s supplies. I don’t find what I’m looking for among the bins of wood glue and colored markers, so I head to Paige’s pottery station. A dime-size chunk of wet clay sits on one of the pottery wheels. Perfect for what I have planned.
“Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”
I whirl around to see Mindy in the doorway, her arms crossed, head tilted. She gives me a too-big smile as she steps inside. Pretend friendliness.
I smile, too. Pretending right back. “I had some things to finish up in here.”
“You do pottery as well?”
“I was just admiring what you’ve done to the place,” I say, curling my fingers around the bit of clay to hide it from her. I’d rather not explain to Mindy what I intend to do with it. She’s suspicious enough as it is. “It looks incredible.”
Mindy nods her thanks. “It was a lot of work and a lot of money.”
“It really shows.”
The extra compliment works. Mindy’s gritted-teeth smile melts into something that almost resembles a human expression. “Thanks,” she says. “And I’m sorry for acting so suspicious. I’m just on high alert now that camp’s in full swing.”
“No worries. I get it.”
“Everything needs to go as smooth as possible,” Mindy adds. “Which is why you should probably get to the mess hall now. If campers don’t see you there, they’ll think they can start skipping lunch, too. We lead by example, Emma.”
First, I got a warning from the groundskeeper. Now here’s one from Mindy. And it definitely is a warning. I’m supposed to tread lightly and not make any messes. In short, do the opposite of what I did last time I was here.
“Sure,” I say. “Going there now.”
It’s a lie. But a justifiable one.
Instead of heading to the mess hall, I make my way to the latrine. A few stragglers mill about the front door, waiting for friends to accompany them to lunch. After they’re all gone, I head to the side of the building, seeking out the crack on the exterior wall. Once I find it, I stuff a bit of clay between the two planks, covering the crack.
The irony of the act isn’t lost on me. Fifteen years ago, I’d peered through this very crack, watching Theo without his knowledge or consent. While I’d like to blame that on youth and naïveté, I can’t. I was thirteen. Old enough to know that spying on Theo was wrong. Yet I did it anyway.
Now no one can look inside. One act of atonement down. Many more to go.
* * *
—
When I finally do reach the mess hall, I find Theo waiting for me outside, a wicker basket at his feet. It’s an unexpected sight. One that makes me irrationally think the mere memory of my long-ago transgression summoned his appearance. That after all these years, he somehow found out I had watched him. I stop a few steps short of him, bracing for confrontation. Instead, Theo announces, “I’m going on a picnic. And I thought you might like to come along.”
“What’s the occasion?”
He nods toward the mess hall doors. “Does one need a special occasion to skip the horror of whatever’s being served in there?”
He says it with his brows arched, aiming for levity. But the same tension from last night is still present. Theo feels it, too. I can see it in the apprehensive twitch at the corners of his smile. A knot of guilt twists in my chest. Now there’s no doubt he’s forgiven me. What I don’t understand is why.
Still, a picnic lunch does sound appealing. Especially because Mindy wouldn’t like the idea one bit.
“Count me in,” I say. “My taste buds thank you.”
Theo lifts the basket and leads me away from the mess hall. Rather than go to the sloped lawn behind the Lodge, where I assumed we’d head, he instead guides me past the cabins and latrine and into the woods.
“Where are you taking me?”
Theo grins back at me before entering the forest. “Someplace special.”
Although there’s no path for us to follow, he walks with purpose, as if he knows exactly where he’s going. I trail behind him, stepping over downed branches and crunching through fallen leaves. The idea of being led into the woods by Theo would have made my thirteen-year-old heart sing. Even now my pulse quickens a bit as I ponder the strange possibility that Theo might be interested in me. Young Emma would certainly think he was. Cynical, adult me highly doubts it. He couldn’t. Not after everything I’ve done. Yet here we are, whisking through the forest.
Eventually, we come to a small clearing so unexpected that I force myself to blink just to make sure it’s real. The area is a small circle cleared of dead leaves and underbrush. In its place is a patch of soft grass punctuated in spots by clusters of wildflowers. A halo of sunlight pours through the gap in the trees, catching the pollen drifting in the air and making it look as though a light snow is falling. A round table sits in the middle of the clearing, similar to the one where Franny and I had lunch in her fantastical greenhouse. And just like at that months-ago meal, Franny is present, already seated at the table with a napkin across her lap.
“There you are,” she says with a warm smile. “Just in time, too. I’m positively famished.”
“Hi,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as surprised as I feel. More heat spreads across my cheeks—a combination of disappointment that this picnic isn’t some romantic gesture on Theo’s part and embarrassment that I ever thought it might be. I feel something else, too. Apprehension. Franny’s surprise appearance tells me that this isn’t an impromptu picnic. Something else is going on.
Not helping is the presence of six marble statues arranged on the outskirts of the space, almost tucked into the trees, like silent witnesses. Each statue is of a woman in artful stages of half-dress. They’re frozen in unnatural poses, their arms raised, hands open, as if waiting for small birds to perch on their delicate fingers. Others carry baskets overflowing with grapes, ripe apples, sheaths of wheat.
“Welcome to the sculpture garden,” Franny says. “One of my grandfather’s more fanciful ideas.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, even though the opposite is true. While beautiful from a distance, the clearing gives off a creepier vibe once I’m seated in its center. The statues bear the scars of years spent exposed to the elements. The folds of their togas are crusted with dirt. Some have cracks running up their sides and chips in their otherwise flawless skin. One statue’s face is stained by moss. All have blank eyes. It’s as if they’ve been blinded. Punished for seeing something they shouldn’t have.