The Last Eligible Billionaire(95)

My stomach is in knots while Marshmallow and I wait for Hyacinth.

When Camp Funshine was sold the first time, we were devastated. It’s one of those memories I push down, and I try to remember the good times, not the heartache of knowing it wasn’t just Dad losing his camp, but that it was all of the kids losing their summer escape.

It was Hyacinth and me losing our place.

Not that I could’ve afforded it if I’d known it was for sale again, but— But I love to dream.

And I would’ve dreamed.

She has both kids in the back of her minivan, and they’re flinging Cheerios and Goldfish at Marshmallow, who’s strapped in six ways to Sunday so he doesn’t try to get out while the van’s moving, as we head out of the suburbs and into the hilly countryside.

“Why are we going?” I ask. “What can we do now?”

“They want our advice.”

“Now? Now? Hello, warning.”

“Begonia. If this is the only time my kids ever get to see Camp Funshine, we’re fucking going, okay? If I’d been on the vacation of a lifetime in Australia and my kids were at camp in Europe and I got the call that I had one chance to influence what happens to Camp Funshine coming back, I would’ve fucking flown around the world six times over to get here.”

I blink back more unwelcome heat in my eyes and nod.

Hy fell in love for the first time at Camp Funshine.

The second time too. And the third. All in one summer.

She lost her virginity out here. Not that we ever would’ve told Dad or Mom that.

And the pool. The campfire skits. The horseback riding.

The art hut.

My art hut.

“We had the best childhood,” I say softly.

She cuts a wet-eyed glance in the rearview mirror, undoubtedly looking at her kids. “The best,” she agrees.

I still don’t understand why we get one chance to go see the property and offer suggestions, but I know Hy’s right.

We can’t turn down this chance.

If we do it right, maybe we’ll get more chances.

We’re quiet most of the ride, talking with her kids and Marshmallow when we need to, and after about an hour, we turn off onto a gravel road that used to have a giant sign for Camp Funshine sitting prominently at the corner, but now has a cow.

Just a cow.

Staring at us while we pass.

“Fucking cow,” Hy mutters.

“Fucking cow!” Dani parrots from the back seat.

Another quarter mile down the road, my heart squeezes at the sight of the farmhouse that used to be Dad’s, the farmhouse where we all lived before the divorce, where Hyacinth and I would sneak out from to go do the ropes courses by flashlight because we thought we were invincible.

It’s dilapidated, with peeling paint and a dip in the roof and a saggy porch, which is no surprise.

When it was sold, the new owners made it pretty clear they’d be building a custom mansion deeper into the property.

“Fucking bankruptcy,” Hy mutters.

I swipe my eyes. “I miss this place.”

“I brought handcuffs. We can strap ourselves to the fence post and refuse to leave. And my purse has enough food to feed all five of us plus the baby for at least four days. Jerry will bring refills. I apologize for not having good potty facilities in my bag too though.”

“I love you, Hy.”

“I love you too, B.”

The gravel road turns into pavement, and soon a massive house with a stone front and arched doorways and a portico and a turret comes into view, right where the dining hall used to be.

Hy flips it off and keeps driving.

“Bad house!” Dani cries in the backseat.

Little Leo, who’s barely two, tries to echo her. “Baa how!”

“Show it your fingers, Wee-o!”

“Feeg-aahs!”

“I love those kids,” Hy whispers.

The road turns to gravel, then dirt. “Where are we going?” I ask.

She pulls off onto the overgrown former wide pathway to the section of camp that had the pool and the campfire ring-slash-amphitheater and the art hut. She points to a pin on her car’s GPS. “There. That’s all I got.”

My stomach drops as the weeds get thicker around her car and the pin gets closer.

We’re going to the art hut.

God, I miss that art hut.

And now I’m wiping tears again, half-furious, half grateful.

I can’t think of the art hut without thinking of Hayes building me an art hut in his house.

I’ve been doing so well at squashing memories of him, but there it is. Welling up and mixing with my favorite childhood memories.

“Fucking art hut,” I mutter.

“Aunt B, don’t say fuck,” Dani says. “It not nice.”

“It really doesn’t sound right on Aunt Begonia, does it?” Hyacinth says to her daughter.

Dani shakes her head.

“Let me out,” I tell her. “I don’t want to go.”

She ignores me.

“Marshmallow, jailbreak!” I cry.

I turn and watch my dog delicately eat a Goldfish out of my nephew’s hand and make no effort to free himself from his straps and harness to rescue me.

“Stop being dramatic,” Hy says. “That’s my job.”