Starry Eyes(24)

Warm sunlight streams through double-high windows as we tread across floors of polished river rock and stop at the registration desk. It smells so nice in here, like cedar and fresh-cut flowers. And they have expensive candy sitting in a bowl for the guests. I resist the urge to fill my pockets; Brett does not. He holds a finger up to his mouth and winks at me, stealthily emptying imported chocolate into a pocket on his backpack, while Reagan informs the middle-aged woman working the desk who her mother is.

The woman’s name tag reads CANDY. For a second, my oxygen-starved brain reads this as some sort of sign that Brett’s been busted, then I realize it’s actually her name. “You’re Belinda’s daughter?” she says to Reagan. “I barely recognize you. Didn’t you stay with us last year?”

“I did,” Reagan reports cheerfully. “Mom called you about the change in guests, right?”

Candy looks us over. “I was under the impression that your group would be girls. . . .”

You and me both, Candy. I sense a kindred planner spirit in her as she’s double-checking her computer screen and an old-fashioned paper registry. Reagan assures Candy that nothing is amiss with our guest list and begins providing her with everyone’s names. I meander around the room, and Brett joins me while I examine a wall of framed scenic photos. “Lennon said you take crazy-good photos of stars. I thought you just looked at them.”

The jittery feeling I get whenever Brett is nearby returns. Why can’t I just feel normal around him? “I . . . do both. Look and take pictures. Of stars. With my camera.”

Ugh. Zorie sound like cavewoman.

Brett just laughs, easy and warmly. “Not with your mind?”

“No,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t red.

“Do you just stick a camera on a telescope and zoom in?”

“Sort of. Not exactly? It’s . . . There are a lot of fiddly, techy parts. Hard to explain.”

His smile is gentle. “Maybe you can teach me how? Because I’d love to take photos of the night sky. Especially the moon. That would be so badass.”

Is he serious? He’s interested in astrophotography? I want to scream, I WILL TEACH YOU! I WILL TEACH YOU SO HARD. But Kendrick calls his name, and Brett ducks around me to answer. Before I can open my mouth, he’s gone, laughing with Kendrick about a carved wooden statue that looks like two squirrels having sex.

Dammit.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. It’s the same prickly feeling I had in the car, and it makes me anxious. I glance around, and my eyes immediately meet Lennon’s. The intensity of his stare is startling.

For the love of Pete, what do you want? It’s as if he’s accusing me of something. I haven’t said a word to him since the Gold Rush store, so I’m not sure what his problem is. I used to be able to read his expressions, but now he’s like the mediocre mime who performs outside the Jitterbug on Mission Street, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to get out of a glass box or signal a taxi. Does Lennon expect a thank-you for the peanut butter fudge? Or is he just trying to unsettle me?

If so, it’s working.

But I’ll never let him know that. I quickly turn away and head toward Brett and Kendrick and the mating squirrels.

After we’re registered, Candy leads us to our cabin tents, giving us an abbreviated tour and answering questions along the way. The main lodge has several lounge areas and connects to a screened-in dining pavilion where dinner will be served later. Outside, winding paths lead to dozens of canvas cabin tents nestled in the woods. Some are rectangular, some round—the yurts—but all are the color of unbleached muslin. They’re grouped into areas named after birds, each area a short walk from the next. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our area, Camp Owl, where two of the rectangular tents sitting near a dense forest are reserved for us.

Reagan isn’t happy about this. “We’re supposed to have a yurt,” she argues, “with a view of the valley.”

“Sorry, but Camp Falcon was accidentally overbooked. I put a family of six in my last one earlier this morning.”

“Not cool,” Reagan says grumpily. “We’ve had the reservation since last summer. My mom isn’t going to be happy.”

“If you’d like, I’ll call her and explain,” Candy says. “But this might work out better for you. Girls can take one tent, and the boys can take another.”

The implication is obvious. Candy will call Mrs. Reid and inform her that her daughter has brought along three boys. Reagan fumes quietly, but acquiesces. We really don’t have a choice.

“Just let life happen,” I tell Reagan.

“Yeah,” Brett says cheerfully. “That’s right, Zorie. You’re preaching my word, and I dig it.”

The look Reagan gives me could slice through steel.

The tents are both exactly alike: sealed cement floors, canvas walls fixed to a wooden frame, a screen door, slatted windows that can be opened to take advantage of the breeze during the day and closed at night to keep the cabin warm, along with a glass-front tent stove. A small seating area surrounds the stove, with a real sofa and brightly patterned Navajo rugs. Two sets of bunk beds stretch across the back of the tent, all with feather-top mattresses, luxury linens, and down pillows.

Behind the bunks, past a canvas divider, is an en suite toilet and sink. No showers. Those are in the bathhouse down the hill, shared with six other cabins in Camp Owl, Candy reports.