1990
Bonnie sat flipping through a wildflower guide on a brand-new porch swing outside the Camp Nelson Lodge, glancing up anxiously at the road. It was only five days since she last saw her husband and children, but it felt longer. It felt like they belonged to another life, maybe another lifetime—back when she drove a Lexus instead of a Jeep, back when all she could see from her porch was a cluster of suburban mansions and lawns decorated with hydrangeas and plastic flamingos. She didn’t miss her lawn, didn’t miss anything at all about the ’burbs. It may have taken her forty-seven years, but she’d finally landed where she was meant to be.
She spotted Jim’s Mercedes, tossed aside her book, and ran to greet her children. Jim Jr., who’d just turned thirteen, was asleep in the front passenger seat, his mouth hanging open. He’d never in his short life been able to stay awake in a moving vehicle, and Bonnie was already worried about the prospect of him one day getting his license. The car pulled closer, and she saw eleven-year-old Mindy in the back seat, too engrossed in her Illustrated Mythology to look up. Bonnie knew this was a snapshot of the last five hours in her family’s life: Jim listening to talk radio, making snarky comments about the hosts and callers; Jim Jr. snoring away with his head slouched against the window; Mindy quietly reading, tracing the pictures with her fingers. It was like Bonnie might as well have made the trip with them.
Jim was the first out of the car.
“You’re looking a little crunchier every week,” he said, referring to her leather hiking boots, her long ponytail, the beaded necklace he’d never seen her wear before.
“Nice to see you, too,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Maybe you’d better wake up Rumpelstiltskin.”
Jim banged on the hood of the car with an open palm.
“Hey, buddy, come on now,” he called.
Jim Jr. raised his head, looked around, seemed to want to retreat back into his dream. Mindy ran up and grabbed her mother around the waist.
“It’s so beautiful here, Mommy,” she said.
“There’s my girl,” Bonnie said, giving her daughter a squeeze. “God, I missed you.”
And Bonnie realized that this was true. She’d had her hands full looking after the guests, renovating the final cabin, supervising the bar, fitting in the occasional hike—but beneath all of that there had been an ache. The nightly phone calls weren’t cutting it: she wanted her children there with her. Soon enough, she thought. Only a few months left in the school year.
She leaned into the backseat, the smell of bubblegum momentarily replacing the smell of pine, and pulled out Mindy’s duffel bag. When she turned around, Rudy was standing there. He reached for the bag, and she felt his hand on hers, felt it linger there a beat too long. Bonnie spun her head, found Jim lifting luggage from the trunk. Oblivious.
* * *
Once the family had unpacked and settled in, they gathered in the dining room around two extra-large ice cream sundaes.
“So what do you kids think?” Bonnie asked. “Maybe some kayaking later? Or a hike?”
Jim cut in before they could answer.
“I’m anxious to baptize that new in-ground pool,” he said.
“You hate swimming,” Bonnie said.
“Yeah, but I like sitting in a lounge chair with a gin and tonic in my hand.”
“Swimming!” Mindy said. “I want to go swimming.”
Jim Jr. nodded enthusiastically.
“All right,” Bonnie shrugged. “Swimming it is.”
She shot her husband a pointed look. She was sure he’d prepped them. For Bonnie, the pool was the least interesting part of the property—the only part you could find back in “civilization,” as Jim called it. She’d only had one installed because it seemed to be something guests expected.
The door to the dining area opened and Rudy appeared. Jim watched him walk up to the table. He’d cleaned himself up since that day he first showed them around. Instead of a grease-stained polo shirt he wore a plaid button-down with short sleeves that showed off his bulging forearms. He was younger than Jim originally thought, too—maybe thirty-five or thirty-six? A good ten years younger than Bonnie, but still Jim wondered if he should worry.
“Excuse me,” Rudy said. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to bring you the mail before I run my errands in town.”
She can’t get her own mail? Jim thought.
Bonnie took the small pile, and Rudy left. Her eyes were drawn to a pale-blue envelope addressed in a shaky cursive. The kids started squabbling about whether or not Jim Jr. had spotted a black bear during the drive up (“So you can see in your sleep?” Mindy asked), and Jim took the opportunity to attack the remains of their sundae. Bonnie set aside the flyers and bills, slit the envelope open. Inside, she found a brief note written in block letters on a sheet of matching blue paper:
GO HOME WHILE YOU STILL CAN, YOU RICH BITCH.
She smiled to keep herself from shuddering, then folded the paper in thirds and slid it back inside the envelope.