“YOUR COACH, CINDERELLA?” WES stepped out of the carriage onto the running board. He was wearing a ripped old cape and a moth-eaten cap.
“You must be the rat,” I said.
“At your service. Step into my trap.”
The carriage was festooned with wisteria, honeysuckle, and evergreen boughs. Around us the entire camp was gathering, everyone all dressed up.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I said, stepping into the carriage.
“We like your attitude,” Wes replied.
Mary Elizabeth climbed in after us. “And we want you to stay forever.”
I smiled. “I’ll think about it.”
As the carriage trundled off, the other campers walked alongside, laughing and chattering. Some had brought along musical instruments — a saxophone, a flute, a snare drum, a trumpet. They were awful players. I couldn’t even make out the tune.
But it didn’t matter.
I was dry, cool, and comfortable. I would have felt just perfect if I’d only known Colin and Grandpa Childers were all right.
They’re probably fine.
Colin’s just as strong a swimmer as you are. Besides, HE was the one swimming in the right direction.
And Grandpa Childers is a survivor, Rachel. He’ll probably outlive you.
I tried not to think about them. For my own sanity.
“Like it here?” Wes asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “But where are the counselors?”
“They don’t live with us,” Wes replied. “We only see them for special events, like this one.”
“You’re totally on your own, all day long?” I asked.
Mary Elizabeth nodded.
“Maybe I will stay forever,” I muttered.
Soon the smell of roasting meat wafted into the carriage. Then layers of other smells — corn on the cob, fresh-baked bread, muffins. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I had to hold back the drool.
Do they always eat like this?
We stopped at a broad, grassy field. In one corner, a lamb was roasting on a spit, and steam rose from three open stone ovens. People were piling platters of hot food onto long picnic tables.
Adults.
But they weren’t your average Cape Cod set.
Most of them, in fact, were in costume.
Themed costumes. In groups.
In one group, the women wore hoop-skirted dresses and black felt hats. The men had on stiff woolen jackets, knickers, and hobnailed boots.
Pilgrims.
Another group, all men, wore ruffled white shirts and bandannas, right out of Treasure Island. They were bossing around barefooted guys dressed in tattered rags.
Buccaneers and their captives.
A bunch of guys in crisp khaki army uniforms looked as if they’d stepped out of a World War II movie.
Saving Private Ryan.
The groups seemed to stick together — except for a band of musicians, which had representatives from each. They were playing flutes fashioned from branches, drums made from hollowed-out tree stumps. Some people were doing an intricate clog dance on a patch of bare soil.
“A THEATER COMPANY?” I asked Wes, shouting over the noise. “OR AN ACTORS’ CAMP OR SOMETHING?”
Wes nodded. “THEY’RE CHARACTERS, AREN’T THEY?”
I didn’t bother to ask again. Too much effort.
As I stepped from the carriage, people rushed to greet me. Wes and Mary Elizabeth tried to introduce them, but I didn’t remember their names. Some of them spoke with accents — English or Irish, mostly, and some of the brogues were pretty thick.
As I went to the buffet table, Carbo pulled me away. He was smiling this time. He tried to get me to do these intricate ballroom-type maneuvers with him. I was a total spaz, but he was much better than I would have expected. As if he’d been taking lessons.
All around us, people clapped and cheered.
I felt so welcome.
And so hungry.
Finally Carbo led me to a buffet table.
I wanted to laugh. The guys in the army uniforms ate with their backs ramrod-straight and spoke in loud, clipped tones. The “Pilgrims” were silently eating from plates that had hardly any food on them.
The tattered men seemed to be waiters for the whole party, scurrying around with sullen expressions, clearing plates and cleaning up. The Treasure Island dudes were bellowing at them mercilessly, pushing them around and laughing behind their backs.
“What’s playing?” I asked as I walked to a table with Wes and Mary Elizabeth, my plate heaped with food. “The Crucible, I bet … or, let’s see, The Pirates of Penzance — ?”
“Right,” Wes said. “It’s like a respiratory company.”
“Repertory,” Mary Elizabeth corrected him.
I downed a cup of punch and began to eat.
One of the barefoot men spotted my empty glass. “May I, mum?”
Colin.
For a moment I had a flash of him, clearing glasses on the yacht.
“No, thanks,” I said.
Suddenly I wasn’t thirsty anymore. Or hungry. I pushed my plate aside.
“Rotten meat?” Wes asked.
“No, I — I’m just not feeling right.”
Wes sprang to his feet. “A TOAST!”
“HEAR, HEAR!” came a reply.
I turned.
Everyone was standing up. Smiling at me. Clinking glasses.
I felt a hand pulling me away from the table.
Mary Elizabeth.
“This is for you,” she was saying.
“TO RACHEL!” Wes called out.
I was standing in the center now. Surrounded.
“HIP, HIP!” shouted Mary Elizabeth.
“HOORAY!” answered everyone else.
“Guys …” I pleaded.
“HIP, HIP!”
“HOORAY!”
“Thanks, but I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“HIP, HIP!”
“HOORAY!”
“RACHEL, WE SALUTE YOUR BRAVERY,” Wes shouted. “YOU SURVIVED ALMOST CERTAIN DEATH AT SEA BUT ARRIVED HERE SAFELY, AND NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON— ”
“TO SAVE OUR BLESSED SOULS!” interrupted one of the pirates.
A great cheer burst out.
I found myself laughing. I saved their souls?
These guys were weird.
And dramatic.
And fun.
As I looked around, smiling, Mary Elizabeth held out a cup of punch to me. It smelled fruity and delicious.
Cold.
So cold.
I raised my glass and took a sip.
I suddenly felt light-headed.
My legs grew weak. I felt as if the ground were moving. Pumping me slowly up and down.
Air.
I need air.
“Rachel, are you all right?” Mary Elizabeth asked.
“YYEEEEEAAAAA!”
They’re cheering.
For what?
What did I do?
“I’m — fine,” I said.
“You’re dehydrated. Here, drink more.”
“… SO LET’S RAISE OUR GLASSES HIGH TO THE NEWEST ONIERONIAN!”
I took another sip.
And I fell asleep.