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  “Uncle.” Gib ignored her.

  “Never.” Matt grinned.

  “Boys!”

  Gib took a step back and handed his skewer to his brother. “This isn’t over. Don’t ever think you’ll get the better of the resort master.”

  “You can only be resort master if you’re part of the resort.” Matt stuck the skewers in the cardboard box on the table, then added the bag of groceries Gib had picked up.

  “I am part of the resort. That’s what took me so long in town.”

  Matt squinted. “What does that mean?”

  “I talked to Bill Campbell.” He watched Matt’s face closely, waiting to see the realization hit him.

  Their grandmother turned, her arms laden with disposable plastic cups and paper plates. “You talked to Bill? Where? It’s Saturday.”

  “At his house. I tried to get him to give you guys the loan. And he agreed—”

  “He agreed?” Matt sounded stunned.

  The paper plates and plastic cups clattered to the worn linoleum floor. “He agreed?” His grandmother’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  Gib bent to help her gather everything up. “It’s more complicated than that.” He explained the agreement he’d made with Bill. “Still no guarantee of the loan, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

  “Wow,” Matt said, not sounding very excited.

  “That is a wow,” his grandmother said. “Honey, you’ve been through a lot already. If you don’t want to run the resort, you shouldn’t feel like you have to.”

  Matt pulled a can of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and popped it open. “I don’t get it. This morning you were like, no way. What changed?”

  Gib blinked. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected at all. “Don’t everyone jump with joy at once.”

  “Oh, we’re happy.” Matt threw a roll of paper towel and a package of napkins into the box. “Grampa’s going to be really happy.”

  “He’s right. Your grampa will be thrilled.” Grandma bobbed her head.

  Gib hoped his grandfather showed it more than these two. “Well, if that’s the case, I think I’ll go find him right now.” He held himself back from adding, Because it would be nice to talk to someone who is honestly thrilled over the news. “Where is Grampa, anyway?”

  “He drove a load of firewood to the beach,” Matt said.

  “I’ll take this stuff down there and fill him in.” Gib lifted the box from the table and headed out the door. He didn’t get it. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his decision to become the resort manager had just ruined his brother’s day.

  The dog followed him off the porch and down to the beach. “At least you seem happy about it, Rascal.”

  Gib dropped the box on a picnic table and went to help his grandfather unload wood from the back of the golf cart. He was surprised at how empty the beach was; the only people there were an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Steinmetz, sitting in lawn chairs near the water’s edge. They’d been regulars at White Bear every summer for forty years. “Where is everyone?” he asked his grandfather.

  “Late enough in the afternoon that most folks are done swimming by now.”

  “Kids aren’t. They’ll swim no matter what the time or temperature.”

  “Like I told you before, bookings are down,” the older man said. “Something’s wrong, but darned if I know what. It’s not like we’ve changed anything…The bank’d probably say that’s what the problem is.”

  “That’s what they did say.” Gib piled an armload of wood next to the fire pit and told his grandfather about his decision.

  Pete helped stack the wood, then pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well, Gib, I’m proud of you. Thanks for going to see him. Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us if we’re going to hang on to this place.”

  Gib stared at him in confusion. Once again, no excitement.

  “What’s going on? Everyone’s reacting to this news sort of like, that’s nice. This morning you guys were practically begging me to become the manager. Now that I agreed, it feels like no one cares. If none of you want to save the place, why should I?”

  “Everyone cares, Gib,” his grandfather said quietly. “The three of us have spent the past week chasing down every idea we could think of to get the money. Not one was successful.” He climbed into the golf cart driver’s seat. “You can’t blame us for not letting our hopes go too high.”

  Gib took the seat next to him, not sure what to say in response to the sobering reality of his grandparents’ situation.

  An hour later, the whole thing was gone from his mind. The cookout was in full swing and Gib was too busy to put much thought into his family’s reaction to his decision to stay. He opened a can of Dr. Pepper and considered the small group of people who had gathered to roast hot dogs around the open fire. The smell of burning wood hovered in the air, making it feel like an autumn night even though cooler weather was still a month away. If this was the sum total of the week’s guests, the resort was in even worse shape than he’d thought. He leaned close to his grandmother. “Is this it for guests?”

  “Prit-near.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “We’re in trouble, Gib. Don’t know if it can be fixed even with you at the helm.”

  He patted her shoulder, wanting only to see the strain leave her face. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he said with more confidence than he felt. If his grandparents and brother didn’t want to stay here so badly, he’d have been the first to stand up and argue the resort should be sold. But they did. The place needed saving, and since the bank thought he was the only person to do it, he’d give it the best he had.

  His grandfather stood to address the assembled guests and held up a skewer with a flaming marshmallow at the end like a torch. “Welcome to White Bear Lodge,” he said. “I’m Pete Murphy, the owner. This is my wife, Catherine. Many of you have been here before, some are new. Since we’re all gonna be neighbors for the next week or two, let’s go around and give our names.” He blew out the fire on the marshmallow and gestured with the charred lump. “If you’re feeling talkative, tell us something about yourself. And if you’re not, don’t.”

  A log in the fire cracked and sent sparks flying. Pete waved the skewer again. “I’ll go first. Like I said, I’m Pete Murphy. That golden retriever you see running around here is mine—name’s Rascal. I’ve been running White Bear Lodge for near forty-five years—took over from my dad in the sixties. My grandfather started this resort back in 1910 at the ripe old age of twenty-four….”

  As Pete launched into White Bear’s history, Gib let his thoughts slip away. There had always been an unspoken expectation that White Bear Lodge would pass from generation to generation. But Gib’s dad had never wanted to stay; he’d always needed more than the resort offered—more excitement, more challenge, more freedom.

  He glanced up as his grandmother began her introduction. For the first time in his life, he wondered what it had felt like when her only child, Gib’s dad, had taken off to see the world, for years his only contact with home an occasional phone call and the postcards he sent from all over the planet. Had it hurt to learn of his marriage weeks after it happened? To not meet his wife until almost two years later?

  Matt nudged his shoulder. “Your turn.”

  Gib stood and held up his soda. “I’m Gib Murphy, Pete’s grandson. I’m a photojournalist for the Associated Press. Just finished an assignment and thought I’d come home for some R and R. Which I suspect I’m not going to get. I’ve been back two days and they’re already making plans to work me to the bone.”

  Everyone chuckled and Gib dropped into his lawn chair again. That was as much detail as they needed. He didn’t want to deal with the questions that inevitably came whenever people learned he’d been in Iraq.

  He tried to pay attention as the guests introduced themselves, but was instantly distracted when Izzy and Shelly joined the group late, taking
the lawn chairs directly opposite him. Izzy skewered a hot dog and stuck it directly into the flames, pulling it out minutes later, fully charbroiled. She made a face at her blackened dinner, then gamely wrapped the dog in a bun, smothered it in enough condiments to kill the taste and took a bite. A glob of relish dripped onto her lower lip and she licked it off. He looked away, wondering if she had a boyfriend and whether it bothered the guy that she was off in the woods without him. And then he wondered why he cared.

  Finally only Shelly and Izzy were left to speak. Izzy stood first, gracefully unfolding from her chair. She self-consciously reached up and played with a strand of her long brown hair. “I’m Izzy Stuart,” she said. “I’m here to vacation and to, um, make a documentary.”

  Gib slowly straightened in his lawn chair.

  “My friend Shelly and I are making a movie about the vacations Chicago gangsters took in Wisconsin during the twenties and thirties. The talk is, they liked to stay at several resorts in the area, including White Bear Lodge.”

  A movie? They were planning to film at White Bear? What a stroke of luck. This could be great for business. Free publicity to get their name out, build a reputation, show people the resort. Show people the resort?

  Damn. This could be terrible for business.

  No one would be impressed by White Bear in its present condition—no matter who stayed here in the twenties. If this movie got any distribution, it could be the kiss of death for turning things around. He tried to catch his grandfather’s eye, but the older man was grinning broadly at Izzy.

  “A real movie?” Gib asked, hoping to hear it was nothing more than an assignment for some college class. “When will it be released?”

  “It probably won’t be released,” Izzy said. “We’re finalists in the Americana Documentary Film Contest, so the only people who will see it are the judges. Besides, it’ll only be six minutes long.”

  Gib started to relax.

  “Unless we win,” Shelly said. “Then who knows? Anything could happen. Maybe we’ll end up on YouTube.” She stood and quickly introduced herself to the group.

  As soon as she finished speaking, his grandfather stepped forward and brought his hands together with a clap. “That covers everyone who’s here tonight. Feel free to hang around as long as you like. If you need something, let one of us know. We got all the fixings for s’mores so no one goes back to their cottage till the chocolate bars are gone!”

  Gib wandered over next to his grandfather and steered him farther down the beach. “Did you hear that? They’re making a movie,” he murmured.

  Pete nodded. “Neat, huh?”

  “Yeah, except we’re a little run-down around here.”

  “The movie’s not about the resort.”

  “Sure it is.” Gib glanced at the old boathouse sadly in need of a coat of paint. “They’ll be filming the lodge and cottages. Gangster history or not, that’s all anyone would have to see to know this is the last place they want to stay on a vacation.”

  “Any publicity is good publicity. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “They don’t know everything.”

  “Excuse me, Pete?”

  Gib turned.

  Izzy stood a few steps away, watching his grandfather expectantly. “We were wondering if you have time tomorrow to share the stories your father used to tell. Maybe even get some of it on film.” She smiled, and he could see his grandfather turning to mush under her gaze. Obviously, the man didn’t have it in him to say no to a pretty woman. Well, Gib didn’t have that problem.

  “Uh, Izzy, it’s flattering that you want to make a movie here. But you can’t shoot on private property without getting permission from the owners.”

  She drew her brows together and lifted her eyes to his. “I got permission.”

  “From who?”

  Pete cleared his throat. “Me.”

  “Signed a release form, too,” Shelly said as she came up to them.

  “You might have mentioned it,” he said to his grandfather, trying not to sound strained.

  “Is there a problem?” Izzy asked.

  A tall, thin man in a polo shirt and khakis stepped across the beach toward them. “Sorry I’m so late, Pete. You have time to, ah, talk about that—”

  “Yup, let’s run up to the lodge,” his grandfather said. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a quick bit of business to take care of, then I’ll be right back.”

  Gib stared at the two men as they walked away. This better not be side business. His grandfather would end up in jail someday if he wasn’t careful. He turned his attention back to Izzy. “Problem?” he echoed. No, there wasn’t a problem. With everything going on around here, the word was problems. Plural. On top of creating a Web site, redoing the brochure, renovating one of the cottages and keeping his grandfather from getting back into bookmaking, he now had to make sure Izzy Stuart’s documentary showed White Bear in the best possible light so it didn’t end up biting them in the butt. “No problem at all. Let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “I’M CHANGING MY MIND about how hot that Gib guy is,” Shelly said as she and Izzy walked through the woods to their cottage. Though the moon was nearly full, they still needed a flashlight to illuminate the path. “I don’t think he was very happy about our filming here. I was watching him when you first started talking and I thought he was going to have a coronary.”

  “Beautiful Boy? He looked normal to me.”

  Shelly shook her head. “That’s because you can’t get past that face. That body. That mouth. That—Well, we won’t go there. Those of us less invested in superficial—”

  A laugh burst out of Izzy. It was pretty hard not to notice Gib Murphy. “Right. That would be you.”

  “Like I was saying, we notice other, more subtle things. And that man would have keeled over right then and there if he’d had any blockage in his arteries to help the process along. But since he didn’t, he simply dragged his grandfather to the other end of the beach to discuss the issue.”

  “He didn’t drag him to the other end of the beach.”

  “Regardless, he wasn’t happy about us filming here.”

  “Maybe it just caught him by surprise.” As she unlocked the door to their cottage, she heard her cell phone inside begin sounding its traditional telephone-bell ring tone. Andrew felt it showed a lack of class to use any other type of ring. “No need to draw attention to yourself like that,” he always said. “Phones should alert the owner, not put on a stage show.”

  She recognized his number on the ID and flipped opened her phone to answer.

  “Elizabeth,” Andrew said before she even had a chance to say hello. “I’ve been doing some thinking about this documentary.”

  “Hello, Andrew.” She took an ice cream bar from the freezer and peeled off the wrapper.

  “You know I support you completely.”

  “Yes.” She bit into the frozen chocolate, not really believing him, but not in the mood to get into a disagreement.

  “But I’ve been having second thoughts.”

  She tightened her grip on the phone. “You just said you supported me.”

  “I do. But some things are more important than this movie—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like our family?”

  She sucked in a breath. “Mine or yours?”

  “Ours, honey. The family we’re going to have.”

  “I’m concentrating on making a documentary right now—not having a family. My new career—”

  “That’s my other point. What new career? I mean, if we’re getting married next June, working in the film industry isn’t realistically in your future. At least not for very long.”

  “And why not?” She took another bite of ice cream.

  “Well, sweetheart.” His voice took on a patronizing edge. “Because, before long you’ll be thirty. Your eggs are getting older. You know how we’ve always talked about having a baby three years after the wedding.”

  H
ow you’ve always talked about having a baby three years after the wedding, she thought. Like life was this thing that could be planned out day to day, years in advance. “Sometimes it doesn’t work that easily.”

  “All the more reason not to postpone too long because of a career.”

  She shoved more ice cream into her mouth. “Andrew, is this why you called? To talk about starting a family in three years?”

  “Well, yes. That and the movie.” He paused. “Are you eating on the phone?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “Oh.”

  Funny how so much disapproval could be expressed in one syllable. For a moment she wished she had potato chips she could chomp.

  “My point is, I’ve never heard you mention wanting to make movies before. So why put all this time and effort, not to mention money, into making a documentary when—”

  “Because at least we’ll have made the movie,” she said defensively. She threw her licked-clean stick in the trash and took the second ice cream bar Shelly held out to her.

  “Yes, but—”

  “And at least I’ll be able to go to my class reunion having fulfilled my dreams in the smallest way. I thought you understood that.”

  “I do. But there’s more to think about than simply what you want.”

  Izzy clenched her teeth together. “Andrew. I’m making this documentary.”

  A long empty silence answered her. Andrew cleared his throat. “I’m just saying that there are more things to take into consideration now than there might have been even a few weeks ago.”

  “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” She locked eyes with Shelly and gave her head a shake. Ice cream dripped onto the back of her hand and she licked it off, feeling a small, selfish satisfaction that Andrew would flip if he saw her do that.

  “I’m just asking you to reconsider,” he said.

  “I have to go. Shelly’s calling me from outside,” she lied.

  “Tell me you’ll at least think about what I’m saying.”

  “Fine. I’ll think about it. I have to go.” She closed her phone before he could say anything else, realizing only then that she hadn’t said goodbye.