The next day, Joanna pulled into the camp parking lot. She got out of her car and looked around. The dusty lot was empty except for a few scattered cars. A robin, its breast a shocking red against the gray of the dust, picked at the ground and then turned to regard her, its head cocked to one side.What a contrast to when last she'd been here, only three days ago, when hordes of campers had milled about trying to find the right buses to take them back home. Clay had been assigned to organize the whole operation that day, and he'd been so busy they had not even had a chance to say good-bye. He'd sent her a messenger--a boy from his cabin--with a note containing his phone number. And that had been it.

And now here she was again. But where was he? Where was anyone? Joanna headed toward the mess hall. Where there was food there would be people.

As she walked through the cluster of camp buildings, a man emerged from one of the doors and approached her. "Joanna?" said the camp director, a wiry man with graying hair. It was less than a month since he had hired her as a replacement counselor to finish out the summer at the camp.

"Hi," said Joanna.

"Clay told me you were coming to help. Thanks for lending a hand. I'll be by in a bit with some paperwork for you to sign. I think Clay's in the mess hall."

The double doors to the mess hall stood open. Joanna felt suddenly shy. What was she doing here? What would she say? She didn't even know Clay, really. She slowly climbed the steps to the door. She could see Clay alone inside, sorting food--pasta, fruit, bagels, cookies--into piles on a table. His back was to her. She'd forgotten how tall he was, and thin. His hair--so red--looked damp, as if he'd just taken a shower. She stood in the doorway. He still didn't know she was there. She cleared her throat.

Clay spun around. "Joanna," he exclaimed and grinned. She stood framed in the door, dressed in shorts and a blue shirt, her dark hair tied back in a long braid. Had it really been only three days ago when last he'd seen her? He moved quickly toward her across the floor. She smiled at him but he could see her hesitation. Even though he felt like swinging her into his arms, he brought himself up short, reining himself in as you would an overeager pup.

"How was your drive?" he asked. They chatted for a while and then Clay went back to organizing the food. "The word from up the hill is 'bring more food,' so that's what I'm doing right now," said Clay.

"Anything I can do to help?" asked Joanna. When Clay said no, she went to sit at the nearby piano. She ran her fingers over the keys and played a triple octave C scale.

"You play?" asked Clay.

"Not really anymore. When I was younger, you know, piano lessons."

"Play something, anything, while I finish up," said Clay. Joanna closed her eyes for a second and then played part of the very first piece she'd ever had to memorize, which somehow she still remembered.

Hmmm, that was pretty good, thought Clay, as he listened to the classical selection. "What was that?" asked Clay.

"Oh, Rachmaninoff something something. I had to memorize it for an 8th grade piano recital. It's so dramatic--perfect for an 8th grader."

"It's good. Why don't you play anymore?"

Well, I gave it up to concentrate on another instrument. Plus, I don't have a piano now."

"What other instrument?"

"Well, violin at first. Or fiddle, because that's the kind of music I like to play."

"And then?" asked Clay. Joanna turned around on the piano bench to face him. He seemed to have finished assembling the food he wanted to take. She went to the table and helped him pack the food in stuff sacks.

"Well, there's guitar," she said.

"You play guitar?"

"Yes, I have for years." She hoped she didn't sound like she was bragging. "But I'm finally facing up to the fact that I'll never be any good. It's my hands; they're just too small. And not strong enough. It makes playing really hard. I can't do bar chords at all. My finger's just too short to reach across all six strings." And she held up her hands to show him. "You, though, would make a great guitarist," she said, looking at his giant hands and long fingers.

"I would?" he asked. He held up a hand and looked at it.

"Just compare," said Joanna. And they each brought a hand to the other, left to right, palms touching and fingers aligned. Clay's fingers towered over Joanna's. As their hands touched, a wave of recognition hit Joanna. She remembered their late night meeting at the river, remembered lying back in his arms, remembered the feel of his singing. Clay looked into her dark brown eyes. She was even more beautiful than he'd remembered. He wrapped his hand around hers, took a step closer to her, and said, "Joanna." She looked at her hand cradled in his and then at his arm, with its blonde-red meadow of hair, just as she had pictured it what seemed like a thousand times since they'd parted. She reached out her other hand to touch his forearm, to run her fingers through the hair, but before she made contact, they were startled by the sound of someone coming up the steps to the mess hall. They dropped hands and backed up a step from each other just as the camp director crossed the threshold.

"Joanna, here's that paperwork," he said, waving a clipboard in his hand.

Clay looked in the trunk of Joanna's car. "We'll only be up working on the trails for a couple more days. Then we'll have some more work to do down here. So just bring what you need for the next two days--it's about a two hour hike. You've been up there?" Joanna nodded. "You can make a stack of what you won't need and just leave it in your trunk for when we come back down. OK?"

Joanna began going through her backpack and sorting the contents into "take" and "leave" piles. She was glad she'd brought her most compact sleeping bag. She eyed an oddly shaped plastic bag in the back of the trunk. Clay, following her glance, asked, "What's that?"

"Well, it's probably not worth bringing up there ... " she said, taking a towel-wrapped object out of the bag.

"Hmmm," said Clay, as he saw the neck sticking out of the towel. "Not a guitar? It's so small." Joanna unwrapped her mandolin and handed it to Clay. "Mandolin?" he asked. Joanna nodded. "Joanna, is there anything you don't play? You're a regular one-woman band."

Joanna flushed. "I just started playing a few months ago and I'm not very good yet." She told him the story of finding the mandolin at a garage sale. "It's perfect for my small hands. I'm not sure I could go back to playing guitar after playing this baby," she said, smiling down at the mandolin.

"Of course you should bring it. It's light. We'll fit it in somehow. I'd love to hear you play."

Clay let Joanna set the pace. She had the shorter legs but the lighter pack. Clay had the food, the sleeping bag, and the mandolin; Joanna, just her clothes and a bottle of water. Clay liked walking behind Joanna on the trail as it gradually gained in elevation through the trees. He liked watching her hips move rhythmically as she hiked. And her thighs. And her strong calf muscles. He'd like to cup one of those calves in his hand. He stopped, practically running over Joanna, who'd stopped suddenly ahead of him.

"Which way?" she asked, gesturing to a branch in the trail. "Both paths end up at the same place, right?" The left path was more direct, but steeper. Clay had taken it the first time up and on the way back down. The right branch was more scenic, and easier, following the narrow river on its meandering course up the slope. He looked at Joanna. She was panting a bit, and they were both sweating in the North Carolina afternoon heat. It wouldn't hurt to take it easy. But he rarely took the river path. Walking alongside a rushing stream was not his idea of fun, especially without a life jacket. But he was past that, wasn't he? If he was able to sit by the much broader and deeper river downstream at the main camp merely by thinking about Joanna, he should be able to handle this tamer version of the river with the real Joanna at his side.

"Let's do the river trail," he said.

"Are you sure?" she asked, remembering how the life-jacket clad Clay had told her that night about his ocean dream and his fear of water. He nodded.

They followed the path toward the river, and again, Clay let Joanna lead. He focused on her, rather than the steadily increasing sounds of the water, trying to recapture his earlier fascination with the view of her walking from behind. He had a sudden vision of himself as an old man, blithely walking along the ocean shore while thinking about a young Joanna. He smiled. Well, whatever worked.

Joanna turned around to check on Clay's progress and interrupted him in a lopsided grin. She looked at him expectantly. "Nothing," he said. "Just thinking."

They came at last to where the trail crossed the water. To get across, they would have to either wade, step from stone to stone, or cross a log that spanned the water just upstream. If it had been up to her, Joanna would have chosen the stones. There were plenty in this stretch of the river and they were easy steps apart, or at most, manageable jumps. She'd brought her campers up here before to play stepping stones in the river. And the water was only calf-deep at best, even less for Clay. She glanced sideways at Clay. He looked very pale--his freckles stood out against his fair skin--and he was not smiling anymore.

"How about if we cross that log?" asked Joanna, nodding upstream, thinking that the log would be the easiest route. She walked to the log and stepped up on top of it. It was sturdy, fairly flat, a straight walk to the other side. She walked across, then turned back, still standing on the log, to face Clay.

He stepped up reluctantly on his side and started across. He could hear the river flowing beneath him. It talked to him in its familiar, hissing way, making threats in a language only he understood. He shook his head slightly, as if banishing the sound from his ears, and stopped. Looking down, he saw twigs and leaves tumbling in the water. He watched a yellow leaf--early victim to the approaching Fall--float toward the log, slide around a mossy rock, and then disappear from sight. His eyes picked up the leaf again as it reappeared downstream. Strange, how the moss on the submerged rocks was such a brilliant emerald green.

"Clay," whispered Joanna, startling him slightly. He looked up. How long had he been standing there? Joanna smiled and stretched out her hand. Wisps of dark hair had escaped her braid and loosely framed her face. Clay moved again, traveling the last steps to Joanna, and placed his hand in hers.

Holding hands, they walked side by side up the trail--broader here--as it followed the river upstream. The sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the ground. Joanna thought Clay looked as if he needed distracting, so she launched into talk. Who else is helping with the trails? How do we repair them? How can I help? And on and on. Clay seemed grateful for the chatter--at least he answered all her questions. Finally, she fell silent. Their feet scuffed in the layers of old leaves and acorn shells that covered the trail. Joanna stumbled on a rock, but Clay's hand steadied her.

As they neared the merging of the trails, Clay stopped suddenly, tugging Joanna to a halt. He dropped her hand and pointed into the oak and pine forest. Joanna saw two white-tailed deer, a doe and a young buck. They stood, half in shadow, half in light, and held their pose for several long seconds. Then they turned and trotted off, disappearing into the woods.

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this story was written in May 2003; copyright Elena Felsig

this page was last updated 5/16/03