For the Sake of Her Sons
Author
Allie Pleiter
Reads
19.0K
Chapters
21
Chapter One
People had told Bruce Lawrence that Willa Scottson was not the victim of the most cowardly thing he had ever done.
They were all wrong.
Bruce stared at the sheet of paper outlining Willa’s circumstances—facts he’d known and new, worse facts he hadn’t. He wiped his hands down his face as dread flashed through him. In the space of a few seconds, it had become the worst of all ideas to spend these next three weeks at Camp True North Springs.
He grabbed the file marked “Family Histories”—why, why hadn’t he looked through it before now?—and sprinted toward Mason Avery’s office. Part of him wanted to just make a break for his car, but that was no way to leave a friend like Mason. Even for this.
He found Mason on a ladder on the big house’s wide porch, hanging a “Welcome” banner from the eaves.
“Mason, I can’t be here.”
Mason looked down. “Sure you can. I think it’ll be great to get shots of the families arriving.” The man started down the ladder as if there was no problem at all. “Everyone will be too busy to go swimming today, so you’re totally free to take photos.”
“It’s not okay.” Bruce cast a glance down the gravel lane toward the camp-entrance gate, relieved to catch no sight of the yellow school bus that would soon deposit this session’s group of families. “I need to leave. Now.”
“Hey, I know it’s a bit rough to have that one family here. A Florida drowning victim cuts close to home.” Mason’s face took on the compassionate look Bruce had come to know from the man. Such a look had left for a long time after Mason’s first wife, Melony, had died. Bruce was grateful the look had returned, and he truly wanted to help out the mission of Camp True North Springs, but that wouldn’t happen now.
“That’s not it. Well, not exactly.”
“The mom’s whole stance on photos doesn’t help—I get it.”
Bruce felt his gut tighten. Mason didn’t get it. “Yeah, but—”
“It’ll be good for you. That whole thing knocked you for a loop back then. A widow of a drowning victim—”
Bruce grabbed Mason’s arm. “Not a widow, Mason. The widow.” He wheeled around, fighting the urge to look at the sky and groan You gotta be kidding me at the absurd coincidence that had just landed on him. For a guy who made his life facing all kinds of daring feats, the cowardly urge to run nearly swallowed him whole. “Willa Scottson. Mason, it’s her.”
Time seemed to grind to a halt while Bruce watched Mason connect the dots. “Come on, it can’t be. Can it?”
Bruce glared at him. “How many Willas do you know?” The woman’s unusual first name would be burned in the back of his brain forever. She had twin boys—boys who now had no father. He could not be here when she arrived, which might be any minute now.
He started toward his car. He could pick up his gear and help Mason figure out another solution later. “I gotta go.”
Now it was Mason who grabbed his arm. “Whoa. Hang on. I know the stories are similar, but you’re sure?” His friend thought for a moment. “You never did tell me you knew her name.”
Bruce knew more than Willa Scottson’s name—he knew the way her husband died, the exact date of his drowning. Rick Scottson’s death had been hounding him for two years. The first photo assignment Bruce had ever refused had turned out to have dire consequences. “I’m sure. I knew it the minute I saw her name, but I read the file just to be sure. It’s her. Mason, I can’t be here.”
Just as the words left his mouth, both men looked up at the unmistakable sound of the camp gate’s metal fence squeaking open. Bruce, who’d jumped out of four airplanes, felt his stomach drop. He started backing toward the house door behind him. “I’ll just stay out of sight. I’ll leave the minute I can. It’s not fair to her or those boys.”
“Her? Here? Now? Bruce, this is too wild to be a coincidence. You’ve got to see that.” His friend had that look—the look of a man who’d witnessed all the amazing stories Camp True North Springs had seen since its opening. Stories Bruce was supposed to be documenting to help other people see and support the camp’s mission.
Bruce groaned in frustration. “Don’t pass this off as a God thing. Not now.”
“The new friends are here!” Mason’s son, Charlie, came running around the side of the house, full of enthusiasm to meet the four families who would spend the next three weeks sharing his home. “C’mon, Dad, let’s go meet ’em. Mr. Bruce, you come, too. Mom’s on her way from the barn.”
Bruce was just aware enough to catch the term Charlie had used. “‘Mom’?”
A bittersweet glint passed over Mason’s eyes. “Yeah. He asked yesterday if he could start calling Dana Mom. He asked me first if I thought Melony would mind. There may or may not have been a few tears involved.” Mason tugged on Bruce’s arm in a way that would put Charlie to shame. “Another one of my ‘God things.’”
Bruce pulled his hand from Mason’s grip. “This is a terrible coincidence that can only make a lot of people miserable. Don’t tell Dana. Don’t tell anyone.”
“This is no accident. Even you can’t ignore the odds.” Mason leaned in as the bus rumbled down the drive. “Look, she has no idea who you are. She doesn’t want any photos taken of her or her boys. You’re in the perfect position to take time and make peace with this... And I’m here to tell you, you’ve needed to make peace with this. For a long time.” He fixed Bruce with a dark stare. “So yes, I do think it’s one of my ‘God things.’ Your God thing. So stay on the porch if you have to, or come be the daring guy they say you are and take some photos. Just don’t leave.”
Bruce felt his teeth grind together. “Some speech. Full of orders.”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting pretty good at that stuff now. Dana says it’s a gift. She’d also tell you to go use yours.”
A trapped feeling tightened around Bruce’s ribs. “This is a bad idea.”
Mason stepped off the porch and began walking toward the bus as its folding door swung open. “Charlie says God doesn’t have bad ideas.”
Bruce disagreed. God could not be behind this. God wouldn’t ask that of him or of Willa. Nothing good could come of him being anywhere near that woman and her sons.
It was the worst idea ever, no matter what anyone said.
Willa Scottson looked around the serene landscape bustling with arriving families. I don’t belong here.
It hadn’t been her choice to come. Rick had been gone for a little over two years, but she wasn’t ready for what the camp claimed to offer. She was bone-tired of mourning, but that wasn’t the same thing as being ready to move toward healing.
No one had to tell her she wasn’t okay. She was stalled and numb and dragging herself through the motions of life. She’d even stopped going church—that had always been Rick’s thing, anyway.
Only church hadn’t stopped coming to her. First, it was visits and casseroles. Then came the invitations to services and events. When they’d gathered the funds for her and the boys to have a three-week stay at this camp and covered the family’s travel expenses, all those compassionate Christians pretty much had Willa backed into a corner.
“Look how big he is, Mom. He’s a huge frog. And he spits!” She tried to let Jack’s happy endorsement of the odd little frog fountain pull her out of her cranky funk. Her twins deserved better than how she’d been slogging through life lately. She’d never admit this to anyone—especially anyone back home—but the allure of Camp True North Springs wasn’t any healing it might offer her—it was the chance to let someone else have a crack at healing the boys.
Look at you, outsourcing parenting. Admirable, isn’t it? She could feel her frown deepen and told herself to look down at her sons and smile. Smiles never came naturally anymore. They were obligations—a mask she applied but never felt. “I’ve never seen a frog so good at spitting before.” The sheer absurdity of her remark struck her. Willa really hoped it got easier from here.
“He’s so funny,” Joe said with a giggle. “Look at his eyes.”
The frog had absurd, bulging eyes. “Funny,” she said.
A boy several years older than her twins dashed up to Joe and Jack. “Franco is an important guy around here. Hi, I’m Charlie. You guys must be Joe and Jack, right?”
According to the brochure the church had provided with the gift of her trip here, Charlie was the son of Mason Avery, the man whose family’s land had been transformed into the camp. The boy looked happy and well-adjusted. It was good to see that. Willa lay awake too many nights, wondering if Joe and Jack would ever get over losing their father. She wouldn’t—she knew that down to the bottom of her soul—but she wanted better for her children.
Willa tried to take comfort in the fact that all the children around her, each family assembling in the small clearing, knew the same jagged pain of a lost member. Even so, she still felt isolated. A lost cause of a soul. She had to do better but had no idea how. Would this place show her?
Charlie and the boys had jumped into an instant conversation about the merits of frogs when Charlie waved to a man with a camera, taking photos of other families. “Hey, Mr. Bruce, take our picture with Franco!”
Willa stiffened, and the adults traded alarmed glances. She’d been told there would be a photographer here. She’d responded, in the strongest-possible terms, that she would not allow photographs of herself or the boys. The threat of photos had almost made her cancel the entire trip altogether, were it not for the absolute promise of the camp owners that they would honor her requirement: no photographs.
The photographer clearly knew her demand, based on the uncomfortable look he gave to Charlie’s request. The tall, fit man with a baseball cap over thick dark hair and a backpack slung over one shoulder didn’t take a single step toward her. He looked down and slipped the camera behind his back.
Mason Avery stepped in between Willa and the man. “Actually, Charlie,” he began, “Mrs. Scottson has asked—”
“Battery’s run out, Charlie,” the photographer said, still looking down. “Maybe later.”
“Okay, maybe later,” Charlie said. He seemed unaware of the awkward moment that had just taken place. Instead, he looked up at Willa. “Can I show them their room? You guys have bunk beds!”
“Sure,” Willa replied. Anything to get past the current tension.
With that, Charlie, Joe and Jack took off. They dashed across the gravel in the direction of a large barn-like structure Willa guessed housed the guest rooms—and the much-anticipated bunk beds. Joe and Jack hadn’t stopped talking about the sleeping arrangements from the moment Willa had made the mistake of mentioning them. Their six-year-old hearts were beyond thrilled at the prospect of sleeping in bunk beds.
Dana Avery, Mason’s wife and the other camp co-director, stepped up. “I want you to know we’ll honor your request of no pictures,” she said in a reassuring tone. “Even though Bruce will be here for most of the session, there will be no photos taken of you or your boys. You have my word.”
It sounded so extreme when the woman said it. It was extreme. But so was the moment when the storm surge had swept Rick out to sea. And the horrible footage that had shown up on television over and over until it finally faded from the nightly news. So no, there would be no photos of her and the boys taken by any journalist, anywhere, whether it sounded extreme or not.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said the photographer. He sounded like he actually meant it. Then again, those words had come out of every reporter’s mouth just before they poked their sensationalist noses into her heartbreak and then asked her some form of What does it feel like to have your husband drown in front of your eyes?
“Thank you,” she managed to say without any real sense of gratitude. She wasn’t grateful. If she was being honest, she was annoyed that she’d managed to land at Camp True North Springs at the same time as a photographer. It seemed a cruel coincidence, ready to demolish the small shred of hope she held that this trip might actually do some good. Even as the man quickly walked away to take shots of other families, some part of Willa wanted to pile the boys back into the bus and tell the nice older gentleman to take them right back down the mountain.
It took her a moment to realize Dana was talking to her once more. “The boys’ eyes are extraordinary,” she was saying. “Lots of people notice my green eyes, but theirs? It’s a striking color.”
People frequently commented on the twins’ eyes. They were like little imps, with those green eyes and mops of red hair that never stayed combed—people noticed them wherever they went. Rick had taken such joy in how people were drawn to the boys. Her husband had been a middle school principal, and all the students had known the twins from the moment they were born.
Willa was ashamed of how she wished the attention would stop. How she longed to render herself and Joe and Jack invisible until she felt ready to rejoin the world. But when would that be? Ever?
“They get them from their dad.” She loved the boys’ eyes. Hers were also a softer green, but their brilliant-green ones came from Rick. Every once in a while, Joe or Jack would look at her just so, and she could see her husband. It hurt in the most bittersweet of ways.
“That red hair and those freckles,” Dana said. “We’ll need to be careful in the sun. I bet they burn easily.”
“They do better than most,” Willa replied. “We used to spend a lot of time at the beach.” Used to. Water had become her enemy. It’s why the desert felt like a safe place to try and yank herself out of this black hole of grief. The boys ought to have their mother back—if only she knew how to find her.
“Is he going to be here taking pictures the whole session?” Willa wished her voice didn’t sound so panicked at the thought. It would be exhausting to spend all her time here avoiding this Bruce and his camera.
“He will be here, but not taking photos the whole time. We’re very blessed to have Bruce this session as both photographer and lifeguard.” She pointed off to the large pond Willa hadn’t noticed. How had she not noticed a pond in any of the materials?
“We’ve had a stretch of drought,” Dana went on, “but now our pond is finally big enough to swim in again. Thanks to Bruce, we can offer swimming and swimming lessons. Do the boys know how? You said you spend a lot of time at the beach.”
“That was before,” Willa snapped back sharper than necessary.
Dana placed a hand on Willa’s arm. “Of course. That was a thoughtless thing to ask. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“They don’t swim anymore.” Willa made sure her reply sounded like the declaration it was. “And I don’t intend for them to start back up here.”
“I’d never think of pressuring you to do something like that. These weeks are about you and whatever feels comfortable for you. Most of the parents are glad to know we have someone looking out for water safety here, but I know that’s different for you.”
“Yes, it is.” Willa forced herself to add, “Thank you for respecting that.”
“We’ve got three whole weeks to figure out what you and the boys want to do. And we’re here for you, no matter what that turns out to be.”
Whatever it turned out to be, it wouldn’t have anything to do with either a photographer or a lifeguard. And it certainly wouldn’t be with any man who had the misfortune of being both.
