The loose hinge on the old supply shed door grated a protest as June tried to swing it open, mimicking the friction in her own chest. She braced her shoulder against the warped wood, urging it wider, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves clinging to the air inside. Sunlight, fractured by dusty panes, painted stripes across stacks of forgotten canvas tents and rusty canoe paddles. This shed, like so much of Camp Blue Heron, was a monument to benign neglect. Her mind, however, wasn't on the structural integrity of the shed, but on the sudden, stark image of Noah and Lily yesterday. The way his hand had instinctively found Lily’s shoulder, a protective gesture that spoke volumes of the life he’d built, a life entirely separate from the one June had imagined for them. His crisp, professional dismissal of her presence, the careful avoidance of her gaze—it all replayed, a bitter loop. “Just a carpenter, doing his job,” he’d said, a wall of indifference between them. But June had seen the flicker, the fleeting tension in his jaw, the way his eyes had hardened. It wasn’t indifference; it was something far more guarded, something born of years and untold stories. And then there was Lily, a bright, curious sprite with eyes that mirrored his own, yet held a softness he now lacked. A daughter. June leaned against a stack of life vests, the musty canvas doing little to ground her. Ten years. Ten years of silence, of wondering, of slowly accepting he was gone, only to find him here, solid and real, a man scarred not just by time, but by something deeper. And he had a child. The realization was a physical ache, a profound sense of dislocation. The boy she’d loved, the future they’d whispered about under starlit skies, had not just disappeared; he had continued, moved on, created a world without her. She picked up a splintered paddle, running her thumb over the rough edge. The camp needed so much. Every corner held a memory, every creak in the floorboards an echo. Yet, these physical demands were a blessing, a distraction from the churning questions within. The bunkhouse. The mess hall. The docks. All of them needed repairs, many of them requiring a carpenter. A familiar carpenter. Her stomach tightened at the thought. How could she approach him again? The encounter had been a delicate dance of unspoken accusations and carefully constructed boundaries. Noah had made it abundantly clear he wasn't interested in revisiting the past. Yet, for Camp Blue Heron to survive, she needed him. Or rather, she needed his skill, his local knowledge, his proximity. It was a cruel twist of fate, or perhaps a stubborn insistence of destiny. June spent the rest of the afternoon meticulously inventorying the shed’s contents, her pen scratching against the clipboard a rhythmic counterpoint to her restless thoughts. Old fishing rods, deflated soccer balls, a rusted barbecue grill. Each item held a ghost of summer laughter, of carefree days. Days shared with Noah. She paused, her gaze fixed on a worn wooden sign propped against the back wall. ‘CAMP BLUE HERON: Est. 1952’. The paint was peeling, the corners chipped, but the message remained clear. This place was worth fighting for, worth saving. And if saving it meant confronting the ghost of her past, then so be it. Not for reconciliation, not for romance, but for answers. For the closure she deserved, and perhaps, for the camp’s sake, a professional relationship that could somehow bridge the vast chasm between them. --- The next morning, June found herself staring at the long list of repairs she’d compiled. The bunkhouse roof needed patching before the fall rains. The mess hall benches were rotting. The old boathouse, a structure Noah had helped his grandfather build, listed precariously. Each item had ‘Carpenter’ next to it, and each one felt like a weighted invitation. She walked over to the main office, the small building a microcosm of her aspirations and anxieties. The old phone, a rotary dial relic, sat on the desk. She knew the number for Noah’s carpentry shop. She’d seen it on the side of his truck, though she’d tried to pretend she hadn’t committed it to memory. Her finger hovered over the dial. Would he pick up? What would she say? How could she make it sound purely professional, devoid of the decade of heartache and unanswered questions? “June?” She nearly jumped out of her skin. Ben, the camp’s lone groundskeeper and a local fixture, stood in the doorway, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He’d been an invaluable help since her return, a quiet, steady presence. “Ben! You startled me,” she laughed, a little too brightly, pulling her hand away from the phone. “Sorry. Just came to see if you needed anything. Headed into town for supplies.” He gestured with his bag. “Got a few errands to run.” June’s heart gave a little thump. An opportunity. “Actually, Ben, I was just about to call a carpenter. We have quite a few big repair jobs. The boathouse, especially. Do you know if Noah, at Adirondack Timberworks, is available for larger projects?” She tried to keep her voice even, casual. Ben nodded slowly. “Noah? Oh yeah, he’s the best. Real skilled with the old wood. Doesn’t take on everything, mind you. Keeps to himself mostly, and he’s got Lily to look after. But if it’s for the camp…” He trailed off, a thoughtful look on his weathered face. “He’s got a soft spot for this place, I reckon. Even after everything.” “Everything?” June prompted, her voice barely a whisper. Ben’s gaze softened. “Aye. Tough road, that boy’s had. His mama passing, then… well, you know. He came back changed. Got a limp now, from the accident. Not many folks pry.” He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Lily’s his whole world now. Good kid. Reminds me of her mother, sometimes.” Lily’s mother. The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. An accident? A limp? What had happened to him in those missing years? Ben’s words, though vague, painted a picture of a past far more complex and painful than June had ever imagined. It wasn’t just a simple disappearance; it was a saga of hardship and loss, culminating in a new family. “I see,” June managed, her throat tight. “Well, I suppose I should still call him. It’s critical work. If he’s busy, perhaps he could recommend someone else.” It was a half-truth, a flimsy excuse. She knew she had to talk to him, no matter how uncomfortable it made them both. Ben nodded. “You do that. If he says no, let me know. I might know a few other hands, though none as good as Noah for this kind of work. The old timers around here, they swear by his granddad’s methods, and Noah’s picked ‘em all up.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry, June. We’ll get this camp back to its glory.” After Ben left, June sat back down, her fingers trembling slightly as she finally lifted the receiver. The phone felt impossibly heavy in her hand, a conduit to a past she craved to understand, yet dreaded to confront. This wasn't just about bunkhouse repairs anymore. It was about filling in the blanks of a life that had irrevocably shaped her own, about finding the lost pages of their shared story. She took a deep breath, telling herself this was purely business, and began to dial.

Chapter 17: The Weight of Unspoken Years