Read Whiskers & Smoke for Free Online Page B

shot had just been fired across her bows. “But you can’t delay too long. The summer people will start flooding in next week and there won’t be any places left. They know a good thing when they see it.”
    â€œI haven’t seen it yet,” I reminded her.
    â€œLet’s get going, then.” Patrick leaped to his feet, jingling his car keys. “We’ve brought the station wagon so that we can fit everyone in. Unless you’d like to try out the Harpers’ car? You could follow us over—”
    â€œNo!” I froze at the thought. I hadn’t driven since John’s accident. I had no wish ever to get behind the wheel of a car again. “No, I’m not used to the idea of driving on the wrong side of the road. Give me some time to get acclimatized.”
    â€œYou ought to get used to a right-hand drive as soon as possible,” Celia put in swiftly, sensing weakness. “It’s a full-time job hereabouts ferrying children to their various destinations.”
    â€œAll the more reason for me not to get caught up in it. This is supposed to be a holiday.”
    â€œShe’s got you there,” Patrick said. “Come on, everybody. All aboard for Camp Mohigonquin.”
    Camp Mohigonquin stood on a hillside on the opposite side of the lake. It would have been about a mile if one were to row across; going by road, curving through woods and past summer cottages, the distance was about six miles. We turned in at the gates and bumped up a rough track.

    At the end of it were half a dozen long low wooden cabins, as many large canvas tents, all clustered around a central clearing with a flagpole from which fluttered the American flag. The camp enclosure was bordered by a tennis court, an archery range and a sports track. The remaining side was clear sweep down to the lakeshore beach; there was also a boathouse and a small dock with several canoes moored to it.
    A mixed doubles match occupied the tennis courts and an informal race was in progress on the sports track. Timothy’s eyes had begun to sparkle as he looked around.
    While we watched, a group of children erupted from one of the tents and war-whooped their way down the slope to pile into the waiting canoes. Tessa gave a little sniff and cradled her arm protectively.
    Timothy might be in his element here, but it didn’t hold much promise for my poor little broken-winged bird.
    â€œThere’s Luke!” Celia spotted her son and led us over to the archery range. “Luke, we’re here!”
    I caught my breath as the tall gangling blond boy turned and smiled at me with my father’s eyes and my mother’s mouth.
    â€œYes, I thought you’d catch that,” Celia said softly. “He does, doesn’t he?”
    I nodded, knowing that we mustn’t mention it in front of him. Nothing annoys children more than having pieces of what they consider their personal anatomy parcelled out and attributed to ancestors they have never known. Tessa always grew twitchy if anyone pointed out that her hair grew in a widow’s peak just like her paternal grandmother’s. After registering the observation the first half-dozen
times, she had insisted on wearing a fringe. When she was older, she would appreciate the advantage; right now, it seemed a denial of her own personality when anyone mentioned the source of her dramatic hairline.
    The cousins appraised each other silently while Celia made the introductions. A tall, lean, bronzed man stood by.
    â€œAnd this is Gregory Carter—” Celia finished, indicating him. “The Camp Administrator.”
    â€œJust Greg, please.” He flashed white perfect teeth and captured my hand in a strong firm handshake. “I’ve been hearing about you people. Glad to have you aboard.”
    He shook hands with Timothy, but Tessa shrank back, afraid to trust her remaining good hand to this athletic giant. He hesitated, then reached out and