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They say smell is the sense linked strongest to memory. Citronella, whether floating out of wax in a tin pail or a greasy spray smeared on my skin, reminds me of running barefoot through cool grass and dirt the color of coffee grounds. To me, it’s sneaking through barns while my sister and I hide from our cousins as the last ones standing in a game of Manhunt, hoping our grandma’s black labs don’t follow us and give us away. It’s being surrounded by cornfields on three sides and drinking too much Coke and flying off a rope swing into the creek and sleeping in a tent in her backyard because there aren’t enough rooms in the house for all the grandkids.
These are all the things that come to mind as that sweet stench wafts into my nostrils from the corrugated tin sitting on the cooler. Being with Bowen’s family feels the same way—familiar. I’ve almost forgotten that I’m not actually part of their camping trip and that my family lives in different countries and on other continents.
Stuffing my face with a cheeseburger and potato chips, I watch them all with fascination. Their dynamic pulls me in like a riptide. Leona spends dinner relaxing in the chair next to me, her feet tucked into a pair of pastel pink Uggs. Immediately, she asks how my mom is and waits with intense interest to hear my response. As soon as I hear her Georgia mountain drawl, my life story comes spilling out to her like a reflex. She chirps updates to her husband, who nods in acknowledgement each time and continues whatever side conversation he’s having. If he dares not acknowledge, she gives him a whap in the arm until he does.
By sunset, I realize these people spend an inordinate amount of time together. They speak on a daily basis and see each other multiple times throughout the week. But I haven’t spoken to Bowen in at least an hour because I’m too busy exchanging college stories with Hildy.
“Do you remember that place we went to for our 21st birthday?” Hildy shouts across the campfire.
Bowen finishes assembling a s’more, “Which one? There were, like, 10.”
“The third one,” Hildy replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Bowen doesn’t look up, “The one where you stole the Jell-O syringes from the Bud Light girl?”
“Wait,” I interject, “our 21st birthday? Are you twins?”
A smug grin creeps across Bowen’s face, “11 minutes older.”
Leona points her long purple fingernail back and forth between Bowen and Hildy, “Full-term, both of them. The worst heartburn of my life and I didn’t sleep before or after they were born,” Leona glares at them, “I sleep now, but still have heartburn.”
Hildy smirks at Rick, “Dad thought he’d send me off to college and get rid of me. Told me to major in business and accounting because I’d make a lot of money.”
Rick peers at her from under his ball cap, “It’s called a retirement plan.”
I gently pull a burnt and oozing marshmallow off my metal skewer and pop it into my mouth, “Did you both go to the same college?”
Hildy shakes her head, “No, just me. Bo’s worked with Dad since high school.”
“She just came back anyway,” Bowen mutters, digging a marshmallow out of the bag and impaling it on a skewer.
Leona shoots Jay a look, “I wonder why…”
Jay shrugs and looks over his shoulder at me, “She has a thing for men in uniform.”
“Shut up!” Hildy slaps Jay in the arm, eliciting a snicker from him.
“Did you all go to high school together?” I ask, squishing my marshmallow between two graham crackers.
“Yeah,” Jay nods, “played soccer, raced cars, skateboarded, rode dirt bikes…”
“Bikes are cool,” I nod as I brush the graham cracker crumbs off my hands.
Hildy freezes and shoots me a dubious look, “Please tell me you’re not into dirt bikes. I still find clods of dried mud in random places from all that crap.”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head, “I’m not. I did play softball in high school, but now I’m really into biking—like bicycling. I’m kind of bummed I didn’t bring my bike with me this week.”
Hildy slowly straightens up and her expression softens, “Really?” she replies, placing her hand over her heart dramatically. “I played softball in high school! What position did you play?”
I smile in surprise, “Second base, what about you?”
Everyone goes silent. Hildy looks like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and Bowen, who’s chewing a bite of s’mores, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
“Um, short-stop,” she looks like she’s shaking, but quickly composes herself, “that’s so crazy, I never meet anyone who played softball.”
It is crazy, but more so because I feel like I’ve had this conversation before and gotten the same reaction, but not from her…
I dismiss the thought and flash her a smile, “Well, I’m glad it turned out to be that and not dirt bikes.”
Two hours later, the fire’s died down from a blazing inferno to a mellow glow. Having spent the day on the lake, everyone else gradually wanders off into a water-logged slumber while the two of us remain at the fire ring, watching it slowly burn down. Bowen tosses the last log onto the embers and settles back into his chair, the hood of his black sweatshirt framing his face.
He stretches out his legs and crosses his feet at the ankles, “Tell me more about this book.”
“Alright,” I tuck one leg underneath me and take a deep breath, “the surviving members of an old, eccentric woman’s family meet at her mansion on a secluded mountaintop in West Virginia. Some want a piece of her fortune, and some just want revenge. But no one knows who will make it back down alive.”
“Wow,” Bowen gives a half-smile, “where’d that come from?”
“My great-grandma had a family album and when she died, there was this giant feud between her kids about who would get it. Except, when they were cleaning out her house and dividing her belongings, no one could find it. And no one knew what happened to it.”
“What was in the album?”
“Stuff,” I say flatly.
Bowen grins at my vague response, “Did they ever find it?”
“Someone did.”
