Immediately, the Milky Way falls to the ground. Judy stoops to retrieve it, feeling foolish.

“Take another,” says Mr. Alcott. “Take whatever you want.”

“That’s all right,” says Judy, but already Mr. Alcott is silently collecting a small assortment of candy and snacks from the machine.

“Here,” he says. “Least I can do.”

Then he closes it, and locks the door.

Judy regards him. “Mr. Alcott,” she says. “You’re a history teacher, right?”

He nods.

“How much do you know about the history of the Van Laar Preserve?”

“Oh,” says Mr. Alcott. “Just about everything there is to know.”

He straightens as he says it. This, Judy understands, is his life’s work.

“Miss Luptack, would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” says Bob Alcott. “To go with your Milky Way bar.”

“Won’t it disturb your wife?” Judy asks, and the man shakes his head. “Oh, no. She’s up too. We’re both night owls, now that the kids are grown.”

“That’s very kind of you,” says Judy.

Then she excuses herself briefly to retrieve her notepad from her room.

•   •   •

In the Alcotts’ apartment, just off the lobby, the couple sits across from Judy at a table.

Judy lets her pen hover for a moment over the paper before her. Then she dives in.

“Mr. and Mrs. Alcott,” she says. “Here’s my first question. Do you know when the Hewitts came to live on the Preserve?”

“Oh,” says Mr. Alcott, “that’s easy. Same time as the Van Laars. In fact, it was the Hewitts who guided them to the land. Dan Hewitt was Vic’s father. He was born into a guiding family about an hour north, up near Saranac Lake. The first Peter Van Laar made his acquaintance when he was scouting land for his estate. It was Dan who knew about a piece of land a bit farther south that a family of loggers was looking to sell. He pointed Peter the First in that direction.”

“What family was that?” asks Judy.

“The ones who sold it to the Van Laars, you mean?”

She nods.

“Funny you ask,” says Mr. Alcott. “It was a family called Sluiter. You might have heard of their son.”

“Yes,” says Judy. “I have.”

“Anyway. Peter Van Laar—the first one, I mean—took such a shine to the land that he felt indebted to Dan Hewitt. Brought him along to what became the Van Laar Preserve to serve as the family’s personal guide.”

Alcott stops. Sips his tea.

“A decade went by. The first Peter Van Laar met and married his wife, and together they had a son—the second Peter, still alive today. Dan Hewitt, too, met a woman named Clara, who gave him twin boys. But Clara didn’t live long after that, according to my research. So the boys were raised by their father until they were about fifteen—which is when he died too. They became orphans, living on the land of the Van Laar Preserve. Mr. Van Laar, the First, was the one to take them in. He brought them from the cabin they’d been living in, right into the Van Laar house. They even lived in Albany with the Van Laars during the year.”

Judy considers this.

“What was the age difference,” she asks, “between Peter II and the Hewitt boys? Were they older than him, or younger?”

“Only a handful of years younger,” says Mr. Alcott.

“Six, I think,” says his wife.

“Six years. And the rumor in the town was that Peter II never liked the Hewitt boys. His father favored them. Took them on daily walks. Gave them the run of the place. He was kind to Charlie Hewitt—always spoke well of him. But it was Vic he really loved. Treated him like another son. Adopted him, basically, though that was never made official.

“In theory,” Mr. Alcott continues, “the Hewitt boys should have been like brothers to Peter II. But he was jealous, I think. Still is, maybe.”

Judy is writing as fast as she can. Still, it’s not fast enough. Mr. Alcott notices, and pauses.

“Camp Emerson was Vic’s idea,” says Mr. Alcott, when Judy looks up again. “He was the one did all the work for it. But Peter I supported it from the start. By the end of his life, he described it as his greatest accomplishment. He saw it as a way to teach generations of children about the importance of the land. The beauty of it. He never gave a damn about the money he made banking—always seemed surprised by how much he had, in my opinion. He used to come into Shattuck and greet everyone by name. He was different from his offspring. More like a Hewitt than a Van Laar, if you ask me. Because the rest of his family always saw Camp Emerson as a folly. They wanted nothing to do with it. Still don’t.”

Mrs. Alcott stands. Puts the kettle on again.

“The problems between the Hewitts and the Van Laars began when Peter I died. I hate to gossip, and I’m telling you honestly that I have no way to know, but the rumor is that Peter I left Camp Emerson and its operations entirely to Vic Hewitt. Divided the Preserve in half. The main house and the farm would go to the Van Laars; the camp to the Hewitts. In theory, it was a plan that might have worked. But,” he says.

“But?”

“He made a mistake. He made his own son, Peter II, the trustee of his will—thus granting him the power to distribute funds for the camp as he saw fit, until his death.”

“And after he dies?” says Judy.

“Then the camp’ll go to Vic,” says Mr. Alcott. “Or more likely to his daughter, Tessie Jo.”

The kettle whistles. Judy looks up.

“But as I said,” says Mr. Alcott. “This is all rumor. Speculation. Which—as a history teacher—I should know better than to propagate.”

“I understand,” says Judy. “I’ll look into it myself.”

She stands. Thanks Mrs. Alcott for the tea. At the door, she turns back.

“I do have another question,” she says.

“Go ahead.”

“Vic Hewitt’s brother,” she says. “Charlie. What happened to him?”

“Oh, he died a decade ago, at least,” says Mr. Alcott.

“Two decades ago,” says Mrs. Alcott.