summoning some demon god of coastal Maine. Or the Grateful Dead, late for their performance.
Cindy nudged her and she gave in. Clap . . . clap . . . clap.
Whee.
The clapping accelerated all around the fire, under its own strange force, faster and faster, until palms must have been burning and until speed shattered the rhythm into staccato applause and laughter.
Then gradual silence, except for the lap of waves and occasional cracking sparks from the fire, while they all again stared at Betsy.
Okay, Ann admitted it. She wanted to know what would happen next. Maybe their fearless leader would strip and then they’d all get naked and go leaping around the beach.
Ann had a dim memory of rumors involving just that on Betsy’s junior prom night.
Betsy opened her mouth, then closed it on a tone,
“Hmmmm.”
It took only a few seconds this time, “Hmmmm,” someone joined in, then everyone did. Almost everyone. This one was easier because Ann could keep her mouth closed and no one could tell if she were hmmming or not.
Slowly, Betsy raised her arm. The hmmms rose obediently in pitch. Her arm lowered. So did the hmmms, struggling discordantly at the bottom, then settling into unison. U-up?
Do-o-own. U-u-up? Do-o-wn, do-o-own, lower, lower, until As Good As It Got
55
laughter infiltrated the growling Buddhist monk sound. How low could they go?
Betsy shot her arm straight up over her head and a huge shriek rose from the women—Harpies on the Hunt—then wild laughter and more applause.
Ann laughed too. People were sheep. Even she had felt it, yeah, okay, the surge of community and power. Baaa.
But when they started passing out Kool-Aid, she was gone.
A log crumbled and a shower of sparks flew up, drawing attention to the astonishing display of stars beginning to crowd the sky. A man’s form distracted Ann from the light show. A nice man’s form, tall, solid, and strong, striding forward with an armful of wood and a poker to tend the fire. His hair was blond, longish, nicely tousled, the glint of an earring in his right ear. He had that sexy who-cares look about him that people in Ann’s tightly directed social circle lacked and that drew her, though she couldn’t always separate the disdain from the envy. Something of a wild boy.
As if he sensed her staring, he met her eyes through the ragged leaping edges of the flames. Ohhh, and how poetic to see a wild boy through fire, as if he were broadcasting his maleness directly from hell.
Around her women had started chanting and waving their arms, for whatever mysterious reason Betsy deemed necessary, a surreal background to the fiery exchange of Her gaze and His. He smiled and threw on another log. Ann looked away, but not before excitement she hadn’t felt in a long, long time had stirred. No, shaken. No, gotten up and danced.
Silly sheep-woman. Paul was barely cold and already she was getting hot? What good would that do? Better to concentrate on chanting and waving her arms.
56 Isabel
Sharpe
. . . What was she saying?
Luckily, before she’d have to suffer that indignity, the chanting stopped and Betsy let silence settle again.
“Welcome, women. I welcome you to Camp Kinsonu. In the Passamaquoddy language Kinsonu means, ‘She is strong.’
You’ve all come from places of pain. In the next two weeks we’ll help you, whether you want to begin your healing process physically or mentally or spiritually, or all three. We’re here to set you on your path to recovery.
“We can’t work miracles . . . only you can travel the long journey through your own grief. But we’ll provide bedrock to stand on while you take that difficult turn away from the past toward a happier future.
“And now . . . ” She smiled at the blond guy. “I’d like to introduce some of the people you’ll be meeting here at camp, starting with Patrick, my assistant. In case any of you are of-fended by, or excited by, seeing a gorgeous young man among vulnerable women, I can
Cindy nudged her and she gave in. Clap . . . clap . . . clap.
Whee.
The clapping accelerated all around the fire, under its own strange force, faster and faster, until palms must have been burning and until speed shattered the rhythm into staccato applause and laughter.
Then gradual silence, except for the lap of waves and occasional cracking sparks from the fire, while they all again stared at Betsy.
Okay, Ann admitted it. She wanted to know what would happen next. Maybe their fearless leader would strip and then they’d all get naked and go leaping around the beach.
Ann had a dim memory of rumors involving just that on Betsy’s junior prom night.
Betsy opened her mouth, then closed it on a tone,
“Hmmmm.”
It took only a few seconds this time, “Hmmmm,” someone joined in, then everyone did. Almost everyone. This one was easier because Ann could keep her mouth closed and no one could tell if she were hmmming or not.
Slowly, Betsy raised her arm. The hmmms rose obediently in pitch. Her arm lowered. So did the hmmms, struggling discordantly at the bottom, then settling into unison. U-up?
Do-o-own. U-u-up? Do-o-wn, do-o-own, lower, lower, until As Good As It Got
55
laughter infiltrated the growling Buddhist monk sound. How low could they go?
Betsy shot her arm straight up over her head and a huge shriek rose from the women—Harpies on the Hunt—then wild laughter and more applause.
Ann laughed too. People were sheep. Even she had felt it, yeah, okay, the surge of community and power. Baaa.
But when they started passing out Kool-Aid, she was gone.
A log crumbled and a shower of sparks flew up, drawing attention to the astonishing display of stars beginning to crowd the sky. A man’s form distracted Ann from the light show. A nice man’s form, tall, solid, and strong, striding forward with an armful of wood and a poker to tend the fire. His hair was blond, longish, nicely tousled, the glint of an earring in his right ear. He had that sexy who-cares look about him that people in Ann’s tightly directed social circle lacked and that drew her, though she couldn’t always separate the disdain from the envy. Something of a wild boy.
As if he sensed her staring, he met her eyes through the ragged leaping edges of the flames. Ohhh, and how poetic to see a wild boy through fire, as if he were broadcasting his maleness directly from hell.
Around her women had started chanting and waving their arms, for whatever mysterious reason Betsy deemed necessary, a surreal background to the fiery exchange of Her gaze and His. He smiled and threw on another log. Ann looked away, but not before excitement she hadn’t felt in a long, long time had stirred. No, shaken. No, gotten up and danced.
Silly sheep-woman. Paul was barely cold and already she was getting hot? What good would that do? Better to concentrate on chanting and waving her arms.
56 Isabel
Sharpe
. . . What was she saying?
Luckily, before she’d have to suffer that indignity, the chanting stopped and Betsy let silence settle again.
“Welcome, women. I welcome you to Camp Kinsonu. In the Passamaquoddy language Kinsonu means, ‘She is strong.’
You’ve all come from places of pain. In the next two weeks we’ll help you, whether you want to begin your healing process physically or mentally or spiritually, or all three. We’re here to set you on your path to recovery.
“We can’t work miracles . . . only you can travel the long journey through your own grief. But we’ll provide bedrock to stand on while you take that difficult turn away from the past toward a happier future.
“And now . . . ” She smiled at the blond guy. “I’d like to introduce some of the people you’ll be meeting here at camp, starting with Patrick, my assistant. In case any of you are of-fended by, or excited by, seeing a gorgeous young man among vulnerable women, I can
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