“Yes!” I exclaim like I’ve aced a test. We do have one.
I just don’t know where it is.
Greta probably does.
“Good. Check her temperature. I don’t think it will be, but if it’s higher than 102, take her to the hospital.” My gut tightens at the no nonsense directive. “Higher than that can become very dangerous very quickly. But if her temperature is lower than that, keep her inside, cool and hydrated. You all don’t have a tub out there, do you?”
“No, just showers.”
Mom makes a noise of disapproval. She’s abona fidebubble bath addict. “Well, don’t stick her in the shower. She might be too weak to stand. But you can wet some dish towels or even paper towels and put them over her trunk to go along with the ice pack you’ve got behind her neck.”
“Okay.” I’m nodding. Making a mental list. Thermometer. Paper towels.
“Check her temperature about every twenty minutes to make sure it’s moving in the right direction, but if she’s inside the air conditioning and not exerting herself, she should be well out of danger.”
“Got it. Thanks, Mo—”
“But—”She talks over me. “She needs a good rest. It can take days to recover from heat exhaustion. I know you three are young and you think you can do anything, but you can’t. And if she got overheated, you and Josh probably weren’t far behind her.”
I don’t tell her Josh wasn’t with us. But I do wonder again where the hell he is.
“I worry about you, you know,” Mom says unnecessarily, revving up my guilt over not calling often enough. “And we’ve had heat advisories the last three days here in South Carolina. Y’all must have had those too, right?” Mom’s not quite scolding, but she’s just a few clicks away.
Heat advisory? Fuck if I know. I’ve just been checking the skies for weather forecasts. If I don’t see thunderheads to the south, we’re good.
My Dad’s voice rises in the distance, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
Momtsks.“Your father says there’s a heat advisory from Texas all the way to the mid-Atlantic. Zach, honey, wait a few days for Greta to bounce back and then limit the outdoor work to the morning hours.”
“Mom—” I start to argue and then wonder why. It won’t change anything. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I have a business to build. We can’t just put in half-days outside and stay on schedule.
“Youcalledmefor advice, remember?” Her voice is syrupy sweet, and I have to chuckle.
She’s got me there.
But she’s also got my wheels turning.
“We’ll make it work,” I concede. But I don’t go into detail. Maybe it’s because I don’t want her to shoot down any ideas. But what about one of those canopies you can get at Academy? That would keep us shaded no matter where we worked. And couldn’t we power a fan using the truck’s 12 volt outlet?
But now I need to find Josh.
“And I appreciate the advice,” I say, meaning it. A muscle of longing twists in my heart. I’m lucky to have her and Dad to turn to. Even if I only get to see them in person a few times a year.
It’s like she’s reading my mind. “Let us know when y’all are set up for visitors.” Her voice has gone as soft as flannel.
I give a hoarse laugh. “It’ll be a while yet.” No point in telling her about what we’ve dubbed The Septic Setback. Details like that would just make her and Dad worry about what I’ve gotten myself into.
It’s not that they aren’t supportive of this life overhaul I’ve leapt into. They are. I made no secrets about how miserable I was as a Boston attorney.
I think they just expected and—let’s be honest—hoped that when I pulled the ripcord, it would have come in the form of opening a small practice of my own. Preferably closer to them if not right there in Charleston.
When I dropped the bomb on them and my sisters at Christmas, Dad grinned, eyeing me over his cheaters like he was waiting for thegotchapunchline. Mom just kept blinking like she had the worst case of dry-eye ever.
To their credit, they listened as I unfolded the concept of Camp Bliss, showed them pictures of the two property sites Josh, Greta, and I had already been eyeing, and fleshed out the vision of what a full-service nature retreat and outdoor adventure center could offer both the local community and out-of-town visitors.
My sisters Liz and Kit weren’t so good about hiding their doubts. They are both—you guessed it—lawyers. Four and two years older than me, respectively. Liz made junior partner at her firm in Tampa before she turned thirty. She specializes in contract law. Kit and her now-fiancé Jacob opened their own family and estate practice about a year ago in New Orleans.
I would have thought at least Kit would have appreciated my entrepreneur’s spirit. But both my sisters just looked at me like I was crazy. Crazy to leave law after only practicing for a few years. Crazy to leap into a business I know next to nothing about.