Sam

Sam Carpenter winced as the morning sun pierced the orange fabric of his two-person tent. No, it’s too early to wake up. He rolled to his left and gazed at his girlfriend, Quinn Michaels, who was sleeping soundly. His phone buzzed with a message from his brother Matt, telling him their father was in the middle of one of his black moods. 

In other words, Matt’s telling me to stay away. 

Sam noticed the date on his phone. Two years ago today, Quinn and I went on our first date. This was Sam’s fourth trip to Maine with Quinn, and it was almost over. 

Sam eased out of his sleeping bag, pulled on a pair of shorts, and grabbed a shirt before crawling out of the tent. The sun shone brightly, but the air held the morning chill that always set in around the end of August in New England. He retrieved a flannel shirt from his car along with two travel mugs. Stillness washed over him as he made his way along the wooded path to the camp store where coffee waited.

As he left the store carrying coffee and donuts, Mrs. Brossard greeted him. “Bonjour, Sam! Stop a minute. I’ve got bacon.” She grinned as Sam changed direction and headed her way.

“You know I can’t resist your bacon,” he said.

“You go home today?” Mrs. Brossard lived in Quebec and often apologized for her broken English. Sam always told her it was better than his French. The kindly grandmother and her husband spent the entire summer at the campground, often entertaining their grandchildren. 

“Yup, home today, and Quinn leaves for college on Wednesday.” He munched on a strip of bacon. “I don’t know how you do it. Your bacon is the best.”

“You’re going to miss your pretty lady, but you’ll be fine. Time will go fast. Next thing you know, it will be summer again, and we’ll be back here.” 

“And you’ll be chasing after those grandkids and cooking me bacon.” He gathered Mrs. Brossard into a hug. “Have a wonderful winter.”

“You, too, Sam. Tell Quinn to stop and say goodbye before you leave.”

Sam followed a path to the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The trail marked the boundary of the campground, and Sam walked toward a small trailer parked in a clearing surrounded by towering pine trees. 

“Bonjour, Sam.” Philippe Desjardins waved a hand, inviting Sam into the campsite. “I’m burning the last of our wood supply before we leave. Sylvie is at the bathhouse, making herself beautiful. Or, should I say, more beautiful?” 

Sam and Quinn had met Philippe and his girlfriend Sylvie in July. They were a year older than Sam and lived in Quebec City.

Sam offered Philippe a donut. “This is the best spot in the campground. I’m glad you had it so Quinn and I could visit.” 

“I think they put us here so if we indulged in any bad habits”—Philippe wiggled his eyebrows suggestively—“no one can hear or see us. You know I’m right.”

Sam laughed. “Not that you or Sylvie would ever do that.” 

Quinn

Quinn Michaels splashed cold water on her face, hoping to calm the puffy redness of her eyes.

“Don’t move.” Her friend Sylvie dug into her makeup bag and came out with concealer. “Turn toward me.” 

As Sylvie applied the concealer, Quinn said, “I’m such a mess. I try not to cry in front of Sam, but he was gone when I woke up this morning, and all I could think of was how in a few days, I’ll be alone every morning, ten hours away from home.”