When I was undercover with Carlos the Armadillo in Colombia, I'd always wanted to visit the famed beaches of Cartagena but never did. In Russia, I missed Red Square, thinking I'd have plenty of time to visit. It was the same when I was in Okinawa with the Yakuza—I was always sure I'd visit Tokyo Disneyland. Fact is, I never did. And I didn't realize it until I ended up in Chechnya. In Chechnya…well, there's really nothing to see in Chechnya, unless you like goats and diesel fumes. And I'd had my fill of those my first week there.
"Girls," Kelly said sternly. "This isn't the kind of river you'd want to swim in. There are all kinds of dangerous eddies and a very strong undertow. We have the lazy river at camp. We will do that."
Kaitlyn pointed at the undulating waves. "Can't we kayak on it?"
I stepped in to help. "It's not like kayaking on the lake back home. River kayaking is extremely dangerous and unpredictable. No one kayaks here except for much older, seasoned, and trained professionals, and even then it's practically considered suicide."
Just then ten blue and yellow kayaks, loaded with tiny, giggling Cub Scouts and their den leaders, rounded the bend. As they went by, the boys waved and shouted, "Hello!"
"This is so easy!" one of the boys squealed as they continued down the river and out of sight.
Betty narrowed her eyes. "You were saying?"
This wasn't a moment I was totally unfamiliar with. The girls had caught me in a lie maybe once or twice before. Once where they found me hiding behind my bed eating an entire box of Thin Mints, out of season, when I'd said there weren't any more (never, ever lie to your troop about snacks). The other episode involved a different kind of cookie.
When the girls were in kindergarten, Jo, the equestrian director at camp, had us come out to feed the horses. Everything was all squeals of happiness until they noticed one horse, all alone, off by himself. You might think little girls love baby animals or princesses the most, but that's not quite accurate. A little girl's first love always seems to be horses.
After the tears and lamentations as the girls forgot about all the other horses and ran to Cookie's aid, Jo explained that they were getting rid of the beast because he wasn't good at handling a different novice rider every two hours.
Even though it's a reference they didn't know, it was as if she'd said glue factory. The righteous fury of the Brownies decried the loss of a horse who was ignorant to his dire fate, munching hay five feet away from them.
For an entire year, all the girls talked about was Cookie the horse. Every craft we made had some incarnation of Cookie. When we worked on knots, someone invariably made one that resembled the horse. Most plays, drawings, and songs featured Cookie dying sad and alone. And every time, the girls would burst into tears over his demise.
By the end of the year, Kelly and I were sick of Cookie. I've told this story for years, but I usually left the next part out (mostly because it makes me look like an idiot). Because the girls were so distraught, we told them that Cookie was alive and was on vacation near the beach. Why the beach? Because when you come from a landlocked state, the ocean is hailed as the ultimate vacation spot. The girls bought it and talked endlessly about Cookie surfing, serving as a lifeguard and a hero who rescued a Girl Scout troop from a swarm of sharks.
And it would've worked too. Except for the fact that when we went back to camp to feed the horses again, there was a familiar roan horse, still separated from the others, blissfully eating from a bucket with his name on it. There is no doubt whatsoever that their screams of Cookie! were still orbiting the Earth somewhere.
Jo seemed surprised when we asked about the horse. She explained that they'd been simply planning to retire Cookie. But he turned out to be a good horse for the more experienced staff members to ride, so they decided to keep him. I refused to talk to her until one year later.
This was kind of the same thing. Only in this case, I'd insulted the girls by implying that this was something they couldn't do safely, only to be shown up by younger Cub Scouts. We had a saying at camp whenever attempting something difficult—if it was easy, this would be Boy Scout Camp.
How was I ever going to get out of this one?
My eyes turned to the back of the house, where a wraparound porch sported cushioned wicker chairs and benches.
"Look! Swings!" I shouted with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
Before I knew it, the girls were on the porch clambering up into them. Betty still regarded me cautiously, as if to say this isn't over. But she was in the middle of it all, swinging back and forth.
"Let's go back around front," I said after an appropriate amount of time.
"Okay!" the girls shouted unanimously. Any fury at my misstep was filed away, to be brought out to shame me with later.
They skipped down the stairs, and we walked as a group to the side of the house.
"What's that?" Ava squatted down next to a small hole the diameter of a quarter.
"They look like snake holes," I said. "Just garter snakes, probably."
"No vipers?" Kaitlyn asked hopefully.
"Not here." I pointed at another one a few feet away. "This is probably his back door."
We all laughed as we continued around to the front, past blooming and fragrant rose bushes, up the steps to the front door.
"Here we go." I inserted the key into the lock and turned.
We walked into an entryway with parquet floors and an ornately carved bannister on our right, girding a staircase to a landing where a large, round stained-glass window beamed flecks
