“When you say camp, you mean…?” I gasped, winded from keeping up with him.

“I run a camp for foster kids,” he said, looking at me with surprise. It was glaringly obvious that he thought Mom would have filled me in on the particulars.

“Really?” I asked with surprise coloring my voice.

“It’s the closest thing to having kids of my own…” he said. This time it was his voice that trailed off, obviously regretting his choice of words. His movements in front of me seemed more forced. The lies that had robbed me of the father I had always yearned for had obviously impacted him just as much.

My inner turmoil was halted after I smacked into his broad back when he stopped abruptly in front of me. He whipped around to steady me with his hands as torment clouded his features. “I would have visited if I'd known,” he said, gripping my arms lightly.

I nodded my head, fighting back the tears that wanted to come roaring out. For years, I had assumed my father had run for the hills when he’d learned of my existence. As a child, I had been hurt that he wasn’t there, but as I got older, those feelings turned to betrayal that he wasn’t man enough to stick around. My mom never helped matters either. I asked many times over the years about my dad. She would always find ways to side step the question, like claiming it was too painful to talk about, or that she didn't know why he left or where he went. Eventually, I guess I just accepted it and stopped asking. Not that my life had been bad. Mom had always gone above and beyond trying to fill the void. She worked hard to make sure we were always financially secure as she struggled to put herself through night classes to become a teacher. We weren’t wealthy by any means, but I always appreciated the sacrifices she made for me. I’d always regarded her as someone who had persevered even though she’d been handed a raw deal. All her sacrifices now seemed somehow less meaningful. For reasons only she knows, she had decided seventeen years ago to make herself a martyr unnecessarily. Standing before me was living, breathing proof.

“I know,” I said, believing him.

“Okay,” he said, dropping his hands from my arms and resuming his faster-than-humanly-possible pace.

“Um, you think you could slow down a little for those of us who don’t have stilts for legs,” I said, going for sarcasm to cover the awkwardness of the whole situation. I was by no means a social leper, but I was spoiled from the luxury of knowing all the same people my whole life. Meeting new people always made me feel initially uncomfortable anyway, so imagine meeting your father for the first time at seventeen years old.

“Oops, sorry,” he said, sounding as uncomfortable as I felt. He looked over his shoulder at me lagging behind and shortened his stride. “Your mom always lagged behind too,” he added, obviously trying to ease the tension.

“She did?” I asked, struck by curiosity. I hadn't given her a chance to explain anything once she told me about Rick, and that she never told him about me. You would think maybe I would have peppered her with questions, but it was like a steel door had closed, blocking the closeness we had always shared. I felt betrayed all these years by a father I knew nothing about and then she drops a bomb on me. It was like a punch in the face. I was more willing to hear it from an equal victim in the whole situation.

“Yeah," Rick continued. "She’d grudgingly tag along with me when I went hiking when we were in high school.

“Really?” I asked skeptically. Mom’s tolerance for the outdoors fell under the same category as mine. Nonexistent.

He chuckled at my skepticism. “Well, I did say grudgingly. Usually, we had to work out a trade, hiking for a day at the beach.”

“Now that sounds like Mom. Always the negotiator,” I said, feeling the first stirrings of homesickness. Mom and I had always gotten along so well that I never had the typical gripes all my friends had about their parents. Leaving the way I did had left a hole the size of Kansas in my chest. I was still mad she’d lied to me all these years, but I couldn’t erase the heartbroken look on her face when she dropped me off at the airport earlier that morning.

“Yeah, Kate was always the negotiator,” he said, stopping in front of an oversized SUV that looked roughly the size of a small bus. I thought they had stopped making these monstrous vehicles a while back when gas prices began their steady hike up. I shuddered at the idea of filling up the obvious gas-guzzler. I wasn't exactly a total earth-friendly nut like some of my other artistic friends, but I did try to do my share of conserving our natural resources. I’d stick with my cute used Honda Civic my mom helped me buy as an early graduation present.

“So, your mom tells me you’re headed to UCLA in the fall,” Rick said, pulling his “tank” out of the narrow parking spot.

I grimaced as he came within an inch of the bumper of the sleek sports car next to us. “Um, yeah,” I said, waiting for the grinding sound of metal on metal that never came. I sighed with relief when he pulled out of the parking garage after what seemed to me like several near misses. “I was accepted into their art program.”

“That’s what Kate said. That’s a tough program, isn’t it? You must be pretty talented,” he added, flashing me a smile for the first time

I flushed at the praise. It seemed surreal to be talking about my college plans with my dad. “I guess it’s because I’ve been doing it for years,” I said, trying not to brag.

“Talent is talent,” he said. “You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished. I’m hoping to see some of your talent this summer,” he added.

“Sure,” I said, liking the idea of being able to draw the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Maybe living so far from town wasn’t as bad as I first imagined it would be. I’d even give hiking a shot, so I might have a chance at seeing some wildlife. My specialty was murals, but I’d wanted to broaden my portfolio for a while. I felt lighthearted at the thought. I wouldn’t be spending the summer in my art studio or on the beach, but lounging around in the mountains might not be all that bad either.

The drive continued on in awkward fashion as Rick and I did our best, considering the situation, to get to know each other. He would pepper me with several questions in a row about my childhood, wait for me to respond and then fall silent again. I wasn’t doing much better. Back home, I had a whole list of things I wanted to know about him, but now that I was sitting here, my brain was freezing up on me. The conversation loosened up when he asked about my past birthdays. He chuckled as I explained Mom’s almost manic behavior each time my birthday would roll around. How she would flutter around like a bee on acid the weeks leading up to my parties, only to drop into a heap of exhaustion once the party ended. As I chatted, I tried to keep my apprehension at bay as civilization slowly faded away behind us. Shopping malls, restaurants, and even gas stations became few and far between the closer we got to the massive snow-covered mountains in front of us.

“Wow, there’s still snow on the mountains,” I exclaimed.

“It’s been a rough winter and an even rougher spring. Just last week we had a storm blow in that dropped a foot of snow. It's melted since then, but it's definitely been an uncharacteristically cold start to the summer," he said.

“But, it’s June," I protested.

“Guess Mother Nature didn’t get that memo,” he said.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t melted,” I said, recalling the warmer temperatures outside when we left the terminal.

“It’s a tad bit colder up where you see the snow. That's even higher than were we’re headed, but it’s still been pretty chilly at camp for the past couple of weeks,” he said, which explained his warm clothing. “You bring anything warmer?” he added, taking in my sandal-clad feet and long dress.