Nerdplay, p.1
Nerdplay, page 1
Nerdplay
Annabel Chase
Red Palm Press LLC
Copyright © 2025 by Annabel Chase
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by ebook launch
Editor: Kelli Collins
Proofreader: Trish Long
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Also by Annabel Chase
Chapter One
To the uninitiated, my office looks like it’s been ransacked by a classroom of unruly kindergartners stuck indoors on a rainy day. Anyone who’s been around me long enough, however, knows this is all part of my organizational process.
Spread papers around floor.
Group them by categories only I would understand.
Find a place to store them until the papers turn yellow with age.
I’m terrified of throwing anything away in case some governmental entity or business decides to harass me for proof of something or other and I can’t provide it. Some people have nightmares about monsters or a violent death. The majority of my nightmares involve bureaucracy. Another one involves a talking Elmo doll and a blowtorch, but I keep that one close to the vest.
A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Funny. This is exactly how I left you last year.”
I spin around on my backside to greet my visitor. “You made it.”
Gloria Landry is the tallest short person I’ve ever met. If police were taking witness statements about her, people would describe the stout five-foot-two woman as an Amazon on cocaine.
“Sorry I’m late. My mother—”
I wave her off. “You don’t need to explain. You’re here now.” I hop to my feet and give her a warm hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too, Cricket.”
Gloria is fifty-two, single, and always arrives at camp a couple days before I open for the season. She cleans in exchange for free room and board; otherwise, she couldn’t afford to come. The rest of the year, Gloria cares for her elderly mother, a task that is physically, emotionally, and financially draining for her. She lives for these two weeks at camp, a fact that makes me simultaneously happy and sad.
“Seriously, though. Still with the papers?” Gloria shakes her head in dismay. “You know you can scan them into your computer and toss the copies, right?”
“Where’s the fun in that? Then I can’t play The Floor Is Lava with all my essential paperwork.”
“I wouldn’t call any of that essential.”
I swipe a sheet of paper off the floor. “Are you telling me that the property tax bill in my grandfather’s name from 1988 isn’t a critical document? Sheesh. And you call yourself a friend.”
“When you hold on to things that aren’t important, it becomes harder to identify the things that are.”
I suck in a breath. “Why, Gloria Landry. You’ve missed your true calling as a fortune cookie writer.”
“I’ve missed all my callings.” She shrugs. “But at least I get to be here for the next two weeks and forget my real life.”
I hug her again. “This is your real life, too. Where’s Buffy?”
“Hold me a little tighter and you’ll figure it out.”
I let go and look down at her front pocket. “Snoozing away?”
“The car ride knocked her out. She travels like an infant.”
Buffy is Gloria’s 70-gram emotional support sugar glider. The animal is her constant companion, except when said companion panics, flies away, and needs to be tracked down by yours truly. It happens at least once every summer. Sometimes twice. It seems Buffy could do with her own emotional support animal.
“Are the cabins unlocked? I can get started.” Gloria is a whirling dervish with a mop. The cabins are spotless in the same amount of time it would take me to fill a bucket with water. I’m not exactly a sloth, but Gloria treats each cleaning opportunity as an outlet for the feelings she represses fifty weeks of the year.
“I haven’t had lunch yet. Are you hungry? We can eat together first.” I know Gloria, and there’s no way she stopped to eat on the drive here from Harrisburg. Anything that would delay her arrival is a hard pass.
“Is the kitchen stocked?”
I crack a smile. “Delivery came this morning.” I loop my arm through hers. “Chocolate chip brownie from Sweetie’s?”
“Not this year. My doctor suggested I cut back on saturated fats. Gotta get the bad cholesterol under control.” She pats her soft middle. “This is what happens when you pass fifty. You’ll see.” She looks me up and down. “What am I saying? Even in the glory days of my youth, I wasn’t built like you.”
Gloria and I scrounge around the compact cafeteria kitchen and take our findings to a picnic table by the lake, where we catch up with our mouths full and marvel at our pristine surroundings. Lake Willa is the centerpiece of the property. Pops named it after his devoted wife, my sweet grandmother. Theirs was the kind of marriage that people don’t write stories about because there’s no conflict—loving, long, and lasting. The odds of getting as lucky as them... Well, if I had those kinds of odds, I’d drive straight to Atlantic City.
“How many campers this year?” Gloria asks.
“Similar to last year. Thirty.”
I glimpse my house through the trees. It’s log-cabin style, built by my grandparents during the first year of their marriage and where they lived until their respective deaths. Every moment of happiness I experienced in my childhood happened either in that house or right here at camp.
Gloria cuts through the calm with a question that causes nausea to ripple through me. “I hate to ask, but inquiring minds need to know. Is the Prick coming this year?”
There’s only one name we skirt in favor of pronouns or disparaging nicknames. “Oddly enough, he registered again, but I highly doubt we’ll see him.”
“Two years in a row. So strange. Why spend the money to register if you have no intention of showing up?”
“No clue.” I have zero interest in talking about him, not now and not ever. I want to enjoy camp like I used to before that lying, cowardly troglodyte tarnished my favorite place on Earth.
Gloria pokes around her salad bowl like she’s hunting and gathering the actual food. “Maybe his girlfriend kicked him to the curb.”
“Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Can we please change the subject?” I hope I don’t sound too snippy. Gloria was my rock during that awful experience; she doesn’t deserve to draw my ire. That honor belongs to one person only.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him up.”
I turn my face toward the sun and close my eyes. “It’ll be so great to see everyone again.”
“I know. This place feels more like home than my actual home.” There’s a brief pause and then, “How are finances?”
Once again, her question drags me back to reality, kicking and screaming. “The camp will survive the year.” Barely.
“Any ideas on how to turn that around?”
“Not yet. Word seems to have gotten out because I’ve been beating back a property developer with a stick. He’s like a shark that smells blood in the water.”
Camp Abernathy has been on this land since my grandfather first acquired it in 1967. The property then passed to my father, whose early demise meant it passed to me sooner than expected. I’ve been the sole owner and operator for the past five years, as well as the creator of Comic-Camp, the two-week adults-only camp that begins in T-minus two days. You’d think I’d be ready to welcome the campers, but I’m not that organized. Every year I’m reminded how much work is involved for very little financial reward. If only I could survive on good vibes, I’d be set for life.
Gloria reaches across the table to grip my arm. “You wouldn’t actually sell, would you?”
“You know me better than that.” I wrench myself free and polish off my last sandwich square, washing it down with a refillable bottle of water. “This camp is about building community, not my bank account.”
“And that’s why we love you, but you need to stay afloat. I’m sure you have bills to pay.”
She has no idea. Every year the bills get higher and my bank balance gets lower. Very soon my inheritance will be gone. I’ll cross the bridge over those troubled waters when I get to it.
Gloria rises to her feet. “I’ll get started on the cleaning now.”
“I can help you after I tidy up the paperwork.”
Gloria snorts. “In other words, I’m on my own.”
“If I could afford to hire someone, I would.”
“And if I could afford to pay you for my spot, I would. We both do what we can. I wish you’d ask some of the other regulars for help. They’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“Adam already works as a counselor for the kids’ camp. I can’t ask f or more favors.”
“It isn’t a favor when he gets his registration covered in return. Besides, they love this place as much as you. We all do. If they thought for one second that the camp was in jeopardy, they’d volunteer as tributes.”
I squirm uncomfortably on the bench. “I can manage on my own.”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” She pats my shoulder as she passes by. “I’ll handle the cleaning. You handle the rest, as usual, Boss Lady.”
“Thanks, Gloria. You’re the best.”
I remain seated at the picnic table for a few more minutes, soaking up the midday sun. The lake glistens like starlight and a comfortable shudder ripples through my body. This camp is my happy place, the physical manifestation of my soul, and there’s nothing on earth a property developer could do to convince me to sell.
I watch as Matt Lyman shoots the foam ball from behind his desk. The ball swishes through the basket attached to the back of his office door. He slides open the desk drawer and produces another ball.
“Your turn,” he says.
“No thanks.”
His grin is designed to taunt. “Afraid of a little competition?”
“More afraid of Joel opening the door and me hitting him smack in the face.”
“Dude, you need to lighten up.” He squeezes the green ball. “It’s foam.” He shoots again and scores.
I toss a file on his desk. “I didn’t come to play. Joel asked me to bring you this.”
“Is that the Dungiven file? Sweet.” He flips open the file. “You don’t mind, do you, buddy? You’ve got LandStar. Now I’ve got Dungiven. Seems fair.”
“I don’t mind.”
We both know that’s a lie. I mind very much. After all, I’m the one who cultivated the relationship with Dungiven’s CEO, and now my boss has handed that client on a silver platter to my only real competition for partnership. Melvin, O’Reilly, and Gaines is a medium-sized law firm. The upside is my ability to move up the ranks faster than at a large firm. The downside is that the department can only choose one of us to make partner this year. You’d think I would relish the Gladiator-style experience of pitting associates against each other and turning colleagues into competitors. After all, it’s the capitalist way. But something about it doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe because, for the first time in my life, I might actually lose.
Matt seems to read my mind. “What’s the matter, buddy? Worried you won’t clinch the contract for LandStar?” He practically salivates at the prospect. Matt’s out for the same amount of blood, whether it’s a business deal or a ‘friendly’ game of hoops.
“I’ll have the contract wrapped up in a pretty bow soon enough. I’m driving out there tomorrow.”
“Hey, at least you get to bill travel time. That’s at least four hours without any real work.” Matt grins like his entire goal in life is receiving money for the least amount of effort. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was lazy, but I know it’s all part of his act. Matt Lyman is fiercely competitive. He wants people to believe his achievements are effortless. If he weren’t so annoying, I’d find him a fascinating character study.
My assistant and I have crafted lighthearted psychological profiles of most people in our department. Jeannie is much more skilled at this than I am. She can read people faster than it takes me to process their names. I once told her she should’ve been a lawyer, but she said she can’t stand the bullshit that comes with the job. According to her, it’s much easier to be the administrative assistant in the shadows whose name half the lawyers only remember when they want something, and even then, they sometimes get it wrong. Bert in litigation calls her Jane, no matter how many times he’s been corrected. I’d blame a faulty memory, but I’m fairly certain the guy has never called his wife by his mistress’s name, or he’d be divorced by now.
Jeannie waves frantically as I return to my office from Matt’s. I swerve to the right to check in.
“Joel came by your office,” she says in a hushed tone.
I stifle a groan. Joel Niven is the head of my department and my direct boss. He likes to press people’s buttons and watch how they respond. He once ordered octopus in a seafood restaurant because he knew another partner had a moral objection to it. When he refused to change his order, she left the restaurant, leaving him with the new client she’d painstakingly pursued for a year. His take was that commitment to the client should trump everything else, including the plight of any marine life. How intelligent can they really be if they end up on a plate in Center City? I believe was his exact quote.
“Joel said he’ll pop back later this afternoon.”
That buys me a little time. The phone rings and Jeannie effortlessly switches to her professional voice. “Charlie Thorpe’s office. Who may I say is calling?” Her expression shifts as she puts the caller on hold. “Your father is on the line. Should I tell him you’re in a meeting?”
“How does he sound?”
“Like he has a silver spoon stuck up his ass.”
I heave a sigh. This day is already ruined. What’s one more challenging personality?
“I’ll take it at my desk. Thanks.” I give myself a quick pep talk before I enter my office and pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Charles. Your mother asked me to call. She wants to make sure you save the date on your calendar for our fortieth wedding anniversary. We’re hosting a party at the house.”
Forty years of wedded ... whatever toxic relationship they called a marriage. Congrats, I guess.
“August first. It’s already on the schedule.”
“I hope we can announce your new title by then.”
Ah. Now I understand the real reason for the phone call. “Why?”
The question is unnecessary. I already know why. They intend to show us off to their guests. Michael and Elizabeth are easy. My siblings give my parents something new to boast about every month. I, on the other hand, have only one card to play. It isn’t enough to make partner. The more important part is to become the youngest partner in the firm’s hundred-year history. Bragging rights are everything to my parents. They view Keeping Up With the Joneses as necessary to survival as oxygen or water. Their three children serve as their primary weapons in the battle of proving their social superiority.
“We have announcements about your brother and sister. We wouldn’t want to leave out our firstborn son.”
You pathetic loser, he forgot to add. “If I hear anything before then, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“I’m sure you’ll come through for us.”
“I’ll do my best. Talk to you later.” I hang up, feeling worse than I did before the call. I could be President of the United States, and my father would still want a list of my recent achievements to send in a press release to the people on their social register.
The LandStar file sits open on my desk. According to the multiple less-than-subtle hints dropped by Joel and a couple other partners, this deal is all that stands between me and partnership. The rumor mill says that Matt is all flash and no substance, and they would much rather promote me, but they need me to prove I can hold my own at the big kids’ table, which is why they gave me LandStar. The company’s owner, James Riggieri, is a bully and a tyrant, which happen to be personality traits I am intimately familiar with. You give me lemons, I’ve got your lemonade ready.
The train ride home is more crowded than usual today and reeks of piss and pot. I only drive to work on the days I have a client meeting outside the city. Public transportation and recycling are the extent of my commitment to the climate change crisis; not because I don’t care but because I don’t have time to think about it.
My house is outside Center City in a town on the Main Line. I was perfectly happy living in an apartment in Old City, but my parents thought it was beneath me (read: beneath them) as a thirty-five-year-old lawyer to rent an apartment, so they persuaded me to buy a house in the ’burbs in preparation for the life they envisioned for me. According to their unofficial chart of milestones, I should have a devoted wife and 2.5 kids by now.
