The Summer Hideaway (16 page)

He turned the packet over in his hands, checking the return address. “Penguin Group publishing,” he said, and his eyes lit with delight. “Young lady, is this what I think it is?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

His hand trembled a little as he opened the parcel. Out slipped a book, bound in plain card stock, labeled Advance Reading Copy—Not For Sale. There was a worldwide publication date of September 28.

“Fall of Giants
by Ken Follett,” said George. “This is top secret stuff, Claire. The most hotly anticipated novel since that vampire craze. How on earth did you get a copy?”

“I have my ways,” she said. She almost never stayed
in touch with families of former patients, but in this case, she’d made an exception. She’d looked after the mother of a production intern at a publisher, and he was so grateful for her help that he’d offered her any book on the company’s list, at any stage of production. For George’s sake, she’d called in the favor.

“I shall enjoy this immensely. Thank you, Claire.” George turned to Ross. “She’s extremely thoughtful.”

“Uh-huh.” Ross clearly didn’t want to hear about her thoughtfulness. “So, let’s talk a little more about the list, Granddad.”

He tapped his breast pocket. “The main reason I’m here is to try to make amends with my brother, if that’s possible. I need to see if there is anything left after fifty-five years of silence.”

“With all due respect,” said Ross, “why haven’t you called him yet?”

George smiled. “I confess, I’m hesitant to disrupt other people’s lives. My own—well, that was thoroughly disrupted by this confounded diagnosis. Still, that doesn’t give me the right to barge in on unsuspecting people.”

Claire watched them both closely, noting the strong family resemblance. In Ross, she could see the young man George might have been at one time. And in George, she could see the mature man Ross might become one day.

Sometimes she wondered about her own background, though she tried not to dwell on unanswered questions. She’d never met any of her grandparents. She knew of exactly four photographs of her mother, but was in possession of none of them. Even now, it was too dangerous to carry any connection to the past. The photos—one Polaroid
and three snapshots—were being safeguarded by Mel, but Claire had memorized each one. Yet when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t know if she could see her face in her mother’s face, or if there had ever been a time when her mother had looked at her and seen something familiar.

There was a slight tremor in George’s hand as he took the small leather-bound volume from his pocket containing his list. “When I first heard my diagnosis, and my prognosis, I did pick up the phone. Many times. Such a simple thing, picking up the phone and placing a call. But between the time I held the phone in my hand and looked at the number I had tracked down for Charles, I could see the passing of a lifetime. I’ll just say it—I turned cowardly. This is too important for a simple telephone conversation. I didn’t want to ruin my one chance. I want to get it right, so I need to come up with the best way to go about this.”

“Well, for one thing, you might want to do it before you jump out of a plane,” Claire suggested, and caught a glare from Ross. “I’m just saying.”

George let loose with his big laugh, the one that crescendoed and tapered in a way that was impossible to resist. “But seriously,” he said, “jumping out of an airplane might prove to be easier than having a reunion with my brother.” His laughter subsided, and his voice grew quiet. “It’s time,” he said.

She felt a chill creep over her skin. She didn’t look at Ross, not wanting him to see her concern. Many patients had a very keen sense of the progress of their illness, and their urgency sometimes came from a place of deep knowing, a place no doctor’s test could reveal.

“What do you mean, she’s not coming to dinner with us?” George asked Ross as they made their way to the main pavilion that evening. “Was it something I said?”

“No, of course not.”

“Was it something
you
said?”

Probably, thought Ross. He’d been borderline rude to Claire all day. He was torn between feeling grateful for her compassion toward his grandfather, and resentful of her insistence on letting Granddad choose to forego treatment for his illness.

“She wanted to give us time alone together,” Ross explained, because that was simpler. “That’s what she said, anyway.”

“Pull over,” Granddad said. “Right here, pull over.”

Ross stopped the golf cart at the side of the trail. “We’re not going back for her.”

His grandfather waved a hand in impatience and got out of the cart. There was a colorful flower garden nearby, with a bed of lilies surrounding a small stone marker. Ross saw that it was engraved with Stuart Gordon’s name and life span, 1926–1944.

Now that he knew a little more Bellamy family history, Ross was beginning to understand his grandfather’s emotional ties to this place. The marker read, “We will never forget the love you gave to us. God alone can tell how much you are missed.”

The same words could be said of Ross’s father, and every other soldier who’d served his country. Granddad stooped down and plucked a couple of white flowers. It made a strangely beautiful picture, an old man picking flowers in the golden light. The sun’s rays shone through
his almost translucent hair, giving him a peculiar glow. Just for a moment, Ross had a vision of his grandfather in another time, younger and more hearty, at the Tuileries gardens in Paris, grinning as he reached past the
pas de prendre les fleurs
sign and helped himself to a carnation.

“A gentleman is never fully dressed without a boutonniere,” George declared as he climbed back in the golf cart. “You never know who you’re going to meet, so it’s best to be prepared.”

Ross pulled the flower stem through a buttonhole of Granddad’s lapel. He held a smile in place even though he wanted to break down and cry.
Holy crap,
he thought.
Holy crap, Granddad, don’t leave me.

Hiding his grief and fear, he said, “You’ve been giving me that same advice for years. So far, nothing’s panned out.”

“No reason to stop trying.” George reached out to affix Ross’s flower, the way he used to when Ross was a geeky kid. His hand shook, and Ross had to guide it to the buttonhole.

“Are you all right?”

“Aside from this brain tumor, I’m fine.” His voice was bright with irony. “One of my meds causes the tremors. Don’t worry about it.”

Right,
thought Ross.
I won’t worry.

George settled back on the seat. “Claire likes picking flowers,” he said. “This morning, she put a few in a juice glass on the breakfast table. Something tells me the two of you are going to get on very nicely.”

Ross’s gaze flicked to the ever-present buzzer. “Granddad—”

“No, hear me out. I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but if something needs saying, I’m damn well going to say it.”

“How is that different from the way you’ve always talked to me?” asked Ross.

“I’m simply going to level with you. You’re not meant to be alone, Ross. You’re meant to find someone special.”

“Then don’t shove some stranger at me.”

“She won’t stay a stranger for long, if you keep an open mind and open heart. You might even fall in love. You’ve never done so, and I think you’d enjoy it.”

Ross threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh. It felt almost normal. “Sure, Granddad. I’ll get right on that.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

“It’s one of the things on my list,” said George.

Ross paused. “I’m starting to get an attitude about this list.”

“It’s essential. I want to make sure I don’t leave anything undone, if I can help it.”

“Fine, but it’s your list. I’ve got no business being on it,” Ross said.

“I’d like to see you settled into the life you deserve. It would bring me a great sense of peace.”

Granddad could be a manipulative old dude when he wanted to. “I’ll work on it,” said Ross. “Just bear in mind, if and when I find someone, it’s not likely to be a nurse you hired through a personals ad.”

Ross parked near the lodge and headed inside with his grandfather. He didn’t really care about his own future. What mattered to him was getting his grandfather to listen to reason. In that regard, maybe the meeting with
the brother could serve a purpose. The sooner the two old men decided to bury the hatchet, the sooner Ross could work on getting George back to the city and checked in to the hospital to fight for his life. Maybe, he thought, the brother would help convince George to keep trying.

He caught a glimpse of the two of them in the glass doors of the dining room, and was struck by the sight of himself in civilian clothes. He still wasn’t used to that. “You were right about the flowers,” he said, giving his grandfather a thumbs-up sign. “We look good.”

They were seated at a table with a view. Nearby sat an older lady with a younger couple. The moment she saw George, she patted her hair and sat up a little straighter. Granddad brought Ross over and introduced them. “Miss Millicent Darrow,” he said with a flourish. “Millie, this is my grandson, Ross.”

Granddad had already made a friend here. Was it something in the water?

The white-haired, well-dressed lady beamed at them. “He’s as handsome as you, George,” she said.

Granddad seemed to glow with pride. And there was no denying he seemed to hold himself a little straighter, his shoulders squared, under her regard. As they took their seats again, Ross leaned forward and murmured, “She’s sweet on you.”

“I believe the feeling’s mutual. She and I might be living proof that romance knows no age barriers. And I might try the filet for dinner tonight,” George said. “Stayed away from red meat for years, and now I find I enjoy living dangerously.”

At the next table, Miss Darrow tilted her wineglass in his direction. “I’ll drink to that.”

Claire was startled to see Ross approaching the cottage, alone and on foot later that evening. She hurried outside and was even more surprised to see that he’d changed out of his dinner clothes and was draped in fly-fishing gear. He looked impossibly cute in khaki utility shorts, a T-shirt under a vest with dozens of pockets, and a hat that should have looked funny but somehow looked sexy instead.

“Where’s George?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

“Dancing with some woman. He said to tell you thanks for showing him some dance moves.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He seemed to read her mind. “And don’t worry, she’s staying at the resort, and she has my number and yours.”

The idea of George with a lady pleased Claire utterly. “So is this someone he just met?”

“He knew her years ago,” Ross said. “Her name’s Millicent Darrow. Apparently they both vacationed here with their families in the fifties. Since this place reopened as a resort, a lot of the old families have come back.”

“Millicent Darrow,” Claire said. “That’s a classy-sounding name. She and your grandfather must have a lot of catching up to do.”

“So it seems.” Ross ducked his head, but she caught the flash of a rare grin. He had an amazing smile. “All I know is, he told me to make myself scarce and he’d call one of us if he needed anything.”

“Well, I guess…I’ll wait up for him,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

Ross studied her for a moment, making her feel even more awkward. “You want to join me? I was going to try a little fly-fishing.”

She glanced at the sky, deepening with sunset. “Um, now?”

“Twilight until dark is the best time for it,” he said. “Come on, I’ve got all the gear we need.”

“Really?” The prospect of fly-fishing sounded ridiculously appealing to Claire.

“Sure.”

He must have had the happy plate special at dinner tonight, she thought.

They hiked a short distance along the lakeshore. It was another gorgeous evening, the scenery lovely enough to cause a sweet ache in her chest. She’d never known this quality of peace and quiet, so complete and all-pervasive. The lake was flat and glassy in the twilight, the water disturbed only by the occasional flicker of an insect or water bird.

They came to a waterfall pouring down a narrow gorge to a stream that emptied into the lake. “Over here,” said Ross, moving to the reeds at the bank of the stream. “Ever been fishing?”

“Never.” She could feel a light spray from the waterfall on her face. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m starting to see why my grandfather wanted to come to this place. It’s like going to heaven.” He paused. “And that might be a damned poor choice of words.”

She smiled. “I bet he’d disagree. He and Millicent Darrow might even be there now.”

“Okay, not that I needed that picture in my head—”

“I was referring to the dancing,” she said.

“I wasn’t,” he said. “Come on, let’s see if I remember how this is done.”

She followed him to the edge of the stream. The equipment was minimal—a rod and reel, lead and line—and the concept deceptively simple. She watched him for a bit, intrigued by the motion of the pole and the graceful dance of the translucent line upon the water as he aimed for the still, shadowy places behind the jutting rocks, where a fish might hide.

“I’ve never seen someone fly-fishing before,” she said, entranced by the featherlight sweep of the lure on the end of the line. “Not in person, anyway. But in pictures and movies.”

“Let me guess,” said Ross.
“A River Runs Through It.”

She nodded. “I love that movie.” She’d always been drawn to films and books about families. It was the source of much of what she knew about family life. Her favorite had been
The Cosby Show
reruns. In her dreams, she got to be part of a family like that.

“The scenery was nice,” he said, casting into the shadows again, “except I’m not a big fan of death and dying in movies.” He kept up the graceful rhythm of casting, the rod and line singing in the air and creating a black slash of motion in the deepening twilight.