The Summer Hideaway (22 page)

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s why the name is familiar,” said their mother. “They’re just a local family.”

When he heard the pronouncement, George felt the knot in his chest unfurl. He no longer felt regret that he hadn’t approached her in the bakery; he felt relief. A local girl.
Local
was code for
beneath us
. Local meant a girl from the working class. A girl who didn’t fit in with the college set. Neither he nor Charles had any business getting romantic with her. He certainly wasn’t going to battle his brother for possession of her heart.

A romance with Jane Gordon would be doomed from the start, anyway. They had nothing in common. Once the initial attraction wore off, there would be nothing to sustain them. Perhaps that attitude was snobby or elitist, but he hadn’t made the rules.

Thanks to Charles, George had avoided a sticky situation. How awkward it would have been to flirt with her, perhaps make some overture, only to be rebuffed because he had a bad leg and didn’t fit into her world.

Yet as Charles went on and on about her—Jane Bonnie
Gordon, a farmer’s daughter raised right here in Avalon—it dawned on George that his brother didn’t understand.

“Son,” their father said to Charles, “we don’t blame you for enjoying a little summer flirtation, but don’t make it into anything more than that.”

“Too late,” Charles said breezily. “It already
is
more than that.”

Their mother fanned herself. “Dear heaven, do you mean—”

“Of course not,” Charles said quickly. “We only found each other today. She’s swell, and you’re going to love her.”

“And where does she go to school?” Mrs. Bellamy asked pointedly.

“Jane’s not in school. She says her father’s barely getting by, trying to keep this place in the black. But I want you to understand, I’m going to ask her out, court her the way I would any other girl.”

“She’s not any other girl,” their father said in a low warning tone. “She’s not for a young man like you.”

“Don’t be a fuddy-duddy.” Charles laughed. “This is not the nineteenth century. We’re not in Bizet’s
Carmen
.”

The fact that he had brought up the opera—about a class struggle that had ensued when a cigar-factory girl fell for a powerful aristocrat—proved he understood on some level. Jane was completely wrong for either brother. The sooner Charles came to accept that reality, the sooner they could both move on.

George was frustrated to discover, though, that his heart refused to obey his mind. In spite of all good sense, he found himself thinking endlessly about those moments in the bakery. Those few seconds had been like a key in a
lock, finally clicking into place. Why hadn’t he stepped forward? Why hadn’t he spoken up when he had a chance?

Because he was afraid. He hid behind the rules of society to avoid looking like a fool. It was not George’s favorite thing about himself.

“Oh, look who’s here,” said Mrs. Bellamy. “The Darrows will be joining us for dinner tonight.” She glided over to greet them, and within minutes, they were all sharing a large table, two handsome families, dressed to the nines. Dinner was a convivial affair as they discussed topics that ranged from Churchill’s resignation as prime minister to the introduction of the Salk vaccine for polio.

“What a blessing,” declared Millicent Darrow, the younger of the sisters. “How fortunate that we won’t have to worry about polio anymore.”

George polished off a glass of wine and changed the topic to the imminent opening of an amusement park called Disneyland, which promised to be all the rage in California. Then, to his relief, the women launched into a discussion of the overheated bestseller that was all the rage,
Marjorie Morningstar
.

At the conclusion of dinner, the musical ensemble struck up “Dance With Me Henry,” and the girls looked expectantly at the brothers. “My favorite,” said Millicent.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother,” said Charles Bellamy to the sisters. “He refuses to dance.”

The girls exchanged a glance. “Not even a tiny foxtrot? Georgie, say it isn’t so.” Beatrice tucked her lips into a pout.

George, who couldn’t stand being called Georgie, offered his smoothest and most charming smile. “Think of it as a humanitarian gesture,” he said. “I don’t want to
prey on some hapless girl and cause her irreparable physical harm.”

The sisters laughed. “I assure you, we’re made of sturdier stuff than that. Good Yankee stock.”

“What about the psychological damage of being paired with the worst dancer ever to blight the floor?” he inquired, arching an eyebrow at them. “Believe me, no one can overcome that.”

“True,” Millicent agreed. “A reputation is more fragile than the physical body. A broken bone can heal. A ruined reputation stays ruined forever.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Charles looked incredulous. “You sound like an old biddy.”

She glared at him. “Well!”

“But you look like a young biddy,” he said soothingly.

“That’s better.” She batted her eyes at him, then turned to George. “Didn’t you have to take dancing lessons at school? I thought it was considered one of the gentlemanly arts.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It is. Perhaps that explains why I’m no gentleman.”

They all laughed as if he’d made a great joke.

“How did you get out of dancing lessons? Where were you when everyone was learning to dance?”

In an iron lung, he thought. Fighting for my life.

He could feel his brother watching him. Charles had never understood George’s reluctance to tell people about the polio. And George couldn’t understand why it was so hard to grasp. Why the devil would anyone want to advertise such a weakness?

Unlike his older brother, Charles had led a charmed life. Everything came easily to him—grades and excel
lence at sports, ease in social situations, everything. He was the all-American golden boy, for sure. It was probably no wonder he couldn’t relate to a polio victim with a game leg.

“We missed you at the bridge tournament this afternoon,” Millicent said to Charles. “Where were you?”

“Around and about,” Charles said.

George suspected Charles had managed to sneak off to spend time with Jane Gordon. Charles should know better. Then again, he’d always been one to follow his impulses, and damn the consequences.

“Who won the tournament?” asked Charles.

“George and Beatrice, of course,” she said.

“My big brother always wins at everything,” Charles said with a rueful smile.

“Don’t be too impressed,” George said, noticing Charles had managed to avoid actually saying where he’d been during the bridge game. “I tend to only try things I have a chance at winning.”

“Ah, so that’s your secret,” said Millicent.

“I just disclosed it, so it’s a secret no more.”

“I shall have to think about this one,” Charles said. “The key to success is to only do things you can succeed at.”

“It works for me,” said George. “Keeps frustration to a minimum, anyway.”

The band struck up a lively version of “Moments to Remember,” and a raft of couples glided onto the dance floor. “Are you sure you won’t dance with me, Georgie?” Beatrice asked, making a new effort.

“Trust me when I say I value your health and mobility too much to inflict myself on you.”

“Tell you what,” Charles suggested, smooth as silk.
“Let’s send George to grab another bottle of wine for the table. And I’ll dance with both of you at the same time. We’ll invent a new dance.”

The girls were charmed by the prospect of two against one. As Charles stood up and offered each of them an arm, George shot his brother a look of relieved gratitude.

“Don’t forget that wine,” Charles said. “Make it a good one. Make it two.”

“I’ll be back in a jiff.” George rose from the table, thinking about every step he took. For years, he had dedicated himself to hiding the ravages of the disease. A London tailor made all his clothes, from dress suits to casual wear. Every pair of slacks, even his golf chinos, had been designed to conceal the mechanical brace he wore on his left leg. As he crossed the big, busy dining room, he knew he moved with confidence because he had practiced it.

Since it was a Friday night at the lodge, the dining room was particularly busy. Friday was the day the men came up from the city to join their families at the summer retreat. Parkhurst Bellamy was no exception. Like the others, he had arrived at the cocktail hour and had been drinking steadily ever since. He and George’s mother were deep in conversation with the elder Darrows. They made a good-looking and self-satisfied foursome, the personification of the American success story.

George discovered that if he blurred his eyes, everyone in the room looked the same. Pale and well-groomed, dressed in expensive clothing and smoking imported cigarettes dispensed from monogrammed cases.

At the edge of the crowd stood someone who didn’t
fit in. Her hair was too frizzy, her features too vivid, her expression too unguarded.

Jane Gordon was working in the dining room that night. In a plain server’s frock and apron, she stood at the dessert table, cutting slices of layer cake or adding dollops of whipped cream to the banana creme pie.

During a break in the action, he saw her slip out a side exit to the broad deck overlooking the lake. On impulse, he followed her. George rarely did things on impulse, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his missed chance in the bakery. Besides, his dinner companions were all on the dance floor.

She didn’t notice him at first, as she stood at the rail of the deck with her back to the dining room. A string of paper lanterns illuminated the deck, deserted now with everyone inside dancing. She faced the lake, which lay in placid splendor, bathed in moonlight. It was a soft summer night, the temperature just right, the breeze as gentle as a baby’s breath.

George stood in the shadows, wondering what to say to her. Maybe his initial attraction to her had merely been a fleeting nostalgia, he thought. But no; judging by the way his heart sped up, the feeling was still there.

His stupid leg brace creaked. She turned quickly. “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, did you need something, sir?”

She spoke in a funny upstate accent. Back when they were kids, he hadn’t really noticed that about her. “Hello, Jane,” he said, stepping into the light.

She relaxed visibly at the sound of his voice. “George Bellamy. I saw you in the bakery earlier, but I didn’t get a chance to say hi.” A dazzling smile lit her face. “So…hi!”

“Hi yourself. I, um, should have said something in the bakery, but you seemed busy. I didn’t want to distract you.”

“I’ve been wondering about you all day, George.”

Oh, boy, he thought. Maybe she’d felt the same magnetic attraction that had stricken him. “Jane—”

“Look at you! You’re all better.”

His heart sank as he realized what she was thinking. It had nothing to do with attraction. “Right,” he said. “All better.”

“It’s kind of a miracle, huh? Last time we saw each other, you were in a wheelchair. Now you’re standing there, ready to take on the world. And here
I
am, shirking again.”

“Is that what this is?” he asked, all too eager to change the subject. “Shirking? It’s very pleasant.”

“Don’t report me, okay? Old Mrs. Romano, in the kitchen, is a drill sergeant. I hate getting in trouble and letting people down.”

“I can’t imagine a girl like you doing that.”

“Oh, believe me, I can be a lot of trouble.” She fanned herself with her apron. “I just needed to get some air. Cigarette smoke bothers me.”

It bothered him, too, so much so that he was unable to smoke like most men his age. Yet another legacy of the polio—the intolerance of smoking, thanks to his weakened lungs.

“Is your brother really dancing with two girls at once?” she asked, peering through the window.

“What can I say?” George inquired. “He’s a man of many talents.”

“How about you?” she asked. “Do you have talents of your own?”

“I keep them hidden,” he said jokingly.

“Why?”

“Modesty. What about yourself?”

“I’m good at a lot of things,” she said with a grin. “Like pie-cutting.”

“That’s admirable.”

“Whipping cream,” she added. “I excel at whipping cream.”

“Not every girl can say that.”

She giggled. Her gaze strayed to the window. Another dance was starting and the Darrow girls appeared to be exhorting Charles to stay with them.

“He’s popular,” Jane observed.

“You noticed. Does that bother you?”

“Not really,” she said easily. “I’m not the jealous type. Besides, I have nothing to worry about. He’s already half in love with me.”

George was startled into laughter. “I beg your pardon.”

“I’m not being vain, just truthful. Charles is half in love with me.”

George was stunned by her frankness, and her confidence. And completely, unjustifiably envious. “And the other half?”

“Is waiting to see if the feeling is mutual.” The moonlight made a beautiful bas relief of her face, accentuating its bone structure. Suddenly she didn’t look like a local mongrel, but as refined as a princess.

“What are you waiting for?”

She touched her finger to her bottom lip. “Maybe I’m holding out for someone else.”

He wondered if she was teasing—or if she was feeling the same electric attraction he was.

George gave himself a stern talking-to. Taking up with this girl would lead to nothing but disaster and heartache. She was a working-class girl with a troubled mother and a father who was just getting by. She had no education beyond high school. Nothing but blazing good looks and an innate personal charm that would one day make some man extremely happy. Just not a man like George Bellamy.

Besides that, Charles liked her, though the infatuation was bound to fade away by the time the leaves began to turn.

“You’re wasting your time, holding out for someone else,” George told her.

She moved close to him on the deck. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely, positively sure?”

Time stood still. Even the night breeze seemed to quiet as if the world was holding its breath. The chorus of crickets fell silent. George had the crazy sensation that his life had contracted to this one moment. He couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to put his arms around her. Would she feel sturdy and firm, or soft and willowy? He wondered what her hair would smell like, how her lips would taste. He was teetering at the edge of a cliff in the dark, about to take the plunge even though he had no idea what lay beyond.