The Summer Hideaway (31 page)

Claire had nearly gone crazy with grief…and guilt. She spent the day in the shadows, terrified Vance would find her next. She was afraid to call anyone else, afraid for anyone connected to her. When the bad guy was a cop, you couldn’t call the cops.

Just as Vance had predicted, a lowlife gangbanger had been arrested for killing Mario and Jo-Jo. While in custody, he’d been stabbed to death with a prisoner’s homemade knife. These things happened.

She racked her brain, trying to figure out where to turn for help. She remembered Mel Reno, a volunteer who coached the school chess team. A quiet, middle-aged guy, he was well-liked by the students, and brilliant when
it came to chess. He had a past, though, which she’d found out from Vance himself. He had been talking to someone on the phone, probably Ava. Reno was a laughingstock, a disgrace, forced to resign from his job under a cloud. He’d been in charge of protecting a family of witnesses, and they’d all been killed.
Fucking bleeding heart
, Vance had said.
A couple of witnesses got popped, and he ran like a cat on fire. Fucking coward.

Mel had believed every word she’d told him. She’d been jubilant, until he explained her fate. She was going to have to disappear.

And Vance Jordan was going to get away with murder. In the
Star-Ledger
, he was pictured with a grieving Teresa and quoted as saying, “They were always so troubled, those boys. We had no idea something like this could happen.”

The way Mel explained it, the case was closed. With limited resources, the department was only too happy to go along with the explanation of the gangbanger who was stabbed to death right after his arrest. Even the existence of Mario’s pocket stained with Vance’s blood wouldn’t be enough. If she produced the evidence and gave a statement, she’d be exposing herself to a terrible risk, possibly for no reason. Public prosecutors had difficulty protecting witnesses, particularly when the suspect was a cop. There was no staff or dedicated financing for witness protection. Sometimes a program could be cobbled together with a combination of petty cash, drug forfeiture money and general operating revenues. Sometimes relocation worked. But in a case like Claire’s, she’d never make it long enough to testify. Mel felt sure of this.

The proof appeared in a footnote to the article about
the murders. The Jordans’ foster daughter, Clarissa Tancredi, was assumed to be involved in drugs, just as the boys had been. Vance and Teresa were pleading for information as to her whereabouts. Her embarrassingly homely yearbook picture ran like a milk-carton ad.

Clarissa Tancredi had to disappear for good.

Sometimes, especially in the early days of her exile, she grew so exhausted trying to stay alive that she was on the verge of giving up and surrendering to her fate. She imagined walking into a police station and telling her story. She wouldn’t let herself, though. She owed it to the boys who had been silenced to stay alive. She wondered if anyone—other case workers or Teresa Jordan or people at her school—wondered what had become of Clarissa Tancredi. Did they know why she’d disappeared without a trace?

Mel had set out the phony grave marker himself, a silent message that she was gone for good. The technique was common in witness security programs, but something had awakened Vance Jordan’s suspicions.

Ross listened with his body held tense. She appreciated that he hadn’t interrupted or questioned her. He’d just let her finish, as though sensing the need for the bottled-up story to come out.

“Mel recently found out Vance was going to be a foster father again,” she explained. “Mel must have tried to alert the authorities.” She stared at the ground. “It’s my fault. I’ve known for years that Vance Jordan is a killer on the loose, and I was too afraid to do anything about it.”

“Don’t you dare do this,” Ross said. “Don’t you blame yourself.”

“But—”

“There’s something I need to know. Whatever happened to the evidence you picked up, the one with Vance Jordan’s blood on it?”

“I’ve still got it. I thought I had the ultimate proof, because the report to the public never mentioned that Mario’s pocket had been cut out. It’s something that would only be known to someone who’d been there. Investigators often leave out key details as a way to test a witness’s reliability. In most murder cases, I could tie it up with a bow and give it to the investigators and walk away a hero. I almost did that. I almost delivered the evidence in person. Then I thought about sending it in anonymously. But in surrendering the one piece of evidence, I’d be playing my entire hand.”

“And it sounds like this guy knows exactly how to deal with evidence,” Ross said.

She nodded. There was a blue wall around Vance Jordan. Nobody messed with him. “I feel like such a coward.”

“Keeping yourself safe has to be the number one priority. If anything happens to you, then he
will
get away with murder—for good.”

“You sound like Mel.” Her heart constricted as she thought of Mel, lost in the shadows, his prognosis uncertain.

Ross held her as she cried. She told him how scared she was for Mel. She told him about the case worker involved in the hit-and-run accident, and how she was afraid that anyone she tried to tell would get hurt.

“You asked me once why I don’t get involved with people,” she said. “This is why. And you wondered how
I could stand doing this job, caring for people who are going to die on me. It’s because dying is not the worst possible thing that can happen to a person. Failing to live—that’s worse.”

“Everything’s going to change now,” Ross assured her.

“How?”

“Just tell the truth.”

“The way those boys did?”

“Ah, Claire. We’ll figure this out together.” He made a brief search of his wallet, extracting a business card.

He was a fixer. A rescuer. That was what he’d done in the army. Swooped and rescued people.

B
lurred vision was among the many symptoms of George’s ailment. He found that if he held himself very still and blinked a few times, the world would come back into focus.

Sometimes, however, he was in no hurry for clarity to return. The genius painter, Claude Monet, had produced some of his best work while going blind. With lines softened by dappled light, the scene appeared before him in dreamlike splendor.

George was no painter, just an observer. He was seated in a cushioned Adirondack chair that was so big and imposing, it resembled a throne. The chair had been placed on the grassy lawn by the resort lodge, where a team from the resort staff was setting up for the family reunion.

The first annual Bellamy family reunion.

For George, it was bound to be the last. He hoped it would go well. He wished—dear God, he wished—his son Pierce could be here. He wished for that every day.

Jane had taken on most of the planning, in consultation with two of her granddaughters—Olivia and Dare.
From a distance, and seen through a haze of sunlight, Jane could easily be mistaken for a slender girl. She wore a sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a yellow ribbon around its crown.

Ah, Jane, he thought. Jane.

As though summoned by his thoughts, she came toward him, still surrounded by a gauzy nimbus of light. “Olivia made a seating chart,” she said. “Would you like to take a look at it?”

George smiled and shook his head. “I’m sure it’s fine. Remind me again, which one is Olivia?”

“She’s the daughter of our eldest son, Philip.”

George wondered if there was the smallest bit of strain in her voice. He couldn’t tell. Philip and his wife, Laura, had been away, so George hadn’t met him yet. “And she’s an only child?”

“She has a half sister, Jenny. Both girls have given me great-grandbabies, and I couldn’t be happier. Can you imagine, George? I’m a great-grandmother.”

To him, she would always be as young and fresh and beautiful as she’d been the last time he’d held her in his arms. He stayed silent. He had a searing headache now, but he ignored it.

“Philip was always quite a serious young man,” she said, though George hadn’t asked. “Laura is his second wife. His first marriage was…He didn’t follow his heart. He married Pamela Lightsey, Sam and Gwen’s daughter.”

“I remember Samuel Lightsey from Yale,” said George.

“Pamela is lovely, and for Olivia’s sake, they worked hard to make a go of it. But…they had to try too hard. His heart was somewhere else. It was all a long time ago.”

“Jane,” said George, “there’s something I’ve always
wondered.” He didn’t quite know how to ask. He took a small object from his pocket. “I have something that belongs to you.” He handed her the earring.

“I don’t recognize that.”

“You left it in my dorm room in 1956.”

She stood very still for a moment. Then she sat down in the chair next to him. “I can’t believe you kept it all this time. I’m sure I threw away its mate decades ago. Thought it was a lost cause.”

“I see.”

She turned to him, leaning slightly forward. “Do you, George? Because I don’t think you do.”

“Then suppose you tell me,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“I’m not making excuses, but those years after Stuart died were incredibly hard for me. My mother shut down. She wasn’t there for any of us, and it was awful. My father did his best to raise me, but understandably, there were gaps. Vast ones. I was a vain and careless girl, plagued by insecurity. That night—” she indicated the earring “—I was tipsy, as well, as I recall. I was in a panic over a lovers’ quarrel and flattered by your attention.”

“It was more than attention, and you know it,” he said. “I did love you, Jane, and the only reason I gave you to Charles was—”

“Let’s be clear,” she broke in. “You didn’t
give
me to anyone, George. And Charles didn’t take me. If that is what caused this rift then you’re insane. I did a stupid, hurtful, impulsive thing, and I’m sorry for any pain that caused you. Please understand, I gave my love to one man and one man only, and it’s been that way for fifty-five years, and it will be that way for the rest of our lives.
What you must understand is that
I
chose. I chose the life I’ve had, and it’s a good one. It’s been good beyond my wildest dreams. I can only hope you feel the same about your life.”

“I could…up until I lost Pierce,” he said. His heart was sore with unhealed grief. Perhaps, he thought, losing Pierce was the reason it had seemed so important to get to the bottom of the story behind Philip. Now George realized his curiosity was entirely wrong-headed. Passing on DNA didn’t make a man a parent.
Parenting
made him a parent. Philip was Charles’s son in every way that mattered.

Unlike Mrs. Gordon, George had not let himself neglect his other sons when Pierce died. However, that was when Jackie had changed, turning away from her husband, as though she couldn’t bear their combined hurt. She had pursued her romantic adventures discreetly at first, but ultimately she ceased to care whose heart she broke. People grieved in different ways; George knew this. They loved in different ways, too.

Jane’s hand covered his. “George. Oh, my dear sweet George.” She got up and hugged him fiercely, and placed a kiss on his cheek. Then she went back to the preparations.

George’s vision blurred again, the world melding into a sun-dappled Impressionist painting. A powerful feeling swept through him, and the image changed, coalescing into the face of his lost son. The wind sang strangely in his ears—
See you soon
.

“G
ood heavens, woman, I’m not dead yet,” said George, giving Claire the once-over. “Don’t you have a more cheery-looking frock than that?”

Claire plucked at the skirt of her gray dress. Like all her other dresses, it was decidedly plain, designed to help her fade into the background. “This is your day, George. Nobody cares what I wear.”

“Balderdash. I’m calling Ivy.” He grabbed his mobile phone.

Claire didn’t argue. This
was
George’s day. She had never planned to return to Avalon, yet she’d found herself aloft in Duke Elder’s plane, flying northward over the Hudson, which formed a bright ribbon leading to the green-clad highlands of Ulster County. For the first time ever, she dared to believe there could be an end to her ordeal, that she could actually have a life that didn’t involve a constant series of goodbyes.

Ross had contacted someone named Tyrone Kennedy with the state prosecutor’s office. Mr. Kennedy put his best assistant on the case. Based on a retest of evidence—
the boys’ clothing—there was enough forensic evidence for an arrest. Once he was charged, Claire would produce the missing piece of the puzzle—the bloodstained inner pocket. Mel Reno was put under guard, and was expected to make a full recovery.

And just like that, everything shifted. Claire didn’t quite trust that the ordeal was finally over, though. She’d been let down by the system so many times.

This time would be different. Ross had promised.

Although still wary, she decided that at least for today, she’d put her worries aside. She was in her room in the cottage, scowling at the other four dresses hanging in the closet. Beige, brown, charcoal and black, her standard palette.

“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe,” said Ivy, rapping at the door frame to her room. “Granddad said to help you figure out a dress for the reunion.”

When Claire turned and saw Ivy, she gasped. “You look incredible.”

In a floaty, colorful silk print dress, Ross’s cousin flitted into the room, part girl, part butterfly. Her sandals were made of thin braids of colorful twine, and a rakish-looking clip held her hair in an informal updo. “You like?” she asked, twirling. “You think Granddad will like?”

“Of course. He didn’t care for this one,” she admitted, indicating the gray sleeveless sheath. “Which one of these, do you think?”

Ivy regarded the selections for about two seconds. “None of the above.” She grabbed Claire’s hand and marched her downstairs. She stopped to poke her head into her grandfather’s room. “Are you all right in there?”

“I could use some help with my tie,” said George.

His voice was thinner, a bit vague. Claire didn’t say anything, though. She didn’t want anyone to worry today.

“I don’t know how to tie a tie,” said Ivy.

“I do.” Claire picked up the silky necktie. “Hold still, George.” His coloring was slightly off. “Listen, if you need anything at all, you let me know.”

“I’ll be all right. Ivy, can you get my cuff links? In the top drawer of the bureau there.”

She rifled around in the drawer. “Granddad, what’s this box from Tiffany’s?”

“That,” he said, “is a very old ring, and it’s part of a very long story.”

“Wow, it’s gorgeous. Must be worth a fortune. Did it belong to Grandma Jackie?”

He offered a slight smile. “I like to think it’s still looking for its owner.”

“Granddad. I never knew you were such a romantic.” She helped him with his cuff links. The blast of a revving engine sounded outside. “Yikes, what’s that?” she asked.

“That,” said George, putting on his sport coat, “is my ride. Just a little something I’ve always wanted to do.”

Connor Davis, Olivia’s husband, had a Harley. He and George were going for a ride, and then they would arrive at the reunion in style. Ivy and Claire stood watching them go, the motorcycle a silver flash in the sunlight. George reached out both arms as if to embrace the very air around him. Over the low purr of the motor, they could hear his distinctive laughter.

“My granddad’s so wonderful,” Ivy said, her voice breaking.

“He is,” Claire agreed.

“I’m scared. I don’t want to lose him.”

They watched together until the Harley rounded a curve in the path and disappeared. Ivy took Claire’s hand. “And don’t think you’re off the hook.” She brought her across the way to the rustic bunkhouse where the girl cousins and family friends were staying. Their shared accommodations were a throwback to Camp Kioga in its heyday as a summer camp. The walls were decked with authentic-looking handicrafts from times gone by—a painted wooden paddle, signed by campers in the 1970s, a crazy quilt from the sixties, collages made of found objects from the lake and the woods.

“Makeover time,” Ivy announced, then turned to Claire. “Resistance is futile.”

Claire blushed, though the idea intrigued her. She’d undergone makeovers in the past, but they were all designed to make herself even more nondescript and anonymous, which was clearly not the goal here. “I’m all yours.”

Ivy and the others descended, choosing a sunflower-yellow sundress and heeled sandals with gleaming gold straps. “Love the dress,” said Claire. “Not too sure about the sandals, though. I don’t wear heels.”

“You do today,” Ivy said. “They’re perfect. And they’ll look incredible on the dance floor.”

Claire examined the spike-sharp heels. “They’re weapons of mass destruction.”

“Hush, you’ll be fine.” Hair and makeup were next, and the pampering felt like pure indulgence. “I’m an artist by trade,” Ivy explained, brandishing a wand of highlighter. “I do painting on ceramics.”

“No offense,” said another cousin, Gerard’s daughter Nicole, “but that watch you’re wearing is butt-ugly.”

“No offense taken,” Claire said easily, removing the
chunky watch and stuffing it in her pocket. She didn’t explain why she had to keep it with her.

“Ross freaked out when you took off,” said Ivy, brushing highlighter on Claire’s brow.

“What do you mean, ‘freaked out’?”

“He’s head over heels in love with you.”

The matter-of-fact statement gave her chills. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Claire said.

“Nope,” another cousin piped up. Her name was Bridget, and she was doing Claire’s hair with a curling iron and a spritzing bottle. “Ivy’s right. We’ve never seen Ross like this before. He’s had girlfriends in the past, but with you, he’s…different. We all thought he’d be so crushed about Granddad that he’d barely be able to function. But he’s…okay. Not happy with the situation—none of us is. But he’s found a kind of peace, and a lot of that is thanks to you.”

Claire had no idea if they were right. She did know she loved him, even though she’d spent most of the summer trying not to. Like the most powerful of emotions, love had a will of its own, and would not be denied. She had no idea where it would lead, but for the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid of what waited for her around the next corner.

“Ready for the big reveal?” Nicole led her to a full-length mirror. “Check this out—ta-da!”

Claire regarded the girl in the mirror. The bright yellow look-at-me dress accentuated her figure. Her hair was no longer a mousy-brown pulled back with a clip, but a glossy brunette framing her face in flattering waves. The makeup accentuated her eyes and lips, and the color in her cheeks was a blush of pleasure. “Wow,” she said. “I look…just, wow. You guys are miracle workers.”

“It wasn’t a huge stretch,” said Nicole. “You’re really pretty, Claire.”

“You just need some practice in hair, makeup and wardrobe.” Ivy handed her a pair of hoop earrings. “Try these.”

They went together to the reunion party, chattering excitedly about meeting all the other Bellamys. This was to be the first official meeting of George and Charles’s relatives together. Claire felt confident it would go well. These people were not perfect, but they all wanted the same thing—a joyous celebration.

“Who’s that girl?” asked a familiar voice, stopping her as she made her way toward the buffet table to get something to drink.

She turned, a smile on her face. “What girl?”

Ross slipped his arm around her waist. “I don’t recognize her.”

Claire savored his expression, an irresistible mixture of pleasure and pride, tinged with unabashed lust and maybe even love. She thought the attention might feel like all too much, but not today. Today, she wanted to shine. “Your girl cousins gave me a makeover. And as a special bonus, the high heels can be used to aerate the lawn.”

“You’re a knockout.” He turned to survey the arriving guests. “I hope one of Great Uncle Charles’s relatives is a doctor, because I’m going to need CPR.”

“Sophie’s husband, Noah, is a vet.”

“He might have to revive me. Seriously, Claire, you take my breath away.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re not going to dance with me,” she said.

“The whole world is going to want to dance with you,
but I’m keeping you all to myself. Speaking of which, I wanted to ask you something, honey. How do you feel about a town like Avalon?”

“How do I feel? I—” She broke off, pondering his question. She’d never let herself get attached to a place before, yet here, the bond seemed to grow as naturally as the willows dipping their fronds into the lake. The beauty of nature and intimacy of small-town life, where everyone knew everyone else, had seemed daunting at first. She remembered feeling exposed and vulnerable, beginning with the day a cop had pulled her over. Over the summer, however, Avalon had come to represent a place of safety. “Why do you ask? And did you just call me ‘honey’?”

“You got a problem with that? I hope not, because I’ll probably be calling you honey from here on out. Dear. Sweetheart. She Who Must Be Obeyed.”

“Ross—”

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Despite the presence of the gathering crowd, she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I love you, too. In the…the biggest sense of the word. If I could think of a bigger way to say it—”

“You just did.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “I have a question for you, too. How does it feel, making another person’s every dream come true?”

The blast of the Harley engine heralded George’s arrival.

“To be continued,” said Ross. “The guest of honor is here.”

George was flushed but smiling as Ross helped him dismount from the cycle, and Connor drove it away to
park. “Not quite as invigorating as skydiving,” George said. “But nearly. How did you like my grand entrance?”

“Very impressive,” said Claire.

George did a double take. “My,
my
. Look at you. This is much better. You are unbelievably beautiful, and I’m honored.”

“Aw. Thanks, George. How are you feeling? A lot of people are here to see you today.”

“Then let’s get this party started.”

She stayed close to George as the band—the local group Inner Child—warmed up and people gathered at the buffet tables. Philip Bellamy strode eagerly over to greet George. The eldest of all the various Bellamy cousins, he had been away, and he hadn’t met George yet. Philip was tall and handsome, exuding personal charm and confidence. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said, taking George’s hand.

George studied him for a long moment. His eyes, though faded in color, seemed to glow brighter as he regarded Philip. “It is,” he said in an emotional voice, “a distinct honor.”

Philip’s mother, Jane, seemed tense and uncharacteristically quiet. Claire had come to think of her as the bubbly one. This was a solemn moment, though. The brothers had been estranged for the span of Philip’s life. Meeting him now felt…significant.

George removed his hand from Philip’s and gave him a long, tight hug. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“You bet,” said Philip. He introduced his wife, Laura. “I’m just glad we got back from our trip in time for the reunion. And this,” he added, indicating the swaddled
infant in Laura’s arms, “is my grandson, Ethan Bellamy Davis. He’s Connor and Olivia’s son.”

Before George could protest, Laura placed the baby in George’s arms. Claire, who had volunteered to take pictures of the day’s festivities, caught a snapshot of his expression as he gazed with a look of wonder at the tiny face.

“I believe that makes you officially his…great-granduncle,” said Philip.

George cleared his throat. “No, that makes me officially older than rock itself.” He handed back the baby, offering congratulations to the parents. He studied Philip for several moments. “It’s very,
very
good to meet you.” Then George turned to Charles. “Your son’s a fine man.”

“Just like his father,” Jane said softly.

“Go and get something to eat,” George said with sudden briskness. “I’m told there’s to be dancing later, so you’ll need sustenance.”

He watched them go, his eyes misty and thoughtful. Ross helped him take a seat in the wheelchair. He was so quiet, he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Claire observed him keenly; he could be in the grip of a seizure.

“George?” she softly prompted.

“I’m all right. Just…processing two different stories, one here, and one here.” He touched his head and then his chest, and Claire knew he was still sorting through events of the past that had splintered the family apart long ago. She hoped today, the healing would be complete.

“A wise man once told me there’s more wisdom in a single beat of the human heart than an entire board of experts,” Ivy said.

“Your grandfather said that?” asked Claire. “George, you’re brilliant, you know that?”

“No,” said George, “I’m terribly flawed. The mistakes I’ve made in my life—”

“Look at this.” She gestured at his family, everyone laughing and talking and eating. It was a beautiful scene, like a painting, with the lake and the forest in the background. “You and your brother did this. It’s a monument to the life you lived. Be proud, George. Be happy for the times you’ve had.”

“Now that,” said Ross, “is why you’re paying her the big bucks.”

George chuckled. “You were the one who scolded me for finding her on the Internet.” Then his humor faded. “Claire is right. I’ve been keeping my list, tallying things up, but what I’ve realized is that my greatest achievement is right here. This family. They are…proof that I was here. That I mattered.”