The Summer Hideaway (6 page)

“I suppose if I get to choose where I say goodbye to it all, I might as well choose this.”

She frowned. “Don’t you go all
On Golden Pond
on me. Come on, let’s go settle in.”

The boy named Max escorted them with their bags to the Summer Hideaway, driving a gas-powered golf cart with obvious enjoyment. As they passed the various areas of the camp, George turned animated again, pointing out familiar sights. “There used to be an archery range here. And see that waterfall? We’d sit around the campfire, telling ghost stories about a couple who committed suicide off the hanging bridge above it. Never figured out whether or not there was any truth to the story. Oh, and there…I learned to play tennis right there on those
courts,” he declared. “And I’m proud to say, I could hold my own against everyone. My first year here, anyway. When my brother and I teamed up for boys’ doubles, we were virtually unbeatable.”

Max parked in front of the lakeside residence and helped them with their luggage. George thanked him with a tip big enough to make the boy protest.

“Sir, it’s not necessary.”

“A tip never is,” George said. “We appreciate your help.”

Claire caught the boy’s eye and offered a shrug.

The cottage was a dream, far larger than most houses Claire had lived in. The furnishings were deceptively simple but supremely comfortable. The place had a rustic elegance that didn’t seem manufactured or contrived. It was bright and airy, and George’s room featured a picture window with a window seat.

“Do you need to rest?” Claire asked.

“I do far too much of that,” he said.

“How about you have a seat and I’ll help you unpack,” Claire suggested. She herself hadn’t brought much along. She was prepared to disappear at a moment’s notice. She always had an escape plan—a bag packed with a few basics—hair coloring and scissors, a wallet with ID, cash and credit cards, a new background and personal history. If something happened, she simply had to retrieve the bag from its hiding place and she would be gone.

At the moment, the bag was hidden under an electrical box near the parking lot of the resort. She hoped she would never have to use it, because she already knew she was going to love it here. She checked her phone and saw a missed call from “number unavailable,” another name for Mel Reno. She made a mental note to phone him later.

George had packed with neat efficiency, things from pricey clothiers like Brooks Brothers, Ted Lapidus, Henry Poole, Paul & Shark. There was a briefcase filled with papers and documents, and a box of books and photographs.

“Family pictures and old journals, that sort of thing,” George explained. “We can go through them later. I’ll want to enjoy my mementos in the living room, I imagine.”

Claire resisted an urge to ask him if he preferred pictures of his family over the real thing—or if they hadn’t given him a choice. She reminded herself to reserve judgment.

“When we checked in,” she said, “the woman asked you if you were any relation to the Bellamys. Is there anything more you want to tell me about that?”

He lowered himself to an overstuffed chair that was angled to take advantage of the view. “I have plenty to say about that. In due time.”

“It’s up to you.” She went to the desk and picked up a leather-bound volume embossed with the words
Resort Guide
. “It says here there are no phones in the unit.”

“I have a mobile phone,” he pointed out. “I’m not fond of using it, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Claire steered clear of cell phones herself. Of necessity, she had one, a no-contract phone for which she’d paid cash. She bought the minutes card with cash, too. She had schooled herself to leave as light a footprint as possible wherever she went.

“No Internet, either,” she told George, “except in the main lodge.”

“I rarely use the confounded thing,” he said.

Claire used the Internet for its conveniences, when necessary. “Same here,” she said. “There are better ways to
spend time than looking at things on the Internet. Like taking in a view like this.” She gestured at the sunset out the window. “Would you like to go sit on the porch for a bit?”

“A lovely idea.”

The cottage featured a railed porch furnished with white wicker chairs, a swing and an intriguing cot suspended from chains. She helped him to the swing, and he leaned back, surveying the calm water. Then he took out the cigars they’d bought and lit one up. Almost instantly, he erupted with a coughing fit, waving his hand in front of his face.

“George!” She took the burning cigar from him and stubbed it out. “Are you all right?”

“I am now. There’s one regret I don’t have.” He shook his head, sipped some water. “Smoking used to be so fashionable, back when.”

“I’m glad you weren’t a slave to fashion.”

George picked up his journal and paged through it. “My list is long. Is that unrealistic?” he asked.

“There aren’t any rules.”

He nodded. “We’ve accomplished one already.”

“You have?”

He drew a firm line through item number seventeen and handed it to her with a flourish.

She studied the entry for a few moments. “Visit the place where I first fell in love,” it read. She handed back the journal. “You did this?”

“Today.”

“The resort lodge, you mean?”

He looked a bit bashful. “Before that.”

She mentally retraced their journey. “I don’t under—Wait. George, do you mean…?”

He nodded again. “The Sky River Bakery.” He sighed, stared down at the item for a few more moments with a distant light in his eyes.

“Are you hungry, George? Would you like to go to dinner at the lodge?”

“I’m a bit tired, actually. I’m happy just resting here awhile.”

“Of course. I’ll get your meds.” Steroids and other palliative meds were keeping the symptoms at bay, but the effects were only temporary. The upside was, he stood a chance of enjoying a decent quality of life as opposed to endless days of chasing painful, time-consuming treatments that ultimately would fail.

When she came across the Viagra, she tried not to react, but something must’ve shown on her face. George didn’t seem sheepish at all, just matter-of-fact. “In case I get lucky. Is that a foolish hope?”

“As soon as you stop hoping to get lucky, it’s all over,” she said with a grin.

He gifted her with a burst of laughter. “Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.”

She brought him a Hudson’s Bay blanket of brightly dyed wool, and a few pillows. Propped against the pillows, he scowled at a page in his journal. Across the top, he’d written
Charles
.

“Your brother, right?” said Claire.

George nodded. “He’s the main reason I’ve come here.”

“I bet he’s going to be incredibly happy to see you, George.”

“Of that, I’m not so certain.”

“What do you mean, not certain?”

“Charles and I haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.”

C
laire woke up to silence. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the absence of honking horns and gnashing air brakes, the shouts and whistles of vendors and workmen. The void was filled with birdsong, the hum of insects and breezes ruffling the leaves and rippling across the water. The smells drifting in through the screened window—flowers and grass and the fresh scent of the lake—were utterly intoxicating.

She went to the window of her small loft bedroom and felt the irresistible pull of the outside. She had an urge to be a part of it—and it was the perfect time for a morning run. Hastily dressed in nylon shorts and an athletic bra and T-shirt, ankle socks and her favorite runners, she tiptoed downstairs. She tucked her monitor receiver into a pocket and drank a big glass of water. Then she stepped outside and headed for the trail, choosing the five-mile route marked Lakeside Loop.

In the city, she would be plugged into an iPod to cover up the babble of urban life. Here in the wilderness, she welcomed the sounds of nature and the feel of the fresh
air on her skin, and she started her morning jog with a smile on her face. And of course, she had the requisite shot of pepper spray clipped to her waistband, but that was more out of habit than any real fear she’d encounter trouble on the lakeside trail.

The beauty of her surroundings seemed almost unreal, as though she had stepped into a dream.

This morning, she tried to clear her mind. It was exhausting, always trying to think ahead, plan the next move, anticipate disaster. She pushed aside the constant tension and sank into her enjoyment of the woodland trails of the resort. One couple jogged past, nodding at her, and there was a single person in a kayak out on the lake, out for a morning paddle.

Birds flickered in the trees, and she spotted the occasional deer or rabbit. Sunlight glimmered on the lake, and the willow trees at the shore gracefully dipped their fronds in the water. Such a beautiful world. Too beautiful, she thought with a familiar twinge of yearning. She wished she had someone to share this moment with. Yet the fact was, she had no one to bear witness to her life. Sometimes that realization was overwhelming.

Over time, she had taught herself to tolerate the self-isolation. There really wasn’t any other choice.

The rhythm of her feet on the pavement alternated with the cadence of her breathing. She tried to imagine absorbing the beauty of the day through her pores, somehow keeping it with her. Maybe that was the magic of this place—that even after you left, you could take it with you. Maybe that was why George still thought about it even after half a century had passed.

We haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.

A lifetime, she thought. George and his brother had let a lifetime slip by. Last night, she’d suggested they call Charles Bellamy—he was listed in the local phone book. George had balked and looked tired. “When Ross comes,” he’d said.

Ross. The favored grandson. She hoped like hell the guy was on his way. For that matter, where was the rest of George’s family? According to George, his sons and daughters-in-law expected him to return to the city in a matter of days.

This morning, George had been out of sorts. He’d stayed close to the house, only venturing to the porch or dock to catch the sun’s early rays. There was no further talk of Charles Bellamy, and Claire didn’t bring it up. For the time being, George was in no shape to face the emotional turmoil of a reunion with his long-lost brother.

Her plan for the day was to let each hour unfold at a pace that seemed to suit her patient. In the resort’s eclectic library, she had read up on Camp Kioga, trying to fill in the blanks for herself. There was a multivolume scrapbook filled with photos of people and events connected to the resort. It had started out as a big agricultural parcel at the north end of the lake, deeded to the Gordon family to settle a debt. The camp itself had been founded by Angus Gordon in the 1920s.
Kioga
was, as far as anyone knew, a fake Mohawk word which Angus claimed meant
tranquility
.

The campground was later run by Angus’s son and then inherited by his granddaughter and her husband. The current owners’ names had leaped off the page at her: Jane and Charles Bellamy.

Exploring the woodland trails that wound through
the area, Claire imagined the past here, and wondered if she would ever learn the reason for the brothers’ estrangement. A brother shared a person’s history and background the way no one else ever could. Yet something had torn George and Charles apart. Something had made George walk away and stay away for fifty-five years.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice someone approaching from an oblique angle behind her. At the last second, she spied a shadow—large male, baseball cap, arm outstretched—and reacted instantly, with all the force and decisiveness she’d learned in her self-defense training. In a fluid movement she turned, right leg kicking out at groin level, the heel of her left hand crunching upward into the assailant’s face. In less than a second, he was down, doubled over, and she was running for her life, her every nerve lit by adrenaline, the pepper spray in hand.

Claire gauged that she was about five minutes from the spot where her bag was hidden, going at top speed. As for George Bellamy, he would have no idea what became of her.

She felt bad about that. She hoped he’d find his brother, and she hoped the Bellamy family wouldn’t drag the old guy back to the city and force him to submit to brutal treatment.

The concern wasn’t enough to stop her.

A shout from her assailant, however, definitely was. “Tancredi,” he said, his voice a rasp of pain.

The single word—a name almost never uttered—froze her. It brought back everything she had left behind, including the person she’d been before she’d disappeared.

She allowed herself a quick look back.

Her assailant was on all fours, struggling to rise. Good. On all fours, he wouldn’t be drawing a weapon.

The baseball cap had fallen off him, revealing a mane of salt-and-pepper hair.

Oh, God.
Mel
. It was Melvin Reno, the only person Claire trusted with her secrets.

She instantly switched direction and ran to him, dropping to her knees by his side. “Are you insane?” she asked. “You huge idiot, you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me. I could have done you permanent damage.”

“Maybe you did.” He glowered at her through tears of pain.

“Sit,” she said, noting the shocky gray cast to his face. “Pull up your knees at a forty-five-degree angle and put your head between them.”

With a groan, he complied.

“Breathe in through your nose,” she instructed. “Out through your mouth.”

“I think you broke my face.”

“Is your breathing okay?”

“Just peachy.”

“Then it’s probably not broken.”

“I guess that’s the advantage of being a nurse,” he said, his voice muffled. “You can kick a guy’s ass and then put it back together again.”

“I was doing exactly what I was trained to do. By you, I might add. Fight, run, ask questions later but don’t believe the answers, isn’t that what you always say?”

He nodded without raising his head.

“How bad is the pain?” she asked. “Subsiding any?”

“Depends,” he muttered. “What if I say no?”

“Then you might need to be checked out. An ultra
sound can determine whether or not there’s a testicular fracture.”

“A fracture? A
fracture?
”

“If there is, you’ll need surgery. Mel, I’m so sorry.”

“In that case, the pain’s going away.”

She winced, watching him try to catch his breath. He was the one person who could connect the dots between the quiet, studious Clarissa Tancredi of the past and the present-day Claire Turner.

And she had just kicked him in the balls.

“Sorry about kicking you in the balls,” she said again.

“I’m not looking for sympathy,” he said. “If the target had been anyone but me, I would say I’m proud of you for knowing the moves.” He lifted his head and she studied his face—blunt features, kind eyes, a roughhewn handsomeness that had probably been more refined in his youth. It was a good face, approachable and trustworthy. There were few blessings in the life Claire had been given. But Mel Reno was one of them.

He slowly climbed to his feet and limped to the side of the trail at the water’s edge, taking a seat on the ground. “So anyway,” he said, “thanks for the warm welcome.”

“What were you thinking?” she said, annoyed. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Give me a minute.” He looped his arms around his drawn-up knees.

She studied him, relieved to note his coloring and respiration already seemed to be easing back to normal.

He took a deep breath and relaxed a little. “I called you yesterday. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I got busy, Mel. I’m sorry.”

He frowned. “That’s not like you.”

“Well, you didn’t have to come tearing upstate after me.” She always kept him informed as to her whereabouts. Otherwise, he worried.

“I kind of wanted to see this place. Damn, it’s nice here.”

“I woke up this morning thinking I landed in the middle of a…” She paused. He’d think she’d lost it if she mentioned the enchanted world. “Special place.” Far in the distance, a floatplane landed, skimming like a dragonfly across the surface of the lake.

“Coming from where I do,” he said, “I tend to forget there are places like this in the world.”

A retired federal marshal with a troubled past, he lived alone in a tattered but quiet neighborhood of Newark. He was on disability and had dedicated his life to looking after people like Claire—witnesses who were hiding or running from something too big to cope with on their own. He had been an expert in identity reassignment and redocumentation, and when she’d gone to him in desperation, he’d given her a comprehensive security suite. This included a name borrowed from a deceased person, a new personal history and legitimate documentation. All new paper on her was official—birth certificate, driver’s license, social security card. Thanks to Mel, she had been reborn and given a chance at a new life.

Although she’d known him for years, she didn’t really
know
him. He was absolutely committed to helping people caught in the shadow world of anonymity. It was probably what made him tick. She had once asked him why he bothered with people like her. He said he’d been in charge of protecting a family of witnesses, and they’d all been killed.

Claire had stopped asking after that. She didn’t want to know more. If she got too close to him, he’d be in danger from the same monster who had sent her into hiding.

“Are you staying at the resort?” she asked.

“Right. Do you know what this place charges per night?” He shook his head. “I got a day use pass.”

“So where are you staying?”

“There’s a conservation department campground not far from here. It’s called Woodland Valley.”

She frowned. “You’re camping?”

“I’m camping.”

“Like, in a tent, with a sleeping bag?”

“Yeah, like that.”

She tried to picture him in the tent staked out in the wilderness. “So, um, how is that working out for you?”

“I didn’t come all this way to get laughed at.”

She caught a note of apprehension in his tone. “What?”

“I got a bit of news. You’re not going to like it.”

She braced herself. “Just tell me.”

“The Jordans applied to be foster parents once again.”

Despite the heat of the day, she felt a curdled chill that took her breath away. Her throat went dry; she had to swallow several times before she could bring herself to speak. “For God’s sake, two murders and a third kid missing, all of which happened on their watch—that doesn’t stand in their way?” she demanded. “No way will Social Services approve them.”

Mel was quiet. Too quiet, for too long.

“Right?”
she demanded.

He stared out at the water. “I talked to about a half-dozen people at Social Services.”

“And?”

“Apparently they dismissed me as a crackpot.”

“That was risky,” she said, “you pointing the finger at Vance Jordan. I’m the one who needs to blow the whistle on him, not you.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized the decision was already made. It had been percolating for a long time, the need to end her self-exile. Coming to a place like this had only firmed her resolve. “It’s time, Mel. Past time. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done waiting.”

“Claire—Clarissa. He’s got too many friends all along the chain of command, and the ones who aren’t his friends are scared of him. Exposing yourself now won’t accomplish anything.”

There was a good chance he was right, but the thought of Jordan with another foster child made her stomach churn. “I’ll figure out something,” she said. “On my own.”

“You want to talk about risk—”

“That’s why I want you to stay out of it. Look, I’m doing this for myself, okay? I have to stop running.” There might have been a time when she’d accepted her life underground, but that time was over. She simply couldn’t keep it up. Instead of getting easier, being in hiding was getting harder. She was dying inside, unraveling with need. Her mother had been alone in the world, and sometimes Claire was convinced that was what had made her live so recklessly and die so young.

Claire sometimes heard of protected witnesses who came out of hiding and got themselves killed. People thought they were foolish, but she understood why they couldn’t stay anonymous forever.

“I won’t let you,” he snapped. “Just wait, okay?” he said. “I’ll figure out the next step.”

She merely nodded, pretending to agree with him. Then they parted ways in secret, like illicit lovers. That was the way all their meetings went. It was best not to be spotted together. She knew he was furious with her for insisting on risking herself in the Jordan case, but he must have known she wouldn’t sit still and watch Vance Jordan become someone’s foster father again. There was a ninety-day period before approval was granted or revoked. Ninety days to figure out how to come forward with what she knew—and to make someone believe her.