The Summer Hideaway (9 page)

“Don’t forget the house with a white picket fence,” he said, chuckling. “And the dog. I’ve never had a dog.”

“Okay, now you’re getting greedy.” She fiddled with the radio dial again, this time opting for some rock song he didn’t recognize, with shouted lyrics. “It’s about damn time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, turning down the volume.

“You’re always looking out for somebody else. It’s about time you wanted something just for you.”

“What I want,” he said, “is to help my grandfather. To
figure out what’s really going on with him.” He told her what he knew of his grandfather’s condition.

She cried a little, yanking Kleenex out of her purse. “Damn it. That sucks. I can’t even tell you how much it sucks. I’m so sorry, Ross.”

“Thanks.”

“And you say he’s with some kind of private nurse?”

“Apparently.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“For his sake, I kind of hope it is.”

“You’re such a guy. And what about the rest of your family? Why are you the one who gets to go chasing after the old dude?”

Because he’s Granddad. Because I can’t stand to lose him
. “Everyone assumes I’m the only one who can make him see reason. I think they’re expecting him to return to the city as soon as I talk some sense into him.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I think the Bellamy population in this little town is likely to swell. I can’t believe Granddad never mentioned his brother, Charles, to me.” As Ross had hastily packed for the drive upstate, his mother had disclosed what little she knew of the situation. Charles Bellamy was younger than Granddad by about four years. They both went to Yale. And then, the year Granddad graduated from college, they parted ways and fell out of touch.

“How did Charles end up in Avalon?”

“My mother said he married a local girl and they ran some kind of camp or resort—her family’s business—on a seasonal basis. In the city, Charles had a career in law. Now they’re retired and live in Avalon. That’s about all I know.”

He grew quiet with anxiety as they crossed into Ulster
County, heading west toward the Catskills Wilderness. The truth was, he was afraid for his grandfather. If the two brothers hadn’t spoken in such a long time, there had to be a huge reason for it. If that reason still existed, his grandfather could be in for a world of hurt.

G
etting started with a new client was, for Claire, a little like dating, only more one-sided. And maybe there wasn’t such a great payoff. But like someone embarking on a date, she found herself preoccupied with George, uncovering who he was, trying to figure out the nuances of his heart. In a weird way, she had a crush on him—not a romantic crush but an emotional one. The liking deepened into familiarity. She started to recognize his signals. She could tell when he was getting restless or uncomfortable, or when he was feeling content.

He’d had a quiet day, resting and eating little, but he’d asked her to go to dinner with him at the main lodge. A little after seven, she went to check on him, and he appeared to be asleep. It was tempting to leave him be, but he’d been insistent about the plan for the evening. He claimed he didn’t want to miss dinner service. Tonight, he was determined to dine in style.

“George,” she said, gently touching his shoulder. “George, wake up. Time to get ready for dinner.”

His face was soft and mild as if he was in the midst
of a beautiful dream. He sighed and blinked slowly; she could see him orienting himself. There was the picture window, framing the lake. The bedside table with meds lined up. The buzzer that would summon her at the push of a button.

“Still interested in dinner? If not, I can bring you a tray again—”

“No. I’m done acting like an invalid. All this fresh air and sunshine is making me feel better.”

She nodded. “It’s seven-fifteen. We have an eight o’clock table.”

“I’ll be ready.”

In the tooled-leather binder in Claire’s room, there was a request that guests dress appropriately for evening dinner service in the main lodge. Casual dining was offered elsewhere on the property, but the Starlight Dining Room was meant for dinner and dancing.

She wasn’t entirely sure what would be deemed appropriate. More than any other of her past job assignments, this elegant resort scene was a whole new world. Since finishing nursing school and specialty training, she had served a number of clients, but never one remotely like George Bellamy.

For dinner, she dressed in a beige matte jersey sheath and midheeled shoes, just a touch of makeup, her hair swept to the side and fastened with a celluloid tortoiseshell comb. It was not glamorous. It was…nondescript, and that was the goal. While some people strove all their lives to be above average, she aimed for average. People noticed and remembered the extremes. She wanted to be the woman everyone forgot—the one in the insurance agency who helped you file a claim. The taxi driver. The
math teacher, not the art teacher. The line cook, not the chef. Studying herself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she knew a moment of wistful fantasy. As a small girl being shuffled between her erratic mother and a variety of foster homes, she’d had a favorite story—Cinderella. There was something in every girl that longed for a dramatic transformation. It was a metaphor, of course, a reward. The power of Cinderella’s goodness transcended all the bad luck that beset her. And the transformation had to be huge. A girl wanted to go from rags to riches. Not rags to middle-of-the-road average.

Maybe just once, Claire yearned to put on something that would stop everyone in their tracks, cause them to stare, maybe whisper behind their hands—
Who’s that girl?

She could only dream of such a moment. Her job was to blend in, not stand out. She considered herself a master of this art. Regarding the girl in the looking glass, she saw the ultimate average person, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, beautiful nor ugly. She was simply…average. If she was to walk across a crowded room and people were later asked to describe her, no one would remember her.

George Bellamy had no limitations on making himself look good. When he came into the sitting room to meet her for dinner, she couldn’t stifle a gasp.

“Wow, look at you. You look like a million bucks.”

He turned in a slow circle, palms out, a smile on his face. “I feel like a million bucks.” He paused. “Maybe not quite a million.”

“An even million,” she contradicted him. “Let’s put it this way. If Richard Gere gets very,
very
lucky, he might end up looking like you one day.”

“Well, now. A movie star? That’s quite a compliment.”

“The suit looks amazing on you. Is it from the tailor shop you told me about—Henry Poole?”

“Indeed it is. You have a good eye.”

“It’s perfect on you.” And it was, down to the precise break in the hem of the trousers. His shoes were a lustrous black leather, polished to a gleam in the last light of the day. Every fold of his shirt bore a crisp crease, as though attended by an invisible valet. There was precisely three quarters of an inch of cuff showing, studded by silver cuff links with a stylized fish design. “A gift from my father,” George said when he saw her looking at the cuff links. “He gave matching pairs to me and my brother. I shall have to think about what to do with these,” he added. “I have six grandsons.”

“That many?”

“We Bellamys are a prolific lot.”

She led the way down to the golf cart, which they’d rented for getting around the resort. “Your chariot awaits. Would you like to drive?”

“Certainly.” He elected to leave his cane behind, for he was feeling spry.

They arrived at the main pavilion at precisely eight o’clock. George offered his arm and they went in together. The dining room looked beautiful in the evening light. The setting sun, reflecting off the glassy surface of the lake, bathed everything in a wash of pinkish gold. The tables were aglow with candlelight and set with gleaming signature china, polished silver, stemmed crystal glasses. A slender young woman effortlessly played piano, a gleaming Steinway. She was accompanied by a guy on
muted trumpet and another on percussion; the number was an old-fashioned one Claire didn’t recognize.

The crowd was made up of couples, mostly, or small groups. There were a few families with fidgety kids or sullen teenagers. But overall, the impression was of couples on a romantic getaway. Not that Claire had ever been on a romantic getaway. But she read a lot of books.

Although she shunned attention, the same could not be said of George. She was not the only one to admire his bespoke suit, his snowy-white hair and studied, upright posture. Heads turned as he passed; voices dropped to murmurs.

And inevitably, attention then went to Claire. She felt several dozen pairs of eyes on her. People were undoubtedly speculating about her and this exceedingly handsome older gentleman. Was she his daughter or his trophy wife? Perhaps he was her sugar daddy.

She tried to dismiss the looks and speculation. She waved away the resort photographer who circulated among the tables, offering to take people’s pictures.

Claire had not willingly had her picture taken since her junior year of high school. It was in an annual somewhere, “Clarissa Tancredi” squeezed between ChiChi Tambliss and Ginny Thompkins. The girl in the photo had been round-cheeked, with railroad-track braces and long brown hair, and a look in her eyes that was full of hope, despite all she’d been through. Within weeks of School Picture Day, that girl had ceased to exist. The long hair had been cropped and dyed black. The braces were removed with a pair of needle-nose pliers, in a ladies’ room on the Jersey Turnpike. And that expression of hope would never, ever return.

The maître d’ seated them at a table by the French doors near the deck—prime real estate in a prime restaurant, she noted.

“I do believe this is the best table in the place,” she said. “How did we rate the royal treatment?”

“Must be your overwhelming beauty,” said George, then winked when he saw she wasn’t buying it. “Either that, or the fact that I gave the maître d’ a tip the size of Chicago.”

She raised her water goblet in his direction. “To you, Mr. George Bellamy, international man of mystery. Thank you for bringing me along on this journey.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Summer in a rustic cottage is not everyone’s cup of tea. I hope you don’t go batty with boredom.”

“Highly doubtful, George.” She noticed him glancing around the dining room. “Looking for someone?”

“I ran into an old friend from college,” he said. “I thought she might be here tonight.”

“That’s nice for you,” she said. “Is it a coincidence, or—”

“Total coincidence. I’d forgotten all about Millie until just this morning.”

“I hope I get to meet her.” His pleasure in the meeting was completely endearing, she thought with deepening affection. Wanting to connect with people was so very human. Even impending death didn’t stave off the impulse. No wonder self-imposed isolation was so hard.

She studied the menu in bewilderment and delight. “I don’t know what half this stuff is. And I can’t actually pronounce it.”

“Shall I order for us both?”

“Yes, please. Just remember, I’m watching my weight.”

“I remember. How could I forget? You’re the first person in history to turn down a pastry from the Sky River Bakery.”

When the waiter came, George did the ordering—a salad that included something called frisée, garnished with fresh flowers. There was an entrée of local trout with sautéed wild ramps and chanterelles. He ordered wine, too, a white Burgundy from France.

Claire wished she could have more than a sip or two of the wine, but she couldn’t allow that, any more than she could gorge on the menu items. She had to retain full control of her faculties at all times, and getting buzzed on wine was a risk she could not take.

Despite the restrictions, though, she was enchanted by the beautiful restaurant with its lakeside setting. Being here with George, for however long they stayed, gave her a chance to live a different life, even for a short while. This was how some people actually spent their time, in quiet conversation, smiling across a beautifully set table at a spouse or lover. What a concept. She tried not to want it too much.

George sat back, studying the surroundings with a bemused expression.

“Is it what you were hoping for?” she asked.

“For the most part, yes. I was hoping it hadn’t changed beyond recognition, and it hasn’t. There was always this view of the lake. I think the stage was in the opposite corner.”

“Was there live music?” she asked.

“Every night,” he assured her. “There were live acts, too. Not just crooners but all kinds of entertainers. Magic
acts, stunts, comics, you name it. A lot of them were quite good. Being so close to the city gave the resorts in this area access to all kinds of talent.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“Sure. There was a magician named Marvel who sawed off his assistant’s head twice a night. I remember being completely flummoxed when I saw her under the dock later, smoking a cigarette. I saw Henny Youngman right there on the stage one night,” he said. “Ever heard of Henny Youngman?”

“Sorry, no.”

“He was a comedian, a big deal in his day. The Everly Brothers played here. And the Andrews Sisters—they were regulars on the circuit.”

With his stories of a rarefied, forgotten era, he took her to another place and time. There had been a whole subculture of monied families in the city who retreated to the lakes upstate each summer, and the Bellamys were part of that tradition.

Claire could scarcely imagine it. She had never done anything as a matter of tradition. Her childhood had been a series of ever-changing acts of survival and in the end, she had performed the ultimate act of her own, and disappeared.

A few couples danced to the gentle piano music. Watching them, Claire felt something in a soft and secret place inside her—a sadness, a sense of futility. She’d never allowed herself to see falling in love as an option. She couldn’t. It was too dangerous. She could never have any kind of lasting relationship. Anyone she got close to would face the same dangers she faced. Or worse, they would be used as leverage against her.

Oh, but she dreamed. When she saw people together
like the couples on the dance floor, their love a palpable thing, she dreamed of what it might be like, and could not stop her heart from yearning. Then she would remember what it was like to be forced to run for her life and disappear. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Convincing Social Services to bar Vance Jordan from being a foster parent was going to expose her to an insane level of risk. The last thing she needed was for someone else to get tangled up in her mess.

Providing skilled, compassionate care to terminal patients was a vocation few people understood, yet it was perfectly suited to Claire. She loved her patients while they were in her care, and her heart broke when she lost them. But she had come to discover that the heart was a sound and sturdy organ, capable of mending itself.

She could already tell she was going to love George very much. He was so dapper in his dress suit, proud and yet uncertain in the wake of a terrible prognosis, like a nervous bridegroom. She hoped he would find peace and clarity and eventually, acceptance.

They ordered dessert—he had crème brûlée with raspberries; she had just the raspberries. He ordered small glasses of ice wine from a vineyard in western New York and she allowed herself one sip. It was an intense, sweet wine made from grapes gathered after the frost. The flavor was deep and complicated, like nothing she’d ever tasted before. “This is nectar,” she said, shutting her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she saw George watching her with an indulgent smile.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re really quite a lovely young woman,” he told her. “Ross is going to like you enormously.”

Ross again. The grandson. “I’m here for you, George. You know that.” She rested her chin in her hand and watched the couples on the dance floor.

He finished his glass of ice wine. “You’re bored with me already. I can tell.”

“Nonsense. I’m just getting to know you,” she said.

“It’s on my list, you know,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Dancing. I never learned to dance.”

“I’m surprised,” she admitted, turning to look at him. “You seem like the kind of guy who would know how to dance. I figured it was a social skill, like knowing how to order wine or tie a bow tie.”