The Summer Hideaway (23 page)

And he didn’t even care. For this moment, nothing else mattered but the girl standing before him. Passion and need swirled around him like a fog, obliterating everything that used to matter—common sense, status and background, education and family expectations.

George had never felt this way before. He’d
wanted
to feel this way about a girl. He’d certainly tried. Now he realized how different things were with Jane. This was
no weak affinity contrived by his parents as they steered him toward an appropriate young lady. This was a raw and undeniable hunger he could not resist or combat in any way.

He took one more step closer. Exerting a huge effort of will, he moved with excruciating slowness. If he just grabbed her and kissed her with the full force of his passion, it might scare her. He didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t want to do anything but make her happy.

Now she stood just a heartbeat away. Her mouth was half-open, slack with anticipation. The air between them stirred as he whispered her name. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t think at all.

“Do you remember what you promised me, last time we saw each other?” Jane asked.

“It’s been ten years.”

“
I
remember. You promised you’d dance with me.”

“As I recall,
you
promised I’d dance with you,” he said.

“Aha. So you do remember.”

He remembered everything. Every single second—the way she used to challenge and laugh at him. The kittens in the barn. Swimming in Willow Lake. Finding the tracers in his legs. Their first—their only—childish kiss. Everything.

“In that case,” Jane continued, “you owe me a dance.”

He was no good at it but a skillful performance wasn’t the point. The moment he touched her, nothing else mattered. Nothing except his hand, snug against her trim waist. His other hand, holding hers. In that moment, he knew a happiness so complete, it made him laugh softly for no reason. Gazing down at Jane, he was lost in her, lost…

“There you are,” Charles brayed from the doorway. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You out here stealing my girl?”

With a jolt of horror, George came to his senses and stepped back. “Uh-huh, stealing your girl. Good one, Chaz.”

He hadn’t met Jane’s eyes. Later he would always wonder. If he’d looked, what would he have seen in her expression? Regret? Longing, confusion, or resentment? The fact was, he knew almost nothing about this girl and had no right to wish he did.

“I’d better get back to work,” Jane murmured, and slipped inside.

A
bittersweet nostalgia tinged the days of summer that year. All the Bellamys knew it would probably be the last time they would spend together as a family at Camp Kioga. By this time next year, George would be a Yale graduate. He would embark on his Grand Tour, the prize at the end of college. It was a tradition for young men of breeding to spend six weeks after graduation touring the great capital cities and countryside of Europe.

Privately George was glad to see the end of summer. It was painful seeing Jane Gordon every day, knowing she and Charles were secretly cultivating a love affair. He had to force himself to look the other way. Charles’s ardor would fade with the season.

At last, summer’s end arrived and the torment was coming to a close. Each year, the resort hosted a series of closing activities, including athletic contests, parties and sailing events, and a farewell songfest on the shore, with everyone gathered around a campfire.

The Bellamys went on a final sunset sail together. The wind was slow, but no one complained. Tonight,
speed was not the point. The point was to absorb the splendor of the lake and surrounding wooded hills in order to keep a little piece of summer in their hearts to carry them through the winter.

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this, in an impossibly small town like Avalon,” said Charles. “I think I should like it quite a lot.”

“Nonsense,” his father chided. “You’d be bored before the first frost.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. My sons are both going to be men of the world.”

“Whatever you say, Father,” George intoned, just to keep the peace. Honestly, he did want that. New York, Paris, Shanghai, even the ruined capital of Tokyo was said to have rebuilt itself after the war into the most modern city on the globe. He wanted to see the sights and meet people, write about the great issues of the day.

George’s mother dabbed away a tear. “We’ve had such marvelous times here,” she said.

“Yeah, like that time I got polio, just marvelous,” said George.

“Not funny,” said Charles. “People all over the place came down with polio.”

Parkhurst Bellamy patted his wife’s shoulder. “There, there, pet. We’ll be back.”

“I suppose we might, but never like this. Never the four of us as a family. My three precious boys with me.”

“It’ll be even better,” her husband assured her. “Someday soon, the boys will be married. They’ll have wives to bring and eventually, children of their own.”

She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you hear that, my sons? You have a duty to your family.”

They all laughed, though they knew she was only half joking.

Finally the day had arrived to say goodbye to Camp Kioga. As they cleared their belongings out of the bungalow and did a final walk-through, George felt a little queasy. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling he would not be back, despite what his mother said about future generations here.

Members of the camp staff were already swarming the cottages, getting them ready to close up for the season. He looked around for Jane, but didn’t see her. Maybe she and Charles were sharing a private farewell. George pulled his mind away from the notion. He had no business speculating. Summer was
over
.

Their things were all loaded into the DeSoto, and Charles came loping up with his sloppy duffel bag, cramming it in the trunk. There was a suspicious ghost of lipstick on his cheek, in precisely the subtle coral shade favored by Jane Gordon. George had memorized the color, describing it in fine detail in his journal.

Hell’s bells. He just remembered something. “I have to go back to the bungalow,” he said. “I left my journal there.”

“Oh, George,” his mother said. “You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t attached.”

“I’ll be right back.” He walked quickly, trying not to favor his bad leg. He couldn’t stand the idea of leaving behind his private notebook, in which he wrote his observations every night before bed. Some of the entries were merely prosaic, others profound; all of them were
private. He’d left it in the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, along with his favorite pen.

Workers had already started on the bungalow, bringing out armloads of linens. In the bedroom, he found Jane Gordon, and froze. In her hands, she held the Moleskine notebook.

“I came back for that,” he said, his gut twisting with anxiety. He couldn’t tell whether or not she’d read any of it. Surely there hadn’t been time. The idea of Jane reading his private thoughts—far too many of which were about her—made him furious. At the same time, he was fighting a fierce urge to kiss her, long and hard. He could barely look at her as he ungraciously snatched the journal from her. “Goodbye, Jane,” he said tersely, and walked away.

G
eorge’s son Trevor showed up the morning after the trip to the E.R. He brought his daughter, Ivy, who took one look at George and burst into tears as she collapsed into his arms. Then she spied Ross and squealed, leaping into a hug. “The family drama queen has arrived,” said Ross, catching Claire’s eye.

Ivy was adorable in every sense of the word—adorable to look at, a china doll with silky California-girl hair and a taste for bohemian chic; she had an adorable personality, too, with an air of complete sincerity and genuine sweetness. Though she greeted Claire with caution, she spoke kindly.

“Thank you for taking care of my granddad,” she said.

“He’s really wonderful,” Claire said. “You’re lucky to have a grandfather like George.”

“I know.” Ivy looked around the resort. “And it’s incredible here. I’m glad we came, Granddad. The whole family will be here soon.”

“In that case, I’m going to get some rest,” said George, a gentle dismissal. “Later today, we can go into town together.”

As they left the cottage, Claire said, “I have to go see the catering director. I’m organizing a special welcome dinner for the rest of your grandfather’s family.”

“That sounds nice,” said Trevor. “Thank you.”

“You’re younger than I pictured you,” said Ivy. “Have you been doing this kind of nursing for long?”

“Five years,” Claire said. “I started right out of nursing school.”

“It must be hard,” said Ivy.

“Yes.” Claire saw no reason to lie about it. “That’s no reason not to do it, though. Every patient I’ve ever worked with has left me a gift.” She smiled a little at Trevor’s expression. “Not that kind of gift, despite what you might have been told. I mean, some part of their heart or wisdom, something to hold on to. My second private patient was a child, a nine-year-old named Joy. She’s the one who convinced me to believe in miracles.”

“She got better?”

Claire shook her head. “Not that kind of miracle. The miracle of what the human spirit can endure, and how much the heart can hold. I miss her. I miss them all, but this is not about me.”

Ivy started to cry again. “She’s fabulous,” Ivy said to Ross, right in front of Claire. “No, I mean it, you are,” she added, turning to Claire. “And Ross thinks so, too. I can tell.”

“What I think,” Ross said, “is we should keep the focus on Granddad.”

“Yes. What happened last night? Why didn’t he stay in the hospital? I thought you wanted him to get better,” Ivy said.

“We all want that,” said Ross. “We can’t make it
happen, though. No one can. The doctor gave me a packet of information about this illness. It’s grim stuff.”

Trevor nodded. “I’ve been reading up on it, too. But are you sure this is right?”

“Hell, I’m not sure of anything. But at the hospital…We’re not putting him through that. He just wants to be with us. In fact, there are some pretty specific things he wants. He made a list.”

While Ross explained the list to his uncle and cousin, Claire headed to the main lodge. It was a relief, knowing Ross was an ally now.

George had an appointment in town, and he was dressed for a business meeting.

“You’re seeing a lawyer, Granddad?” asked Ross. “Seriously?”

“Is there any other way to see a lawyer?” asked George.

“You have Mr. Matlock in the city,” Ross pointed out. “He’s been your lawyer for years.”

“This is a small bit of work, an amendment to a document,” George said. “Hardly worth bothering Sherman with.”

“What kind of document?”

“Now that you’re back, I’m giving you power of attorney, provided you don’t use it to force me back to the hospital.”

A look of apprehension shadowed Ross’s face. “What about Trevor?” He gestured at his uncle.

Trevor raised his hands, palms out. “It’s all yours.”

“I want it to be you, Ross,” said George. “For a number of reasons. There has always been a particular clarity between us, ever since you were a boy.”

Ivy’s eyes grew large. “Mom’s going to have a cat.”

“Ivy,” her father said in a warning tone.

“Just saying.” She turned to her grandfather. “We can all go into town together. Dad and I will explore the town and catch up with you later.”

“That sounds like a splendid plan,” said George.

The nameplate on the door indicated a partnership of three—Melinda Lee Parkington, Wendell Whitcomb and Sophie Shepherd. Ross held the door for Claire and his grandfather and they stepped into the reception area. The desk was occupied by a girl who resembled an escapee from an anime convention—pink hair, facial hardware, black lacquered nails. The Happy Bunny sign on her desk said Daphne McDaniel and the slogan, They Don’t Pay Me Enough To Be Nice To You.

She looked up at the three of them, and focused on George, who held a thick legal-size envelope. “Can I help—”

“Make it happen, Wendell,” said an angry male voice. A guy with flame-red hair strode out of one of the law offices. “It’s what I’m paying you for. The mother of my kid took off with him and I have my rights.” He paused at the reception desk. “I need to book a meeting next week,” he stated.

“I’ll get right on that,” Daphne said coolly. “
After
I help these people. So have a seat, Logan.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

She fixed him with a don’t-screw-with-me stare. “Twizzler?” she asked, pushing a large glass candy jar in his direction.

He grabbed one and stepped aside.

“All righty then,” she said to George. “I’m sure Sophie’s eager to meet you. Right this way,” she said, taking them to a conference room.

A moment later they were joined by the lawyer George had retained. Sophie Shepherd was blonde, chic and pregnant. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, and she wore pearls and a dove-gray suit with a pink silk blouse draped over her enormous belly. After greeting each of them with a handshake, she set a legal file on the table.

“I see congratulations are in order,” said George.

“Thank you.”

The sight of a pregnant woman never failed to give Claire a pang. Having a baby was out of her reach; it would be the height of foolishness to have a child when Claire had to be prepared to run at any moment. Still, she couldn’t help envying women like Sophie.

“Your first?” asked George.

“My fifth, actually. I have two grown kids from my first marriage, and my husband Noah and I adopted two of our own. So this makes five for me. And speaking of kids, I need to let you know something in advance. I used to be married to Greg Bellamy.”

“Charles’s boy?” George smiled. “That’s delightful.”

“Granddad, he was her
first
husband,” Ross pointed out.

“Oh, er, then…not so delightful,” said George.

“I only bring this up in the interest of disclosure,” Sophie explained. “My two oldest children, Max and Daisy, are Bellamys, so in that respect, there’s a family connection. I’ve since remarried, but I wanted you to be aware of it. If you prefer to work with one of my associates, I’ll understand.”

“Not at all,” George assured her.

Claire caught his eye. “George, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll wait outside.” She didn’t need or want to be privy to the details of any legal arrangements of her patients. She slipped out and made her way to the reception area.

The receptionist was just saying goodbye to the red-haired guy called Logan. Claire tried not to speculate about his dilemma, but she couldn’t help herself. He was almost blindingly handsome in a youthful, intense way. She surmised from his angry remarks that some woman had taken his kid somewhere. Claire told herself this was a perfect example of the complications and pain she was avoiding by being entirely on her own with no ties to anyone.

Yet another of the many lies she told herself.

Daphne scribbled something on the back of a card and handed it over. He stuck it in his pocket and turned on his heel. The receptionist eyed him over her cat’s-eye glasses as he yanked open the door and left. Noticing Claire’s attention, she said, “Everybody needs a little eye candy.” She opened the glass apothecary jar of Twizzlers. “Help yourself.”

Claire smiled, but shook her head. “No, thanks.” She paged through a copy of
Coastal Living
, her gaze lingering on photos of summer picnics and lakeside gazebos. Did people really live like this, surrounded by flowering shrubs and fancy patio furniture? She set the magazine aside and picked up the
New York Times
, giving herself a reality check by skimming a story about criminal proceedings against a mob boss.

The meeting with the lawyer didn’t take long. By the
time they exited the conference room, George and Sophie seemed like old friends.

Sophie handed them a flyer. “My husband’s band is performing at a benefit later today. It’s a concert in the park, to raise funds for the local library.”

“Your husband’s a musician? How nice.”

“Only as a hobby, but he loves it. Noah’s the drummer—definitely not the star of the show. He’s a veterinarian.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Daphne said. “Noah’s a good drummer, and the band is
great.”

The invitation read, “Inner Child—One Performance Only. Sponsored by the Friends of the Avalon Free Library.”

“What kind of music does the group play?” Claire asked. She pictured an elegant piano quintet…and drums.

“Mostly ska and old-school punk rock,” said Sophie.

Daphne grinned. “Sophie, you need to work on your rocker-chick image.”

They all went together to the library event. Claire was fairly confident George wouldn’t want to stay long. He tired so very easily. Yet today, an afternoon nap and a dose of meds gave him a second wind.

The event was in full swing when they arrived. An outdoor stage had been set up in the park surrounding the library. It was a fine, breezy evening. Wind-borne seeds floated in the sunlit air, and delicious smells emanated from the booths and stands. Ross pushed his grandfather’s wheelchair, passing booths for face painting, people dressed as characters from books, volunteers selling paving bricks with patrons’ names, a stand offering
kolaches
from the Sky River Bakery. Claire
watched families strolling around together, and she noticed Ross watching them, too.

“I love it here,” Ivy exclaimed. “Ross, don’t you love it here?”

His gaze tracked a pair of kids running around with balloons. “This is the kind of thing soldiers think about when they’re overseas,” he said.

He had a way of saying things with unvarnished frankness. She wondered what it would be like to simply speak her mind and not have to think about every word that came out of her mouth. Sometimes Ross seemed to sense she was holding back, but he’d never know how much. Every moment she was with him, it grew harder and harder to hide herself. More than anyone she’d ever met, he saw her heart, and the prospect frightened her.

A sharp blast of feedback screeched from the tall speakers. She saw Ross flinch, and suspected it was fallout from being at war. But he seemed to shake off the tension and turned toward the stage.

A guy with shaggy hair, wearing ripped, skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt stepped up to the mic. “I’m Eddie Haven,” he announced, “and we’re Inner Child.” He introduced the band members—a girl named Brandi on bass, Noah Shepherd on drums, and on keyboard, Rayburn Tolley.

With a jolt of recognition, Claire studied the keyboard man. “That’s the cop who pulled us over on the first day,” she reminded George.

“Indeed it is. Ross and Ivy, your mothers set the law on us, did they tell you? That young man pulled us over.”

“Good Lord.” Ivy turned to Claire. “I’m mortified.”

“He’d been told I was kidnapping George.”

“At least he didn’t give you a speeding ticket,” George pointed out. “That was decent of him.”

“I’d like to dedicate a song to your favorite librarian and mine, Maureen Davenport,” Eddie Haven announced. He made a grand flourish on his electric guitar while the applause crescendoed. Looking pleased but hardly comfortable with all the attention, a young woman stepped on stage and issued a brief welcome.

“It’s thanks to our community support that our library fund is growing,” she said. “There’s still a lot of work to be done. And don’t forget, we’re still looking for a sponsor who would like naming rights for our new genealogy annex. I know it’s an ambitious request, but in working to save the library, I’ve learned to be audacious.”

“That’s what we love about her. She’s bringing sexy back to the library,” Eddie said, and was answered by wild hooting and applause.

The first number was an upbeat ballad that soon had a swarm of kids jumping around in front of the stage. Claire noticed George cringing a bit, and she gestured at Ross. They moved away from the speakers.

“Not to your taste, Granddad?” Ross asked.

“Apparently not, but I’m glad I came.”

The music changed to a slow, emotional love song, and couples started dancing. Eddie Haven had a compelling voice, raspy with sentiment. “Go,” said George, “the two of you. Dance.”

“Granddad—”

“You heard the man,” said Ivy.

Ross rolled his eyes, but clearly decided against further argument. “May I?” he asked Claire.

Despite the artificiality of the situation, she felt an
unbidden thrill. He held her decorously, but it still felt like a forbidden embrace. She loved the warmth of his hand in the curve of her waist, and the hardness of his shoulder as she leaned into him. Maybe it was his background as a soldier, or his profession as a medical rescue pilot; when she was with him, she felt irrationally—but gloriously—safe. It was embarrassingly romantic, under the circumstances.
Snap out of it
, she thought, but ignored her own inner voice. Nothing she told herself eased the crush she had on this man.

“Your hair smells like flowers,” he whispered.

She tilted her head to look up at him. He seemed to hold her a little closer, and she enjoyed a few lost minutes, a brief fantasy of being with him, out in the open. When the song ended, they looked around and saw that George’s chair was empty. After a momentary panic, they spied him with Trevor and Ivy, apparently chatting up the town librarian.