The Summer Hideaway (10 page)

“You’re right, and in general, it is exactly that. In fact, dancing lessons were given right here at Camp Kioga, but I avoided them. Because, you understand…”

“Cooties,” she suggested.

He chuckled. “Yes, there was that, early on. But now I’m sorry I never learned to dance, because I’d like to know what it feels like to be out on the dance floor in a beautiful place like this.”

“Now that,” she said, “is definitely something I can help you with. I’m actually an okay dancer.” She went occasionally to dance clubs, which gave her the illusion of having close friends or even a boyfriend. It was one of the quirky things she did to preserve her own sanity. Over time, she’d learned a good number of dances, and some of the retro numbers were her favorites.

“Excellent,” he said. “When shall we start?”

She set down her napkin. “There’s no time like the present.”

He looked momentarily disconcerted. Then resolute.
“Your point is well taken.” He got up and moved to her side of the table, offering his right hand with a flourish. “May I have this dance?”

“I’d be thrilled,” she said, taking his hand. “And I’m having a hard time believing you’ve never done this. You look like a pro, standing there.”

“
Standing
is the key word. I’ve watched a lot of Fred Astaire movies in my day. I couldn’t ever get past the asking, though.”

“We’re about to change that,” she said.

The small ensemble was playing “Stardust Memories,” which lent itself to a simple box step.

“The nice thing about dancing,” she said, “is that you really only need to know two things—how to hold a frame, and how to engage with your partner. Don’t worry about feet and legs. Those will come after.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said.

“Trust me. You have to trust me.”

“Fine. Tell me what to do. I’m all ears.”

“First, forget about everyone else in the room. Pretend it’s just the two of us. I swear, we’re not that interesting.”

“Done.”

“Now, hold up your hand, just like that, yes.” She slipped her own into his. “Your other hand needs to rest at my waist. Yes. You’re very good.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You feel polished and confident,” she said, “the way a true gentleman should. You smell good, too.”

“Nice of you to say.”

“I’m being honest, George. You smell wonderful. Now, about the dance frame. It’s not very technical. It’s based on common sense and consideration for your partner.”

He had a natural flair for the hold. Next, she showed him the basic footwork. He caught on quickly enough, and seemed to have a strong sense of rhythm. The look of concentration on his face morphed into delight, and he laughed aloud, the sound eliciting smiles from the other dancers.

“Hey, you’re a natural,” she said, though the attention made her feel self-conscious. They danced some more, and George laughed some more as she coached him through a couple of moves.

“I don’t think we’ll win any trophies,” he said, “but I’m having fun. Makes me wish I’d taken this up before my sons’ weddings.”

She decided to voice the question that had been nagging at her since their arrival. “Where are they, George? Where is your family now?”

“That’s not the real question,” he said. “The real question is, why aren’t they here?”

“I suppose that is the question. And you needn’t answer it unless you want to.”

“They think I’m on a fool’s errand, coming to Camp Kioga.”

“And they’ve stayed away because…”

“Because they’re convinced I’ll be back in the city before they can even get their bags packed.”

This was exactly as she’d suspected. Most loved ones tried to cling to denial as long as possible. “Just don’t make this a battle of wills, George. Nobody wins that kind of fight.”

“Not to worry. I have thought about this journey long and hard, to make sure it’s something I’m pursuing for the right reasons, not just to be stubborn.”

The inner workings of a family held endless fascination for Claire. Perhaps this stemmed from her lack of one. She was intrigued by the way people loved each other, and fought and turned their backs on each other, and then came together again. She was intrigued by all the ways people learned to forgive and grow and strengthen their bond. There was such richness in their efforts, and such grace, whether those efforts led to success or failure.

George was so studied in the way he dressed, so fearful and sweet at the same time. She thought about how he had carefully ordered the food and wine and how much he’d savored her enjoyment.

If you were my grandfather,
she thought,
wild horses couldn’t keep me from you.

It was dark by the time Ross and Natalie arrived in Avalon, a cluster of glowing windows and gaslit streets nestled beside Willow Lake. He was only vaguely familiar with the many little lakeside towns and villages of upstate New York, but Natalie claimed she’d been to Avalon before.

“Several times, as a matter of fact,” she remarked, folding away the road map.

“Here? I never knew that.”

“My folks settled in Albany after they came back from overseas. This was one of my favorite train stops on the way upstate.” She indicated a place called the Apple Tree Inn, a converted mansion with a lighted front porch and a sign advertising fine dining. “A guy asked me to marry him right there, about ten years ago.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious. It was Christmas Eve. I was mortified.”

“What, mortified it wasn’t me?”

“Very funny.”

“You never told me that,” said Ross.

“I don’t tell you everything. And honestly, it wasn’t…my finest moment. He was adorable, but we were too young. I wonder whatever became of Eddie.”

“Nothing,” Ross said. “His life was over the second you turned him down.”

She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re back. I don’t know what I did without you.”

“Sent me jokes in e-mail,” he reminded her. “Several a day.”

“Well, it’s nice having you back where I can make fun of you in person.”

They stopped at a service station for directions to Camp Kioga. “It’s a good thing I came along with you today,” Natalie said, squinting at the unlit wilderness that surrounded them after they left the town behind. “A really good thing. It’s pitch-dark out here. And deserted, too. I feel like we’re in one of those teen scream movies.”

“Except we’re not teenagers and there’s nothing to scream about.”

“Speak for yourself.” She shuddered. “How about you pull over and put up the top.”

“It’s still warm outside. Let’s leave it down.”

“There are probably slimy nocturnal creatures everywhere.”

“I’ll try not to run over any of them. And let’s hope nothing drops on your head.”

“Ross, I swear—”

“Quit being a baby.”

The lakeshore road took them northward. They passed a few farms and residences, and then…nothing. Finally, in the middle of nowhere, they spotted the sign: Historic Camp Kioga. 2 Miles Ahead. The pavement turned to gravel, and Ross slowed the roadster. The headlamps lit the surrounding dense forest, creating a tunnel of green. The shadow of an owl swooped over them, and occasional watching eyes flashed in the underbrush.

“Okay, this is seriously creepy,” said Natalie, turning up the volume on the radio. A bouncy song about love gone wrong was playing, which seemed to lighten the atmosphere a little.

“Scaredy-cat,” said Ross. “Finally, here we are.”

The old-fashioned entranceway was constructed of two large timbers connected by an arch.
Camp Kioga
was spelled out in wrought-iron twig lettering. “Jeez, even the sign looks creepy,” Natalie remarked.

The remainder of the driveway was illuminated by path lights leading to a big lodge at the lakeside. “Now, this is more like it,” she declared, regarding the glowing windows with obvious relief. “It’s even prettier than the brochures promised.” Inside, they could see candlelit tables, waiters in black coats, dancing couples. It was the picture of vintage rustic elegance, the kind of place that invited nostalgia. Or, thought Ross, old men in search of old memories.

He and Natalie went inside to a big lobby area and stood for a moment, looking around.

Peeled timber ceiling beams soared above the lounge area and registration desk. The room had a timeless atmosphere; it felt like the sort of place people imagined other, more functional families than their own visited together, a couple of generations back. Maybe in Granddad’s day.

At the registration desk, an earnest-looking woman waited expectantly. Adjacent to the lobby was a dining room, complete with live music and dancing couples.

“He might be there,” Ross said.

Natalie touched his arm. “Go ahead,” she said, following the direction of his gaze. “I’ll get us a place to sleep for the night.”

Leaving her at the desk, Ross went into the dining room. It was getting late and the crowd was thin. Ross surveyed the room, scanning the light dinner crowd, mostly couples. A small ensemble, on a raised dais in the corner, was playing the old tune “Stardust Memories,” and several couples danced to the languid melody. His gaze skipped past them; it was well-known in the family that Granddad didn’t dance. Then Ross heard a sound he hadn’t heard in far too long—the ringing tones of his grandfather’s laughter.

His gaze made another sweep through the dancers, this time focusing on a tall man dancing with a slender, dark-haired woman.

Ross froze, his chest constricted with emotion.

George Bellamy was dancing. He wore a tailored dress suit with a crisp white shirt and narrow tie. His close-cropped, snow-white hair caught flickers of light from the rustic chandelier. He looked lost in pleasurable concentration, with a small, crooked smile on his face.

A thousand thoughts crowded into Ross’s head. He was unprepared for the sucker punch delivered by the sight of his grandfather. Striding toward the couple on the dance floor, Ross had an urge to physically remove the strange woman from his grandfather’s arms. Maybe Ross’s mother and aunt were right. Maybe the stranger was shameless, worming her way into Granddad’s life.

“Granddad,” he said, keeping his voice low and his temper reined in, for now.

George Bellamy stopped dancing, stepped away from his partner and turned. Just for a moment, he appeared confused, disoriented in a way that made Ross’s pulse speed up in panic. Then George’s face lit with a blissful smile. In the dim, kindly light, he looked youthful, perfectly healthy and utterly delighted. “My boy,” he said, reaching out with his arms. “My boy. I knew you’d come.”

The woman moved aside. George hugged Ross close, right there on the dance floor. Ross could feel dozens of eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He was back. His grandfather’s relief was palpable, and Ross knew George was thinking of the son who had gone to war and never came home.

A soldier’s homecoming was meant to be a joyous occasion. Yet the joy in this moment was muted by a sense of sadness. In his grandfather’s embrace, he was that young boy again, grieving and afraid. It was astonishing how quickly those feelings came rushing back, as though they had been hovering just below the surface, never really gone, waiting to reemerge.

“My boy,” Granddad said again. “My dear, sweet boy. Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” Ross said, wanting to hold this man close and never let him go. “Can we go have a seat?”

“Of course. I’m so pleased you came, son. I didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

“I got here as fast as I could. My mother says you hired some phony tart who’s going to fleece you bare.”

Granddad stepped aside. Ross had no idea the hired
woman was still standing nearby, overhearing this. “Son, I’d like you to meet Claire Turner,” said Granddad.

“The phony tart,” she added helpfully.

“Great,” said Ross.

“Miss Turner, this is my grandson, Ross Bellamy.”

“Delighted,” she said.

Ross knew there was ice in his gaze as he offered her a greeting of curt politeness. He would soon be having what he expected to be a short, dismissive conversation with her. Yet there was something unsettling about her. No, there was something about
him,
regarding her.
This woman is going to be trouble
, warned a quiet inner voice. At first glance, she didn’t look like a gold digger. She wore no jewelry, little or no makeup that he could see. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back, revealing an undeniably pretty face. She wore a plain dress that did not have to loudly advertise the obvious—she had a knockout figure.

“Pardon me,” Ross said. “I’m going to have a word with my grandfather.”

“Of course,” she said. “Why don’t you go to the bar where it’s quiet. I’ll settle things here.”

I’ll just bet you will, thought Ross, watching her go. She was mesmerizing to look at, with a soothing voice and manner that had probably won George over from the start. Ross felt nothing but contempt for her, yet against his will, that contempt was tinged by curiosity.

Natalie came to greet George. As she gave him a hug, she immediately burst into tears.

“This is not helping,” said Ross.

“I just don’t know what to say. I’m sorry you’re sick, Mr. Bellamy, and I feel so helpless.”

“You’ve helped enormously by coming here with Ross,” said George.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, and handed Ross a key. “The cabin number’s on the tag,” she said. “I’m heading over there now.”

“Charming creature, I’ve always thought,” said Granddad as she withdrew. “There was a time when I wondered if the two of you might marry.” He smiled at Ross’s expression. “It’s one of the few perks of being terminally ill. I get to speak my mind without getting in trouble for it.”

“Nat and I…we’re not like that.”

“I know. You have a wonderful future ahead of you, my boy. Just not with her.”

The bar was quiet, and furnished with comfortable wing chairs and low tables. George ordered two glasses of brandy, looking pleased to see that it was Rémy Martin, properly served in crystal globe snifters.

The two of them sat together, facing a glowing fire in the river-rock fireplace. On the table between them was a chess set, the pieces already lined up for battle. George settled back and lifted his glass. “To my grandson, the war hero.”