The Summer Hideaway (12 page)

He shrugged. “Guys like me, we don’t keep score. We don’t know how many people we’ve saved or how many we lost. None of the crew ever knew—or wanted to know—what happened to patients after they were airlifted.”

“You never had a follow-up? Never wondered about someone?”

“There’ve been a few guys who figured out how to get
in touch with me,” he admitted. “A couple of e-mails to say thanks.” He pushed the tips of his fingers together, and his eyes looked lost in memories. “I’m one of the lucky ones, you know? I went to war for two years and never had to kill anyone. Going out flying and bringing guys back—it was a hell of a job.”

The less he said, the more her mind filled in the details. She tried to create a mental image of Ross at the controls, piloting a helicopter through the firestorm of battle, but it resembled a scene out of a movie. Maybe it was his movie-star looks, which shone through his grief and anger.

“As for wondering about someone—hell, yeah,” he admitted. “I wonder about every single one of them. And then I leave it at that. Trying to follow up on everything makes you crazy.”

“Your grandfather calls you a hero.”

“Maybe I was just an adrenaline addict.”

“Did you always want to be a pilot?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Never quite knew what I wanted to be, so for a long time, I was an asshole.”

She kind of wanted it to be true, so she could stop feeling so drawn to him. “Your grandfather didn’t tell me that part.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t. I partied my way through college and a couple of jobs I didn’t much like. Enlisted almost on a whim, and it turned out to be the right thing for me.” He rubbed his jaw, looking weary. “Deployment wore me down, though, two years of it. I thought I’d come back to the States and work as a civilian in medevac. Everything’s on hold now.”

“I know it must be hard, coming home to this.”

He paced the length of the porch, stopping a few feet
from her. “Listen, the last thing I need is for some hired New Age nurse to be doling out platitudes to me. I’ll tell you what’s hard. Coming home from a war to the news that my grandfather’s dying—that’s hard. Finding out he’s given up on getting better—that, too. Oh, and realizing this is all going to go down in a strange place, surrounded by strangers—that’s pretty damn hard.”

She watched the way his hands gripped the porch rail in a fury of tension. Though she couldn’t tell him the truth, she was painfully familiar with the aftermath of trauma. One day, she’d been a high school girl; the next she was a fugitive. Though it wasn’t quite the same as surviving a war, she could recognize the lingering stress in Ross.

He subjected her to a penetrating stare, and a part of her almost wished he recognized that lonely girl, hiding inside her.

She wished his contempt was more of a turnoff. But it wasn’t because she recognized his rage for what it was—a shield against the terror of losing someone he loved. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have said that right off the bat. I’m so very sorry. George is too nice a person for this to be happening to him.”

“I guess we agree on one thing.” He turned away to stare out at the lake, a mirror of ink in the darkness, where the reflection of the moon created a shimmering silver disc. “Damn, it’s quiet here. Kind of like night ops, only we’re not being shot at.”

She tried to picture him in uniform. She had issues with guys in uniform, but for some reason, she felt okay around Ross Bellamy. “Night ops?”

“Mandatory exercises,” he said. “You have to learn to
do everything in the dark. That’s when the worst part of war happens.”

“And there’s a best part of war?”

“It’s known as boredom. In my line of work, there were two modes of operation—boredom or full-on adrenaline. Not much in between.”

She wondered about the memories he carried inside him. “This is a big adjustment for you. If you need to talk to someone about it—”

“What, you’re a shrink, too? Jeez, lady, you’re one-stop shopping.”

“I was going to say there’s a vet center in Middletown.”

“Shit, sorry. I know you’re trying to be helpful. I’m okay for now. During demobilization, they gave us info about PTSD. Last thing I want to do is have a meltdown when I’m supposed to be taking care of my grandfather.”

“Then we agree on two things,” she pointed out.

“No, we don’t. I’m here to help him get better, and you seem fine with letting him get sicker, out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m not ‘letting’ him do anything,” she said. “He’s here by choice, and the things that are happening to him can’t be helped or stopped.”

“You claim you’re some kind of nurse,” Ross said. “Isn’t it your job to help people?”

“I
am
a nurse, and yes, that
is
my job.”

“So where does the dancing come in? Is that part of my grandfather’s treatment, dancing in restaurants? What the hell was that about, Nurse Turner?”

“It was about taking care of my patient. He said he always wanted to dance.”

His shoulders sagged just the slightest bit. “I guess
you’ve noticed—my grandfather is everything to me. He’s the best man I know. And what’s happening to him…” His voice broke off on a rough note. “We need to stop it, Claire. Please.”

It was the first time he’d addressed her by her first name, and it signaled a slight shift. She wanted to weep for him; she probably would later, in private. “There’s no stopping it,” she whispered. “The best way to help your grandfather is to give him as many good days as you can, for as long as you can.”

Ross shook his head. “It’s like he’s giving up on himself. What’s worse, he came here to see some guy who hasn’t given him the time of day in what, fifty, sixty years. He’s going to get his heart broken, and he doesn’t deserve that, either.”

Even through the gloom, she could see the brightness of tears in his eyes. “Please listen. There’s no easy way to say this, but try to understand. This is his life and he gets to choose. Now, you can either support him and wish him well, or you can begrudge him this time and criticize the choices he’s making.”

“So if he wishes to jump in the lake wearing cement boots we should let him because he wishes it?” Ross demanded.

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“For wanting my grandfather to seek treatment for an illness so he can get better? Come on, Claire. Help me out here.”

“Help
you
out?”

“I have to persuade him to come back to the city. I’m sure there are more doctors he can see, more courses of treatment to explore.”

Claire’s heart ached for him. She wished things were different, that she could agree with Ross. Instead she said, “Don’t you think he’d treat this if there was a possibility of a decent outcome? There’s not. I hate to be so blunt, but there’s not.”

He winced. “Look, all I’m asking is for him to keep an open mind. Or for God’s sake, to listen to reason. To actually seek treatment for his condition instead of giving up and retreating to some obscure hideaway like a wounded animal holing up to die.”

Claire placed one hand in the other, quelling the urge to touch his arm, or the back of his hand. “He’s here with his doctor’s blessing, did he tell you that?”

“Then he needs to find a new doctor.”

“He’s been working with a whole team. Any one of them will be glad to go over the case with you. And what they’ll say, with the deepest of regret, is that surgical resection is not an option. Chemo and radiation are strictly palliative measures, and the side effects are so severe, they’d strip away any quality of life he might have. Your grandfather’s doctors will tell you there’s no further surgical or medical intervention for this. Not a single one will say that any life is better than death. I’m employed by your grandfather, and he’s made his choice. This can’t be about you, Ross. It has to be about George. Can you allow that? Please?”

He said nothing, but it was an angry silence.

“You don’t have to like me,” she said, struggling to keep the barriers in place. “I don’t need for you to like me. But the sooner you figure out a way to be okay with your grandfather’s wishes, the better it’ll be for him.”

“Right,” said Ross. “Got it.” He fell silent again and
stayed that way awhile longer. She waited, listening to the rustle of night creatures in the underbrush, the lapping of the lake on the shore. Finally he said, “Has he contacted the brother yet?”

The brother. She sensed Ross wasn’t too happy about that development and wondered how much of the background he knew. “Not yet,” she said. “I think, actually, he’s been waiting for you.”

In the lake, a fish jumped, and something slipped into the water from the shore. Ross continued to survey the scene for a moment. Then he said, “I’m going to turn in. If he needs anything at all, you come and get me.”

“Of course.”

He turned and walked away, striding across the compound to an A-frame cabin.

Claire stood on the porch in the moonlight, peering into the darkness, feeling a crazy jumble of emotions. The guy’s moods changed like the swing of a pendulum, which was not uncommon in ex-soldiers. He was the last guy she expected to feel attracted to. It made absolutely no sense. He was freshly back from war, he was her client’s grandson and he had shown up with a woman named Natalie—a girlfriend?

Claire knew she wouldn’t do anything about the heart-lurch of yearning she felt. And as for Ross, he was going to be preoccupied by family business that promised to be complicated.

Families were so messy, she reflected, hearing the door to his cabin open and shut. People hurt each other so much. Even when they tried to do the right thing, when they acted out of love, they hurt each other. Family members worked so hard to be together, and for what?
So they could fight and cry and butt heads. Being a member of a family was a recipe for pain and strife.

So why did she want it so much?

R
oss awakened to birdsong and sunshine streaming in through his window. For a few minutes, he lay perfectly still, reorienting himself as he savored the miracle of a perfect morning. He’d grown used to being awakened by the sound of explosions, alarms, chugging generators and radio calls, the descending whistle of a Soviet-made bomb or the champagne-cork pop of rifle fire.

Last night, Claire Turner had mentioned a nearby vet center. For now, he didn’t need that. He just needed the gentle, quiet morning by the lake. He kept his mind in the moment, something he had learned to do to keep his sanity while in country.

The bed in his rented lakeside cabin was seriously comfortable, with crisp white sheets and an eiderdown that was thick but weightless. The foot of the bed faced a window with sheer, pale curtains rippling in the breeze, framing a view he’d only glimpsed by moonlight when they’d arrived.

Willow Lake more than lived up to its name on the welcome sign—the jewel of the Catskills. The water’s surface resembled hammered gold, reflecting the rising
sun. It was fringed by every sort of tree, predominantly willows. In his mind, Ross heard the iconic strains of Grieg’s “Morning,” though a much more prosaic reality penetrated the fantasy. Elsewhere in the cabin, a radio was playing Jay-Z rapping out “Big Pimpin’.” Natalie was up.

He forgave his friend her choice of music because she’d already made coffee. Its aroma permeated the place. He pulled on a faded pair of jeans, which fit him like old friends from his civilian days, and headed into the cabin’s tiny kitchen.

Natalie was dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt. She was sipping coffee and gazing out the window. She turned to him, her gaze lingering on his bare chest. “Why, Chief Bellamy. The military life agrees with you.”

“You mean I graduated from the scrawny kid you used to make fun of?”

“Definitely.”

It had been boredom more than vanity that had driven him to spend hours in the workout tent. Between the adrenaline-rush moments of rescue ops, there wasn’t much else to do. He also had to admit he’d succumbed to an element of competitiveness among the men. It was part of the rarefied culture of the remote outposts where he’d spent the past couple of years.

He helped himself to coffee—strong, dark coffee with real cream. It tasted so good he thought he was dreaming.

“You guys stayed up late last night,” Natalie observed. “Your granddad okay? For now, I mean.”

Dream over, thought Ross, setting aside his coffee. “Apparently he sometimes has trouble with vision and maybe coordination. He still managed to school me at chess, though.”

“For what it’s worth, I couldn’t tell he was ill,” she said. “And the nurse? Is she…How’s that working out? For what it’s worth, she doesn’t look like a grandpa-kidnapper.”

“My grandfather seems to like her. We’ll see.”
Claire Turner.
He was still trying to figure out how he felt about her, so he didn’t say any more. “Thanks for renting the cabin, Nat,” he added. “In my rush to get here, it never even occurred to me to make a reservation.”

“No problem. It’s early enough in the season so there was plenty of room.”

The cabin they’d been given was an A-frame, which stood shoulder to shoulder in a row with the others, facing the lake. A framed printout on the wall offered a brief history of the unit. The original structures had housed seasonal farm workers back when the area was agricultural, in the dust bowl days. Later, when Camp Kioga was in operation, the A-frames had housed camp workers or visiting entertainers.

Natalie had declared it perfectly appointed, with its Hudson’s Bay blankets of colorful striped wool, vintage prints on the walls and retro furniture. The main floor had a raised bed facing the view, and there was a cozy loft in the peak of the A, accessed by a sturdy ladder. Ross and Natalie had flipped a coin for the loft, and she’d won it.

“I’m off for a run,” she said. “After that, I’ll need a lift into town. I need to be on the noon train.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“I have a grown-up job, remember?”

“You’re going to miss all of the fun,” he said. “In addition to my own family, there’s apparently a mystery brother.”

“No offense, but I have my own screwed-up family. I don’t need to borrow yours.”

He walked outside with her. The cool air felt fresh on his skin. He inhaled deeply, put his arm around Natalie. “Thanks for driving up here with me.”

“That’s what friends are for.” She drew closer with surprising ferocity and lifted herself up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “I wish this wasn’t happening.”

He squeezed her tight in a bear hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. She felt both sturdy and feminine in his arms, but as always, his feelings toward her were platonic; she was like a sister to him. An extremely loyal sister. “You’re awesome, Ms. Sweet,” he said.

“Aren’t I, though? I’ll come back for a visit.” She pulled out of the hug, and he saw that she was crying. “These tears are not for you,” she quickly pointed out.

“I know,” he said, taking a deep, unsteady breath. “I know who they’re for.”

When they separated, he noticed Claire Turner standing on the deck of his grandfather’s cabin, observing them. She offered a brief wave of greeting, then went back inside. Ross wondered what was on her mind. He wondered a lot of things about her.

“She thinks we’re a thing,” he said to Natalie.

Natalie gave his arm a slug. “Dream on, Chief.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“When you get back to the city, see what you can find out about Nurse Claire Turner.”

“You think she’s scamming him?”

“I don’t know what to make of her.” Based on his conversation with her the night before, Ross knew he was a
long way from figuring the woman out. But he also knew that when he looked into her eyes, he felt something that was both strange and real, as though the two of them shared something.

“I’ll put on my investigative reporter hat and see what I can dig up,” Natalie said, and took off for her morning run.

Ross had a quick shower before heading over to see his grandfather. The air had a watery smell and a light breeze ran its fingers through his damp hair, a welcome contrast to the grit and fleas that had plagued him not so long ago. After deployment, there were certain things he would never again take for granted, such as consistent hot water and a temperate climate.

Granddad’s summer rental was much more than a cabin. It was a whole house, with a dock and furnished porch, complete with accessibility ramps. The porch was hung with baskets of fresh flowers and a couple of hummingbird feeders. Ross knocked at the screen door. “Granddad,” he called, “you up?”

“Good morning,” his grandfather said. “Splendid day, isn’t it?” He was dressed and seated in a sun-drenched breakfast nook with the
New York Times
open in front of him.

Ross felt an unbidden beat of emotion. It was an ordinary, familiar sight, his grandfather with the morning paper, but now everything seemed fraught with importance. Don’t die, Granddad, Ross thought. I want you to live forever.

His grandfather regarded him placidly. For a disconcerting moment, Ross felt as though his thoughts had been heard.

“Join me,” Granddad said. “I was just finishing the paper. And look—my old fly-tying kit. Remember this?”

How could he forget? The kit was a treasure trove of string and bobbins, wing burners, tiny pliers and scissors, grips and holders and every sort of material, from deer hair to speckled pheasant feathers. Just the sight of it unleashed memories of the distant past—Granddad’s big fingers, guiding Ross’s small ones as they smoothed back the fibers and wrapped a thread around the hook, fastening the end with a whip finish. Tying flies was a curiously intricate and intimate activity, one that seemed to lend itself to talk.

Granddad used to talk to him about everything. Maybe not everything, Ross realized now. There was the small matter of the brother he’d never mentioned.

He was about to broach the topic when Claire Turner came into the room. “Good morning,” she said, speaking in a neutral, well-modulated voice. The voice of a professional nurse—matter-of-fact yet determinedly pleasant. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, or if she had any thoughts at all about seeing his and Natalie’s embrace earlier. Not that it was any of her business, or any of his concern what her opinion was, but he was just curious.

Okay, more than curious. She was an enigma to him, in her Bermuda shorts and plain white collared shirt, dark hair pulled back, no jewelry other than a watch. She reminded him somewhat of a female soldier, trying to downplay her femininity, hiding her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of neutrality. Ironically the harder she tried to conceal her looks, the more attractive she appeared. But Claire wasn’t in a war, which made him
wonder why she was so guarded. What battle was she fighting?

“More coffee?” she offered.

He shook his head. “Thanks, I had some earlier. Just came by to see my grandfather and figure out what the plan is for the day.” He tried to sound polite but dismissive.

She clearly got it. “I’ll leave the two of you alone, then.” She handed George a small paper cup of pills, which he washed down with orange juice. “Can I get you anything else, George?”

“Not at the moment, thanks.”

“I’ll be outside, then. Just give me a buzz if you need me.” She slipped out, swallowed up by sunshine as she crossed the porch and walked out onto the dock.

Granddad indicated a small box. “Electronic apron strings, I call it,” he explained. “I push this button, and Claire comes running. Or vice versa—she can summon me from her end. Wish I’d had something like this back in my youth. It would have made dating easier. Push a button and presto, a beautiful woman appears.”

“Very handy,” said Ross, watching the way the morning sun outlined her. Was she beautiful? Damn, after the past two years, every woman looked beautiful to him. He sidestepped the thought. “Listen, I need to give Natalie a ride to the station in a little bit. When I get back, let’s talk. Okay, Granddad?”

“Of course. I’d like nothing better.”

“She’s not his girlfriend,” George said to Claire.

“I beg your pardon?” She realized he’d caught her staring out the window at Ross as he loaded Natalie’s things into the trunk of his sports car.

“Natalie Sweet,” said George. “She’s not his girlfriend.”

“Not whose girlfriend?”

“You know very well who.”

She watched them drive off together, then turned back to George. “And I need to know this because…”

“Why do you think, Miss Turner?”

“George. You are not trying to fix us up.”

“I certainly am.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Give the man a chance.”

“Trust me, the man does not want a chance with me.” She tried to suppress a small twinge. The loneliness of her situation was unbearable sometimes, particularly in the wake of meeting someone like Ross Bellamy. He was everything she secretly wished for—kind and caring, undeniably good-looking, the sort of guy she could picture surrounded by friends and family—but everything she couldn’t have.

“Humor me,” George said. “The prospect of a blooming romance gives me something to dwell on besides my grim fate. I want my grandson to meet someone wonderful—”

“I’m sure he will one day,” she said hastily.

“Perhaps he already has. He’s the finest young man I know, Claire, and my wish for him is to have the life he deserves.”

“You can’t make someone’s life happen, George.”

“But I can introduce him to someone like you.”

She decided to change the subject. “I’ve been rereading an old favorite.
The Great Gatsby.
”

“That’s a favorite of yours?”

“Sure. I like the romanticism of it, the tragedy. The impossibility.”

George nodded. “I’d always meant to read Fitzgerald’s other works but never got around to it. I wish I’d been a faster reader. For that matter, I wish some of my favorite writers were faster. To my eternal dismay, I probably won’t ever read the new Ken Follett.” Bracing his hands on the arms of his chair, he got up. “Help me with this box. I want to put some family pictures around the place, since I’m planning to stay awhile.”

For his sake, she wished his family would get over itself and quit expecting George to head straight back to the city. Maybe now that Ross was here, he’d persuade the others to come.

The box turned out to be a time capsule of George’s life. He showed her a black-and-white shot of his family from the 1940s. “This was taken right here at Camp Kioga,” he said.

Even in the monochromatic photo, the place seemed like something out of a dream. The four of them were posed on a dock, and in the water was a sleek wooden Chris-Craft boat.

“I was about thirteen in this picture, and Charles was ten,” George continued.

“What a beautiful family,” said Claire. “I hope you were as happy as you look in this photo.”

“I suppose we were, a lot of the time.”

The mother was flawlessly groomed, in a waspwaisted dress and high-heeled sandals, which, oddly enough, did not look out of place on the dock. The father stood slightly behind her, his posture very correct.

“He lost his right arm in the first all-American air attack on Germany,” George said. “1942—he was a senior officer in the army air force. He was supposed to
be at a command post far from the action. But there was a shortage of personnel, and he went up with a bomber group.” George regarded the photo quietly. “That was not supposed to happen.”

“No one’s ever supposed to lose a limb,” Claire pointed out.

“He was awarded a Purple Heart and later a medal of honor.”

“You must have been proud of him,” said Claire.

“I never really knew him,” George said.

She heard regret in his voice. “Didn’t you tell me he took you and your brother to Yankees games? I bet you knew plenty about him.”

“In some ways, yes, I could tell you plenty. I could tell you how he traced his ancestry back to the Norman Conquest and that the first Bellamys came to the New World on King James’s business. I could tell you he was educated at Yale and expected both his sons to do the same. I could tell you he married an heiress who had even more money than he did. But I never really knew his heart.”