The Summer Hideaway (17 page)

“I’m not having much luck. You want to give it a try?” He indicated the fly rod.

His sudden accommodating manner startled her. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I thought so, too,” he agreed, softening the statement with a grin. “Are you wearing waterproof sandals?”

She looked down at her KEENs. “Yes, but—”

“Let’s move over there.” He indicated a stony high spot on the other side of the rapids. “Grab my hand.”

She did so without thinking, because the rocky bottom was slippery and uneven. His arm was completely steady, though, and hard with muscle. The water felt delicious, cool and swift as it eddied around her ankles. She was going to like fishing, Claire decided. She was going to like fishing more than life itself.

It wasn’t as simple as it looked. He demonstrated the fluid motion of the rod and line, but her attempt was clumsy, and the beautiful little hand-tied fly was soon lost in the reeds on the opposite bank. “I’ll try to find it,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have more.”

“Are you sure?”

“In the grand scheme of things, losing a lure isn’t the end of the world. Granddad and I made some flies earlier today. It was like old times. He still ties the best knot I’ve ever seen. That’s the whole point of fishing—to leave worry behind.”

“I thought the point was to catch a fish.”

“Secondary,” he said, tying on another fly and demonstrating a graceful cast. “Fishing is all about connecting with nature, practicing an age-old art. Plus it’s a kick in the ass.”

“Give me that. I refuse to be defeated by a hook wearing a feather.” She tried again, this time plopping the fly down practically at their feet. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Here, you need to pull back…I’ll show you.” He positioned himself behind her, his arm slipping easily around her waist. His hand covered hers. “Draw back like this. Don’t try to kill it. Let the rod do the work.”

With his coaching, she managed to improve. Before long she sensed a live tug on the end of the line; it felt different from the clumsy snags she’d felt earlier. “Oh, no,” she said, “look, I’m getting a bite.”

“Easy now.” He spoke quietly, though his voice was taut with excitement. With unexpected delicacy, he cupped his hand around hers and helped her play the line. “You want to tease it along and then…there. It’s on the hook.”

“Really? Oh!” The fish fought, leaping in a fury of panic.

Ross showed her how to reel the thing in, then scooped it into a net. “It’s a beauty,” he declared, holding up the net.

She’d caught a rainbow trout, fat and shiny, curved into a gleaming U-shape in the net. Ross gently lifted it in one hand and eased the hook from its lip. “Barbless,” he said. “This kind of hook doesn’t do any harm. Want to say hello to your fish?”

She took it from him, trying not to flinch at the chill, slick feel of it. “Hello, fish.”

Ross took a picture with his cell phone. She winced at the flash, never happy about having her picture taken. “Now what?”

“Now we let it go.”

“I’m glad you said that. I wouldn’t want to eat it, after meeting it face-to-face.”

He bent down and lowered the trout into the clear water. “See you around,” he said, straightening up and turning to Claire.

“So that’s fishing.”

“That’s fishing. Catch and release.” He was still smiling, but the flicker of sadness in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Tell me about fishing with George,” she said.

“It was our thing, you know? Even before my father was killed, Granddad and I were close.” He tied on another fly. “So what’s your expert opinion, Nurse Turner? Is that going to make this easier or harder?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Ross was decompressing after two years of war, he’d lost his own father and now he had to deal with losing his grandfather. And in the midst of all this, George had some crazy idea that she and Ross…No.

“Give it another try,” he said.

“What?”

He held out the rod to her.

“Oh,” she said. “Sure.” She was glad to have something to occupy her hands. “Every family is different, as you can imagine. People who are close don’t have to struggle through unfinished business, because they’ve nurtured their bond over a lifetime. So in that sense, it’s easier. You focus on each other instead of dwelling on past regrets.”

“And in another sense?”

She found a rhythm and cast the line. This time it landed on the water, but nowhere near where she’d aimed it. “In another sense, losing someone you love with all your heart is the worst thing in the world.”

“It is,” he agreed. Two words, yet his voice reverberated with sadness.

“Your grandfather told me what happened to your father,” she said. “I’m sorry. You must miss him so much.”

“With all my heart,” he said. “That’s how I tend to be, I guess.”

The way he said it gave her chills. She hoped her fas
cination with him didn’t show. Fathers and sons, she thought.
Family.

Turning away, she said, “My aim is terrible. Tell me how to control my cast better.”

“Well,” he said, stepping up behind her again, “it all starts with your posture. Stay relaxed.” He slipped his arms around her again. With incredible patience, and an intimacy she hadn’t expected, he guided her through the movements. The pretext was wearing thin, and they both knew it.

She didn’t care. The cast was nothing. The only thing she could focus on was the sensation of being embraced from behind, even on the pretext of showing her how to throw the line. She reveled in the feel of his body pressed to hers, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the murmur of his voice in her ear. He felt so good. He smelled so good. It was all she could do to keep from turning around and kissing him on the mouth. The urge to do so was almost overwhelming. She wondered if he’d put her in this position by accident, or if this was a calculated maneuver.

“This was a mistake.” His voice was quiet, but resolute.

She tried to focus on the motion of the fly. “Look, I’m doing the best I can.”

“I’m not talking about the fishing.” He lowered his head, speaking softly into her ear. “It was a mistake to touch you like this.”

“Then we agree on something.” Story of my life, she thought. She would never be anything but someone’s mistake.

“What I mean is…damn. This feels so damn good. I haven’t held a woman in so long, Claire. You feel like a dream to me.”

The fishing pole dropped onto the stones. Either she turned, or he turned her in his arms; she couldn’t be certain. The next thing she knew, she was kissing him.

Just like that. Kissing a guy she barely knew, the grandson of her client. And she couldn’t stop. And somehow, he seemed to sense that she was starved for closeness. She didn’t have much experience with kissing, but she knew this was a good one. Better than good. World class. He was like that missing piece of a puzzle, now fitting perfectly in place, and his mouth was warm and soft, his arms a safe and gentle haven. She sensed real emotion from him; it seemed to radiate from his arms and even his breath as he gently explored her mouth with his. Maybe, freshly back from war, a soldier latched on to any human connection. Or maybe it was her. She wished she could ask him. She wished for so much.

Just that quickly, in a matter of seconds, he made her forget the world. This was the kind of thing she dreamed of, lying awake through so many sleepless nights when she felt so alone, she nearly came out of her skin.

It was the sweetest torture, this kiss. But it was torture, because in this single magical moment, she could taste everything she wanted but could never have.

Somehow she found the will to step back and extricate herself from his embrace. “Um, all right, then. Let’s stick with the fishing,” she suggested, trying for a light tone as she stooped to pick up the rod.

“Yeah, I kind of forgot about fishing for a minute there. I won’t apologize, though. I liked that way too much to apologize.”

She found herself wondering—was it better to have tasted something she could never have, or should she
have avoided it altogether, never knowing what she was missing? Too late now. She knew what it was like, and she knew that one kiss would haunt her. “We can’t…shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Funny, I was just thinking it was the best thing that’s happened to me since my discharge. Felt better than a three-day furlough. Kissing you…just for a few seconds, it made me feel normal.”

“Ross—”

“So do you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you if I had a boyfriend.”

“Good.”

“Why is it good?”

“Because…is the position open?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“Why not?”

“It’s…it’s complicated.”

“Fine, dumb it down for me.”

“I didn’t mean—Ross, I can’t talk about it.”

“Now I’m
really
hooked.”

Quick, she told herself. Think up a lie. She should have said she had a boyfriend. But there was something about Ross Bellamy. She didn’t want to hurt him, couldn’t bring herself to lie to him. Yet she couldn’t tell him the truth, either.

Why, oh why had she let this happen? Nothing but heartache could come of it. He was like a treat from the Sky River Bakery. Why tempt herself with something that was bad for her?

“I’ve got another fish on the line,” she said, giving it a tug.

“Don’t yank on it so hard,” Ross said, “or you’ll—”

“Oh. It jumped off. I pulled too hard.”

“It happens.”

“I think the lure is gone, too.” She reeled in the line. “It’s getting too dark to see, anyway.”

They picked up the gear and waded back to shore. He held her hand to steady her, and didn’t let go even as they walked along the pathway back to the cottage. The resort was illuminated by path lights and, like a fantasy, flickered with glimmering fireflies darting over the meadows and gardens. On the shore by the main lodge, the nightly campfire burned, and they could hear the muted sounds of other guests. Voices had a distant quality, adding to the sense of intimacy.

“So are things going to be awkward between us now?” Ross asked.

The man didn’t mince words. She wouldn’t, either. “Probably.”

After the dancing, George offered to drive Millicent Darrow back to her cabin in the electric cart.

“I’d rather go to your place,” she said.

He gave a burst of surprised laughter. “Your wish is my command.”

Ross and Claire were nowhere to be found. George hoped they were off somewhere together, getting to know one another.

“Thank you for putting up with me on the dance floor, Millie,” he said.

“You are not a terrible dancer. And you have the best cottage of the resort,” said Millicent Darrow. “The largest and most private.”

“Back in the fifties when we were here, this was the
boathouse. It’s been beautifully refurbished. Come on in, and I’ll show you.”

“Perhaps in a while.” She lifted her hair up off her neck. “It’s so warm tonight. Do you mind if I dangle my feet in the water?”

“My dear, you can dangle anything you want in the water.” The wine they’d sipped after dinner made him feel silly. It took so little these days.

“Fine, then I shall.” She stepped out of her sandals and slowly lowered herself at the end of the dock. “Ah, that feels delightful.”

He joined her, rolling up his trousers and sitting next to her. “Just like old times.”

“Better than old times. I was never one of the fast crowd. You know, the kids who stole beer and went skinny-dipping.”

“I can’t say the idea of stealing beer appeals,” he said. “But the skinny-dipping…”

“George Bellamy!”

“Don’t act so shocked.” Boldly he reached over and tugged at the sash of her dress. It was one of those light, flowy things anchored only by the sash, but he hesitated, to make sure this was what she wanted.

“I’m not shocked. At my age, I don’t shock easily.” She laughed, a bright unfettered sound that carried across the water. Then she stood up, leaving the dress pooled on the dock. George’s joints creaked as he levered himself up, but he was quick to shed his clothes. Then, hand in hand, they jumped in. The cool water felt like silk as it flowed over him.

They paddled around for a minute, and he loved the feeling of buoyancy and the sound of her breathing, in
soft gasps of delight. And he liked the idea that she didn’t know he was sick.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m
wonderful.
”

In the dark, he found her hand, pulled her closer and leaned in for a kiss. “Yes, you are.”

“I still remember you from all those years ago,” she said. “Goodness, I had such a crush on you. I desperately wanted you for my first husband.”

He chuckled. “You were always the blunt one.”

“Then I’ll be blunt again. I desperately want you…not for a husband, either.”

He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sometimes he had hallucinations, thanks to his condition. Was she a hallucination? No, she was right here, soft and cool against him. He could hear her soft gasps of breath, could feel the press of her mouth against his.

Like errant teenagers, they got out of the water and snatched up their clothes. In the cottage, he found a pair of thick terry-cloth bathrobes. He paused to hang a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and swallow a pill—just in case. The master bedroom was equipped with gas logs, and he lit a fire with one press of the remote.

“That’s lovely, George,” she said. “Everything’s lovely.”

He didn’t let himself think of failure, or the future, or anything but the moment. No, they weren’t young and strong and beautiful. They were both quite elderly and out of practice, but so willing and eager it made up for everything else. There was surprise and delight and a glow of pleasure that made him feel, just for a moment, as though he were flying.

R
oss decided to approach the brother in person, rather than calling first. He figured it would be harder for the guy—Charles—to turn him down to his face. Besides, and Ross couldn’t deny this, he was curious. He’d just found out about a whole unknown branch of the family; of course he was curious. And hopeful, too. Maybe the brother would give Granddad a reason to keep fighting for his life.

He checked the address again and drove through the tree-lined streets of Avalon. His mind wandered, as it seemed to every couple of minutes, to Claire Turner. Kissing her at the water’s edge had been filled with unexpected magic. He might tell himself she could be anyone; the first woman he kissed after reentering civilian life was bound to seem special. But he was drawn to her in a powerful way he couldn’t yet explain to himself.

He wasn’t supposed to like her. He’d vowed to Granddad he would never like her. But just as Granddad had predicted, she intrigued him. And yeah, she turned him on. Right or wrong, he was far from done with her.

With an effort of will, he forced himself to focus. Today’s task was about his grandfather.

Last night, after the fly-fishing, Ross and Claire had checked out the well-stocked library at Camp Kioga. Poring over scrapbooks and photo albums, they had learned quite a bit about Charles. In 1956, he’d married the daughter of the camp owner. The couple had divided their time between New York City and Avalon, raising four children—two boys and two girls. Charles and Jane had recently settled in Avalon full-time, having bought a home in town the year before.

The neighborhood was old and established, with nice but not-quite-ostentatious homes. There were front porches hung with potted flowers and sidewalks swept clean; the street was marked with Children at Play signs. From the outside, the house appeared to be a fine and comfortable abode, one that bore a plaque from the historical society, designating it a landmark. A small brass plate under the house number identified the name of the residents: Bellamy.

The name was not that unique, but it was a little disconcerting to consider that the strangers living here were his relatives. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and rang the bell.

Waited. Wished he could be anywhere but here, bracing himself for an awkward meeting. Wished the situation could be anything but what it was.

What the hell was he going to say? How did you phrase something like this? What did—

The door swung open. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

It was a kid, about high school age, with light hair and eyes, a Yankees T-shirt.

Ross hesitated. Maybe he had the wrong house. Except there was something weirdly, obliquely familiar about the boy. In the room beyond the foyer, a few others were playing Wii Golf on a flat-screen TV. Ross was familiar with video games of all sorts, having passed many an hour playing them overseas, racking up car thefts and bonus points between sorties and rescues.

“Hello,” said Ross. “I’m looking for Mr. Charles Bellamy. Is he in?”

“I’ll go see if I can find him,” said the boy.

At the same moment, a female voice called, “Max? Who is at the door?”

“Some guy for Granddad,” Max said over his shoulder.

Granddad
. Just like George’s grandchildren called him.

Behind the boy Ross could see a hall tree hung with hats and jackets, an umbrella stand and a table. The wall was lined with framed photographs of smiling subjects posing by the lake, or on a ski slope, or in some undefined setting that probably meant the world to them. These could be Ross’s aunts and uncles, his cousins.

An orange cat lay on the carpeted stairs, its front paws tucked under its chest, fluffy tail gently swishing back and forth. A white-haired woman came into the foyer, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She studied Ross curiously. “Yes?”

“I’ll go find Granddad.” Max headed down the hallway.

Ross caught himself maintaining a military bearing, there on the front porch. “Mrs. Bellamy?” he asked.

“Yes?” She tilted her head to one side, the light glinting off her eyeglasses. He wondered if she saw something in him. Did he look like Granddad? Some said he did.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. My name is Ross Bellamy. I’m George Bellamy’s grandson.”

The tea towel dropped from her hand. For a moment, her face went slack with surprise. Neither of them moved to pick up the towel. She touched the edge of the hall table as if to steady herself. Ross hadn’t really thought about what reaction to expect, but it probably wouldn’t have been this pained vulnerability. And something else. Fear? But the woman had nothing to fear.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quickly. “May I come in?”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, certainly. I’m Jane, by the way,” she said, though Ross had already guessed as much. She stepped aside. “Jane Bellamy. And yes, please, come in.”

Granddad had wondered aloud if Charles’s marriage had lasted. Apparently it had. Ross had often wished his grandfather’s marriage had worked out better. He and Jacqueline—Granny Jack, as Ross and his cousins called her—had lived an eventful, glamorous life. But losing their son had wounded them in hidden ways and sent them spiraling off in different directions, each trying to cope with a devastating grief.

Even though he’d been a kid himself at the time, and shell-shocked by his own grief, Ross had realized his grandparents’ marriage was deteriorating under the strain. They never got around to divorcing each other, but in the end, the two of them had led separate lives. The way she’d died with her lover had been a shock to everyone—except maybe Granddad.

“Let’s, er, let’s go in here where we can sit down.” Jane Bellamy gestured down a short hallway.

“Thank you.” Ross stooped to pick up the towel and handed it to her.

She led the way to a sunroom overlooking a broad,
well-kept backyard, away from the noise of the grandson’s Wii game. “So is George…has something happened?” She held herself very still as though bracing for bad news.

“Granddad’s in Avalon. He’s got a place up at the Camp Kioga resort.”

“My goodness. I should have guessed it. The assistant manager, Renée, mentioned a Mr. Bellamy had checked in. But I thought it was a coincidence. I never imagined George would come back. Never in a million years.”

“He’d like to see his brother, Charles,” said Ross.

“I just never imagined,” Jane said again.

Just then Ross’s grandfather stepped into the room. For a few disoriented seconds, Ross thought it actually was Granddad, tall and slender and gentlemanly, with thick white hair and blue eyes. “Imagine what?” he asked his wife. The voice was Granddad’s, too.

“This young man is Ross Bellamy,” Jane said. “He’s…George’s grandson.” Her voice changed as she spoke Granddad’s name.

Charles did not exhibit any of the fear or vulnerability his wife had shown, just a benign neutrality. “How do you do?” He offered Ross his hand.

“George would like to see you,” Jane added.

“When?” he asked bluntly.

“At your convenience, of course,” said Ross. “But soon, if possible.”

Charles’s mouth quirked momentarily into a smile. “All right, then. A visit from my brother George. He couldn’t have come here in person?”

“He didn’t want to disturb you, or put you on the spot.” Ross was wary of Jane’s silence and the guarded neutrality he observed in Charles. This was precisely
why his grandfather’s plan for the summer was such a bad idea. These people had the power to hurt Granddad. “He wanted you to have the opportunity to think it over.”

Jane and Charles regarded each other briefly. Jane looked away first, smoothing her hands down her apron. Although Granddad had characterized this as a dispute between brothers, Jane appeared to be the most agitated of all.

Charles either kept a poker face or he genuinely didn’t care. “What brought this about?” he asked. “Why now? And why would he come here?”

Granddad had admonished Ross not to beg. “But what the hell,” he’d said with a touch of dry humor, “go ahead and tell them I’m dying. No sense in holding back on the truth, and I’m not too proud to play the sympathy card.”

“My grandfather’s not well,” said Ross. And then, to his complete surprise and horror, a thick heat formed in his throat, a gathering of tears. From the moment he’d first received word of grandfather’s illness, Ross had not wept. And now, with a few short words uttered to a pair of strangers, he was about to lose it.

“Sorry,” he said, staring down at the floor and pushing his fists together hard. He forced himself to look at them. Get a grip.
Get a grip
.

Jane started to say something. Charles caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Charles looked so much like Granddad, Ross wanted to scream. It wasn’t fair that this younger brother got to be so vital and healthy, while Granddad suffered with a fatal disease.

Ross cleared his throat. “The prognosis isn’t good,”
he stated in a rush. “That’s the reason for the timing of this…request.”

The big orange cat came in, padding delicately around Ross’s ankles.

“Let me get you something to drink. I’ve got some lemonade in the fridge.” Jane seemed eager to do something.

“Thank you,” said Ross. “That sounds good.” He hoped he’d be able to keep it down; he felt sick to his stomach with unexpressed grief. It had been swelling inside him like a silent, invisible storm, and for some reason, it had chosen this moment to break the surface.

“We’re very sorry,” Charles said. “I can see this is a sad time for you. So George is…he’s not in the hospital, then.”

Ross shook his head. “For the moment, he’s doing all right. But…that’s temporary. He stopped treatment but I’m trying to persuade him to start again. So for that reason, I’m hoping you’ll agree to see him as soon as possible.”

Jane placed her open hand against her chest, like someone having a heart attack. Ross could see her struggling for composure. “I’ll just get those drinks,” she murmured, and hurried into the kitchen.

“If I could ask,” Charles said, “what did George tell you about me?”

“Frankly, sir, he never mentioned you until recently. Most people in the family weren’t aware he had a brother.” Ross pressed the tips of his fingers together. “To be honest, I’m not sure why he’s so adamant about seeing you. But there’s nothing I won’t do for my grandfather. I’m probably closer to him than I am to anyone else in my life. He’s just…he’s everything,” he repeated.

“I understand. There was a time when I felt the same way about George.”

Ross was surprised to hear something so honest and personal from Charles, who had been circumspect until now. “I’m sure my grandfather would like to talk to you about that.”

“And I feel likewise.”

Their gazes caught and held. Ross felt a terrible kind of relief in finding something in common with this stranger.

Jane returned with a tray of lemonade and cookies. “Feel likewise about what?” she asked.

“About my brother. I was just telling Ross here that I’d like to talk to George about times past. We went from being the closest of brothers to being strangers on different sides of the Atlantic,” said Charles. “This could be our one chance to figure out what went wrong, and perhaps even try to make it right.”

As Jane was leaning to set down her tray, one of the glasses toppled over. It landed with a bang on the antique cocktail table, ice cubes and pale liquid fanning across the surface, the glass shattering.

Both Ross and Charles stood up.

“Stay right there,” Jane said urgently. “It’s my mess, and I’ll clean it up. I need to blot that up before everything is ruined.”