The Summer Hideaway (20 page)

She shook off the memory and dipped a long-handled plastic spoon into her cup, scooping up soft ice cream. She hadn’t had a root beer float or a French fry in years, and it felt completely decadent to indulge.

The moon came up, bathing everything in a bluish glow. “Look at that,” said Ross, leaning back in his seat. “Beautiful.
Clair de lune
—is that what you’re named after?”

“No,” she said. She was named after someone who had been deceased for twenty-five years, having appropriated the identity when she went underground. But of course, she couldn’t tell him that.

“What’s your family like?” he asked. “You never say much about yourself. Where do your parents live? What does your father do?”

“Abandons his family,” she said. “No, wait. That would mean he stuck around long enough to abandon me and my mom.” She looked away, lowered her head, in
stantly regretting what she’d just blurted out. The question had caught her off guard. “I don’t really have much in the way of family.”

She didn’t get asked about the topic. Didn’t let anyone get close enough to ask. “My mother died when I was young. I had a series of foster parents, and have been on my own since…high school.”

“Damn,” he said softly. “That’s rough, Claire. I had no idea.”

“I’m all right,” she said, wishing she could say more. She hoped he wouldn’t dig deeper, yet at the same time, a part of her wanted him to. She wanted to tell him everything about herself. The trouble with being in her situation was the constant battle to stay silent about things that truly mattered. “Sorry, but I don’t really like talking about it,” she said. “I didn’t grow up with many opportunities to do things like this. Summers on the lake, sailing and fishing…it’s like a dream.”

“So how did you spend your summers?” he asked.

“I watched a lot of TV. My entire understanding of summer camp came from teen slasher movies.”

“No wonder you like this better.”

He had no idea. Her mother had been an only child, and had virtually nothing to say about her parents. Claire remembered asking her mother about this once. She’d been in third grade, and had brought home a flyer from school about Grandparents’ Day.

“Not going to happen, baby girl,” her mother had said, tossing the flyer in the kitchen garbage. “Like I always tell you, your grandparents aren’t around. It’s just you and me against the world.” It was the only explanation Claire would ever get.

“You don’t talk about yourself much, either,” she said to Ross, determined to deflect further questions.

“Sure I do.”

“Liar.”

“Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

“Okay, when you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

He thought for a minute, going back to the kid he’d been. “Everything,” he admitted. “A ski racer, a rock star, a fireman, a Formula One driver, a spy and a rocket scientist.” He paused and added, “An uncle. I really liked my uncles and wanted a bunch of nieces and nephews. It’s tricky, though, when you’re an only child. I tended to be drawn to things that were hard or impossible. Wonder what that says about me.”

“That you’re a big dreamer,” she said. “It’s no crime.”

“When I was sixteen years old, my mother sent me to H.E.L.—the Human Engineering Laboratory. I’m sure the irony of the initials completely escaped the folks who ran the facility.”

She frowned. “Sounds scary.”

“It was a program meant to help kids figure out their affinities and aptitudes. They subjected us to a battery of tests, the idea being that if we knew what we were good at, we’d be better prepared to face the Real World.”

“Did it indicate you’d be a good helicopter pilot?”

“I honestly don’t remember.” He scooped a bit of ice cream out of his float.

They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the chorus of chirping frogs and watching the stars come out. It was incredibly relaxing, sitting with Ross Bellamy,
eating a decadent meal and escaping the world, just for a while. “This is a great spot,” she said.

“Reminds me of the kind of place where people go to park and make out.”

She nearly choked on a French fry. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late. I’ve been having ideas about you all evening.”

“Bad idea.” She set aside her dinner, her appetite gone. Just once, she would love to explore the suggestion she read in his eyes, indulge the desire that seemed to warm every inch of her.

“On the contrary, it felt like the best idea I’ve had in a long time. Kissing you—”

“Shouldn’t have happened. It was unprofessional of me. I’m here for your grandfather and nothing more.”

“But if something more happens…?”

“Trust me, it won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we won’t let it. People shouldn’t get emotionally involved in a situation like this. It’s…It just doesn’t make sense.”

“When does love ever make sense?”

“Who said anything about love?”

“I just did.” Ross laughed. “You’re looking at me like I’ve got frogs coming out of my mouth.”

Claire was inept at flirting, and it never led anywhere good. “Frogs, I can deal with. Flirting, not so much.”

“Did you know my grandfather picked you because he thought I’d like you?”

“Nonsense.” Yet she couldn’t help remembering how adamant George had been about Natalie Sweet not being Ross’s girlfriend.

“Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

“Why would he do something like that?”

“He’s worried about me. Wants me to settle down, have a family.”

Now it was Claire’s turn to laugh. “With me? In that case, I’m sure he knows he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

“And why is that?”

She countered with another question. “Why is this so important to him?”

“He doesn’t want me to be alone.”

“And what do you want?”

“I want to make out.”

Of course he did. He was a
guy
. “Ross.”

“Just being honest.”

She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her back against the car door. “You were the first person your grandfather told me about after he hired me.”

“I suspect because I’ve given him the most to worry about.” He pinched the bridge of his nose; his voice was anguished as he said, “Christ, I wish I’d spent the past two years with him instead of in a war zone.”

“He’d hate to hear you talking like that,” she pointed out.

“That’s why I’m telling you, not him.”

“You can tell me anything you want, Ross.” She had an urge to touch him, but instead tucked her hands between her knees.

Ross stared straight ahead, though she sensed he wasn’t seeing the moonlit curves of the distant hills. “He’s the true North in my life. Always has been, but particularly since I lost my dad. I figured he’d quit worrying about me now that I’m out of the army, but now he’s decided to worry about my future.”

“Because he cares about you so much,” she stated.

He set his cup in the drink holder and grew thoughtful. “He’s right about one thing. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’m so damned ready to start a new chapter now that I’m back. Have a family of my own, make a life somewhere quiet and safe. After what I saw over there, I…it’s all that matters.”

It felt achingly intimate, getting a glimpse of his dreams. She could listen to him all night. Yet at the same time, she wanted to ask him what would happen if he discovered he wasn’t able to have those things. Would he curl up and die? Or keep moving, avoiding attachments?

Finally he relaxed and turned to her with a grin. “First things first—how about we work on getting a date. Does this count as a date?”

She laughed, pretending she found his question amusing. “Yeah, sure.” Flustered, she checked her mobile phone and the monitor receiver, to make sure she hadn’t missed a message from George.

“Everything okay?” asked Ross.

“No news is good news,” she said.

“How did you end up picking this sort of nursing, anyway? Ushering people out of this life? Is it something you grew up dreaming of?”

“Very funny. Sure, every little girl dreams of growing up to help people die.”

“Then what’s the appeal?”

“
Appeal
isn’t exactly the word. It’s more like a…calling. That suits me. Work that matters, and work that needs to be done well, and with love. I can love my patients with all my heart,” she said. “I love them for as long as they have. And then I let them go and move on.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said. “How can you stand it?”

“I just do.” She paused, realizing her voice had turned rough with emotion. She did have a passion for her work, but she wasn’t used to discussing it with anyone. Ross was so dangerously easy to talk to. “This area is something I found when I was doing practical training. It was easy to be drawn to the really gratifying areas—taking care of babies, clinical work, the E.R.—patching people up and sending them back to their lives none the worse for the wear. I liked those specialties. They were easy to like. Then I looked deeper at the work and at myself, and I realized nursing is a very nuanced profession, with so many ways of helping people. I learned that helping doesn’t always mean curing. Sometimes it means doing whatever will help the patient to find comfort and closure. We talked a lot in our classes and evals about what constitutes a good death. It made for interesting discussions, but nobody really knows the answer.”

“Congratulations, Miss Turner,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “You win the round for which one of us is the better bullshit artist.”

She didn’t react other than to tilt her head to one side and regard him with a quizzical expression. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m going to make a prediction,” he said. “One of these days, you’ll show me who you truly are.”

The way he said it gave her chills. No one had ever talked to her like this before, and she didn’t quite know what to make of him. “Are you accusing me of hiding something?”

“It’s not an accusation. Just an observation. Feel free to prove me wrong anytime you want.”

When Claire and Ross got home, Charles and Jane were just getting ready to leave. Claire thought George’s coloring was off, but maybe that was the wine. He was smiling and relaxed, so she said nothing.

“It was wonderful,” Jane was saying to Ross. “Thank you for bringing us together.”

Ross nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

Claire felt an echo of the warm buzz of attraction that had swirled through her all evening. Ross Bellamy was like a heady, dangerous drug.

“We have some big plans,” said Charles. “There’s going to be a family reunion.”

“A fabulous one, right here at Camp Kioga,” Jane added, bubbling over with a sense of mission. “I’m going to arrange everything—George’s family and ours, all of us together here.”

Claire shot a glance at Ross. His smile looked a bit strained. “Are you up for something like that, Granddad?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” said George. He seemed pleased but tired. “If anyone can put something together on short notice, Jane can.”

“We left a family album here so you can look at it, Ross,” said Jane.

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

“Good night, George,” said Charles. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” He held the door for his wife, and they left, Jane chattering away, already planning.

“It was a fine evening—harder in the anticipation than
in the actual doing,” George said, his voice a bit wistful. “Charles and I were rivals in so many ways. It all seems quite foolish now.”

“You sure you’re okay with a big family reunion?” Ross asked again. “You’re not just agreeing to make them happy?”

“It’s precisely what I want,” George said. “A chance to meet their children and grandchildren. I always wondered about him. Them.” He frowned, rubbed his temples. “Help me to bed, will you, son?”

Apprehension sharpened Ross’s features as he glanced at Claire. She tried to look reassuring as she said, “Good idea. I’ll get your meds, George.” She took her time, hearing their murmured conversation. She hoped they weren’t talking about her. Dear God, no.

When she rejoined them, George was propped up in bed, paging through the photo album his brother had left for him. It was overstuffed with pictures in black and white, fading Kodachrome snapshots, Polaroids that had gone rusty at the edges and a number of printouts from modern digital cameras.

George was focused on a shot of Charles in a military uniform, surrounded by his wife and four kids.

“Granddad?” Ross said softly.

George blew his nose. “I’m sorry I missed all these years of my brother’s life.” Then he waved a hand impatiently. “Enough regrets. I’m feeling tired. I’ll be better in the morning. Dim the light, would you? It’s too bright.”

“Here you go.” Claire handed him a small cup of pills and a glass of water.

He swallowed the pills, then made a shooing motion
with his hands. “No more hovering. It’s early. Go back to your date.”

“We weren’t on a date,” she said, not looking at Ross.

“Then you’re idiots, both of you. Any fool can see you’re attracted to one another. Even my brother noticed. Go away. Let an old man get some rest.”

They left the room, and Claire went to the kitchen to get started on the dishes.

“Leave that,” Ross said. “The catering staff will do it in the morning.”

“Do you know how foreign that sounds—‘catering staff’?” She’d never even stayed in a place with room service.

“It’s a Mohawk word for ‘get your sweet ass over here and hang out with me some more.’”

Heat flared in her belly. “I think you’d better go.”

“Whatever you say.” But instead of heading for the door, he crossed the room and gently trapped her against the counter.

She put her hands on his arms, but she didn’t push him away. He felt so strong, so…safe. And then he kissed her, first with a tender touch of his lips and then pressing harder, tasting her with an intimacy that made her dizzy.

After a moment, she managed to pull back. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Kissing you good-night,”

“You can’t kiss me good-night.”

“I just did. I feel like doing it again.”

“Stop it, Ross. I mean it. There are so many ways this is wrong—”