The Summer Hideaway (26 page)

A
wakening slowly, filled with the pleasurable fatigue of intense lovemaking, Ross reached out to gather Claire closer to him.

His arms came up empty. Where the hell was Claire?

Granddad—some emergency with Granddad.

Ross yanked on a pair of jeans and sprinted barefoot across the compound. His grandfather was sleeping peacefully. Maybe she went to the lodge to get coffee.

He returned to his cabin to grab a sweatshirt and put on some sneakers. At the main pavilion, there was morning coffee. There were resort guests in tennis whites and golfers heading out for the day. But no Claire.

The morning desk clerk said she’d requested a ride to the train station. She’d left only a verbal message that there was a personal emergency, and she wouldn’t be back. The early train had left more than an hour ago.

Thoroughly confused now, Ross wondered if he’d scared her off. It was possible. He’d had the shock of a lifetime when he’d discovered she was a virgin.
Was
. She was so
not
a virgin anymore, not after last night. He’d
been her first, which totally blew his mind. Maybe it blew her mind, too. Maybe she’d freaked out and gone…where? He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number. After a few rings, a generic voice-mail message greeted him. He hung up.

Then he called Natalie. When she’d come up for the baseball game, she said she hadn’t had time to look into Claire’s background. Maybe by now she had.

“I was wondering if you found out anything about Claire,” he said.

“Oh my God, you slept with her.”

Damn. How had she figured that out? “It gets worse. She took off. Pulled a classic disappearing act,” he said.

“Ross, I’m really sorry, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s not…I’m pretty sure she’s got a lot to hide. I was going to tell you at the baseball game, but…”

“Wait a minute. You knew at the game? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It didn’t seem right. You seemed so happy with her, Ross.”

“But she’s a liar.”

“I don’t know what she is. Just…maybe her being gone is for the best, you know.”

“I don’t know, Nat. I don’t know a damned thing.”

He found his grandfather on the porch, drinking a cup of tea and staring at the compartmentalized pillbox with his medications.

“Claire usually helps me with this,” he said, frowning in confusion.

“Claire’s gone,” said Ross. “She left word at the front
desk that she wouldn’t be back, and took the early train to the city. No explanation, no goodbye. Nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

“Funny you should say that.” Ross took the compartmentalized tray of pills and found the care notes on the chart. Every detail was documented with the time of day and Claire’s initials, and her signature at the bottom of each page.
C. Turner
. Until this moment, he’d never even seen her signature. It seemed strange that he never had. Last night, as he’d held her and whispered in her ear, he’d had the sense that he knew every single thing about her. Right.

“Why is it funny?” asked Granddad.

“Because when it comes down to it, we don’t really know what she’s like.” Ross gave his grandfather the same pills he’d had the day before and filled in the time on the chart. If Claire didn’t return, they’d need to find a replacement.

Last night, everything had been vivid and clear. The attraction that had been growing between them all summer had turned into even more than he’d hoped that it could. He’d fallen asleep with the certainty of holding his destiny in his arms. Right again.

“I thought I had her figured out, Granddad,” he said. “I was even starting to think I had
us
figured out.”

“Son, once you have a woman figured out, the fun is over. There’s nothing wrong with having more to discover.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the feeling she doesn’t want me or anybody to discover more about her. She gave me so damn little, now that I think about it. I should have asked for more.”

“Perhaps,” said Granddad. “Then again, perhaps she’s already told you everything you need to know.”

That she was quiet and thoughtful. Almost freakishly modest, devoted to her job, played a mean hand of pinochle and had a sly sense of humor. That she was vulnerable—yes. And cautious beyond all imagining. In a way, she reminded him of war refugees in Afghanistan, whose eyes were haunted by traumas they refused to talk about.

“What if she doesn’t come back?” he asked his grandfather.

“Then you go to her,” Granddad said simply.

“Like a stalker,” said Ross. “I don’t think so.” He was already coming to terms with losing her. It wasn’t right. They’d met under the most contrived of circumstances. Fresh out of the service and facing the loss of his grandfather, he’d been in no shape to take on an intense relationship.

“Baloney,” Granddad burst out. “Son, I’ve given you plenty of advice through the years, but if you’ve heard nothing else, please hear this. Don’t hesitate when you know something is right.”

“But—”

“Let me finish.” Granddad raised his hand, its tremor a grim reminder of his illness. “There are more opportunities lost to hesitation than I can say. Chances slip by while you’re standing there weighing your options or rationalizing choices or putting together a damn decision matrix. If your heart tells you something, who are you to argue? There is more wisdom in one beat of the human heart than in an entire think tank filled with brain matter.”

“Granddad, I appreciate what you’re saying, but Claire and I aren’t like that.”

“I’ve been watching you together. The two of you are
exactly like that.” He paused, gazing out at the scenery, aglow in the morning sun. “Powerful feelings tend to scare us,” he added. “And when we’re scared, we deny them. All I’m saying is, don’t let all the extraneous nonsense in your head distract you from that which was true.” He picked up his notebook, and a breeze wafted through the pages. “Believe me, I know whereof I speak.”

Ross noticed the left side of his grandfather’s face was pulled downward, and he was starting to slur his words. “Maybe you should lie down, take a nap.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he snapped. “And I’m not kidding about that. Look, I haven’t lived a perfect life. Far from it. I’d like to claim I’ve gained wisdom through the years, and maybe I have, but there’s really only one thing I can leave you with, and that’s this. Live. Just live your life. Quit worrying about what people will think, and fling yourself into things. Make mistakes. It’s amazing how much I missed because I was afraid to make a mistake. But if you realize you’re going to make mistakes no matter how careful you are, then maybe you’ll be less afraid.”

Afraid? Ross wondered if he was afraid.

“Do the things that matter,” Granddad continued. “I once spent a week of my life paving my driveway. The old one was a neighborhood eyesore, pitted and buckling from tree roots, and weeds were poking up through the cracks. So I spent an entire week supervising a crew of workers. I oversaw every aspect of the work, even dictating how the pavers were placed and the height of the shrubberies. Damn. I wish I had that week back,” he concluded. “I’d spend the time so differently. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t trade your life for crap that doesn’t matter.”

“I won’t forget,” Ross assured him.

George scowled at a half-read novel Claire had left on a table. “You already are forgetting.”

Ross reminded himself that no matter what his problem was with Claire, he had to stick by his grandfather. “You want to talk about what’s really bugging you?”

Granddad was quiet for such a long time, he thought he might have nodded off. Then he said, “It was Jane. The rift between me and Charles.”

“It was her fault?”

There was one beat of hesitation. Then he said firmly, “It was my fault. But Jane was…” He took a breath. “Charles and I were both in love with her. And of course, he was the brother who won her heart.”

“Why do you say ‘of course’?”

“Because he was always the decisive one. I tended to hesitate and analyze everything, asking myself how each hypothetical would play out. Charles, now, he was the reckless one, the plunger. He never questioned. He tended to feel something and then dive right in. Anyway, he fell for Jane and set about winning her heart. I fell for Jane and spun out the entire relationship in my head, concluding it would be a disaster. All I could think about was how different we were. I came from a background of privilege, and she was proudly working class. Our parents barely spoke the same language. None of this meant a thing to Charles, because he was an idealist. He believed that with enough love and commitment you can conquer the world.”

“And how about you, Granddad?”

“I was the cynic. I believed the world made a mockery of love and sincerity. By the time Jane proved me wrong, it was too late to matter. She already belonged to
Charles. There was a moment when I thought I might have a chance, but…but I was wrong.”

Again, a hesitation. A world of unexpressed thoughts lived inside that long silence.

“Granddad?”

“I simply don’t know where to start.”

“You’ve already started. You told me about coming here when you were a boy. And again when you were in college. I figured out from what you said that both you and your brother were sweet on Jane.”

“It was all so long ago.” His grandfather’s eyes turned misty with memories.

There was something he wasn’t saying. Ross couldn’t put his finger on what that might be.

George’s eyes were shut now. Ross got a blanket and gently laid it over his lap, to keep him warm when the shadows crowded in.

New Haven, Connecticut
Autumn 1955

I
n the journalism department at Yale, George was at the top of his class. He was known for his smarts. He’d made editor of the
Yale Daily News
, a campus paper that rivaled anything a college had ever produced. His colleagues on the paper called him Clark Kent because his investigative skills were legendary. His rivals called him “Clark Can’t” because he seemed to have no luck with the ladies.

There was a reason for that, but no one would ever know it. George had given the girl he loved to his brother.

That was how he came to think of the situation. How he would always think of it. No one else was aware of his sacrifice, because he kept the truth in the deepest, most secret corner of his heart. Yet George’s brother had no idea George had handed Charles his heart’s desire.

There was no point in discussing it. George didn’t want his sacrifice to be known. He wasn’t a candidate for
martyrdom. He was just seeking a way to escape into the future and stop dwelling on the past, stewing about things that might have been, if only he’d been more confident. More assertive. More willing to follow his heart.

Then again, he rationalized, a romance with Jane Gordon wouldn’t have gone anywhere, anyway. They came from different worlds and would have been destined to break each other’s hearts by summer’s end. So it was Charles, not George, who would suffer that heartache.

Their parents would probably never know of the drama and rivalry surrounding Jane Gordon. Contrary to their mother’s oft-expressed hopes, neither brother found himself tempted by the Darrow sisters. The Darrows and the Bellamys had harbored aspirations of a dynastic union between the families, but despite their best efforts, nothing materialized.

From time to time, someone would ask him why he was in such a lousy mood so much of the time, or why he didn’t throw himself wholeheartedly into the fun and challenge of his senior year at Yale.

Many seniors were melancholy, already regretting the end of their time at Yale. Not George. He couldn’t wait to be finished. To be gone. Because now, Jane Gordon was in the picture. It wasn’t enough that the past summer had been filled with her. She was in New Haven, too, living with relatives and looking after her mother. Even worse, George had heard she had a job on campus. It was amazing to him that he’d never encountered her before.

George was determined to create an amazing future for himself. In order to do that, he had to quit thinking about Jane Gordon. He had to pretend he felt nothing for her, and he had to stop wondering if she felt the same
way. They had never spoken of their feelings. He might be wrong. Might be making an assumption. Might be reading more into the situation than was actually there.

Except he wasn’t. There was a small, barely acknowledged part of him that knew the truth—something unspoken but powerful had sprung up between him and Jane. He knew this as surely as he knew the principles of objective journalism.

And so did she, though she’d never said a word about it. Her attraction to him couldn’t be seen or touched, but he felt it the way he felt the autumn rain on his shoulders as he crossed the campus between classes and seminars. Occasionally he wondered if he’d only imagined it. Then he’d remember the expression on her face, that night on the deck overlooking the lake, and he’d feel sure she was fighting an undeniable attraction as hard as he was.

George and Charles both belonged to different fraternities and different eating clubs at Yale. This was unorthodox within the same family, but the brothers instinctively felt the need to live separate lives. Their schedules rarely intersected, and Charles’s obsession with athletics kept him busy at the boathouse for rowing practice, the tennis courts or golf course. George was a member of the shooting club and did no other sports. He saw very little of his younger brother. He dared to hope that Charles had come to his senses and realized it was better for everyone concerned to stop seeing Jane Gordon.

At a mixer with Vassar early that fall, George had the first inkling that she was still in the picture. He was waiting his turn at the bar when he heard one of the Darrow girls—he often forgot which was which—speaking sotto voce. Clearly she didn’t realize George was nearby.

“Didn’t you hear?” she said. “Charles Bellamy is seeing some local girl—a townie. They say she works as a chambermaid at the provost’s residence.”

“That can’t be right,” another girl said. “Charles Bellamy? He would never…”

George had heard enough. With a stone-cold feeling in his stomach, he approached his brother the next day.

He found Charles hard at work—at the campus squash courts, lobbing his way to a victory over his best friend, Samuel Lightsey. It was a golden Indian summer day, the temperature reaching toward eighty. Despite the heat, autumn was in full regalia, the quadrangle carpeted with leaves that scrambled before the breeze.

Watching his brother—strong and athletic, his every move shaped by the grace of self-confidence—George could not stave off a feeling of envy. The polio had taken much from him, but what he regretted the most was the loss of speed and grace. Although more than a dozen years had passed since he’d been stricken, he could still remember what it felt like to run like the wind, to master any sport he attempted.

All of that had gone by the wayside. George did his best to not let it matter. Ultimately, though, regrets washed through him every time he encountered a physical challenge. He pulled back from anything that might show the world his weakness. The swimming pool therapy and the exercises that had gotten him out of the wheelchair only went so far. He was grateful enough to have regained the ability to walk. He wished he could find a way to keep himself from yearning for more.

It didn’t help to have a brother who was a natural and
effortless athlete, who dominated every sport he attempted. Charles never flaunted his prowess, but he didn’t hide it, either. He loved sports and challenges too much to pretend he wasn’t any good at them.

At the end of the match, Charles simply raised a fist in victory and then shook hands with his opponent. They noticed George watching from the sidelines, and Charles waved him over.

“Hiya, big brother. Just finished a match. You should have seen the way I schooled this fellow.”

“I’ll get you next time,” Samuel vowed. “Gotta bounce. Meeting my fiancée for dinner. Gwen doesn’t like me to be late.”

George sensed Samuel’s pride in his new status as a bridegroom-to-be. He had proposed to his sweetheart a couple of weeks before, and he’d been walking on air ever since.

Charles slung a towel around the back of his neck and found a seat in the shade. He took a long drink from a canteen and then offered it to George, who shook his head.

“Hey, Sam asked me to be his best man. How about that?” asked Charles.

“Terrific. Seems like guys are getting married left and right these days.”

“Seems that way.” Charles twirled his squash racket.

“I guess we Bellamy boys are late bloomers when it comes to girls,” George suggested. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” He didn’t want to have to repeat gossip, but he needed to figure out if there was any truth to the rumor.

“Well, now that you’ve brought it up,” said Charles,
“there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

George already did know. In some part of his mind, the news had already embedded itself. Asking for an explanation had been a mere formality. He sat very stiffly, keeping his face from giving anything away. “Go on,” he said.

“I got a girl,” Charles said. “The most wonderful girl in the world, and I’m going to ask her to be my wife.”

No
, thought George.
Don’t say it.

“It’s Jane Gordon.” Charles blushed and grinned.

George’s heart hit the pavement. His palms began to sweat, and his mouth went completely dry.

Charles didn’t seem to notice. “Remember, I started falling for her last summer at Camp Kioga,” he said. “She lives in New Haven, you know.”

George did know. “I heard she does some kind of domestic work,” he said dully.

“She keeps house for the school provost. I can’t wait for you to get to know her again, now that we’re all grown up. She’s swell, like she’s always been, ever since we were all kids. It’s only natural we’d fall in love.”

George shook his head. This sounded like a disaster in the making. “It won’t work, Charles. I know she’s…” An angel, he thought. A dream in the flesh. “…a nice girl. But it could never work.”

There was one beat of hesitation, long enough for George to realize Charles wasn’t completely naive about these things. But he held his ground. “We’ll make it work.”

“Mother and Father will never stand for it.”

“They’ll get used to the idea. Hell’s bells, all they have to do is get to know her and they will love her as much as I do.”

“You are delusional. This is our parents we’re talking about. They’d disown you before they’d stand for you marrying a—a chambermaid.” George tried to maintain a reasonable tone.

“Housekeeper. If they disown me for finding the girl I love,” Charles said stubbornly, “then they’re not the people I thought they were.”

“Don’t make them choose,” George warned his brother. “They’ll never forgive you.”

“That’s baloney.” But a note of worry crept into his voice.

“And what about her family?” George persisted. “They’re not going to approve, either. They wouldn’t want to see their daughter trying to fit into a family where she doesn’t belong.”

“She belongs with me. Damn it, George, we’re in love. Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong with two people being in love.”

“It’s not love,” George snapped. “You’re infatuated with each other. It’ll fade away—”

“It’ll last forever. I feel it in my bones. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Happy to see you marching straight into disaster?” George demanded. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.” As he spoke, he wondered if there was another reason for his objection, buried deep inside.

“What hurts is being apart from Jane,” Charles insisted. “Wait until you fall head over heels in love. Then you’ll understand.”

George crushed his hand into a fist, rubbed his bad leg hard. “Give it a rest, Charles. You are young. There’s no hurry.”

“That’s why we’re going to wait until next summer to get married.”

Married. Charles and Jane,
married
. “It’s not going to work.”

“It’s Jane, for God’s sake. We’ve known her forever. We were the Three Musketeers, remember? One for all and all for one.”

“We were kids, playing a game. This is life. Marriage isn’t a game. It’s playing for keeps. You’ll end up miserable. She’s a domestic, don’t you get that? She comes from nothing. She has no education, no refinements. She’ll drag you down—”

“Hell’s bells.” Charles glared at him. “At least I’m not a coward. You’re a cripple, George, but not in the way you think. You’re crippled by your own fears.”

George couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Go to hell,” he said.

“Say, you just got me all riled up, George. I was going to ask you to be my best man—”

“Don’t,” George warned him.

“I won’t,” Charles said. “And I don’t need your blessing. I’d like to have it, but I don’t need it.”

George was appalled by Charles’s plan. It felt wrong in too many ways to count. But Charles was determined; he forged recklessly ahead, picking out a date the following August, planning an open-air ceremony at Camp Kioga. The guy had stars in his eyes.

Maybe, thought George, it was Jane who would see reason. Yes. He would talk to Jane, make her see what a mistake this was.

He waited one evening outside the provost’s resi
dence. It was a cool autumn twilight, the sky heavy with unshed rain. Visitors, faculty and administrators came and went. Then he saw a janitor come around the side of the building and realized the hired help would use a different entrance. He went to the mews behind the row of grand houses and leaned up against an old carriage house that had been converted into a garage. A row of dustbins and garbage cans leaned against the building.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say to her; they hadn’t seen each other since closing day at camp last summer. He halfway talked himself out of approaching her. Then, just as the lights came on in the windows of the big white house, a few people exited through the back. No one seemed to notice him as they headed to the street.

He picked out Jane immediately: a slender girl in a dark dress, with an apron and a heavy-looking satchel. Although he didn’t want to feel it, his heart took a leap. She walked slowly, with a shuffling gait. He looked around, seeing students strolling between dining halls and libraries. In sharp contrast to Jane’s somber dress, they looked lively and fashionable in argyles and sweater sets.

“Jane,” he said, approaching her, trying not to limp.

“George!” Her face lit with a smile that made him catch his breath. “This is a surprise.”

He glanced around. Then he felt ashamed for feeling furtive. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I wanted to talk about, uh…” What an idiot. What a tongue-tied idiot.

She slowed her steps, tilted her head to one side. Something flickered in her face—recognition. Yearning. A tacit acknowledgment of the unspoken emotions that had flown between them last summer…before Charles had commandeered her attention.

George cleared his throat, battled his nervousness into submission.

“It’s about Charles,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. The wind plucked at her apron. The expression on her face indicated that she understood just what the issue was. “Then shouldn’t you be talking to Charles?”

“He won’t listen.”

She tossed her head and walked on, leaving the campus behind. George had no choice but to follow her. And a tiny part of him was willing to admit a twinge of curiosity about the way she lived, in a part of New Haven he’d never seen, despite his years as a student. The air smelled of rain, and the wind picked up, ripping dry leaves from the maples lining the streets. Within a few blocks, they came to a working-class neighborhood of nondescript buildings and row houses.