by Susan Wiggs
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?
Seven
Ross 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. Remembe
r 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.”
“So now you know what your children and grandchildren need from you,” she pointed out.
He sat back, took off his glasses and polished them. “Suppose I show them who I really am, and they don’t like me?”
“Aw, George. It’s not your job to make them like you. It’s your job to be who you are.”
“Even if what I am is a cranky old bastard?”
“Even if,” she agreed. “However, you’re neither cranky nor a bastard.”
“Just old.” He chuckled as he took out two small boxes. One of them contained a few tarnished coins and an old-fashioned silver earring in the shape of a daisy. He gazed at the earring for a few seconds, then put it away. The other box was made of the unmistakable signature blue of Tiffany’s. He opened it, showing her a diamond ring.
Claire went nuts for it. �
�That’s the prettiest ring I’ve ever seen. Was it your wife’s?”
“No. I never had a chance to give it to the one it was bought for. That was back in 1956.” He handed over a leather-bound certificate. The ring was signed and numbered, certified as to color and clarity.
“Wow,” Claire said, “I hope it’s insured.”
He studied the ring, on its pristine cream-colored pillow. Maybe he’d tell her one day. “It’s never been worn,” he said, then put it with the other box.
She was dying to know more, but didn’t want to badger him. She picked up another framed picture and removed the tissue paper. “So who are these people?”
“That was taken at my youngest son’s wedding,” said George. “I brought it along because we were all so happy that day.”
It was a joyful photograph, with everyone dressed to the nines and smiling, some even laughing. She focused on a young, skinny Ross, whose broad grin was framed by those irresistible dimples, and found herself wishing she’d known that boy.
“That’s the French Riviera in the background,” George said. “Louis and Lola were married in Cap d’Antibes. Ah, what a day that was.”
“You’ll have to give me a who’s who,” she said. “Your wife is so pretty in this shot. When did she pass away?”
“It’s been ten years.” He paused. “There was…an accident.”
Claire hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m sorry.”
He gazed at the tall, elegant woman in the picture. “There was a treacherous road involved, and a large motorcycle. And an Italian lover—did I mention that?”
“Um, no.”
“She and her Italian lover, a man in his forties, went off the road on his motorcycle.”
Ouch, thought Claire. “I’m really sorry.”
“We were actually in talks about a divorce, but I ended up being widowed instead. I can’t say I was happy about that, but it would be a lie not to admit she saved me a great deal of trouble, she and Fabio.”