The Summer Hideaway

by Susan Wiggs

  “Well, for one thing, you might want to do it before you jump out of a plane,” Claire suggested, and caught a glare from Ross. “I’m just saying.”

  George let loose with his big laugh, the one that crescendoed and tapered in a way that was impossible to resist. “But seriously,” he said, “jumping out of an airplane might prove to be easier than having a reunion with my brother.” His laughter subsided, and his voice grew quiet. “It’s time,” he said.

  She felt a chill creep over her skin. She didn’t look at Ross, not wanting him to see her concern. Many patients had a very keen sense of the progress of their illness, and their urgency sometimes came from a place of deep knowing, a place no doctor’s test could reveal.

  “What do you mean, she’s not coming to dinner with us?” George asked Ross as they made their way to the main pavilion that evening. “Was it something I said?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Was it something you said?”

  Probably, thought Ross. He’d been borderline rude to Claire all day. He was torn between feeling grateful for her compassion toward his grandfather, and resentful of her insistence on letting Granddad choose to forego treatment for his illness.

  “She wanted to give us time alone together,” Ross explained, because that was simpler. “That’s what she said, anyway.”

  “Pull over,” Granddad said. “Right here, pull over.”

  Ross stopped the golf cart at the side of the trail. “We’re not going back for her.”

  His grandfather waved a hand in impatience and got out of the cart. There was a colorful flower garden nearby, with a bed of lilies surrounding a small stone marker. Ross saw that it was engraved with Stuart Gordon’s name and life span, 1926–1944.

  Now that he knew a little more Bellamy family history, Ross was beginning to understand his grandfather’s emotional ties to this place. The marker read, “We will never forget the love you gave to us. God alone can tell how much you are missed.”

  The same words could be said of Ross’s father, and every other soldier who’d served his country. Granddad stooped down and plucked a couple of white flowers. It made a strangely beautiful picture, an old man picking flowers in the golden light. The sun’s rays shone through his almost translucent hair, giving him a peculiar glow. Just for a moment, Ross had a vision of his grandfather in another time, younger and more hearty, at the Tuileries gardens in Paris, grinning as he reached past the pas de prendre les fleurs sign and helped himself to a carnation.

  “A gentleman is never fully dressed without a boutonniere,” George declared as he climbed back in the golf cart. “You never know who you’re going to meet, so it’s best to be prepared.”

  Ross pulled the flower stem through a buttonhole of Granddad’s lapel. He held a smile in place even though he wanted to break down and cry. Holy crap, he thought. Holy crap, Granddad, don’t leave me.

  Hiding his grief and fear, he said, “You’ve been giving me that same advice for years. So far, nothing’s panned out.”

  “No reason to stop trying.” George reached out to affix Ross’s flower, the way he used to when Ross was a geeky kid. His hand shook, and Ross had to guide it to the buttonhole.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aside from this brain tumor, I’m fine.” His voice was bright with irony. “One of my meds causes the tremors. Don’t worry about it.”

  Right, thought Ross. I won’t worry.

  George settled back on the seat. “Claire likes picking flowers,” he said. “This morning, she put a few in a juice glass on the breakfast table. Something tells me the two of you are going to get on very nicely.”

  Ross’s gaze flicked to the ever-present buzzer. “Granddad—”

  “No, hear me out. I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but if something needs saying, I’m damn well going to say it.”

  “How is that different from the way you’ve always talked to me?” asked Ross.

  “I’m simply going to level with you. You’re not meant to be alone, Ross. You’re meant to find someone special.”

  “Then don’t shove some stranger at me.”

  “She won’t stay a stranger for long, if you keep an open mind and open heart. You might even fall in love. You’ve never done so, and I think you’d enjoy it.”

  Ross threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh. It felt almost normal. “Sure, Granddad. I’ll get right on that.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

  “It’s one of the things on my list,” said George.

  Ross paused. “I’m starting to get an attitude about this list.”

  “It’s essential. I want to make sure I don’t leave anything undone, if I can help it.”

  “Fine, but it’s your list. I’ve got no business being on it,” Ross said.

  “I’d like to see you settled into the life you deserve. It would bring me a great sense of peace.”

  Granddad could be a manipulative old dude when he wanted to. “I’ll work on it,” said Ross. “Just bear in mind, if and when I find someone, it’s not likely to be a nurse you hired through a personals ad.”

  Ross parked near the lodge and headed inside with his grandfather. He didn’t really care about his own future. What mattered to him was getting his grandfather to listen to reason. In that regard, maybe the meeting with the brother could serve a purpose. The sooner the two old men decided to bury the hatchet, the sooner Ross could work on getting George back to the city and checked in to the hospital to fight for his life. Maybe, he thought, the brother would help convince George to keep trying.

  He caught a glimpse of the two of them in the glass doors of the dining room, and was struck by the sight of himself in civilian clothes. He still wasn’t used to that. “You were right about the flowers,” he said, giving his grandfather a thumbs-up sign. “We look good.”

  They were seated at a table with a view. Nearby sat an older lady with a younger couple. The moment she saw George, she patted her hair and sat up a little straighter. Granddad brought Ross over and introduced them. “Miss Millicent Darrow,” he said with a flourish. “Millie, this is my grandson, Ross.”

  Granddad had already made a friend here. Was it something in the water?

  The white-haired, well-dressed lady beamed at them. “He’s as handsome as you, George,” she said.

  Granddad seemed to glow with pride. And there was no denying he seemed to hold himself a little straighter, his shoulders squared, under her regard. As they took their seats again, Ross leaned forward and murmured, “She’s sweet on you.”

  “I believe the feeling’s mutual. She and I might be living proof that romance knows no age barriers. And I might try the filet for dinner tonight,” George said. “Stayed away from red meat for years, and now I find I enjoy living dangerously.”

  At the next table, Miss Darrow tilted her wineglass in his direction. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Claire was startled to see Ross approaching the cottage, alone and on foot later that evening. She hurried outside and was even more surprised to see that he’d changed out of his dinner clothes and was draped in fly-fishing gear. He looked impossibly cute in khaki utility shorts, a T-shirt under a vest with dozens of pockets, and a hat that should have looked funny but somehow looked sexy instead.

  “Where’s George?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

  “Dancing with some woman. He said to tell you thanks for showing him some dance moves.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” He seemed to read her mind. “And don’t worry, she’s staying at the resort, and she has my number and yours.”

  The idea of George with a lady pleased Claire utterly. “So is this someone he just met?”

  “He knew her years ago,” Ross said. “Her name’s Millicent Darrow. Apparently they both vacationed here with their families in the fifties. Since this place reopened as a resort, a lot of the old families have c
ome back.”

  “Millicent Darrow,” Claire said. “That’s a classy-sounding name. She and your grandfather must have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “So it seems.” Ross ducked his head, but she caught the flash of a rare grin. He had an amazing smile. “All I know is, he told me to make myself scarce and he’d call one of us if he needed anything.”

  “Well, I guess…I’ll wait up for him,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

  Ross studied her for a moment, making her feel even more awkward. “You want to join me? I was going to try a little fly-fishing.”

  She glanced at the sky, deepening with sunset. “Um, now?”

  “Twilight until dark is the best time for it,” he said. “Come on, I’ve got all the gear we need.”

  “Really?” The prospect of fly-fishing sounded ridiculously appealing to Claire.

  “Sure.”

  He must have had the happy plate special at dinner tonight, she thought.

  They hiked a short distance along the lakeshore. It was another gorgeous evening, the scenery lovely enough to cause a sweet ache in her chest. She’d never known this quality of peace and quiet, so complete and all-pervasive. The lake was flat and glassy in the twilight, the water disturbed only by the occasional flicker of an insect or water bird.

  They came to a waterfall pouring down a narrow gorge to a stream that emptied into the lake. “Over here,” said Ross, moving to the reeds at the bank of the stream. “Ever been fishing?”

  “Never.” She could feel a light spray from the waterfall on her face. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m starting to see why my grandfather wanted to come to this place. It’s like going to heaven.” He paused. “And that might be a damned poor choice of words.”

  She smiled. “I bet he’d disagree. He and Millicent Darrow might even be there now.”

  “Okay, not that I needed that picture in my head—”

  “I was referring to the dancing,” she said.

  “I wasn’t,” he said. “Come on, let’s see if I remember how this is done.”

  She followed him to the edge of the stream. The equipment was minimal—a rod and reel, lead and line—and the concept deceptively simple. She watched him for a bit, intrigued by the motion of the pole and the graceful dance of the translucent line upon the water as he aimed for the still, shadowy places behind the jutting rocks, where a fish might hide.

  “I’ve never seen someone fly-fishing before,” she said, entranced by the featherlight sweep of the lure on the end of the line. “Not in person, anyway. But in pictures and movies.”

  “Let me guess,” said Ross. “A River Runs Through It.”

  She nodded. “I love that movie.” She’d always been drawn to films and books about families. It was the source of much of what she knew about family life. Her favorite had been The Cosby Show reruns. In her dreams, she got to be part of a family like that.

  “The scenery was nice,” he said, casting into the shadows again, “except I’m not a big fan of death and dying in movies.” He kept up the graceful rhythm of casting, the rod and line singing in the air and creating a black slash of motion in the deepening twilight.

  “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 wor
ld.”

  “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 fascination 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.