by Susan Wiggs
On the back of the snapshot, someone had written, “George Bellamy & Jane Gordon, Camp Kioga 1945.”
Seventeen
Avalon, Ulster County, New York
Summer 1955
Charles and George were fighting over possession of the car keys. They often argued over which brother got to drive the DeSoto, but George was usually the one to give in. As he secured the canvas covering after folding away the convertible top, he tossed Charles the keys. The Camp Kioga parking lot was hot and dry, and a ride into town with the top down would be a refreshing break.
“Mother wants us to pick up a pie to bring to the camp picnic,” George said. “You drive, and I’ll check out the scenery.”
A pair of girls—ponytailed, barelegged, in tennis whites—strolled past on their way to the tennis courts, and George followed them with his eyes. “I don’t mind a little sightseeing now and then.”
Charles took the wheel, driving with his elbow propped on the window frame and a grin on his face. “You go right ahead and flirt all you want,” he said good-naturedly. “Me, I’ll wait until the real thing comes along.”
“Life is too short to wait around for anything,” George declared. The breeze felt good on his face, and the air was sweet with the smells of summer—freshly cut grass, blooming flowers, the dry scent of the sun’s heat on the pavement. “Burn that Candle” by Bill Haley and His Comets was blaring from the radio as they passed beneath the main gate.
“Back at Camp Kioga at last,” Charles declared. “I can’t believe it’s been ten whole years.”
Time had flown by. It was the summer before George’s final year at Yale, and their mother had been struck by a wave of nostalgia. She wanted the whole family to return to Camp Kioga, vacationing together once again. This might be their last chance to spend summer as a family, she reasoned, because next year George would be on his own, a college grad, and the family would never be the same.
George didn’t take much convincing. He often thought about his boyhood summers here. So much drama packed into such a short time—a series of childish adventures had ended abruptly with the twin disasters of a young man’s tragic death and George’s affliction with polio. The summer after that, he’d finally come to grips with his illness and realized that the true limitation to healing was himself. Drawing on reserves of strength he didn’t know he had, George had fought his way back from the wheelchair to standing on his own two feet, more determined than ever to build a successful life.
Ten whole years. So many summers, stolen from him—from all the Bellamys, really—by polio. George’s rehabilitation took more time and energy than he ever could have imagined. When he’d demonstrated the will to walk again, his parents had left no stone unturned, seeking out the best clinics and programs for him. He’d gone to Warm Springs in Georgia, where FDR himself had spent some time. After V-E Day, they’d taken him to the famed Institut Fleurier, in the Neuchâtel canton of Switzerland.
The hard and painful work of restoring function to his legs consumed him. FDR had said that once you’d spent two years trying to wiggle one toe, everything is put in proportion. George could relate to that entirely. Now he could walk, if not run or dance or leap tall buildings in a single bound. He looked like any other fellow, so long as his trousers covered the mechanical brace on his right leg. His nurses and therapists claimed it was as good an outcome as could be expected.
Instead of Camp Kioga, the Bellamys had devoted their summers to George’s rehabilitation. He’d lost time in school, too, and ultimately found himself only a year ahead of his brother Charles at college. He told himself he didn’t mind, though he knew people compared the two brothers. George didn’t understand why that was. He and Charles were so very different. Charles was the athletic one, the playful one, the one who pulled pranks and danced with girls and didn’t seem the least bit shy about making a fool of himself.
George, on the other hand, was more serious and reflective. He carried on his boyhood habit of keeping a journal, and dedicated himself to his writing classes. Thanks to his many months in the Romandy region of Switzerland, he was fluent in French, and dreamed of being an overseas correspondent for a major newspaper.
But this summer, all four Bellamys were going back in search of something they’d left behind, or something they never really had to begin with—innocence, acceptance, simplicity. Camp Kioga offered that elusive promise; it was a place where everything seemed uncomplicated, bathed in golden sunlight, like a fondly remembered dream.
George often wondered about Jane Gordon, the frizzy-haired, knock-kneed girl who had made every day an adventure. He hadn’t run into her yet; they’d only been here a few days. He wondered if he’d even recognize her; she’d be all grown up by now.
He made a big production of checking the time, glancing at a Breitling watch that had been a gift from his Bellamy grandparents upon his high school graduation. When Grandfather had presented it to him, he’d looked George in the eye and said, “Make the family proud, son.”
Which, when it came to the Bellamys, meant go to the right school, move in the right circles, marry the right girl and live in the right neighborhood. It was a simple enough formula. Do all the right things and you’ll end up with a successful life.
According to Bellamy family tradition, both George and Charles were on track. They had attended Andover as boarding students, manfully leaving the nest and pretending not to be homesick. George in particular had stood out, managing to juggle his exercises with a rigorous course of study. Now the brothers were both at Yale, the alma mater of their father and grandfather.
Neither brother had yet found the girl he was meant to marry. Privately George found the girls he met at school mixers boring. Their flat personalities and studied mannerisms held no appeal for him. At the nightly dinner dances held at the main lodge of Camp Kioga, his mother would chide George. “I do wish you’d join in the dancing, really. I can see a half-dozen girls here who would love to cut a rug with you.”
He was always ready with a smooth answer. “Mother, I’m not the dancing type. I’ll let Charles do the honors.”
The fact was, George had never learned to dance. The last time he’d been on a dance floor, it had been right here at Camp Kioga. He’d held Jane Gordon in his lap while Charles pushed the chair, the three of them whirling together to the strains of a Guy Lombardo tune. He wondered if either of them remembered that moment as vividly as he had.
Once he’d recovered the ability to walk, he’d been disinclined to attempt dancing for any reason, even though it was considered one of the key social skills of a gentleman. He probably could have muddled his way through a couple of numbers, but he chose not to. Because above all other things, George Bellamy cared about appearances. He would rather avoid dancing altogether than risk looking bad in front of people.
His mother didn’t push too hard. She had suffered the fright of her life with George’s illness, and he knew she was so grateful for his recovery that she would never ask another thing of him.
Charles did enough dancing for both brothers, and he did it well. The jitterbug, the Lindy hop, all the fast and fun dances, were a good fit for his natural exuberance.
Millicent and Beatrice Darrow, two sisters from Boston, happened to be staying in the cottage next to the Bellamys, and George and Charles were expected to squire them around this summer. George thought they were a swell pair of girls, students at Yale’s sister school, Vassar College. Both young women had the handsome and vaguely horsey good looks that tended to be associated with fine New England breeding, and they spoke multiple languages with a broad, flat accent. As far as the Bellamys were concerned, the girls were a perfect match for their sons. George wasn’t so sure about that, but he had promised to bring them a cherry pie from the Sky River Bakery.
“Holy smokes, look at this stuff.” Charles practically fell to his knees in front of the display case, which was stocked with glazed crullers and berry tarts, pies and cakes and cookies.
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br /> The town bakery was crowded with folks provisioning for their weekend parties and picnics. Recently founded by an immigrant couple named the Majeskys, the place was already famous, thanks to the variety and quality of the goods.
“Jiminy Cricket,” someone said, the voice cutting through the others in the bakery, “I can never make up my mind about my favorite flavor.”
Something about that voice—its timbre or inflection—resonated deep inside George. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Scanning the crowd, he spotted a girl in a camp shirt and shorts, surrounded by a group of children. She wore the uniform of a Camp Kioga counselor, including the signature bandanna around her neck. The kids were all in camp uniforms, clustering around her or clamoring for baked goods. There was something in her laugh, some note or special tone, that resonated inside George like the plucked string of an instrument. He felt the sound all through him, which was kind of crazy; from where he stood, he couldn’t really see her face.
She stood in a glare of light streaming in through the shop window as though the sun itself had singled her out, yet other than that, there was nothing particularly extraordinary about her. She was of average height and build, maybe a little more curvy than average, curly dark red hair caught in a high ponytail. The shorts showed off a fine pair of legs.
He must have been staring hard enough for her to feel his curiosity. She paused in what she was doing, stood up straight and turned to face him directly.
He felt her regard like the beat of his own heart. The moment of recognition seemed to hit them both at the same time. Jane Gordon.
She’d changed in a hundred ways, but the things he remembered best about her were exactly the same—wide hazel eyes, a saddle of freckles across her nose and a broad, expressive mouth and ready smile. Everything about her was open with exuberance, just as it had been when they were kids.
In a matter of seconds, he understood what was missing from people like the Darrow girls and others his family deemed a good match for him. They lacked whatever it was Jane exuded, some kind of irrepressible spark that was instantly apparent to George.
And although he and Jane were strangers now, thanks to the passing of the years, they shared a moment, fraught with memories. He could see the recognition in her eyes.
He also sensed the spark of something new, something that hadn’t been there when they were young kids. Neither of them had spoken a word to each other across the crowded shop, yet George could have sworn the air crackled around them. Every instinct he possessed urged him to take action. Simple, direct action. He ought to walk over to Jane, to reacquaint himself with her…and ask her out.
He could tell she wanted him to. Despite the long absence, he sensed the invitation in her eyes, the openness of her smile.
The time wasn’t right, though. She was clearly busy with her young charges from Camp Kioga. He was on an errand and the bakery was jammed with people.
Life did not offer many moments like this—moments in which a single word or gesture might change everything. To let the opportunity pass would be to allow something special to slip through his fingers.
He took a tentative step toward her. A joint in his leg brace made the faintest creaking sound, unnoticeable except to him. Yet even that was enough to plant a kernel of doubt. What the devil was he going to say? “Hello, what are you doing for the rest of your life?” “Excuse me, but I think I’m falling in love with you?” Anything he might say would surely sound ridiculous. Besides, what would a lively girl like this want with a gimp like George?
“Ho-lee smokes,” said a voice behind George. “Save my place in line. There’s someone I have to talk to.”
With long, brash strides, Charles made his way through the crowd and went up to Jane. She looked momentarily nonplussed. And perhaps, just perhaps, she shot George a plea, as though she wanted him to be the one to approach her first, not Charles. That, of course, could always be in his imagination.
In truth, he would never know what she was thinking in those first moments. The only thing he knew for certain was that three lives were changed forever, right there in the crowded bakery.
“Who’da thunk it? I’m already half in love with Jane Gordon,” Charles declared as they gathered in the Fireside Lounge for drinks before dinner that night. His eyes sparkled with eager sentiment as he regarded George and his parents. “Do you believe in love at first sight? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to me.”
“Baloney.” George felt a cold rock of resentment in his chest. Once again, Charles had beaten him to the punch. This time, the stakes were much higher than a set of car keys. All afternoon, George had played and replayed the scene in his head. If he hadn’t second-guessed himself, if he’d ignored the encumbrance of the leg brace and acted a split second sooner, then he would be the one glowing with excitement, telling his parents he’d met a special girl.
“And to think she’s been living in New Haven all this time, and we never even knew,” Charles went on. George took a small, controlled sip of his highball.
“We don’t know any Gordons, do we?” their mother asked. “Still, that name sounds familiar. Are they staying at the resort?”
Charles laughed, his abundant blond hair gleaming in the glow of the candles on the table. “Here’s the crazy thing,” he declared with a grin of pure exuberance. “They’re not staying at the resort. They run the resort.”
With his typical blithe disregard for convention, Charles had chatted up Jane Gordon right there in the bakery, and learned that she spent most of the year in New Haven with her mother. Even a decade after losing her son in the war, Mrs. Gordon was still unwilling to live in Avalon, and Mr. Gordon insisted on staying and running the family business.
How odd, thought George, that the girl spent most of her time right in New Haven, yet they’d never run into her there. In his mind, he’d preserved the image of Jane as a skinny, funny-looking little girl with big teeth and laughing eyes. Now the ugly duckling had become a swan.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s why the name is familiar,” said their mother. “They’re just a local family.”
When he heard the pronouncement, George felt the knot in his chest unfurl. He no longer felt regret that he hadn’t approached her in the bakery; he felt relief. A local girl. Local was code for beneath us. Local meant a girl from the working class. A girl who didn’t fit in with the college set. Neither he nor Charles had any business getting romantic with her. He certainly wasn’t going to battle his brother for possession of her heart.
A romance with Jane Gordon would be doomed from the start, anyway. They had nothing in common. Once the initial attraction wore off, there would be nothing to sustain them. Perhaps that attitude was snobby or elitist, but he hadn’t made the rules.
Thanks to Charles, George had avoided a sticky situation. How awkward it would have been to flirt with her, perhaps make some overture, only to be rebuffed because he had a bad leg and didn’t fit into her world.
Yet as Charles went on and on about her—Jane Bonnie Gordon, a farmer’s daughter raised right here in Avalon—it dawned on George that his brother didn’t understand.
“Son,” their father said to Charles, “we don’t blame you for enjoying a little summer flirtation, but don’t make it into anything more than that.”
“Too late,” Charles said breezily. “It already is more than that.”
Their mother fanned herself. “Dear heaven, do you mean—”
“Of course not,” Charles said quickly. “We only found each other today. She’s swell, and you’re going to love her.”
“And where does she go to school?” Mrs. Bellamy asked pointedly.
“Jane’s not in school. She says her father’s barely getting by, trying to keep this place in the black. But I want you to understand, I’m going to ask her out, court her the way I would any other girl.”
“She’s not any other girl,” their father said in a low warning tone. “She’s not f
or a young man like you.”
“Don’t be a fuddy-duddy.” Charles laughed. “This is not the nineteenth century. We’re not in Bizet’s Carmen.”
The fact that he had brought up the opera—about a class struggle that had ensued when a cigar-factory girl fell for a powerful aristocrat—proved he understood on some level. Jane was completely wrong for either brother. The sooner Charles came to accept that reality, the sooner they could both move on.
George was frustrated to discover, though, that his heart refused to obey his mind. In spite of all good sense, he found himself thinking endlessly about those moments in the bakery. Those few seconds had been like a key in a lock, finally clicking into place. Why hadn’t he stepped forward? Why hadn’t he spoken up when he had a chance?
Because he was afraid. He hid behind the rules of society to avoid looking like a fool. It was not George’s favorite thing about himself.
“Oh, look who’s here,” said Mrs. Bellamy. “The Darrows will be joining us for dinner tonight.” She glided over to greet them, and within minutes, they were all sharing a large table, two handsome families, dressed to the nines. Dinner was a convivial affair as they discussed topics that ranged from Churchill’s resignation as prime minister to the introduction of the Salk vaccine for polio.
“What a blessing,” declared Millicent Darrow, the younger of the sisters. “How fortunate that we won’t have to worry about polio anymore.”
George polished off a glass of wine and changed the topic to the imminent opening of an amusement park called Disneyland, which promised to be all the rage in California. Then, to his relief, the women launched into a discussion of the overheated bestseller that was all the rage, Marjorie Morningstar.