The Summer Hideaway

by Susan Wiggs

  “No problem.”

  When he saw the way she was staring at his bare chest, he forgave her completely. And then he left his shirt off for a while. He hadn’t taken his shirt off for a woman since getting a wound checked out after that last firefight. This felt totally different, even though she was a nurse. Her expression was anything but nurselike.

  “Okay, you can help me seat the mast,” he told her.

  “You’re going to have to tell me what to do.”

  “Try to keep your balance,” he said. “I’ll hold up the mast, and you guide it to that hole right there, in the bow. Watch your fingers.”

  She was nimble and cooperative, and he felt himself relaxing in spite of himself. In short order, they’d lowered the boom and raised the sail. Shading her eyes, she gazed up at it, her face lit with a sense of accomplishment. Ross regarded her for a long, quiet moment. He was crazy about her face, her eyes. He didn’t want to be, even though it had been Granddad’s plan all along. But sometimes, in unguarded moments, he could imagine her being everything to him. Damn.

  As if she felt his gaze, she lowered her hand and looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just checking you out and having a sex fantasy about you.”

  “Ross.”

  “I know, I’m a jerk. So sue me.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.” Her cheeks lit with a blush, which pleased him inordinately. She turned away. “How about you show me how to…I don’t know. Batten the hatches. Rig up the lines.”

  Okay, so she didn’t want to flirt with him. He showed her how to rig up the lines, then sent her to get his grandfather. Granddad looked remarkably the same as he had long ago, in his Top-Siders and V-neck cardigan and a frayed hat he’d owned for years. “Everything shipshape, Skipper?” he asked with a grin. Claire helped him with his life vest. Ross dropped the centerboard, cast off the lines and shoved away from the dock. A light breeze caught the sail, tugging the small boat gently toward the middle of the lake.

  Manning the tiller, his grandfather gave the rudder a few good sculling pumps, with Claire providing the muscle to his direction until they found a good point of sail.

  She looked completely thrilled. “Are we sailing yet?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

  “We’re sailing,” said Granddad. “You’ll want to sit up on the rail when it starts to heel.”

  “Any second now.” Ross motioned her to his side. Almost on cue, the boat heeled. Bracing an arm behind her, he showed her how to counterbalance the motion. “Careful there. A boat like this wants to throw you in the water if you don’t balance it out.”

  Her nearness felt good, her warm, bare shoulder pressed next to his. Her dark hair fluttered softly against his jaw, and its floral scent surrounded him. He let the simple pleasure of the moment fill him up. Instead of wishing he could get his grandfather back to more tests and treatments, he simply surrendered, just the way Granddad wanted him to. Sunshine on the water, a breeze in the sail, Claire beside him, Granddad’s ringing laughter, the sweet trickle of water under the hull.

  “Sailing is awesome,” Claire said. “I had no idea. It’s exhilarating and relaxing at the same time.” She beamed at George. “This was a treat.”

  All in all, it was a golden day, filled with moments Ross hoped he’d never forget—his grandfather, in his funny Gilligan hat, his face lifted to the summer sky. And Claire, her eyes filled with wonder as she experienced sailing for the first time.

  But when they moored the boat to the dock, Ross could tell his grandfather was tired. “I’m going to lie down for a bit,” George said.

  “I’ll help you,” Ross offered.

  A vase of freshly cut lilacs stood on a table, their scent wafting on the breeze. The lake was bright blue, reflecting its ring of willow trees at the edges. Granddad took off his deck shoes and settled back on the bed, letting out a sigh.

  “You all right?” asked Ross. “Warm enough?”

  “Just right,” Granddad said. “Thank you for today.”

  “Are you kidding? I always liked sailing with you. I was six years old when you first took me out. We sailed until dark that day, remember?”

  Granddad nodded, though his eyelids drooped with fatigue. “You asked me where heaven was. And my answer’s still the same. Right here, my boy. Right here with you.”

  Claire watched Ross leave the house and walk to the end of the dock, lowering the boat’s sail and zipping it away in the hull. She would have approached him and offered to help, but she could tell, even from a distance, that he was crying.

  As a nurse, she often faced the balancing act of giving a family member what he needed, and allowing him the privacy to reflect, grieve, fall apart and then pull himself together. Grief had a pace of its own, as individual as each person and as deep as each loss. She would never be hardened to people’s grief, but it was familiar to her. Expected. Anticipated, even.

  Yet watching Ross—big shaking shoulders, big clenched fists—she felt a fresh twist of sympathy. She cared about him so much; it hurt to see him hurting. Until now, she’d been able to detach herself from other people’s pain, yet Ross was different. Ross mattered far too much to her. The approach she’d used in the past wasn’t working here. She was supposed to maintain that professional distance. Instead an intimate bond was forming with this man, almost against her will.

  She very much feared she was falling in love.

  Books and movies depicted the event as joyous, the start to a lifetime of happiness. In Claire’s case, it marked a new roadblock. She needed to find a way around this situation.

  Whoever had coined the term falling in love had been spot-on. There was that same sense of momentary weightlessness that came from a fall, and the same inevitability. A fall was something that couldn’t be stopped or even reversed. And when you landed, pain was involved.

  Twenty

  Over the next several days, the rest of George’s family arrived—his son Gerard from Cape Town and Louis from Tokyo, along with their attendant spouses and children.

  They came to Camp Kioga like vassals summoned by a monarch, with George ensconced in a big armchair in the resort lobby to greet everyone. The reunions were tearful, for the most part, but tinged by occasional laughter and a constant stream of conversation. With each new arrival, George seemed to grow more comfortable, exuding contentment.

  This, Claire knew, was the power of a family. The intimate ties of blood and history were woven together with an emotional bond, forming an invisible safety net. George wasn’t going to find a cure for his illness, but another kind of healing was taking place. She could tell Ross saw it, too, as he watched his uncles and aunts and cousins dispensing hugs and tears and laughter. As awful as a terminal illness was, it did offer a chance for a family to come together. Claire was glad the Bellamys had decided to seize that opportunity.

  Some of the relatives took rooms in town at the historic Inn at Willow Lake, which was owned by another Bellamy—Charles’s son Greg and his wife, Nina. Most found accommodations at the resort. The lakeside cabins and bunkhouses were soon filled with people who had come to see George.

  Trevor’s wife and his other kids showed up. Louis and his wife were both amped up on coffee and jet lag. Gerard was twice divorced, with numerous children. A few of the relatives exuded an optimism that seemed either false or forced. And some, understandably, were just plain scared. The imminent death of a loved one had a world-shaking impact on people, and Claire knew for certain that the worst kind of terror was always borne of love.

  Once all the relatives had arrived, everyone gathered at the main lodge for a welcome dinner. “Don’t try to keep track of everyone,” Ross advised her, surveying the busy lobby. “Eventually you’ll figure out who’s who.”

  “It’s wonderful to have a big family.”

  “It can be a mixed blessing,” he said.

  “I’ve always wondered what people mean by that—mixed blessings.”

  “You’re about to find out
.” He extended his arms to an attractive blonde woman who approached them, heels clicking on the slate floor. Claire guessed she was in her fifties, striving hard to look younger—but not too much younger. She had the taut, angular face and puffed lips of a woman who was no stranger to cosmetic surgery, and a smile that was studied and quite devoid of warmth.

  “Claire,” said Ross, “I’d like you to meet my mother, Winifred.”

  Hence the lack of warmth, thought Claire. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “And my aunt Alice,” added Ross, presenting a woman who was slightly younger and plumper than Winifred, though equally fashionable and dour. “She’s Ivy’s mother.”

  “We’re the ones who asked the local police to check on George,” said Winifred.

  At least she didn’t pull any punches. “He’s lucky to have a caring family.”

  “Yes, he is.” Winifred subjected Claire to a thorough study. “Help me understand. Why on earth would a young woman simply take off with an elderly man?”

  “I appreciate your candor,” she said. And honestly, she did. It was so much worse to pretend. “The answer is, I’m a licensed private duty nurse, and George engaged my services.”

  Winifred and Alice exchanged a glance, heavy with doubt. “If you truly wish to help, you’ll persuade him to return to the city,” said Alice. “That’s what he needs—people who want to do him some good.” The two women turned resolutely and headed for the dining room.

  “Speaking of which,” Ross broke in, “I think that waiter is trying to find a taker for the last two cocktails.” He motioned them toward a guy with a tray, and steered Claire in the opposite direction. “That would be the mixed in mixed blessing.”

  “I don’t take their suspicions personally. They’re worried about your grandfather.”

  “They’re worried about his money.”

  “It’s not so much about the money. It’s more about holding on to what they have.”

  “You’re a nicer person than most,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I can’t agree. Just stating a fact.”

  “Christ, can you not take even the smallest compliment?” he said. “I just can’t figure you out, Claire.”

  “Excuse me,” she said, flustered. “I need to check on George. I think they’re almost ready in the dining room. Do me a favor—bring him in when I signal.”

  She hoped George would like the welcome dinner. Everything had been arranged at the speed of light. In doing the planning for this, and for many of the other things on George’s list, she’d had a strong dose of small-town life—and found it to her liking. She had to admit, things were easier when you forged relationships and connected with people. The notion made her a little sad, because a town like this could only be a temporary home for her. It took only a few phone calls to come up with a menu of George’s favorites—including dessert from the Sky River Bakery, an extra microphone for the sound system and a karaoke setup.

  Claire savored the expression on George’s face when he entered the dining room. The other resort guests looked on with expressions of surprise and delight. Miss Millicent Darrow was present, but like Claire, she kept her distance, instinctively knowing this was family time.

  “Thank you all for coming,” George said from his place at the head of the table. “You honor me by being here. You make me remember everything good and beautiful life has to offer. I came here with a list of goals I hoped to accomplish. But honestly, if I don’t fulfill a single one of them, my life will be complete anyway. Because of you I will always be here. Always. Because I have a family.”

  He lifted his glass, which was filled with a bright concoction of Midori, lime and vodka. “Special thanks to whoever created the Bellamy Hammer. I’ve always wanted a cocktail named after me.”

  “Hear, hear.” Glasses were lifted in a salute.

  “And now I must ask you to bear with me,” said George. “It’s one of the world’s small mercies that I will be performing for one night only. This is something I’ve always wanted to do—sing to my family.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said one of the teenage grandsons.

  “I’m afraid not, my boy. Now, help me to the stage.”

  The ensemble played a gentle riff as two of the boys guided him up the three steps to the corner platform and handed over a microphone. The glow of light from behind limned his sparse, pale hair and outlined his silhouette, as he perched on a crooner’s stool. The piece started with a glissando on the piano and a shimmer of percussion, followed by a series of familiar rhythmic chords on the guitar. Then George launched into his rendition of “L-O-V-E” by Nat King Cole. The first few notes started with a waver of uncertainty. His voice was thin, and after the first line, he hesitated.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his shoulders hunching. “I…wanted to be better for you.”

  “Granddad, you’re fine,” said Ivy, hurrying up to the stage. “You’re perfect.” She signaled to the piano player, and the song started again. This time, she sang along with him, and turned the karaoke screen to face the audience, urging everyone else to join in. Clearly bolstered by the support, George sang in a smooth, surprisingly tuneful baritone. By the end of the first chorus, everyone had joined in, along with a blare of brass from the karaoke recording. Some were drunk with cocktails or wine, others with emotion. Egged on by everyone in the dining room, they ran through the song again. The second time around, George looked loose and comfortable, as though channeling Dean Martin.

  Claire sang along softly, swaying a little to the classic melody. A few couples got up and danced. She glanced at Ross, and saw him kicked back in his chair, grinning as he sang, clearly enjoying his grandfather’s moment. The set ended to appreciative applause, to laughter and, of course, tears.

  You’re all so lucky, Claire thought, surveying the family. Even the ones breaking down with sobs were lucky, because their lives had been enriched by George Bellamy, and as hard as the grief was, they would always have the love he was giving them now.

  “I won’t inflict any more of my singing on you,” he said, seating the mic back in its stand. “I’ll just claim my youngest granddaughter for a last dance, and then call it a night.” He took the hand of his granddaughter Jessica, heavyset and self-conscious. The girl was red-faced from crying, but she went willingly enough to the dance floor, and they joined the other couples there.

  A shadow fell over Claire, and there was Ross, holding out his hand.

  She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “He’s just so wonderful.”

  “Dance with me. He’ll like that.”

  She had a moment of hesitation, then gave in for George’s sake. Ross was a natural on the dance floor, exuding confidence. When it came to Ross’s future, George did not have a thing to worry about, Claire reflected, feeling dizzy with the closeness of him, his scent and the sturdy feel of his arms around her. Some woman was going to fall head over heels for his grandson one of these days.

  Correction, she thought. Some woman already had. Unfortunately it was the wrong one.

  The number was slow, and she rested her cheek lightly against his chest. She didn’t even know she was doing it; the motion felt so natural and right. Maybe he felt the same way, because his hand at her waist pulled her just a little closer. She should have seen this coming—that one day she’d meet a man and lose her heart. She’d been so careful, though. How had this happened?

  Reality intruded in the form of a vibrating pocket.

  “Sorry.” Ross pulled back and took his mobile phone from his breast pocket. The display was lit with a message she probably wasn’t supposed to see, but he turned it in her direction. “OMG, U TOTALLY LUUURVE HER.”

  “From my cousin Ivy,” he said easily.

  Claire burned with embarrassment. “She’s a big tease.”

  “Maybe. But sometimes she’s right about things.”

  Now that the family had arrived, everything grew more complicated. They all but took over the resort. The g
irl cousins moved into a multibunk cabin called the Saratoga Bunk, and the boy cousins took its counterpart, the Ticonderoga Longhouse. Families settled into the A-frames along the waterfront. But the main gathering place, where everyone gravitated each day, was the Summer Hideaway, where Granddad could often be found relaxing, listening to music, challenging people to chess or Parcheesi, or reading a book. Conversations were often punctuated with his laughter, and sometimes when Ross closed his eyes, he could pretend everything was normal for whole seconds at a time.

  The big reunion of both sides of the Bellamy family was still in the works, but there were plenty of other things to do in the meantime. Granddad proudly introduced his brother to all the guests. He wanted everyone to explore Camp Kioga, experiencing it as he had as a boy. The days were filled with boating and fishing, hiking and swimming, even archery and marksmanship. George couldn’t always participate, but he seemed to take a special joy in seeing the others discover the timeless rhythm of summer. In one of the more bizarre developments, Uncle Charles organized a shooting party—not for skeet, but for targets, at the camp’s rifle range. It was a big sport in these parts. It turned out Granddad was a keen shot with a bolt-action rifle.

  With quiet competence, Claire orchestrated George’s life from hour to hour. Granddad slept more and more, just as the doctor had predicted. Yet he didn’t seem to be in pain, and his waking moments were happy ones. There was peculiar weightiness to each moment, and a melancholy sense that they were making memories, because all too soon, that was all they’d be left with. Ross knew he would never forget the sight of his grandfather on the porch, surrounded by his family, telling stories about his boyhood summers here. Granddad was a consummate storyteller. He’d made a career of it in newspapers, and now he brought his keen eye for detail and powers of recollection to summarizing the events of his life.

  Everything was dictated by how he was feeling and what he wanted. One evening, they all headed into town to the local ball field. Avalon had its own team—the Hornets—which was part of the Can-Am League of Independent Baseball. The team was expertly managed by Dino Carminucci, who had been part of the Yankees organization for years. And the club’s biggest success story was that their star pitcher, Bo Crutcher, had gone on to a successful career with the Yankees.