Dockside

by Susan Wiggs

  She was young, but she was far from stupid. She stopped walking and turned to him, and he could see the understanding rise in her eyes. An incident like this—fraternizing with an underage girl—was more than enough to get a guy dismissed or worse. Reluctant acceptance softened her face for a moment. Then, with a haughty sniff, she marched past him, grabbing a bicycle from a rack at the edge of the parking lot. The thing didn’t even have a light, just a cracked reflector on the rear fender.

  “Hey,” he said, “you’re not riding that home.”

  “Watch me.” She threw her dancing shoes into the basket and expertly pushed off, swinging her leg up and over the back. The skirts of her party dress fluttered around her bare legs.

  Being a camp counselor had taught Greg a few things about catching kids who were trying to escape. He charged, grabbing the back of the seat, pulling her to a halt. She stood on the pedals, putting up a fierce resistance, but to no avail. Greg refused to let go of the bike until she surrendered to him with a surly glare.

  “I’m driving you home,” he told her.

  “The hell you are,” she shot back.

  He saw her weighing her options and making a silent calculation, balancing her need for defiance and rebellion against the consequences he promised. Greg recognized the struggle. Just a few years older than her, he vividly recalled the raging clash of urges in a teenager. Hell, he still had those urges himself.

  “You do not want to know how bad this can get,” he warned her.

  He could tell the moment she resigned herself to common sense. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she dismounted the bike. Greg let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He didn’t want her to see how relieved he felt. He hadn’t been eager to get her in trouble. He just wanted her home, safe. And, okay, when he thought about the fact that someone had been banging her, he also felt an undertone of envy, which shamed him. This girl was trouble. He didn’t know why he felt so protective of her. It was just that she was so young, so foolish. Somebody had to look out for her.

  Now he had a dilemma, though. Driving her back to town could take ten minutes; returning to the country club—another ten. His parents were going to wonder where the heck he’d gone. He could tell Nina to wait right here while he went inside to explain, but he knew she’d seize the chance to bolt. He’d have to risk his parents’ displeasure, because the idea of keeping this underage pretty-baby from pedaling home through the dark night was more compelling.

  He slung her bike into the trunk of his car and held open the passenger-side door. “Get in.”

  “I’ll get the seat wet. It might ruin the upholstery.”

  “Don’t worry about the seat, just get in.”

  Nina gave an elaborate shrug. “I guess you Bellamys don’t worry about ruining things.”

  Greg was startled by the resentment in her voice. “Us Bellamys? So I take it you’re acquainted with my family.”

  She sniffed. “I know your type. Spoiled. Bossy. Interfering. Who needs you?”

  He wondered why she had such a chip on her shoulder about his family. She probably just had a chip on her shoulder, period. Unconcerned, he got behind the wheel and peeled out, the trunk lid banging on the bike.

  “You could have broken his jaw. Why are you so mad? Are you some kind of racist who can’t handle seeing him with a white girl?”

  “With you being underage, I don’t care what color he is. He’s got no business messing around with you.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a kid. I know what I’m doing. And FYI, Laurence Jeffries is seventeen. So we’re not that different at all.”

  Great, they were both kids. “You’re light years apart. You’re a schoolgirl and he’s about to go into the army.”

  “I can quit school at sixteen without parental permission,” she pointed out.

  “Good plan. That’ll get you far.”

  “I’m just saying.” She sulked a little. “So is your family, like, going to kill you for disappearing?”

  Probably. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “They were all, like, ‘it’s time we talked about your future, son,’ weren’t they?” she persisted. “I bet that’s what they like to do when they take you to the club.” Switching gears, she moved on. “What are your sisters’ names?”

  “Ellen and Joyce.”

  “And your brother is Philip. He looks a lot older than you.”

  “He is. He’s got a wife and kid but they stayed in the city this weekend.”

  “You’re an uncle, then,” she said. “Uncle Greg.”

  She switched gears yet again with another nosy question. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  He wanted to tell her it was none of her business, but he didn’t. Just the thought of Sophie chafed at an old wound. He and Sophie Lindstrom had met in Econ 101 last September and he’d been a total goner. From her Nordic beauty to her prowess at Scrabble to her startling hunger in bed, she had fascinated and mesmerized him.

  “She took a semester abroad,” he told Nina.

  “Ha. That means she dumped you.”

  She was annoyingly perceptive, he’d give her that. “Where to?” he asked, determined to drop the subject of Sophie.

  “Just let me off at the corner of Maple and Vine. And you don’t have to do this, you know. I’ve lived here all my life. I know my way around.”

  “If you’re so smart, you wouldn’t be sneaking around with guys who are too old for you.”

  “Screw you,” she said.

  He decided not to react, since he knew that was exactly what she wanted. Mercifully, she didn’t try to provoke him again, but turned her attention out the window. The road outlined the lakeshore, and it was mostly dark, an unspoiled wilderness. They passed an occasional cottage or cabin with lights winking, but the dwellings were sparse. Most of the lakeshore was a protected wilderness, and no further development would be permitted. The few places along the shore had gone in prior to the 1932 protection agreement.

  They drove by the Inn at Willow Lake, somewhat shabby but popular with tourists because of its idyllic location. A quaint roadside sign marked the entrance, and Nina turned her head to stare at it as they passed.

  Greg sensed her sinking mood. He wasn’t sure how, but he could feel it dragging at him, pulling all the air out of the car. And he felt responsible for her, in a way, as though he ought to process this with her. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t say anything—”

  “Then don’t.”

  “—but I’m going to, anyway. There’s no reason for you to be running around with guys who only want one thing from you.”

  “Oh, God. I am so not listening to this.”

  She was trapped, though. A captive audience. He eased up on the accelerator. “I don’t pretend to know anything about you, but guys like that, well, they’re not real complicated.” In fact, they were all exactly the same, letting a certain male appendage do all their thinking for them. Greg was well aware of this. There was something about women that seemed to suck the brain cells dry, turning a guy into a hopeless life-support system for an erection. And a girl like Nina—well, certain parts of him didn’t care about her age.

  Trying to explain all this to her would be futile. There was no way he could tell her these things without sounding completely stupid. Besides, it was hypocritical. Because the only difference between him and the West Point kid was that Greg knew how old she was.

  Still, he felt as though he should say something. Because one of these days, she was going to…He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

  “So anyway, it’s plain old common sense,” he told her. “You’re better off hanging around people your own age.”

  She snapped, “Right. Because boys my age are such delightful company.”

  He had no answer for that. Greg had kids that age in his counseling group at Kioga this year, and he certainly couldn’t vouch for their social appeal. “You’re one of them,” he pointed out. “You’re in the
same peer group.”

  “Yeah, lucky me.” She turned to stare out the window, her party dress pulled over her drawn-up knees. Then he realized her tough-girl demeanor had crumpled. He heard a tragic sniffle, saw her hand sneak up to surreptitiously wipe a tear.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said.

  “So is that some sort of a bonus, or what?”

  There were few things more daunting to Greg than a crying girl. It was with some relief that he pulled over at the corner of Maple and Vine, went around and held the door for her. She sat unmoving, her arms still looped around her knees. A car trolled past. In one of the houses behind him, a porch light switched on.

  He felt a surge of panic. This might look bad, Nina Romano getting out of his car. He quickly turned and went to pull her bicycle from the trunk. She got out, but seemed to be in no hurry to go home.

  “It’s after ten,” he reminded her. “Maybe you should run along.”

  “Don’t worry about my curfew,” she said. “There are nine kids in my family. I’m right in the middle. Sneaking in and out has never been a problem.”

  Nine kids, Greg marveled. His own family felt big with four. Nine was…a team. “So,” he said, attempting a joking tone, “stay out of trouble and have a nice life. I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”

  She wasn’t fooled by his lame attempt to lighten the moment. She seemed to understand as well as he did that something had happened during the drive into town, something mysterious and important and impossible. She gazed steadily up at him and he felt as if he was drowning. He wished he didn’t know anything about her, not her age, her last name, or the fact that she cried when he told her to respect herself.

  He was glad he held the bicycle between them because otherwise, he might prove to be as stupid as a cadet named Laurence Jeffries. She was that attractive. And no, she didn’t look her age.

  An extremely knowing smile curved her full lips. “What are you thinking, Greg?”

  “If you were older, this could…turn into something.” He blurted it out, just like that. No thought, just words. Girls like Nina Romano were apparently a leading cause of brain damage in guys.

  “Someday soon, I will be older,” she reminded him with a soft promise in her voice.

  “Then maybe someday, it’ll turn into something.”

  She laughed a little. “Right. Like you’d really wait for me.”

  “You never know,” Greg said, leaving the bicycle in her hands. He got in the car and put it in gear. She stood there, looking so beautiful that his eyes ached. Don’t say anything else, he admonished himself. It didn’t work. He offered her his heart in a smile. “I just might surprise you.”

  Part Three

  Now

  Since 2005, the town of Avalon has been the home of its very own independent baseball team, the Hornets, a member of the Can-Am League. Independent baseball leagues are known for a high quality of play and fierce competition. A baseball game on a warm, clear night is one of the chief pleasures of summer. General admission tickets are six dollars, available from the inn concierge. In baseball, as in life, every day brings a new opportunity.

  Six

  G reg pulled into the ball field parking lot just as Little League practice was winding down. From a distance, it was an idyllic scene, the surrounding forestland rising up into the hills, the golden light of late afternoon slanting over the green diamond, dotted with laughing, chattering kids shouting to each other as they gathered their things. Greg wondered if anything could be as good as it looked, or if that was just wishful thinking. Then he picked out Max, sitting by himself on the bench in the dugout. Great, he thought. His kid was benched again.

  There was no torture quite so searing as seeing your kid in emotional pain. It was torture because it made Greg feel helpless. This wasn’t the kind of hurt you could fix with an ice pack or a Band-Aid. This injury was invisible, particularly when it came to Max, who tended to keep things hidden.

  Greg sat in the truck for a minute, dissuading himself from interfering. Popping off at the mouth to the coach would do Max no good at all. The kid needed to learn to fight his own battles, and for all Greg knew, Max was sitting out by choice. Or worse, he was sitting out because once again, the kid had blown his temper. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Through no fault of his own, Max had been at the tail end of all the drama surrounding the divorce, the move from the city, Sophie’s job in Europe, Daisy’s pregnancy. Max was swept along in the maelstrom, adapting to school and a new town with an easygoing aplomb that masked emotions he refused to discuss with Greg, Sophie or his therapist. Every once in a while, he blew his stack, giving Greg a glimpse of the rage the boy couldn’t quite keep in. Greg had the idea that putting Max on a team might give him an outlet. Max had always been physical, a good athlete, obsessed with hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer. He’d been a star on his team in the city. Here in Avalon, he had a chance to shine.

  Or not, Greg thought, waiting in the truck while the team gathered for the post-practice meeting with Coach Broadbent.

  Greg’s phone rang—please be her—and he snatched it up, eagerly checking the caller ID. But no. It was his lawyer, and Greg let it go to voice mail. He frowned, ticked off that Nina still hadn’t called him. He hoped like hell she would say yes to his proposal, but he wasn’t going to beg her. In the meantime, he stayed busy, mindful of his commitment to integrate work and family.

  Neither was going well.

  Six of the guest rooms were still under construction and would need refurnishing in the style of the period. The caretaker’s house, where he lived with his kids, was still a jumble of moving boxes and unmatched furniture. The boathouse and dock both needed work, too. On the upside, he’d assembled what was beginning to resemble a staff. An information technology consultant had set up a hospitality system that Daisy immediately mastered, even personalizing the software with her photography. The Web site was up and running, and it was with a sense of surreal amazement that they watched the inquiries and reservations flow into the inbox. However, having a staff, a slick site and system wouldn’t mean a thing until the general manager was in place to orchestrate everything.

  Nina Romano wasn’t the only game in town, he told himself. Or out of town, for that matter. The business consultant Greg had hired offered to send experienced candidates for his consideration. But Nina was the only one he wanted. She was the perfect fit. When it came to running an intimate luxury hotel, it was all about getting the right people. Nina was exactly right. He had a feeling about her. She had an air of confidence and a depth of experience no one else could match. The trouble was, she wanted to work there on her terms, and Greg had beaten her to it. Now it was up to him to persuade her that they could both benefit and so far, he’d done a lousy job of it.

  Coach Broadbent finished his meeting with the players and Greg got out of the truck. “Max!” he yelled and waved at his son.

  Max sprang into action, shouldering his duffel bag and water bottle and sprinting toward the parking lot.

  “Hey, buddy. How was practice?”

  “Fine,” said Max.

  “Okay, I asked for that. Let me rephrase. Tell me everything you did at practice.”

  Max put his things in the back of the truck. “Just the usual stuff.”

  Greg noticed that his practice uniform—gray knickers, navy shirt and white cap—were just as clean as they’d been when Max put them on. The kid hadn’t even broken a sweat. “You were on the bench when I drove up.”

  “Was I?”

  “You want me to have a word with Coach?”

  “Da-ad.” Max stretched the word into two syllables. “I can handle Coach, okay?”

  “That’s what I thought.” Greg studied his son. Sandy-haired and freckle-faced, he had the kind of smile that covered a myriad of issues.

  “But handle it,” he said. “There’s no need for you to waste a whole practice on the bench.”

/>   “I wasn’t—” Max cut himself off and got in the truck. “Can we go now? I’m starving.”

  Classic avoidance, Greg observed. This was what Max did—turned away from trouble, keeping things bottled up. Later in the summer, Max was going to Holland, accompanied by Sophie’s parents, the Lindstroms. Later, Max and his mother would return to Avalon in time for the wedding. Max didn’t like the plan. He didn’t like the idea that he had to travel thirty-five hundred miles to be with his mother, but he had no choice. And that, Greg suspected, was the reason for his bottled-up feelings.

  “Hey, Max—”

  “I’m done, okay? I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Which is why we should probably talk about it.”

  “Dad. Starving here.”

  Greg decided to let it go for now. When sitting on a bench, a boy could conjure up a lot of things in his mind, but sometimes it was better just to back off. “Now that,” he said, “I can do something about.”

  “What, you figured out how to cook?”

  “Smart-ass. I can cook.” Greg was trying. At first, only grilling felt right. He’d figured out a way to grill every meal, not even balking at things like peaches, which he served over ice cream. As time went on, he progressed to boxed meals that came with clear instructions. “I’m not doing the cooking tonight, though.”

  “Are we going out with Brooke?” A look that was both comical and disturbing animated Max’s face. The kid had a thing for Brooke Harlow, that was for sure.

  “No, we’re not going out with Brooke. We’re going up to Camp Kioga.”

  “Yes.” The word hissed from him like air from a balloon.

  “I figured you’d like that.” Greg relaxed during the ten-mile drive through the Catskills wilderness. The camp was on the opposite end of the lake, far from town. Greg’s niece Olivia’s massive project of transforming the property from a defunct summer camp into an all-inclusive family resort that would be open year-round had been going on for nearly a year, but they were yet another year away from completion. Still, Olivia’s dedication to it was inspiring, and the way she’d embraced the project had played no small part in Greg’s decision to take over the Inn at Willow Lake. Building something tangible, making it work—that was the way to launch a new life and watch it grow.