The Winter Lodge

by Susan Wiggs

“Maybe you’re my social life.”

  “Yeah, I’m a barrel of laughs,” she said. “I was referring to the women you date.”

  “That’s not a social life,” he said. “That’s...” He couldn’t seem to find the word for it.

  She refrained from suggesting “sleeping around.”

  He shook his head and said, “You’re not cramping my style.”

  “You haven’t had a date since the fire.”

  “It’s only been a week,” he pointed out.

  “When was the last time you went a whole week without dating?”

  “I don’t keep score, but obviously, you do. Why, Miss Majesky, I didn’t know you cared.”

  Yes, he did know, and he was reveling in it. “I can’t stay with you forever,” she said.

  He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. How did he manage to shave like that? she found herself wondering. It was flawless, and now that she knew his routine, she knew he did it in about two minutes flat.

  “Nope,” he agreed. “Of course not.”

  She sensed that she had hurt him. Which simply did not compute, since he was the one who had been teasing her. “You know,” she said, “I could simply walk away from everything.” Saying the words aloud both frightened and exhilarated her. It was scary, because the town and bakery had been her whole world. Even scarier was the fact that she was finally making some sort of connection to this man. Yes, she thought, that was scarier than running away. If she stayed, she might have to deal with this uncomfortable collision of their past and present.

  He leaned forward across the table. “You can’t walk away. You need the bakery so you’ll have something to write about.”

  Here’s what she hated—the fact that he could read her. “Nice, Rourke.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. Every female in the room turned to watch him, and Jenny didn’t blame them. What was sexier than a big, handsome, laughing man?

  Okay, a big, handsome, laughing, naked man.

  The smile lingered on his lips and in his pale blue eyes. “Seriously, Jen,” he said, leaning toward her again as though this was an intimate restaurant rather than a busy café. “I do want to talk to you about something. See, I was thinking we could—”

  “Jenny?” said a deep, masculine voice.

  We could what? she thought in frustration. But she arranged her face in a welcoming smile and stood up. “Philip,” she said warmly. “You must have caught the early train.”

  He nodded. “I know you said you didn’t need anything, but I had to come.”

  And with such perfect timing, she thought. “Well, I’m glad. Philip, this is Rourke McKnight. Maybe you remember meeting him last summer at the Bellamys’ fiftieth anniversary celebration... And Rourke, this is Philip Bellamy. My...” Father. It was still impossible to get that word out. Father implied many things that Philip Bellamy was not. It implied a connection between a man and his daughter that simply didn’t exist for them.

  “Sure, I remember.” Rourke stood and offered a firm handshake. “Please, sit down.”

  “You really didn’t have to come,” Jenny said, feeling both giddy and self-conscious, as she always did around Philip. “I’m glad you did, though.”

  She had first met him one day last August, when he’d simply shown up on her doorstep and said he believed he was her father.

  Just like that. In one moment, he’d solved the biggest mystery of her life. Since then, the two of them had been in a sort of awkward dance, bumbling toward each other and then backing off, trying to figure out what their relationship would be.

  Part of her wanted the situation to be as simple as a Hallmark card, in which she opened her heart to him and brought him into her life. But another part was filled with doubt. She had only his word that he’d loved her mother and planned to marry her. Only his word that he had no idea Jenny had ever been born. And since she didn’t know him, she didn’t know how good his word was.

  “Rourke’s been kind enough to give me a roof over my head,” she told Philip. “Temporarily, of course. We were just talking about my options.”

  Philip beamed at her. “Then I came just in time,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  Jenny was about to ask him to clarify, when Laura came down from the upstairs business office.

  “I heard you were down here,” Laura said to her. “Hi, Rourke.” Then she turned to Philip Bellamy. “Hello.”

  Philip stood and politely took her hand as he greeted her. “Laura. It’s been a long time.”

  Rourke pushed back from the table. “I should go. I’ve got some things to take care of.”

  Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Jenny couldn’t tell if it was true or if this was just a polite cop-out. Cop-out. Ha, ha.

  He held a chair out for Laura, who looked pleased as she had a seat.

  Don’t go, Jenny thought. Finish what you were saying. You wanted to talk to me about...?

  “See you later,” Rourke said. “Good seeing you,” he added with a nod in Philip’s direction.

  “Was it something I said?” asked Philip, watching him go.

  “He works hard,” Jenny answered.

  “Has he figured out what caused the fire?” Philip asked.

  “An investigation team is working on it,” she said. “It was an old house. I expect the cause will be faulty wiring.” She busied herself busing the table. “So, is this your first visit to the bakery?”

  He and Laura exchanged a glance.

  “The first in a long time,” he said.

  “You were here before,” she said. A chill slid over her skin.

  “Anyone who comes to the town of Avalon visits the Sky River Bakery.”

  Then Jenny noticed the expression on Laura’s face. “You two knew each other...back then.”

  Laura simply nodded. “I’ve been here all my life. I knew the Bellamys, Philip included.”

  Philip looked around the café. The skiers were layering on their gear, preparing to head out. Matthew Alger had finished his coffee and crossword puzzle, and was getting ready to leave, too.

  “My God,” Philip said. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “You know him, too?” Jenny asked.

  “I did a long time ago.” Philip got up and approached Alger. “I recognized you right away.”

  They shook hands, but it was clearly not a warm handshake. Alger had a sort of boyishness that made him look younger than his age. His hair was blond, impeccably styled in a cropped, Rutger Hauer-like fashion. He was shorter than Philip and not so well built, but he had a certain presence. He greeted Philip with a peculiar cordial distance, then walked over to Jenny’s table.

  “What’s the progress on the fire investigation?” he asked her.

  “The salvage crew just finished up,” she said, a little startled by his interest.

  “So quickly?”

  “There wasn’t much to salvage,” Jenny said.

  “Zachary tells me you’re taking some time off.”

  “I am,” she said. “I’m trying, at least. I seem to find myself torn between managing the bakery and dealing with the fire.”

  “Well. I hope you’re able to save some of those irreplaceable family treasures.”

  The comment startled her. Sentiment, from Matthew Alger? “I hope so, too. Thanks.”

  After he left, she and Laura gave Philip a quick tour around the bakery. “It all started with my grandmother’s rye bread,” she said. “Maybe you knew that.”

  He shook his head. “Mariska didn’t tell me much about the family business.”

  What did she tell you? Jenny wondered. That she hated it here, that she wanted to run away? That having a child wasn’t enough to hold her?

  “Gram sta
rted out baking bread in her kitchen,” she said in a neutral tone, reminding herself that her mother’s choices were not Philip’s fault. “My grandfather would deliver the loaves door to door. Eventually, they moved into this building. The coffee shop opened about thirty years ago. I basically grew up here.”

  “She was adorable,” Laura said. “Everyone’s favorite.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” There was a world of sorrow in his expression.

  Jenny ached with it, too, thinking of all the times, growing up, that she’d wondered about her father.

  “Did you know,” Philip asked, “that my dad’s best fishing buddy was your grandfather?”

  “Yes, my grandfather told me.” Jenny felt a pang of regret. Charles Bellamy’s son and Leo Majesky’s daughter had fallen in love. They’d made a baby. But neither man had ever known it. Regrets pierced her sharply, and she quickly changed the subject.

  “Daisy’s working here now, did you know that?” she said.

  “I didn’t. Moving here is bound to be a big adjustment for her. It’s good of you to include Daisy at the bakery.” He hesitated. “She’s, uh, having a hard time with my brother’s divorce.”

  Jenny suspected there was more he could say about his troubled niece, but he wouldn’t, of course. Jenny was still more stranger than daughter to him. She hoped Daisy would like working here. Zach had brought her by during the week, and she’d seemed eager to start training. Jenny scarcely knew her cousin, but she felt sorry for Daisy. Something had happened at her school in New York, though Jenny wasn’t privy to exactly what. And Daisy’s mother was working overseas, and Greg Bellamy had returned with his kids to the small town where he’d grown up. In the middle of her senior year in high school, Daisy had transferred to Avalon High. There was something wistful about the girl. Perhaps when Jenny got to know her better, she’d understand more.

  She led the way back to the café. “Check this out.” There was a wall covered with permits, certificates and memorabilia. Jenny pointed out the first dollar ever earned by the bakery and her grandparents’ first permit from the health department.

  And then there were the photographs, most of which had hung there so long that she hadn’t really looked at them in ages. Showing her father around the bakery, Jenny was struck by how drab the place looked. It could definitely use some sprucing up. A fresh coat of paint, perhaps some artwork on the walls.

  “The Avalon Troubadour gave the place a rave review the first summer they opened. Over the years, the bakery’s been mentioned five times in the ‘Escapes’ section of the New York Times.” She showed him the framed clippings.

  Philip checked out the most recent. “Catskills Hideaway—100 Miles to Paradise.”

  “There’s always a surge in business after a mention like that,” Jenny said. She noticed Philip studying a shot of her standing on a step stool behind the counter, helping her grandmother with a display of cookies. Jenny was about eight years old, her hair in two fat pigtails, a crooked, gap-toothed grin on her face. “Before the fire, I had a lot more pictures to show you,” she said. “The usual stuff, candid shots of Christmas and Easter, the first day of school, first communion...”

  Philip cleared his throat. “Jenny, it would’ve been great to see all those photos of you growing up, but that’s not what I regret. In all of this, what I really regret is that I missed those years.”

  She had no idea how to respond. His yearning seemed to reach for her, touching tender, lonely places inside. “It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice husky. She swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Why do you think she never told you about me?”

  “I don’t know. Your mother was...” He shook his head. “I thought I knew her. I thought we wanted the same things. And I did love her, Jenny, but something changed for her. I don’t know why she kept you from me.”

  Jenny felt Laura watching her. “I’m sure she had her reasons,” Laura said.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Jenny said. She showed him a picture of her mother at eighteen, laughing into the camera. “This is the picture Olivia noticed last summer, the one that made her realize there was a connection between our families.”

  Jenny had never realized that the photograph of her mother was actually only half a photograph. It had been cropped by someone, years ago. And that someone who had been cropped out of the picture was Philip Bellamy. It was only when Olivia had found a copy of the intact photo of Mariska and Philip together that they realized there was a huge story behind the picture. Olivia had come across the picture while going through Philip’s old camp memorabilia, and the discovery had opened up a Pandora’s box of the past, punctuating the way people had of coming and going in each other’s lives.

  “I wonder who cut me out of the picture?” Philip asked. “I assume it was your grandmother.”

  “I suppose we’ll never know,” Jenny said, “unless my mother magically reappears someday.” She regarded the yellowing photograph of the beautiful young woman who would never get any older than she was in that instant. Was that the girl Philip remembered when he thought about Mariska?

  “Listen, you two,” Laura said with sudden briskness. “I need to get back to work.” She hurried through the double doors.

  Food for Thought

  BY JENNY MAJESKY

  Chess Pie

  Nobody knows the origin of the name “Chess Pie.” It surely doesn’t have anything to do with the game of chess. My grandmother got her recipe decades ago from a tourist visiting from Texas to see the turning leaves. I don’t know anything else about the woman except that her recipe is called “Miss Ida’s Buttermilk Chess Pie.”

  Don’t be put off by the buttermilk. This pie is so sweet and intense, you need a large cup of coffee to go with it.

  MISS IDA’S BUTTERMILK CHESS PIE

  4 eggs

  ¾ cup sugar

  2 tablespoons flour

  1-½ cups buttermilk

  ¼ cup butter, melted

  grated peel of 1 lemon

  3 tablespoons lemon juice

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 9-inch graham cracker pie shell

  fresh berries for garnish

  In large bowl beat eggs and sugar until light and lemon colored. Beat in flour, then buttermilk, melted butter, lemon peel, lemon juice and vanilla. Pour mixture into pie shell. Bake in a 375°F oven for 35-40 minutes, or until knife inserted near center comes out clean. Garnish with fresh berries.

  Chapter Eleven

  1977

  “Oh, Laura, look at this one. I like this shot, don’t you?” Mariska Majesky handed her a photograph from the envelope of prints she’d picked up from the one-hour photo. “I really like this new haircut on me.”

  Laura Tuttle studied the photo with an enthusiasm that was, she admitted to herself, forced. While Laura worked the early shift at the bakery all summer, her best friend, Mariska, had been having a storybook romance, complete with Prince Charming. Laura had fallen into a secondary role, and now at summer’s end, she was weary of it. But she put on her game face and admired the picture, which showed a laughing Mariska and a tanned and gorgeous Philip Bellamy holding a tennis trophy cup. The green hills and placid lake of Camp Kioga rolled out in the background.

  “I like this shot, too.” Still hiding her discontent, Laura handed back the photo. A pleasant breeze rippled through the alleyway behind the bakery, where she and Mariska were supposed to be rolling empty racks out of the truck after a delivery. They had paused to take a break before heading back to the yeasty-scented heat of the bakery.

  “Tell you what,” Mariska said, shaking out her attractive, layer-cut hair. “I had double prints made. I’m going to find a frame for this. Philip’s heading back to Yale in a few days and this is the only picture of us together.”

  “That
’s because you’re not supposed to be together,” Laura pointed out.

  “Don’t start.” A warning flashed in Mariska’s eyes.

  Laura could handle her friend’s temper. “He’s engaged to someone else,” she reminded her.

  “Yeah, to Pamela Lightsey, who ditched him for an entire summer so she could go to Italy. She deserves to lose him.”

  “You don’t even know her, so how do you know what she deserves?”

  “I know what she’s like,” Mariska insisted. “A spoiled rich girl. When Philip breaks up with her, she’ll probably buy a new BMW to console herself.”

  “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t bleed, same as you and me,” Laura said. She didn’t know why she was defending Pamela Lightsey, a stranger.

  “Aw, Laura.” Mariska rolled the last rack out of the truck. “Be happy for me and Philip. He’s so, so...everything.”

  “Listen to yourself.” Laura felt like the adult in this friendship. She always had. Mariska was the free spirit, the adventurous one, who worked hard and played harder. Laura was the practical one, who worked hard and then worked harder. So everything. “Is it Philip you love, or the Bellamy money?”

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t separate the two. Philip is Philip because he’s a Bellamy.”

  “So if the family went bankrupt tomorrow and you’d have to live like a pauper, that wouldn’t matter?” Laura couldn’t help asking the question because, deep down, she knew the answer. And if Philip knew, maybe he wouldn’t be so gaga over Mariska.

  Mariska laughed, that shimmering, sexy laugh that had made her the most popular girl at Avalon High. At graduation last June, she’d been voted the girl most likely to get by on her looks. She’d taken it all in stride, because she knew darn well there was a lot more to her than looks. She had an incredible work ethic, for example. She worked two jobs—one here at her parents’ bakery and another as a part-time salesclerk at the jewelry shop next door.

  “What are you going to do with yourself after you get rich?” Laura asked. “Seriously, you’re going to be so bored.”

  “Nonsense. I’m going to see the world and shop my whole life away.”