Praise for the novels of #1 New York Times bestselling author SUSAN WIGGS

âWiggs is one of our best observers of stories
of the heartâ¦. She knows how to capture emotion
on virtually every page of every book.â

âSalem Statesman-Journal

âBestselling author Wiggsâs talent
is reflected in her thoroughly believable characters
as well as the way she recognizes the importance
of family by blood or other ties.â

âLibrary Journal

âSusan Wiggs writes with bright assurance,
humor and compassion.â

âLuanne Rice

FIRESIDE
#1 New York Times Bestseller

âWorth a look for the often-hilarious dialogue alone, the
latest installment of her beloved Lakeshore Chronicles
showcases Wiggsâs justly renowned gifts for storytelling
and characterization. A keeper.â

âRT Book Reviews

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

A Best Book of 2008âAmazon.com
Reviewerâs Choice finalistâRT Book Reviews
RITAÂ® Award finalist

âWiggs is at the top of her game here,
combining a charming setting with subtly shaded
characters and more than a touch of humor.
This is the kind of book a reader doesnât want to see end
but canât help devouring as quickly as possible.â

âRT Book Reviews

âWiggs jovially juggles the lives of
numerous colliding characters and adds some
winter-favorite recipes for a festive touch.â

âPublishers Weekly

DOCKSIDE

âRich with life lessons, nod-along moments
and characters with whom readers can easily relateâ¦
Delightful and wise, Wiggsâs latest shines.â

âPublishers Weekly

âA wonderfully written, beautiful love story
with a few sharp edges and a bunch of marvelously
imperfect characters, this is one of Wiggsâs finest efforts
to date. Itâs sure to leave an indelible impression
on even the most jaded reader.â

âRT Book Reviews

THE WINTER LODGE

The Best Romance of 2007âAmazon.com
A Best Book of 2007âPublishers Weekly
Reviewerâs Choice finalistâRT Book Reviews

âWith the ease of a master, Wiggs introduces
complicated, flesh-and-blood charactersâ¦
[and] sets in motion a refreshingly honest romance.â

âPublishers Weekly [starred review]

âEmpathetic protagonists, interesting secondary
characters, well-written flashbacks and delicious recipes
add depth to this touching, complex romance.â

âLibrary Journal

âEmotionally intense.â

âBooklist

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

A Best Book of 2006âAmazon.com

âWiggsâs storytelling is heartwarmingâ¦
clutter freeâ¦[and] should appeal to romance
and womenâs fiction readers of any age.â

âPublishers Weekly

âHow good is perennially popular Wiggs
in her new romance? Superb. Wonderfully evoked
characters, a spellbinding story line and insights into
the human condition will appeal to every reader.â

âBooklist

THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

The Lakeshore Chronicles

Susan Wiggs

www.harlequinbooks.com.au

Seeking: Private Duty Nurse (Upstate New York)

PostingID: 146002215 Avoid scams by dealing locally Reply to godfrey@georgebellamy.com

Senior accomplished gentleman seeks end-of-life nursing care, full-time, days and nights.

Qualifications:

age twenty-five to thirty-five

female (not negotiable)

must have a positive attitude and a sense of adventure

must love children of all ages

must be open to relocation

no emotional baggage

nursing skills and valid state certification a plus

Benefits:

medical, dental, vision, 401(k)

weekly paychecks with direct deposit

Rustic accommodations provided on Willow Lake in the Catskills Wilderness.

Prologue

Korengal Valley, Kunar province, Afghanistan

His breakfast consisted of shoestring potatoes that actually did look and taste like shoestrings, along with reconstituted eggs, staring up at him from a compartmentalized tray in the noisy chow hall. His cup was full of a coffeelike substance, lightened by a whitish powder.

At the end of a two-year tour of duty, Ross Bellamy had a hard time looking at morning chow. Heâd reached his limit. Fortunately for him, this was his last day of deployment. It seemed like any other dayâtedious, yet tense with the constant and ominous hum of imminent threat. Radio static crackled along with the sound of clacking utensils, so familiar to him by now that he barely heard it. At a comm station, an ops guy for the Dustoff unit was on alert, awaiting the next call for a medical evacuation.

There was always a next call. An air medic crew like Rossâs faced them daily, even hourly.

When the walkie-talkie clipped to his pocket went off, he put aside the mess without a second glance. The call was a signal for the on-duty crew to drop everythingâa fork poised to carry a morsel of mystery meat to a mouth. A game of Spades, even if you were winning. A letter to a sweetheart, chopped off in the middle of a sentence that might never be finished. A dream of home in the head of someone dead asleep. A guy in the middle of saying a prayer, or one with only half his face shaved.

The medevac units prided themselves on their reaction timeâfive or six minutes from call to launch. Men and women burst into action, still chewing food or drying off from the shower as they fell into roles as hard and familiar as their steel-toed boots.

Ross gritted his teeth, wondering what the day had in store for him, and hoping heâd make it through without getting himself killed. He needed this discharge, and he needed it now. Back home, his grandfather was sickâhad been sick for a while, and Ross suspected it was a lot more serious than the family let on. It was hard to imagine his grandfather sick. Granddad had always been larger-than-life, from his passion for travel to his trademark belly laugh, the one that could make a whole roomful of people smile. He was more than a grandparent to Ross. Circumstances in his youth had drawn the two of them close in a bond that defined their relationship even now.

On impulse, he grabbed his grandfatherâs most recent letter and stuck it into the breast pocket of his flight jacket, next to his heart. The fact that heâd even felt the urge to do so made him feel a gut-twist of worry.

âLetâs go, Leroy,â said Nemo, the unitâs crew chief. Then, as he always did, he sang the first few lines of âGet Up Offa That Thang.â

In the convoluted way of the army, Ross had been given the nickname Leroy. It had started when some of the platoon had learned a littleâway too littleâabout his silver-spoon-in-mouth background. The fancy schools, the Ivy League education, the socially prominent family, had all made him fodder for teasing. Nemo had dubbed him Little Lord Fauntleroy. That had been shortened to Leroy, and the name had stuck.

âIâm on it,â Ross said, striding toward the helipad. He and Ranger would be piloting the bird today.

âGood luck with the FNG.â

FNG stood for Fucking New Guy, meaning Ross would have a mission virgin on board. He vowed to be nice. After all, if it werenât for new guys, Ross would be here forever. According to the order packet heâd received, his forever was about to end. In a matter of days, heâd be stateside again, assuming he didnât get himself greased today.

The FNG turned out to be a girl, a flight medic named Florence Kennedy, from Newark, New Jersey. She had that baby-faced determination common to newbies, worn as a thin mask over abject, bowel-melting fear.

âWhat the fuck are you waiting for?â demanded Nemo, striding past her. âGet your ass over to the LZ.â

She seemed frozen, her face pale with resentment. She made no move to follow Nemo.

Ross nailed her with a glare. âWell? What the hell is it?â

âSir, Iâ¦ Not fond of the f-word, sir.â

Ross let out a short blast of laughter. âYouâre about to fly into a battle zone and youâre worried about that? Soldiers swear. Get used to it. Nobody on earth swears as much as a soldierâand nobody prays as hard. And I donât know about you, but I see no conflict there. Pretty soon, you wonât, either.â

She looked as though she might cry. He tried to think of something to say to reassure her, but could come up with nothing. When had he stopped knowing how to speak kindly?

When heâd grown too numb to feel anything.

âLetâs go,â he said simply, and strode away without looking back.

The ground crew chief barked out a checklist. Everyone climbed aboard. Armor and helmets would be donned on the chopper to shave off run time.

Ross received the details through his earpiece while he consulted his lap charts. The call was the type they feared mostâvictims both military and civilian, enemy still in the area. Apache gunships would escort the medical birds because the red crosses on the nose, underbelly and each cargo door of the ship meant nothing to the enemy. The crew couldnât let that matter; they had to roll fast. When a soldier on the ground was wounded, he needed to hear one key phrase: Dustoff is inbound. For some guy bleeding out in the field, the flying ambulance was his only hope of survival.

Within minutes, they were beating it northward over the evergreen-covered mountains of Kunar province. Flying at full speed across the landscape of craggy peaks, majestic forests and silvery rivers, Ross felt tense and jittery, on edge. The constant din of flight ops, along with strict regulations, kept conversation confined to essential matters only over the headsets. The rush into unknown danger was an everyday ordeal, yet he never got used to it. Last mission, he told himself. This is your last mission. Donât blow it.

The Korengal Valley was one of the most beautiful places on earth. Also one of the most treacherous. Sometimes the helos encountered surface-to-air missiles, cannonade or tripwires strung between mountain peaks to snag the aircraft. At the moment, the gorgeous landscape erupted with lightning bolts of gunfire and ominous plumes of smoke. Each represented a deadly weapon aimed at the birds.

Rossâs heart had memorized the interval of delay between spotting the flash and taking the hitâone, two, three beats of the heart and something could be taken out.

The gunships broke off to fire on the areas blooming with muzzle flashes. The diversion created a lull so the medical choppers could circle down.

Ross and Ranger, the other pilot, focused on closing the distance between the bird and the other end of the radio call. Despite the information given, they never knew what might be waiting for them. Half of their flights were for evacuating Afghan civilians and security personnel. The country had lousy medical infrastructure, so sometimes a pickup was for patient transport, combat injuries, accidents, even dog bites. Rossâs unit had seen everyoneâs horrors and ill luck. But judging by the destination, this was not going to be a simple patient transport to Bagram Air Base. This region was the deadliest of Taliban havens, patrolled on foot and referred to as the Valley of Death.

The chopper neared the pickup point and descended. The tops of the majestic pine trees swayed back and forth, beaten by the wind under the main rotors, offering fleeting glimpses of the terrain. Wedged between the walls of the valley lay a cluster of huts with rooftops of baked earth. He saw scurrying civilians and troops, some fanning out in search of the enemy, others guarding their wounded as they waited for help to arrive.

Muzzle flashes lit the hillsides on both ends of the valley. Ross knew immediately that there was too much small-arms fire below. The gunships were spread too thin.

The risk of drawing enemy fire was huge, and as pilot, he had to make the call. Bail now and protect the crew, or go in for the rescue and save the lives below. As always, it was an agonizing choice, but one made swiftly and followed by steel resolve. No time for a debate.

He took the bird in, hovering as close to the mark as he dared, but couldnât land. The other pilot shook his head vigorously. The terrain was too rough. Theyâd have to lower a litter.

The crew chief hung out the cargo bay door, letting the penetrator cable slide through his gloved hand. A Stokes litter was lowered and the first soldierâthe one most seriously wounded, was placed in the basket. Ross lifted off, hearing âBreaking ground, sir,â over his headset as the winch began its fast rewind.

The basket was nearly in the bird when Ross spotted a fresh plume of smokeâa rocket launcher. At an altitude of only fifty feet, he had no time to take evasive action. The miniature SAM slammed into the aircraft.

A flash of white lightning whipped through the ship. Everything showered downâshrapnel, gear, chips of paint, and an eerie flurry of dried blood from past sorties, flaking off the cargo area and blowing around. Then a burst of fire raked the chopper, slugs stitching holes in the bird. It bucked and vibrated, throwing off webbing, random bits of aluminum, broken equipment, including a couple of radios, right in the middle of Rossâs first Mayday call to the ops guys at base who were managing the mission. A ruptured fuel line hosed the flight deck.

He felt slugs smacking into his armored chair, the plates in front of his face, the overhead bubble window. Something thumped him in the back, knocking the wind out of him. Donât die, he told himself. Donât you fucking die. He stayed alive because if he got himself killed, heâd take down everybody with him. It was as good a reason as he knew to keep going.

He had landed a pranged chopper before, but not in these conditions. There was no water to hit. He hoped like hell he could set it down with everybody intact. He couldnât tell if the crew had reeled the basket in. Couldnât let himself think about thatâa wounded soldier twisting and dangling from the bird.

Ranger tried another radio. The red trail of a smoke grenade bloomed, and then the wind swept it away. Ross spotted a patch of ground just as another hail of fire hit. Decking flew up, pieces glancing off his shoulder, his helmet. The ship whirled as though thrown into a giant blender, completely out of his control. There was no lift, nothing at all. The whistles and whines of the dying ship filled his head.

As the earth raced up to meet them, he found himself focusing on random sights on the groundâa tattered billboard for baby milk, a mangled soccer goal. The chopper roared as it hit, throwing up more steel decking. The jolt slammed through every bone of his body. His back teeth crunched together. A stray rotor slung free, mowing down everything in sight. Ross was in motion even before the thing settled. The reek of JP4 fuel choked him. He flung out a hand, grabbing Rangerâs shoulder, thanking God the other pilot was looking lively.

Nemo was struggling with his monkey strap, the rig used to hold him in the chopper during ops. The straps had tangled, and he was still tethered to a tie-down clamp attached to the ripped-up deck. Ranger went to help him, and the two of them dragged away the wounded guy in the litter, which, thankfully, had been hoisted into the cargo bay before the crash.

âKennedy!â Ross dropped to his knees beside her. She lay eerily still, on her side. âHey, Kennedy,â he said, âMove your ass. Move your fucking ass! We need to get out.â

Donât be dead, he thought. Please donât be dead. Damn, he hated this. Too many times, heâd turned a soldier over to find himâor herâtoo far gone, floating in root reflexes.

âKenââ

âFuck.â The FNG threw off his hand, hauling herself to her feet while uttering a stream of profanities. Then, just for a second, she focused on Ross. The soft-cheeked newness was already gone from her face, replaced by flinty-eyed determination. âQuit wasting time, Chief,â she said. âLetâs get the fuck out of here.â

The four of them crouched low against the curve of the chopperâs battered hull. Bullet holes riddled the starkly painted red cross and pockmarked the tail boom. The floor was covered with loose AK-47 rounds.

The Apache gunships had broken off and gone into hunter-killer mode, searching out the enemy on the ground, firing at the muzzle flashes on the mountainsides and producing a much-prayed-for lull. The other chopper had escaped and was no doubt sending out distress calls on the unitâs behalf. Pillars of black smoke from mortar rounds rose up everywhere.

With no means of evacuation, the crew had to take cover wherever they could. Heads down, in a hail of debris, they carried the litter toward the nearest house. Through a cloud of dust and smoke, Ross spotted an enemy soldier, hunched and watchful, armed with an AK-47, approaching the same house from the opposite direction.

âI got this,â he signaled to Nemo, nudging him.

Unarmed against a hot weapon, Ross knew he had only seconds to act or heâd lose the element of surprise. That was where the armyâs training kicked in. Approaching from behind, he stooped low, grabbed the guy by both ankles and yanked back, causing the gunman to fall flat on his face. Even as the air rushed from the surprised victimâs chest, Ross dispatched him quicklyâeyes, neck, groinâin that order. The guy never knew what hit him. Within seconds, Ross had bound his wrists with zip ties, confiscated the weapon and dragged the enemy soldier into the house.

There, they found a host of beleaguered U.S. and Afghan soldiers. âDustoff 91,â Ranger said by way of introduction. âAnd unfortunately, youâre going to have to wait for another ride.â

The captured soldier groaned and shuddered on the floor.

âJesus, whereâd you learn that move?â one of the U.S. soldiers demanded.

âUnarmed combatâa medevacâs specialty,â said Nemo, giving Ross a hand.

A babble of Pashto and English erupted. âWeâre toast,â said a dazed and exhausted soldier. Like his comrades, he looked as if he hadnât bathed in weeks, and he wore a dogâs flea collar around his middle; life at the outposts was crude as hell. The guyâstill round-cheeked with youth, but with haunted eyesârelated the action in dull shell-shocked tones. A part of this kid wasnât even there anymore. When Ross met a soldier in such a state, he often found himself wondering if the missing part would ever be restored.

âLetâs have a look at the wounded,â Kennedy suggested. She seemed desperate to do something, anything. The soldier took her to a row of supine people on the floorâan Afghan teenager holding an iPhone and keening what sounded like a prayer, a guy moaning and clutching his shredded leg, several lying unconscious. Kennedy checked their vitals and looked around, lost. âI need something to write on.â

Ross grabbed a Sharpie marker from her kit. âRight there,â he said, indicating the teenagerâs bare chest.

She hesitated, then started to write on the boyâs skin. More gunfire slapped the ground outside. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only twenty minutes, another Dustoff unit arrived, lowered a medic on a winch line and then beat away in search of a place to land. Inside the hut, the triage continued, with everyone aiding the medics.

Ross moved past a pair of soldiers who were obviously dead. He felt nothing. He wouldnât let himself. The nightmares would come later.

âSee if you can stop that bleeding,â the new medic said, indicating another victim. âJust hold something on it.â

Ross ripped off a sleeve to staunch a bleeding wound. Only after heâd pressed the fabric into an arm did he see that it was attached to an old guy who was being held by a boy singing softly into the manâs ear. It seemed to calm the wounded guy, Ross observed.

He needed to find the part of him that could still feel. He needed what he saw in the way the boyâs hand caressed the old manâs cheek. Family. It gave life its meaning. When everything was stripped away, family was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that kept a person tethered to the ground. Other than his grandfather, Ross was lacking in that department. He hated feeling so hollow and numb.

Fire from the insurgents subsided. Two more chopper crews arrived with litters, racing across open ground to reach the others. Everyone burst into action, taking advantage of the lull. The wounded were loaded on litters, pulled along on ponchos, carried in straining arms. Those who were ambulatory piled in, creating chaos. The first bird took off, chugging with its burden, then swung like a carnival ride.

Ross was in the second one, the last to board, grasping a cleat for a handhold. The firing started up again, pinging off the skids. The flight passed in a blur of noise and dust and smoke, but finallyâthank God, finallyâhe could see an ops guy mouth the magic words everyone had been waitingâhoping, prayingâfor: Dustoff is inbound.

They reached the LZ with the last of their fuel, and the ground personnel took over. Ross found somebody in medical to give him some betadine and a couple of bandages. Then he walked out into the compound, the sun beating down on his bare arm where heâd ripped his sleeve off. He was light-headed with the feeling that heâd been to hell and back.

It was barely noon.

Â 

Renowned for its swiftness and efficiency, his Dustoff unit had saved a lot of lives. Twenty-five minutes from battlefield to trauma ward was the norm. It was something heâd look back at with pride, but it was time to move on. He was so damn ready to move on.

Guys were milling around the mess tent. Two more air crews were preparing to head out again.

âHey, Leroy, Christmas came early for you this year,â said Nemo, wolfing down a folded-over piece of pizza from the Pizza Hut tent. âI hear your discharge orders came through.â

Ross nodded. A wave of somethingânot quite reliefâsurged through him. It was really happening. At last, he was going home.

âWhatâre you going to do with yourself once youâre stateside?â Nemo asked.

Start over, thought Ross. Get it right this time around. âI got big plans,â he said.

âRight,â Nemo said with a chuckle, heading for the showers. âDonât we all.â

When you were in the middle of something like this, Ross thought, you didnât plan anything except how not to die in the next few minutes. It was a total mind trip to realize heâd have to think past that now.

He spotted Florence Kennedy hunkered down in the shade, sipping from a canteen and quietly crying.

âHey, sorry about the way I screamed at you out there,â he said.

She gazed up at him, red eyes swimming. âYou saved my ass today.â

âItâs a pretty nice ass.â

âCareful how you talk to me, Chief. That mouth of yours could get you in a world of shit.â She grinned through her tears. âI owe you.â

âJust doing my job, maâam.â

âSounds like youâre heading home.â

âYep.â

She dug in her pocket, took out a card and scribbled an e-mail address on it. âMaybe weâll keep in touch.â

âMaybe.â It didnât work that way, but she was too new to know.

He turned the card over to the printed side. âTyrone Kennedy. The state prosecutorâs office of New Jersey,â he said. âDoes this mean Iâm in trouble?â

âNo. But if you ever get your ass in trouble in New Jersey, try calling my dad. Heâs got connections.â

âAnd yet here you are.â He gestured around the dusty compound. Maybe she was like heâd beenâaimless, needing to do something that mattered.

She gave a shrug. âIâm just saying, sir. Anywhere, anytime you need something from me, itâs yours.â She put the cap back on her canteen and headed into the mess, clearly a different person from the newbie heâd met just a few hours before.

He was surprised to see his hand shaking as he tucked the card into his pocket. Other than a few nicks and bruises, he wasnât wounded, yet everything hurt. His nerve endings had nerve endings. After twenty-three months of numbing himself to all kinds of pain, he was starting to feel everything again.

One

Ulster County, New York

For a dying man, George Bellamy struck Claire as a fairly cheerful old guy. The dumbest show sheâd ever heard was playing on the car radio, a chat hour called âHootenanny,â and George found it hilarious. He had a distinctive, infectious laugh that seemed to emanate from an invisible center and radiate outward. It started as a soft vibration, then crescendoed to a sound of pure happiness. And it wasnât just the radio show. George had recently received word that his grandson was coming home from the war in Afghanistan, and that added to his cheerfulness. He anticipated a reunion any day now.

Very soon, she hoped, for both their sakes.

âI canât wait to see Ross,â said George. âHeâs my grandson. Heâs just been discharged from the army, and heâs supposed to be on his way back.â

âIâm sure heâll come to see you straightaway,â she assured him, pretending he had not just told her this an hour ago.

The springtime foliage blurred past in a smear of colorâthe pale green of leaves unfurling, the yellow trumpets of daffodils, the lavish purples and pinks of roadside wildflowers.

She wondered if he was thinking about the fact that this would be his last springtime. Sometimes her patientsâ sadness over such things, the finality of it all, was unbearable. For now, Georgeâs expression was free of pain or stress. Although theyâd only just met, she sensed he was going to be one of her more pleasant patients.

In his stylish pressed slacks and golf shirt, he looked like any well-heeled gentleman heading away from the city for a few weeks. Now that heâd ceased all treatment, his hair was coming back in a glossy snow-white. At the moment, his coloring was very good.

As a private-duty nurse specializing in palliative care for the terminally ill, she met all kinds of peopleâand their families. Though her focus was the patient, he always came with a whole host of relatives. She hadnât met any of Georgeâs family yet; his sons and their families lived far away. For the time being, it was just her and George.

He seemed very focused and determined at the moment. And thus far, he reported that he was pain free.

She indicated the notebook he held in his lap, its pages covered with old-fashioned spidery handwriting. âYouâve been busy.â

âIâve been making a list of things to do. Is that a good idea?â he asked her.

âI think itâs a great idea, George. Everybody keeps a list of things they need to do, but most of us just keep it up here.â She tapped her temple.

âI donât trust my own head these days,â he admitted, an oblique reference to his conditionâglioblastoma multiforme, a heartlessly fatal cancer. âSo Iâve taken to writing everything down.â He flipped through the pages of the book. âItâs a long list,â he said, almost apologetically. âWe might not get to everything.â

âAll we can do is the best we can. Iâll help you,â she said. âThatâs what Iâm here for.â She scanned the road ahead, unused to rural highways. To a girl from the exhausted midurban places of Jersey and the sooty bustle of Manhattan, the forest-clad hills and rocky ridges of the Ulster County highlands resembled an alien landscape. âItâs not such a bad idea to have too many things to do,â she added. âThat way, youâll never get bored.â

He chuckled. âIn that case, weâre in for a busy summer.â

âWeâre in for whatever summer you want.â

He sighed, flipping the pages. âI wish Iâd thought about these things before I knew I was dying.â

âWeâre all dying,â she reminded him.

âAnd how the devil did I luck into a home health care worker with such a sunny disposition?â

âI bet a sunny disposition would drive you crazy.â Although she and George were new to each other, she had a gift for reading people quickly. For her, it was a key survival skill. Misreading a person had once forced Claire to change every aspect of her life.

George Bellamy struck her as circumspect and well-read. Yet he had an air of loneliness, and he was seekingâ¦something. She hadnât discovered precisely what it was. She didnât know a lot about him yet. He was a retired international news correspondent of some renown. Heâd spent most of his adult years living in Paris and traveling the globe. Yet now at the end of his life, he wanted to journey to a place far different from the worldâs capitals.

Lives came to an end with as much variety as they were livedâsome quietly, some with drama and fanfare, some with a sense of closure, and far too many with regrets. They were the slow poison that killed the things that brought a person joy. It was amazing to her to observe the way a generally happy, successful life could be taken apart by a few regrets. She hoped Georgeâs searching journey would be to a place of acceptance.

Those who were uninitiated in her area of care seemed to think that the dying knew the answers to the big questions, that they were wiser or more spiritual or somehow deeper than the living. This, Claire had learned, was a myth. Terminally ill patients came in all stripesâwise, foolish, filled with happiness or despair, logical, loony, fearfulâ¦in fact, the dying were very much like the living. They just had a shorter expiration date. And more physical challenges.

The countryside turned even prettier and more bucolic as they wended their way northwest toward the Catskills Wilderness, a vast preserve of river-fed hills and forests. After a time, they approached their target destination, marked by a rustic sign that read, Welcome To Avalon. A Small Town With A Big Heart.

Her grip tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. Sheâd never lived in a small town before. The idea of joining an intimate, close-knit communityâeven temporarilyâmade Claire feel exposed and vulnerable. Not that she was paranoid, orâwait, she was. But she had her reasons.

There was no place that ever felt truly safe to her. The early days with her mother, even before all the trouble started, had been fraught with unpredictability and insecurity. Her mother had been a teenage runaway. She wasnât a bad person, but a bad addict, shot during a drug deal gone wrong on Newarkâs South Orange Avenue and leaving behind a quiet ten-year-old daughter.

Her life was transformed by the foster care system. Not many would say that, but in this instance, it was entirely true. Her caseworker, Sherri Burke, made sure she was placed with the best foster families in the system. Experiencing family life for the first time, she inhaled the lessons of life from people who cared. She learned what it was like to be a part of something larger and deeper than herself.

To appreciate the blessings of a family, all she had to do was watch. It was everywhereâin the look in a womanâs eyes when her husband walked through the door. In the touch of a motherâs hand on a childâs feverish brow. In the laughter of sisters, sharing a joke, or the protective stance of a brother, watching out for his siblings. A family was a safety net, cushioning a fall. An invisible shield, softening a blow.

She dared to dream of a better lifeâa love of her own, a family. Kids. A life filled with all the things that made people smile and feel a cushion of comfort when they were sad or hurting or afraid.

This can be yours was the promise of the system, when it was working as it should.

Then, at the age of seventeen, everything changed. She had witnessed a crime that forced her into hidingâfrom someone she had once trusted with her life. If that wasnât a rationale for paranoia, she didnât know what was.

A small town like this could be a dangerous place, especially for a person with something to hide. Anyone who read Stephen King novels knew that.

If worse came to worst, then she would simply disappear again. She was good at that.

Sheâd learned long ago that the witness protection programs depicted in the movies were pure fiction. A simple murder was not a federal case, so the federal witness protection programâWITSECâwas not an option for her. This was unfortunate, because the federal program, expertly administered and well-funded by the U.S. marshals, had a track record of effectively protecting witnesses without incident.

State and local programs were a different story. They were invariably underfunded. Taxpayers didnât relish spending their money on these programs. The majority of informants and witnesses were criminals themselves, trading information for immunity from prosecution. The total innocents, such as Claire had been, were a rarity. Often, witness protection consisted of a one-way bus ticket and a few weeks in a motor court. After that, the witness was on her own. And for a witness like Claire, whose situation was so dangerous she couldnât even trust the police, sometimes the only ally was luck.

Now the families she had been a part of so briefly seemed like a dream, or a life that had happened to someone else. She used to believe sheâd have a family of her own one day, but now that was out of her reach. Yes, she could fall in love, have a relationship, kids, even. But why would she do that? Why would she create something in her life to love, only to expose it to the threat of being found out? So here she was, trapped into an existence on the fringes of other peopleâs families. She tried so hard to make it work for her, and sometimes it did. Other times, she felt as though she was drifting away, like a leaf on the wind.

âAlmost there,â she said to George, noting the distance tracker on the GPS.

âExcellent. The journey is so much shorter than it seemed to me when I was a boy. Back then, everyone took the train.â

George had not explained to her exactly why he had decided to spend his final time in this particular place, nor had he told her why he was making the trip alone. She knew he would reveal it in due course.

Peopleâs end-of-life experiences often involved a journey, and it was usually to a place they were intimately connected with. Sometimes it was where their story began, or where a turning point in life occurred. It might be a search for comfort and safety. Other times it was just the opposite; a place where there was unfinished business to be dealt with. What this sleepy town by Willow Lake was to George Bellamy remained to be seen.

The road followed the contours of a burbling tree-shaded stream marked the Schuyler River, its old Dutch spelling as quaint as the covered bridge she could see in the distance. âI canât believe thereâs a covered bridge. Iâve never seen one before, except in pictures.â

âItâs been there for as long as I can remember,â George said, leaning slightly forward.

Claire studied the structure, simple and nostalgic as an old song, with its barn-red paint and wood-shingled roof. She accelerated, curious about the town that seemed to mean so much to her client. This might turn out to be a good assignment for her. It might even be a place that actually felt safe for once.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her than a blue-white flash of light battered the vanâs rearview mirror. A split second later came the warning blip of a siren.

Claire felt a sudden frost come over her. The tips of her fingernails chilled and all the color drained from her face; she could feel the old terror coming on with sudden swiftness. She battled a mad impulse to floor the accelerator and race away in the cumbersome van.

George must have read her mindâor her body language. âA car chase is not on my list,â he said.

âWhat?â Flushed and sweating, she eased her foot off the accelerator.

âA car chase,â he said, enunciating clearly. âNot on my list. I can die happy without the car chase.â

âIâm totally pulling over,â she said. âDo you see me pulling over?â She hoped he couldnât detect the tremor in her voice.

âThereâs a tremor in your voice,â he said.

âGetting pulled over makes me nervous,â she said. Understatement. Her throat and chest felt tight; her heart was racing. She knew the clinical term for her condition, but it was the laymanâs expression she offered George. âKind of freaks me out.â She stopped on the gravel verge and put the van in Park.

âI can see that.â George calmly drew a monogrammed gold money clip from his pocket. It was filled with neatly folded bills.

âWhat are you doing?â she demanded, momentarily forgetting her anxiety.

âI suspect heâll be looking for a bribe. Common practice in third world countries.â

âWeâre not in a third world country. I know it might not seem like it, but weâre still in New York.â

The patrol car, black and shiny as a jelly bean, kept its lights running, signaling to all passersby that a criminal was being apprehended.

âPut that away,â she ordered George.

He did so with a shrug. âI could call my lawyer,â he suggested.

âIâd say thatâs premature.â She studied the police car through the vanâs side mirror. âWhat is taking so long?â

âHeâor sheâis looking up the vehicle records to see if thereâs been an alert on it.â

âAnd why would there be an alert?â she asked. The van had been leased in Georgeâs name with Claire listed as an authorized driver.

Yet something about his expression put her on edge. She glanced from the mirror to her passenger. âGeorge,â she said in a warning voice.

âLetâs just hear the officer out,â he said. âThen you can yell at me.â

The approaching cop, even viewed through the side mirror, stirred a peculiar dread in Claire. The crisp uniform and silvered sunglass lenses, the clean-shaven square jaw and polished boots all made her want to cringe.

âLicense and registration,â he said. It was not a barked order but a calm imperative.

Her fingers felt bloodless as she handed over her driverâs license. Although it was entirely legitimate, even down to the reflective watermark and the organ donor information on the back, she held her breath as the cop scrutinized it. He wore a badge identifying him as Rayburn Tolley, Avalon PD. George passed her the folder containing the vanâs rental documents, and she handed that over, too.

Claire bit the inside of her lip and wished she hadnât come here. This was a mistake.

âWhatâs the trouble?â she asked Officer Tolley, dismayed by the nervousness in her voice. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how often she exposed herself to cops, she could never get past her fear of them. Sometimes even a school crossing guard struck terror in her.

He scowled pointedly at her hand, which was trembling. âYou tell me.â

âIâm nervous,â she admitted. She had learned over the years to tell the truth whenever possible. It made the lies easier. âCall me crazy, but it makes me nervous when I get pulled over.â

âMaâam, you were speeding.â

âWas I? Sorry, Officer. I didnât notice.â

âWhere are you headed?â he demanded.

âTo a place called Camp Kioga, on Willow Lake,â said George, âand if she was speeding, the fault is mine. Iâm impatient, not to mention a distraction.â

Officer Tolley bent slightly and peered across the front seat to the passenger side. âAnd you areâ¦?â

âBeginning to feel harassed by you.â George sounded righteously indignant.

âYou wouldnât happen to be George Bellamy, would you?â asked Tolley.

âIndeed I am,â George said, âbut how did youââ

âIn that case, maâam,â the cop said, returning his attention to Claire, âI need to ask you to step out of the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them.â

Her heart seized up. It was a moment she had dreaded since the day sheâd realized she was a hunted woman. The beginning of the end. Her mind raced, although she moved like a mechanical wooden doll. Should she submit to him? Make a break for it?

âSee here now,â George said. âI would like to know why youâre so preoccupied with us.â

âGeorge, the manâs doing his job,â said Claire, hoping that would mollify the cop. She motioned for him to sit tight and did as she was told, stepping down awkwardly, using the door handle to steady herself.

Tolley didnât seem put off by Georgeâs question. âThere was a call to the station about you and Missâ¦â He consulted the license, which was still clipped to his board. âTurner. The call was from a family member.â He glanced at a printout the size of a cash register receipt on the clipboard. âAlice Bellamy,â he said.

Claire looked over her shoulder at George, a question in her eyes.

âOne of my daughters-in-law,â he said, a note of apology in his voice.

âSir, your family is extremely worried about you,â said the cop. He stared at Claire. She couldnât discern his eyes behind the lenses, but could see her own reflection clearly, in twin, convex detail. Medium-length dark hair. Large dark eyes. A plain, she hoped, ordinary, nondescript face. That was always the goal. To blend in. To be forgettable. Forgotten.

She forced herself to keep her chin up, to pretend everything was fine. âIs that a crime around here?â she asked. âTo have a worried family?â

âItâs more than worry.â Officer Tolley rested his right hand atop the holster carrying his service revolver. She could see that heâd released the safety strap. âMr. Bellamyâs family has some serious concerns about you.â

She swallowed hard. The Bellamys were made of money. Maybe the daughter-in-law had ordered a deep and thorough background check. Maybe that check had uncovered some irregularity, something about Claireâs past that didnât quite add up.

âWhat kind of concerns?â she asked, dry-mouthed, consumed by terror now.

âOh, let me guess,â George suggested with a blast of laughter. âMy family thinks Iâve been kidnapped.â

Two

KAIA (Kabul Afghanistan International Airport)

âShe did what?â Ross practically shouted into the borrowed mobile phone.

âSorry, we have a terrible connection,â said his cousin Ivy, speaking to him from her home in Santa Barbara, where it was eleven and a half hours earlier. âShe kidnapped Granddad.â

Ross rotated his shoulders, which felt curiously light. For the past two years, heâd been burdened by twenty pounds of individual body armor plates, a Kevlar helmet and vest. Now that he was headed home, the weight was gone. Heâd turned in the IBA plates, shedding them like a molting beetle.

Yet according to his cousin, the civilian life had its own kind of perils.

âKidnapped?â The loaded word snagged the attention of the others in the waiting room. He waved his hand, a nonverbal signal that all was well, and turned away from the prying eyes.

âYou heard me,â Ivy said. âAccording to my mother, he hired some sketchy home health care worker off of Craigslist, and she kidnapped him and took him to some remote mountain hideaway up in Ulster County.â

âThatâs nuts,â he said. âThatâs completely nuts.â Or was it? In this part of the world, kidnappings were common. And they rarely had a good outcome.

âWhat can I say?â Ivy sounded almost apologetic. âItâs my mom at her most dramatic.â

Growing up, first cousins Ross and Ivy had bonded over their drama-queen mothers. A few years younger than Ross, Ivy lived in Santa Barbara, where she created avant garde sculpture and wrote long, angsty e-mails to her cousin overseas.

âAnd youâre certain Aunt Aliceâs overreacting? Thereâs no chance she might be on to something?â

âThereâs always a chance. Thatâs how my mom operatesâwithin the realm of possibility. She thinks Granddad is losing it. Everybody knows brain tumors make people do crazy things. When can you get to New York?â asked Ivy. âWe really need you, Ross. Granddad needs you. Youâre the only one he listens to. Where the hell are you, anyway?â

Ross looked around the foreign airport, jammed with soldiers in desert fatigues, trading stories of firefights, suicide bombers, roadside ambushes. Transport here had been his last movement on the ground. He remembered thinking, please donât let anything happen now. He didnât want to be one of those depressing items you read about in hometown newspapersâOn his last day of deployment, he died in a convoy attackâ¦.

He pictured Ivy in her bohemian guest house on the bluffs above Hendryâs Beach. He could hear a Cream album playing in the background. She was probably making coffee in her French press and watching the surfers paddle to the beach-break for an early morning ride.

âIâm on my way,â he said. The homeward-bound soldiers had all been sitting at KAIA for hours. Time dragged at the pace of a glacier. Originally their flight was supposed to leave at 1400, but that had been delayed to 2145. Theyâd been ordered back to the departure tent and subjected to mandatory lockdown, which meant sitting in an airless tent with nothing to do until it was time to board: 2145 had come and gone, the delay surprising no one.

âRoss?â His cousinâs voice prodded him. âHow much longer before youâre home?â

âWorking on it,â he said to her. At the moment, he might as well be on a different planet; he felt that far away. âWhatâs going on with Granddad?â

âHereâs what I know. Heâs been in treatment at the Mayo Clinic. I guess they told him thenâ¦â She paused, and a sob pulsed through the phone. âThey told him it was the worst possible news.â

âIvyââ

âItâs inoperable. I donât think even my mother would exaggerate that. Heâs going to die, Ross.â

Ross felt sucker-punched by the words. For a few seconds, he couldnât breathe or see straight. There had to be some mistake. A month ago, Ross had received the usual communiquÃ© from his grandfather. George Bellamy had a curiously old-fashioned style of writing, even with e-mail, starting each message with a proper heading and salutation. He had mentioned the Mayo Clinicâânothing to worry about.â Ross had failed to read between the lines. He hadnât let himself go there, even though he knew damn well a guy didnât go to the Mayo Clinic for a hangnail. He hadnât let himself think aboutâ¦sweet Jesusâ¦a terminal prognosis.

Granddadâs sign-off was always the same: Keep Calm and Carry On.

And that, in essence, was the way George Bellamy lived. Apparently it was the way he was going to die.

âHe finally told my dad,â Ivy was saying. There was still a catch in her voice. âHe said he wasnât going to pursue further treatment.â

âIs he scared?â Ross asked. âIs he in pain?â

âHeâs justâ¦Granddad. He claimed he had to go to some little town in the Catskills to see his brother. That was the first Iâd heard of any brother. Did you know anything about that?â

âWait a minute, what? Granddad has a brother?â

The connection crackled ominously, and he missed the first part of her reply. ââ¦anyway, when my mother heard what he was planning, she went, like, totally ballistic.â

Fighting the poor connection and the ambient din of the airport, Ross listened as his cousin filled him in further. Their grandfather had called each of his three sonsâTrevor, Gerard and Louisâand heâd calmly informed them of the diagnosis. Then, like a follow-up punch, George had announced his intention to leave his Manhattan penthouse and head for a backwater town upstate to see his brother, some guy named Charles Bellamy. Like Ivy and Ross, most people in the family didnât even know he had a long-lost brother. How could he have a brother nobody knew about? Was he some guy hidden away in an asylum somewhere, like in the movie Rain Man? Or was he a figment of Granddadâs increasingly unreliable imagination?

âSo you are telling me heâs headed upstate with some sketchy woman who isâ¦who, again?â he asked.

âHer name is Claire Turner. Claims to be some kind of nurse or home health worker. My momâand yours, too, Iâm sureâthinks sheâs after his money.â

That would always be the first concern of Aunt Alice and of his mother, Ross reflected. Though Bellamys only by marriage, they claimed to love George like a father. And maybe they did, but Ross suspected Aliceâs tantrum was less about losing her father-in-law than it was about splitting her inheritance. He also had no doubt his mother felt the same way. But that was a whole other conversation.

âAnd they called the police to stop her,â Ivy added.

âThe police?â Ross shoved a hand through his close-cropped hair. He realized heâd raised his voice again and turned away. âThey called the police?â Holy crap. Apparently his mother and aunt had managed to persuade the local authorities that George was with a stranger who meant him harm.

âThey didnât know what else to do,â said Ivy. âListen, Ross. Iâm so worried about Granddad. Iâm scared. I donât want him to suffer. I donât want him to die. Please come home, Ross. Pleaseââ

âI requested an expedited discharge,â he assured her. So far, the promised outprocessing hadnât given him much of a head start.

His cousin acted as though his homecoming was going to bring about a miraculous cure for their grandfather. Ross already knew miracles werenât reliable. âWhen are you flying to New York?â he asked, but by then he was speaking to empty air; the connection had been lost. He shut the mobile phone and brought it over to Manny Shiraz, a fellow chief warrant officer who had lent it to him when Rossâs phone had failed.

âTrouble at home?â Manny asked. It was the kind of question that came up for guys on deployment, again and again.

Ross nodded. âGod forbid I should go home and find everything is fine.â

âWelcome to the club, Chief.â

The idyllic homefront was usually a myth, yet everybody in the waiting area was amped up about going back. There were men and women who hadnât seen their families in a year, some even longer than that. Babies had been born, toddlers had taken their first steps, marriages had crumbled, holidays had passed, loved ones had died, birthdays had been celebrated. Everyone was eager to get back to their lives.

Ross was eager, tooâbut he didnât have much of a life. No wife and kids counting the hours to his return. Just his mother, Winifred, a flighty and self-absorbed womanâ¦and Granddad.

George Bellamy had been the touchstone of Rossâs life since the moment a Casualty Assistance Calls Officer had knocked at the door, arriving in person to tell Winifred Bellamy and her son that Pierce Bellamy had been killed during Operation Desert Storm in 1994.

Granddad had flown to New York from Paris on the Concorde, which was still operating in those days. He had traveled faster than the speed of sound to be with Ross. Heâd pulled his grandson into his arms, and the two of them had cried together, and Granddad had made a promise that day: I will always be here for you.

They had clung to each other like survivors of a tsunami. Rossâs mother all but disappeared into a whirlwind of panicked grief that culminated in a feverish round of dating. Winifred recovered from her loss quickly and decisively, sealing the deal by remarrying and adopting two stepkids, Donnie and Denise. Ross had been shipped off to school in Switzerland because he had difficulty âacceptingâ his stepfather and his charming stepbrother and stepsister. The American School in Switzerland offered a comprehensive residential educational program. His mother convinced herself that the venerable institution would do a better job raising her son than she herself ever could.

Rossâs grief had been so raw and painful he couldnât see straight. Sometimes he wanted to ask her, âIn what world is it okay to look at a kid whoâd just lost his father and say to him, âBoarding school! Itâs just the thing for you!â?â

Then again, maybe her instincts had been right. There were students at TASIS who thrived on the experienceâa residential school as magical in its way as Hogwarts itself. He hadnât known it back then, but maybe the long separations and periods of isolation had helped prepare him for deployment.

Being sent an ocean away after losing his dad could have pushed him over the edge, but there was one saving grace in his situationâGranddad. Heâd been living and working in Paris and he visited Ross at school in Lugano nearly every single weekend, a lifeline of compassion. Granddad probably didnât realize it, but heâd saved Ross from drowning. He shut his eyes, picturing his grandfatherâimpressively tall, with abundant white hair. Heâd never seemed old to Ross, though.

On the eve of his deployment, Ross had made a promise to his grandfather. âIâm coming back.â

Granddad had not had the expected reaction. Heâd turned his eyes away and said, âThatâs what your father told me.â It was a negative thing to say, especially for Granddad. Ross knew the words came from fear that heâd never make it home.

He paced, feeling constrained by the interminable waiting. Waiting was a way of life in the army; heâd known that going in but heâd never grown used to it. When heâd announced his intention to serve his country, Ross had known the news would hit his grandfather hard, bringing back the hammer-blows of shock and relentless grief of losing Pierce. But it was something Ross had to do. Heâd tried to talk himself out of it. Ultimately he felt compelled to go, as though to complete his fatherâs journey.

Ross had started adulthood as a spoiled, self-indulgent, overgrown kid with no strong sense of direction. Things came easily to himâgrades, women, friendsâperhaps too easily. After college, heâd drifted, unable to find his place. Heâd attained a pilotâs license. Seduced too many women. Finally realized heâd better find a vocation that actually meant something. At the age of twenty-eight, he walked into a recruitment office. His age raised eyebrows but theyâd given him no trouble; he was licensed to fly several types of aircraft and spoke three languages. The army had given him more of a life than heâd found on his own. Flying a helo was the hardest thing in the world, and for that reason, he loved it. But he couldnât honestly say it had brought him any closer to his father.

Â 

Eventually the first wave of soldiers was taken to the plane. Another hour passed before the bus came back for the rest. Walking onto the transport plane, Ross felt no jubilation; pallets laden with black boxes and duffel bags were still sitting on the tarmac, not yet loaded. This ate up another hour.

A navy LCDR boarded, settling in across from Ross. She flashed him a smile, then pulled out a glossy fashion magazine stuffed with articles about makeup. Ross tried to focus on his copy of Rolling Stone, but his mind kept straying.

About an hour into the flight, the LCDR leaned forward to look out the window, cupping her hands around her eyes. âWeâre not in Afghanistan anymore.â

It was too dark to see the ground, but the portal framed a perfect view of the Big Dipper. Rossâs grandfather had taught him about the stars. When Ross was about six or seven, Granddad had taken him boating in Long Island Sound. It had been just the two of them in a sleek catboat. Ross had just earned his Arrow of Light badge in Cub Scouts, and Granddad wanted to celebrate. They had dined on lobster rolls, hot French fries in paper cones and root beer floats from a busy concession stand. Then theyâd sailed all evening, until it was nearly dark. âIs that where heaven is?â Ross had asked him, pointing to the sparkling swath of the Milky Way.

And Granddad had reached over, squeezed his hand and said, âHeavenâs right here, my boy. With you.â

There was a stopover in Manas Air Base in Kyrgyzstan, where the air was cool and smelled of grass. During the three-hour wait for bags, he tried calling his grandfather, then Ivy, then his mother, with no luck, so he headed to the chow hall to get something to eat. Although it was the middle of the night, the place was bustling. Ross studied the armyâs morale, welfare and recreation posters advertising sightseeing tours, golf excursions and spa services, which sounded as exotic as a glass of French brandy. Before heâd enlisted, everyday luxuries had been commonplace in his life, thanks to his grandfather. Ross was returning hardened by the things heâd seen and done. But at least he was keeping the promise heâd made to his grandfather.

Please be okay, Granddad, he thought. Please be like a wounded soldier who gets patched up and sent back out into battle. At the next layover in Baku, Georgia, he had the urge to bolt and travel like a civilian, but he quelled the impulse and bided his time, waiting for the flight to Shannon Airport, in Ireland. He couldnât allow himself to veer off track, not now.

Because now, it seemed his grandfather was acting crazy, giving up on treatment and haring off after a brother he hadnât bothered to mention before.

During his deployment, Ross had learned a lot about saving livesâbut from shrapnel wounds and traumatic amputations, not brain tumors. There was an image stuck in his head, from that last sortie. He kept thinking about the boy and the wounded old man, trapped in that house, clinging to each other. Everything had been stripped away from those two, yet theyâd radiated calm. Heâd never found out what became of the two villagers; follow-ups were rare.

He wished heâd checked on them, though.

Three

âWell, now,â said George, buckling his seat belt. âThat was exciting.â

Claire pulled back onto the road, trying to compose herself. âI can do without that kind of excitement.â She drove slowly, with extra caution, as though a thousand eyes were watching her.

George seemed unperturbed by the encounter with the cop. He had politely pointed out that it was a free country, and just because certain family members were worried didnât mean any laws had been broken.

Officer Tolley had asked a number of questions, but to Claireâs relief, most of them were directed at George. The old manâs no-nonsense replies had won the day. âYoung man,â heâd said. âMuch as I would enjoy being held captive by an attractive woman, itâs not the case.â

Claire had produced her state license and nursing certificate, trying to appear bland and pleasant, an ordinary woman. Sheâd had plenty of practice.

The effort must have succeeded because ultimately, the cop could find no reason to detain them. He sent them on their way with a âHave a nice day, folks.â

âStill all right?â she asked George, spying a service station up ahead. âWant to stop here?â

âNo, thank you,â he said. âWeâre nearly there, eh?â

She indicated the gizmo on the console between them. âAccording to the GPS, another eleven-point-seven miles.â

âWhen I was a boy,â said George, âwe would take the train from Grand Central to Avalon. From there, weâd board an old rattletrap bus waiting at the station to take us up to Camp Kioga.â He paused. âSorry about that.â

âAbout what?â

âStarting a story with âwhen I was a boy.â Iâm afraid youâre going to be hearing that from me a lot.â

âDonât apologize,â she said. âEverybodyâs story starts somewhere.â

âGood point. But to the world at large, my own story is not that interesting.â

âEveryoneâs life is interesting,â she pointed out, âin its own way.â

âKind of you to say,â he agreed. âIâm sure you are no exception. Iâm looking forward to getting to know you.â

Claire said nothing. She kept her eyes on the roadâa meandering, little-traveled country road leading to the small lakeside hamlet of Avalon.

Which Claire would she show him, this kindly, doomed old man? The star nursing student? The single woman who kept no possessions, who lived her life from job to job? She wondered if he would see through her, recognizing the rootless individual hiding behind the thin veneer of a made-up life. Occasionally one of her patients discerned something just a bit âoffâ with her.

Which was one reason she worked only with the terminally ill. A grim rationale, but at least she didnât fool herself about it.

âTrust me,â she said to George, âIâm not that interesting.â

âYou most certainly are,â he said. âYour career, for example. I find it a fascinating choice for a young woman. How did you get into this line of work, anyway?â

She had a ready answer. âIâve always liked taking care of people.â

âBut the dying, Claire? Thatâs got to get you down sometimes, eh?â

âMaybe thatâs why my clients are rich old bastards,â she said, keeping her expression deadpan.

âHa. I deserved that. Still, Iâm curious. Youâre a lovely, bright young woman. Makes me wonderâ¦â

She didnât want him to wonder about her. She was a very private person, not as a matter of choice, but as a matter of life and death. She lived a life made up of lies that had no substance, and secrets she could never share. The things that were true about her were the shallow details, cocktail party fare, not that she got invited to cocktail parties. The person she was deep inside stayed hidden, and that was probably for the best. Who would want to know about the endless nights, when her loneliness was so deep and sharp she felt as though sheâd been hollowed out? Who would want to know she was so starved for a human touch that sometimes her skin felt as if it were on fire? Who could understand the way she wished to crawl out of her skin and walk away?

Back when sheâd gone underground, she had saved her own life. But it wasnât until much later that sheâd realized the cost. It had been simple and exorbitant; sheâd given up everything, even her identity.

âTell you what,â she said, âletâs keep the focus on you.â

âIâve never been able to resist a woman of mystery,â he declared. âIâll find out if it kills me. It might just kill me.â His amusement wasnât necessarily a bad thing. Humor had its uses, even in this situation.

âYou have better things to do with your time than pry into my life, George. Iâd rather hear about you, anyway. This summer is all about you.â

âAnd you donât find that depressing? Hanging around an old man, waiting for him to die?â

âAll kidding aside,â she said, âthings will go a lot better if you decide to make this summer about your life, not about your death.â

âMy family thinks youâre not right for me.â

âI guessed that when they called the police on us. Maybe Iâm not right. Weâll see.â

âSo far, weâre getting along famously.â He paused. âArenât we?â

âYou just hired me. Weâve only been together for three days.â

âYes, but itâs been an intense three days,â he pointed out. âIncluding this long drive from the city. You can tell a lot about a person on a car trip. You and I are getting along fine.â Another pause. âYouâre silent. You donât agree?â

Claire had a policy of trying to be truthful whenever possible. There were so many lies in other areas of her life, this need not be one of them. âWell,â she said almost apologetically, âthere was the singing, back in Poughkeepsie.â

âEverybody sings on car trips,â he said. âItâs the American way.â

âAll right. Forget I said anything.â

âWas I really that bad?â

âYou were pretty bad, George.â

âDamn.â He flipped through a few pages of his notebook.

âJust keeping it real,â she said.

âOh, I donât mind that you hated my singing,â he said. âBut youâre making me rethink something on my list. Ah, here it is. I wanted to perform a song for my family.â

âYou could still do that.â

âWhat, so they wonât be sad to see me go?â

âYou just need a little backup music for accompaniment, and youâll be fine.â

âAre you up for it?â he asked.

âNo way. I canât sing. Iâll find someone to help you.â

âIâm going to hold you to that.â

Simple, she thought. All she needed to do was find a karaoke place. And get his family to show up. Okay, maybe not so simple.

âJudging by our encounter with Officer Friendly, your relatives are pretty unhappy with me,â she said. She didnât much care. As her client, George was her sole concern. Still, it always went better if the family was supportive of the arrangement, because families had a way of complicating things. Sometimes she told herself that the lack of a family was a blessing in disguise. Certainly it was a complication she never had to deal with.

She often imagined about what it was like to have a family, the way a severe diabetic might think about eating a cake with burnt-sugar icing. It was never going to happen, but a girl could fantasize. Sometimes she covertly attended family gatheringsâgraduation ceremonies, outdoor weddings, even the occasional funeralâjust to see what it was like to have a family. She had a fascination with the obituary page of the paper, her attention always drawn to lengthy lists of family members left behind. Which, when she thought about it, was kind of pathetic, but it seemed harmless enough.

âTheyâre too quick to judge,â he said. âThey havenât even met you yet.â

âWell, you did make all these arrangements rather quickly.â

âIf I hadnât, they would have tried to stop me. Theyâd say weâre incompatible, that you and I are far too different,â he pointed out.

âNonsense,â said Claire. âYouâre a blueblood, and Iâm blue collarâitâs just a color.â

âExactly,â he said.

âWeâre all in the same race,â she added.

âIâm closer to the finish line.â

âI thought we were going to try to keep a positive attitude.â

âSorry.â

âThis is going to go well,â she promised him.

âItâs going to end badly for one of us.â

âThen letâs not focus on the ending.â

There were known psychological and clinical end-of-life stages people went through when facing a devastating diagnosisâshock, rage, denial and so forth. Everyone in her field of work had memorized them. In practice, patients expressed their stages in ways that were as different and individual as people themselves.

Some held despair at bay with denial, or by displaying a smart-alecky attitude about death. George seemed quite happy to be in that phase. His wry sense of humor appealed to her. Of course, he was using humor and sarcasm to keep the darker things at bayâdread and uncertainty, abject fear, regret, despair. In time, those might or might not materialize. It was her job to be there through everything.

All her previous patients had been in the city, where it was possible to be an anonymous face in the crowd. This was the first time she had ventured somewhere like thisâsmall and old-fashioned, more like an illustration in a storybook than a real place. It was like coming to a theme park, overrun by trees and beautiful wilderness areas and dotted with picturesque farms and painted houses.

âAvalon,â she said as they passed another welcome sign, this one marked with a contrived-looking heraldic shield. âI wonder if itâs named after a place from Arthurian legend.â Sheâd gone through a teenage obsession with the topic, using books as a refuge from a frightening and uncertain life. One of her foster mothers, an English professor, had taught her how to live deeply in a story, drawing inspiration from its lessons.

âI imagine thatâs what the founders had in mind. Avalon is where Arthur went to die,â George said.

âNot exactly. Itâs the island where Excalibur was forged, and where Arthur was taken to recover from his wounds after his last battle.â

âAh, but did he ever recover?â

She glanced over at him. âNot yet.â

The first thing she did when arriving at a new place was reconnoiter the area. It had become second nature to plan her escape route. The world had been a dangerous place for her since she was a teenager. Avalon was no exception. To most people, a town like this represented an American ideal, with its scrubbed facades and tranquil natural setting. Tree-lined avenues led to the charming center of town, where people strolled along the swept sidewalks, browsing in shop windows.

To Claire, the pretty village looked as forbidding as the edge of a cliff. One false step could be her last. She was already sensing that it was going to be harder to hide here, especially now that sheâd been welcomed by the law.

She took note of the train station and main square filled with inviting shops and restaurants, their windows shaded by striped and scalloped awnings. There was a handsome stone building in the middle of a large parkâthe Avalon Free Library. In the distance was the lake itself, as calm and pristine as a picture on a postcard.

It was late afternoon and the slant of the sunâs rays lengthened the shadows, lending the scene a deep, golden tinge of nostalgia. Old brick buildings, some of them with facades of figured stonework, bore the dates of their foundingâ1890, 1909, 1913. A community bulletin board announced the opening game of a baseball team called the Hornets, to be celebrated with a pregame barbecue.

âAre you a baseball fan?â she asked.

âDevotedly. Some of my fondest memories involve going to the Yankee stadium with my father and brother. Saw the Yankees win the World Series over the Phillies there in 1950. Yogi Berra hit an unforgettable homer in that game.â His eyes were glazed by wistful sentiment. âWe saw Harry Truman throw out the first pitch of the season one year. He did one with each hand, as I recall. Iâve often fantasized about throwing out the game ball. Never had the chance, though.â

âPut it on your list, George,â she suggested. âYou never know.â

They passed a bank and the Church of Christ. There were a couple of clothing boutiques, a sporting goods store and a bookstore called Camelot Books. There was a shop called Zuzuâs Petals, and a grand opening banner hung across the entrance of a new-looking establishmentâYolandaâs Bridal Shoppe. Some of the upper floors of the buildings housed officesâa pediatrician, a dentist, a lawyer, a funeral director.

One-stop shopping, she thought. A person could live and die here without ever leaving.

The idea of spending oneâs entire life in a single place was almost completely unfathomable to Claire.

She stopped at a pedestrian crossing and watched a dark-haired boy cross while tossing a baseball from hand to hand. On the corner, a blonde pregnant woman came out of a doctorâs office. The residents of the town resembled people everywhereâyoung, old, alone, together, all shapes and sizes. It reminded her that folks tended to be the same no matter where she went. They lived their lives, loved each other, fought and laughed and cried, the years adding up to a life. The residents of Avalon were no different. They just did it all in a prettier place.

âWell, George?â she asked. âWhat do you think? How does it look to you?â

âThe town has changed remarkably little since I was last here,â George said. âI wasnât sure Iâd recognize anything.â His hands tightened around the notebook he held in his lap. âI think I want to die in Avalon. Yes, I believe this is where I want it to happen.â

âWhen was the last time you visited?â she asked, deliberately ignoring his statement for the time being.

âIt was August twenty-fourth, 1955,â he said without hesitation. âI left on the 4:40 train. I never dreamed another fifty-five years would pass.â

That long, thought Claire. What would bring him back to a place after so much time?

âWould you mind pulling in here?â George asked. âI need to make a stop at this bakery. It was here when I last visited.â

She berthed the van in a big parking spot marked with a disabled symbol. On good days, George could walk fairly well, and today seemed to be a good day. However, they were in a new place and she didnât want to push their luck.

The Sky River Bakery and CafÃ© had a hand-painted sign proclaiming its establishment in 1952. It was a beautiful spring day, and tables with umbrellas sprouted along the sidewalk in front of the place, shading groups of customers as they enjoyed icy drinks and decadent-looking sweets.

She went around to the passenger side of the van to help him. The key to helping a patient, sheâd learned from experience, was to take her cues from him. Respect and dignity were her watchwords.

Though she had a wheelchair available, he opted for his cane, an unpretentious one with a rubber-tipped end. She helped him down and they stood together for a moment, looking around. His somewhat cocky persona slipped a little to reveal a face gone soft with uncertainty.

âGeorge?â she asked.

âDo I lookâ¦all right?â

She didnât smile, but her heart melted a little. Everyone had their insecurities. âI was just thinking you look exceptionally good. In fact, itâs kind of nice to tell you the truth instead of having to pretend.â

âYouâd do that? Youâd pretend I looked well, even if I didnât?â

âItâs all a matter of perspective. Iâve told people they look like a million bucks when in fact they look like death on a cracker.â

âAnd they donât see through that?â

âPeople see what they want to see. In your case, thereâs no need to lie. Youâre quite handsome. The driving cap is a nice touch. Where did you learn to dress like this?â

âMy father, Parkhurst Bellamy. He was always quite clear on the way a gentleman should dress, for any occasionâeven a bakery visit. He took my brother and me all the way to London for our first bespoke suits at Henry Poole, on Savile Row. I still get my clothing there.â

âBespoke?â

âMade-to-measure and hand tailored.â He glanced at himself in a shop window. âDo me a favor. If I ever get to the stage where I look like death on a cracker, go ahead and lie to me.â

âItâs a deal.â She hesitated. âSo do you expect to see someone you know in the bakery?â

He offered a rueful smile. âAfter all this time? Not likely. On the other hand, it never hurts to be prepared for the unlikely.â He squared his shoulders and gripped the head of the cane. âShall we?â He gallantly held the shop door for her.

The bakery smelled so good she practically swooned from the aroma of fresh baked bread, buttery pastries, cookies and fruit pies, and a specialty of the house known as the kolache, which appeared to be a rich, pillowy roll embedded with fruit jam or sweet cheese.

A song by the Indigo Girls drifted from two small speakers. The shop had a funky eclectic decor, with black-and-white checkerboard floors and walls painted a sunny yellow. There was a cat clock with rolling eyes and a pendulum tail, and a hand-lettered menu board. Behind the counter on the wall was a framed dollar bill and various permits and licenses. A side wall featured a number of matted art photographs and articles, including a yellowed newspaper clipping about the bakeryâs grand opening nearly sixty years ago.

George seemed like a different person here: gentle and pensive, shedding the impatience heâd shown occasionally on the drive from the city. A small line of patrons were clustered at the main counter. George waited his turn, then ordered indulgentlyâa cappuccino, a kolache and an iced maple bar. He also ordered a box of bialys and a strawberry pie to go.

She ordered a glass of iced tea sweetened with Stevia.

They took a seat at a side table decorated with a large travel poster depicting a scene at the lake. A guy in a flour-dusted apron and a name tag identifying him as Zach brought their order. He was an unusual-looking young man, his hair so blond it appeared whiteânaturally, not bleached. Claire had changed her own hair color enough times to know the difference.

âEnjoy,â he said, serving them.

âYou didnât order anything.â George aimed a pointed look at her glass of tea. âHow can you come to a place like this and not want to sample at least one thing?â

âBelieve me, I want to sample everything,â she admitted. âI canât, though. I, um, used to have a pretty bad weight problem. I really have to watch every single thing I put in my mouth.â

âYouâre showing remarkable self-denial.â

So much of her life boiled down to that, to self-denial. What she couldnât tell him was that her diet was not a matter of vanity alone. It was a matter of survival. As a teenager, she had used food as a comfort and a crutch, turning herself into the dateless fat girl. She was the nightmare everyone remembered from high schoolâoverweight, reviled and given over to foster care.

When everything fell apart, her survival had depended on altering the way she looked as much as possible. In addition to changing the cut and color of her hair, the way she dressed, acted and talked, losing weight had been a key element of disguising her former self. Thanks to her young age at the time, and the stress of being on the run, the pounds had come off swiftly. Keeping the weight off was a daily battle. It was dangerously easy to pack on the pounds. It started with a simple, innocent-looking pastry like the one George was holding out to her.

But she had the ultimate motivationâstaying alive. âThanks, you go ahead and enjoy that.â

âAnd what the devil are you going to enjoy?â

âWatching you eat a kolache,â she said.

He shrugged. âMy funeral. Whoops, Iâm not supposed to be saying things like that, am I?â

âYou can say anything you want, George. You can do anything you want. Thatâs what this summer is going to be about.â

âI like the way you think. Shouldâve lived my whole life that way.â He took an indulgent bite of his pastry and chewed slowly, his face turning soft with quiet ecstasy. He opened his eyes and saw her watching him. âWell,â he said, âthereâs good news and thereâs bad news. The bad news is, Iâm not going to heaven. The good news is, Iâm already there.â

âAccording to the GPS, the resort is only ten miles from here, so Iâll make sure you get a steady supply of those pastries,â said Claire.

âHonestly, itâs that good. Are you certain you canât be tempted with one?â

âIâm certain. And itâs nice to know there are kolaches on the menu every day in heaven. Do me a favor and take a bite for me.â Sipping her tea, she checked out the other patrons. Another paranoid habit of hers was checking to see if she was attracting attention, and scoping out escape optionsâthe swinging door behind the counter, and the main entrance to the street. Seeing no telltale signs of trouble, she studied the framed art poster on the wall. âThatâs a beautiful shot of Willow Lake.â

âIt is,â George agreed.

The image captured the placid mood and quality of light that pervaded the forest-fringed lake. She noticed a scrawled signature where the photographer had signed and numbered the print. ââDaisy Bellamy,ââ she read. âGeorge? Any relation to you?â

âPossibly.â A tiny smile tightened his mouth, and she could see him forcibly shifting gears. âItâs a singular sensation,â he said, alternating bites of the pastry with sips of his full-cream cappuccino. âAfter decades of having to watch my cholesterol, Iâm not going to die of a heart ailment after all.â He sampled the maple bar. âI wish Iâd known.â

She decided against pointing out his circular logic. One reason heâd enjoyed good health as long as he had was probably because he watched his diet.

âI could even take up smoking,â he said, blotting his mouth with a napkin. âCigars and cigarettes wonât kill me. I could pursue it, guilt-free.â

âWhatever makes you happy.â

âIâm working on it,â he said.

âOn what?â

âOn making myself happy. All my life, I told myself Iâd be happy someday.â

âAnd now that day has arrived,â she said.

âItâs hard,â he said quietly.

âTo be happy? Tell me about it.â She took his arm and moved toward the door before he could question her. âCome on, George. Letâs go buy you some cigars.â

Â 

They left town and headed northward along the lakeshore road. In the last part of the afternoon, the golden light deepened to amber, orange and fiery pink. Claire was silent, undone by the splendor of it. She wasnât accustomed to being surrounded by so much riotous beauty, and it pierced her deeply, causing an unexpected welling of emotion.

Here I am, she thought. Here I am.

âThis forest has grown so lush,â George remarked. âThe area used to be all logged out. Itâs good they replanted it. This is as it should be.â

She could feel his excitement spiraling upward as they approached Camp Kioga. It was their ultimate destinationâthe camp where heâd spent the summers of his boyhood. He eagerly pointed out landmarks as they passed themâmountains and rock formations and lookout points, a waterfall with a bridge suspended high above it.

The final approach took them deeper into the forest, where the foliage was so dense that for the first time Claire relaxed into a feeling of safety, false though it might have been. The resort came into view, its lodge and outbuildings nestled in the splendid wilderness at the northern end of the lake.

According to her hastily read brochure, the resort had recently been renovated and was run by a young couple, Olivia and Connor Davis. Yet the place retained its historic character in its timber and stone buildings, handmade signs, wild gardens, wooden docks where catboats and canoes bobbed at their moorage. The resortâs Web site, which sheâd browsed the night before, explained that Camp Kioga had reached its pinnacle during the era of the Great Camps in the mid-twentieth century, when families from the city would take refuge from the summer heat.

The deep history and beauty of the place made her yearn for things she couldnât have, like people who knew who she really was. What a gift it would be if she could stop running.

Gravel crunched under the tires of the van as they trolled along the circular driveway leading to the main lodge. Three flags flew over the landscaped garden in the center of the drivewayâthe U.S. flag and the flag of New York, and lower down, another one she didnât recognize.

âItâs the Camp Kioga flag,â said George. âNice to see they didnât change it.â It depicted a kitschy-looking teepee by the lake, against a background of blue hills.

She pulled up next to the timbered entryway and went to help George. There was no one around. It was early in the season and a weekday afternoon, and the place was virtually deserted.

After a few minutes, a young teenager in coveralls, who had been working in the garden, came over, peeling off his canvas work gloves.

âWelcome to Camp Kioga,â he said as she opened Georgeâs door. âMy nameâs Max. Can I give you a hand?â

âThank you, young man,â George said. âPerhaps after we check in you can help with the bags.â

âWill do,â said Max. He appeared to do a double take, studying George for a moment. Then he held the door open for them.

Claire could feel tension in George as they stepped into a magnificent Adirondack-style lodge, constructed of tree-trunk timbers and river rock. It smelled faintly of wood smoke, thanks to a fireplace that was large enough to walk into.

The reception area, which was decorated with rustic furniture and primitive art, felt like another place in time, a place Claire had never been except in her imagination. The decor was subtle, with muted colors and light filtered through mica-shaded windowpanes and colored lampshades. A side room housed what appeared to be a well-stocked library, and there were stairs leading down to a game room.

Beyond the reception area lay an elegant dining room and a darkened bar. The dining room was being readied for dinner service, with white linen tablecloths and napkins. One wall was completely filled with wine bottles. French doors lined the far side of the room, offering access to a vast deck overlooking the lake.

She saw Georgeâs fist tighten on the head of his cane. âAre you all right?â

âVery much so.â

A pleasantly efficient woman named RenÃ©e checked them in and gave them a quick orientation to the hundred-acre resort. Each accommodation on the property had its own character and nameâthe Winter Lodge, the Spring-house, Saratoga Bunk, the Longhouse, and so forth. Claire and George would be sharing a well-appointed two-bedroom cottage named the Summer Hideaway, according to the illustrated property map. When sheâd made the booking, Claire had requested a wheelchair-accessible accommodation, and this one turned out to be the most elaborate on the property. It had its own private dock and boathouse, and, according to the literature, was âthe perfect place to escape and dream.â

The daily rate took Claireâs breath away, but George didnât blink as he handed over his bank card.

RenÃ©e ran the card, then paused before handing it back. âBellamy,â she said. âThe resortâs owners are the Bellamys. Any relation?â

âPossibly,â said George, though he offered no further explanation.

âYou might qualify for the friends and family discount, then,â she said.

âThat wonât be necessary. Excuse me.â George made his way across the empty dining room and out to the deck.

Claire joined him there a few minutes later. She didnât say anything. He stood there, bathed in the last of the sunlight, his hands braced on the railing as he gazed out at the lake. The water was placid, showing only the faintest of ripples in the wake of a pair of water birds paddling along. The light struck a bright ribbon of color across the water. In the distance lay a small island with a dock and gazebo, inked in black against the darkening sky.

As she watched George, she realized he wasnât seeing the incredible scenery. He was looking out, but she sensed he was gazing inward, toward a lifetime of memories.

After a while, he let out a sigh. âAm I a foolish old man to come here, in search of my lost youth?â he asked.

âProbably.â She offered her arm. âBut donât let that stop you from enjoying it. George, itâs so beautiful. Itâs a privilege to be here.â She had never seen a place like this before. Sheâd read about this sort of thing in books, maybe seen a glimpse in the movies. âThis place is a dream,â she added.

âI suppose if I get to choose where I say goodbye to it all, I might as well choose this.â

She frowned. âDonât you go all On Golden Pond on me. Come on, letâs go settle in.â

Â 

The boy named Max escorted them with their bags to the Summer Hideaway, driving a gas-powered golf cart with obvious enjoyment. As they passed the various areas of the camp, George turned animated again, pointing out familiar sights. âThere used to be an archery range here. And see that waterfall? Weâd sit around the campfire, telling ghost stories about a couple who committed suicide off the hanging bridge above it. Never figured out whether or not there was any truth to the story. Oh, and thereâ¦I learned to play tennis right there on those courts,â he declared. âAnd Iâm proud to say, I could hold my own against everyone. My first year here, anyway. When my brother and I teamed up for boysâ doubles, we were virtually unbeatable.â

Max parked in front of the lakeside residence and helped them with their luggage. George thanked him with a tip big enough to make the boy protest.

âSir, itâs not necessary.â

âA tip never is,â George said. âWe appreciate your help.â

Claire caught the boyâs eye and offered a shrug.

The cottage was a dream, far larger than most houses Claire had lived in. The furnishings were deceptively simple but supremely comfortable. The place had a rustic elegance that didnât seem manufactured or contrived. It was bright and airy, and Georgeâs room featured a picture window with a window seat.

âDo you need to rest?â Claire asked.

âI do far too much of that,â he said.

âHow about you have a seat and Iâll help you unpack,â Claire suggested. She herself hadnât brought much along. She was prepared to disappear at a momentâs notice. She always had an escape planâa bag packed with a few basicsâhair coloring and scissors, a wallet with ID, cash and credit cards, a new background and personal history. If something happened, she simply had to retrieve the bag from its hiding place and she would be gone.

At the moment, the bag was hidden under an electrical box near the parking lot of the resort. She hoped she would never have to use it, because she already knew she was going to love it here. She checked her phone and saw a missed call from ânumber unavailable,â another name for Mel Reno. She made a mental note to phone him later.

George had packed with neat efficiency, things from pricey clothiers like Brooks Brothers, Ted Lapidus, Henry Poole, Paul & Shark. There was a briefcase filled with papers and documents, and a box of books and photographs.

âFamily pictures and old journals, that sort of thing,â George explained. âWe can go through them later. Iâll want to enjoy my mementos in the living room, I imagine.â

Claire resisted an urge to ask him if he preferred pictures of his family over the real thingâor if they hadnât given him a choice. She reminded herself to reserve judgment.

âWhen we checked in,â she said, âthe woman asked you if you were any relation to the Bellamys. Is there anything more you want to tell me about that?â

He lowered himself to an overstuffed chair that was angled to take advantage of the view. âI have plenty to say about that. In due time.â

âItâs up to you.â She went to the desk and picked up a leather-bound volume embossed with the words Resort Guide. âIt says here there are no phones in the unit.â

âI have a mobile phone,â he pointed out. âIâm not fond of using it, but itâll do in a pinch.â

Claire steered clear of cell phones herself. Of necessity, she had one, a no-contract phone for which sheâd paid cash. She bought the minutes card with cash, too. She had schooled herself to leave as light a footprint as possible wherever she went.

âNo Internet, either,â she told George, âexcept in the main lodge.â

âI rarely use the confounded thing,â he said.

Claire used the Internet for its conveniences, when necessary. âSame here,â she said. âThere are better ways to spend time than looking at things on the Internet. Like taking in a view like this.â She gestured at the sunset out the window. âWould you like to go sit on the porch for a bit?â

âA lovely idea.â

The cottage featured a railed porch furnished with white wicker chairs, a swing and an intriguing cot suspended from chains. She helped him to the swing, and he leaned back, surveying the calm water. Then he took out the cigars theyâd bought and lit one up. Almost instantly, he erupted with a coughing fit, waving his hand in front of his face.

âGeorge!â She took the burning cigar from him and stubbed it out. âAre you all right?â

âI am now. Thereâs one regret I donât have.â He shook his head, sipped some water. âSmoking used to be so fashionable, back when.â

âIâm glad you werenât a slave to fashion.â

George picked up his journal and paged through it. âMy list is long. Is that unrealistic?â he asked.

âThere arenât any rules.â

He nodded. âWeâve accomplished one already.â

âYou have?â

He drew a firm line through item number seventeen and handed it to her with a flourish.

She studied the entry for a few moments. âVisit the place where I first fell in love,â it read. She handed back the journal. âYou did this?â

âToday.â

âThe resort lodge, you mean?â

He looked a bit bashful. âBefore that.â

She mentally retraced their journey. âI donât underâ Wait. George, do you meanâ¦?â

He nodded again. âThe Sky River Bakery.â He sighed, stared down at the item for a few more moments with a distant light in his eyes.

âAre you hungry, George? Would you like to go to dinner at the lodge?â

âIâm a bit tired, actually. Iâm happy just resting here awhile.â

âOf course. Iâll get your meds.â Steroids and other palliative meds were keeping the symptoms at bay, but the effects were only temporary. The upside was, he stood a chance of enjoying a decent quality of life as opposed to endless days of chasing painful, time-consuming treatments that ultimately would fail.

When she came across the Viagra, she tried not to react, but something mustâve shown on her face. George didnât seem sheepish at all, just matter-of-fact. âIn case I get lucky. Is that a foolish hope?â

âAs soon as you stop hoping to get lucky, itâs all over,â she said with a grin.

He gifted her with a burst of laughter. âSomething tells me weâre going to get along just fine.â

She brought him a Hudsonâs Bay blanket of brightly dyed wool, and a few pillows. Propped against the pillows, he scowled at a page in his journal. Across the top, heâd written Charles.

âYour brother, right?â said Claire.

George nodded. âHeâs the main reason Iâve come here.â

âI bet heâs going to be incredibly happy to see you, George.â

âOf that, Iâm not so certain.â

âWhat do you mean, not certain?â

âCharles and I havenât spoken in fifty-five years.â

Four

Claire woke up to silence. She wondered if sheâd ever get used to the absence of honking horns and gnashing air brakes, the shouts and whistles of vendors and workmen. The void was filled with birdsong, the hum of insects and breezes ruffling the leaves and rippling across the water. The smells drifting in through the screened windowâflowers and grass and the fresh scent of the lakeâwere utterly intoxicating.

She went to the window of her small loft bedroom and felt the irresistible pull of the outside. She had an urge to be a part of itâand it was the perfect time for a morning run. Hastily dressed in nylon shorts and an athletic bra and T-shirt, ankle socks and her favorite runners, she tiptoed downstairs. She tucked her monitor receiver into a pocket and drank a big glass of water. Then she stepped outside and headed for the trail, choosing the five-mile route marked Lakeside Loop.

In the city, she would be plugged into an iPod to cover up the babble of urban life. Here in the wilderness, she welcomed the sounds of nature and the feel of the fresh air on her skin, and she started her morning jog with a smile on her face. And of course, she had the requisite shot of pepper spray clipped to her waistband, but that was more out of habit than any real fear sheâd encounter trouble on the lakeside trail.

The beauty of her surroundings seemed almost unreal, as though she had stepped into a dream.

This morning, she tried to clear her mind. It was exhausting, always trying to think ahead, plan the next move, anticipate disaster. She pushed aside the constant tension and sank into her enjoyment of the woodland trails of the resort. One couple jogged past, nodding at her, and there was a single person in a kayak out on the lake, out for a morning paddle.

Birds flickered in the trees, and she spotted the occasional deer or rabbit. Sunlight glimmered on the lake, and the willow trees at the shore gracefully dipped their fronds in the water. Such a beautiful world. Too beautiful, she thought with a familiar twinge of yearning. She wished she had someone to share this moment with. Yet the fact was, she had no one to bear witness to her life. Sometimes that realization was overwhelming.

Over time, she had taught herself to tolerate the self-isolation. There really wasnât any other choice.

The rhythm of her feet on the pavement alternated with the cadence of her breathing. She tried to imagine absorbing the beauty of the day through her pores, somehow keeping it with her. Maybe that was the magic of this placeâthat even after you left, you could take it with you. Maybe that was why George still thought about it even after half a century had passed.

We havenât spoken in fifty-five years.

A lifetime, she thought. George and his brother had let a lifetime slip by. Last night, sheâd suggested they call Charles Bellamyâhe was listed in the local phone book. George had balked and looked tired. âWhen Ross comes,â heâd said.

Ross. The favored grandson. She hoped like hell the guy was on his way. For that matter, where was the rest of Georgeâs family? According to George, his sons and daughters-in-law expected him to return to the city in a matter of days.

This morning, George had been out of sorts. Heâd stayed close to the house, only venturing to the porch or dock to catch the sunâs early rays. There was no further talk of Charles Bellamy, and Claire didnât bring it up. For the time being, George was in no shape to face the emotional turmoil of a reunion with his long-lost brother.

Her plan for the day was to let each hour unfold at a pace that seemed to suit her patient. In the resortâs eclectic library, she had read up on Camp Kioga, trying to fill in the blanks for herself. There was a multivolume scrapbook filled with photos of people and events connected to the resort. It had started out as a big agricultural parcel at the north end of the lake, deeded to the Gordon family to settle a debt. The camp itself had been founded by Angus Gordon in the 1920s. Kioga was, as far as anyone knew, a fake Mohawk word which Angus claimed meant tranquility.

The campground was later run by Angusâs son and then inherited by his granddaughter and her husband. The current ownersâ names had leaped off the page at her: Jane and Charles Bellamy.

Exploring the woodland trails that wound through the area, Claire imagined the past here, and wondered if she would ever learn the reason for the brothersâ estrangement. A brother shared a personâs history and background the way no one else ever could. Yet something had torn George and Charles apart. Something had made George walk away and stay away for fifty-five years.

She was so lost in thought that she didnât notice someone approaching from an oblique angle behind her. At the last second, she spied a shadowâlarge male, baseball cap, arm outstretchedâand reacted instantly, with all the force and decisiveness sheâd learned in her self-defense training. In a fluid movement she turned, right leg kicking out at groin level, the heel of her left hand crunching upward into the assailantâs face. In less than a second, he was down, doubled over, and she was running for her life, her every nerve lit by adrenaline, the pepper spray in hand.

Claire gauged that she was about five minutes from the spot where her bag was hidden, going at top speed. As for George Bellamy, he would have no idea what became of her.

She felt bad about that. She hoped heâd find his brother, and she hoped the Bellamy family wouldnât drag the old guy back to the city and force him to submit to brutal treatment.

The concern wasnât enough to stop her.

A shout from her assailant, however, definitely was. âTancredi,â he said, his voice a rasp of pain.

The single wordâa name almost never utteredâfroze her. It brought back everything she had left behind, including the person sheâd been before sheâd disappeared.

She allowed herself a quick look back.

Her assailant was on all fours, struggling to rise. Good. On all fours, he wouldnât be drawing a weapon.

The baseball cap had fallen off him, revealing a mane of salt-and-pepper hair.

Oh, God. Mel. It was Melvin Reno, the only person Claire trusted with her secrets.

She instantly switched direction and ran to him, dropping to her knees by his side. âAre you insane?â she asked. âYou huge idiot, you shouldnât have sneaked up on me. I could have done you permanent damage.â

âMaybe you did.â He glowered at her through tears of pain.

âSit,â she said, noting the shocky gray cast to his face. âPull up your knees at a forty-five-degree angle and put your head between them.â

With a groan, he complied.

âBreathe in through your nose,â she instructed. âOut through your mouth.â

âI think you broke my face.â

âIs your breathing okay?â

âJust peachy.â

âThen itâs probably not broken.â

âI guess thatâs the advantage of being a nurse,â he said, his voice muffled. âYou can kick a guyâs ass and then put it back together again.â

âI was doing exactly what I was trained to do. By you, I might add. Fight, run, ask questions later but donât believe the answers, isnât that what you always say?â

He nodded without raising his head.

âHow bad is the pain?â she asked. âSubsiding any?â

âDepends,â he muttered. âWhat if I say no?â

âThen you might need to be checked out. An ultrasound can determine whether or not thereâs a testicular fracture.â

âA fracture? A fracture?â

âIf there is, youâll need surgery. Mel, Iâm so sorry.â

âIn that case, the painâs going away.â

She winced, watching him try to catch his breath. He was the one person who could connect the dots between the quiet, studious Clarissa Tancredi of the past and the present-day Claire Turner.

And she had just kicked him in the balls.

âSorry about kicking you in the balls,â she said again.

âIâm not looking for sympathy,â he said. âIf the target had been anyone but me, I would say Iâm proud of you for knowing the moves.â He lifted his head and she studied his faceâblunt features, kind eyes, a rough-hewn handsomeness that had probably been more refined in his youth. It was a good face, approachable and trustworthy. There were few blessings in the life Claire had been given. But Mel Reno was one of them.

He slowly climbed to his feet and limped to the side of the trail at the waterâs edge, taking a seat on the ground. âSo anyway,â he said, âthanks for the warm welcome.â

âWhat were you thinking?â she said, annoyed. âWhat are you doing here? Is everything all right?â

âGive me a minute.â He looped his arms around his drawn-up knees.

She studied him, relieved to note his coloring and respiration already seemed to be easing back to normal.

He took a deep breath and relaxed a little. âI called you yesterday. Why didnât you call me back?â

âI got busy, Mel. Iâm sorry.â

He frowned. âThatâs not like you.â

âWell, you didnât have to come tearing upstate after me.â She always kept him informed as to her whereabouts. Otherwise, he worried.

âI kind of wanted to see this place. Damn, itâs nice here.â

âI woke up this morning thinking I landed in the middle of aâ¦â She paused. Heâd think sheâd lost it if she mentioned the enchanted world. âSpecial place.â Far in the distance, a floatplane landed, skimming like a dragonfly across the surface of the lake.

âComing from where I do,â he said, âI tend to forget there are places like this in the world.â

A retired federal marshal with a troubled past, he lived alone in a tattered but quiet neighborhood of Newark. He was on disability and had dedicated his life to looking after people like Claireâwitnesses who were hiding or running from something too big to cope with on their own. He had been an expert in identity reassignment and redocumentation, and when sheâd gone to him in desperation, heâd given her a comprehensive security suite. This included a name borrowed from a deceased person, a new personal history and legitimate documentation. All new paper on her was officialâbirth certificate, driverâs license, social security card. Thanks to Mel, she had been reborn and given a chance at a new life.

Although sheâd known him for years, she didnât really know him. He was absolutely committed to helping people caught in the shadow world of anonymity. It was probably what made him tick. She had once asked him why he bothered with people like her. He said heâd been in charge of protecting a family of witnesses, and theyâd all been killed.

Claire had stopped asking after that. She didnât want to know more. If she got too close to him, heâd be in danger from the same monster who had sent her into hiding.

âAre you staying at the resort?â she asked.

âRight. Do you know what this place charges per night?â He shook his head. âI got a day use pass.â

âSo where are you staying?â

âThereâs a conservation department campground not far from here. Itâs called Woodland Valley.â

She frowned. âYouâre camping?â

âIâm camping.â

âLike, in a tent, with a sleeping bag?â

âYeah, like that.â

She tried to picture him in the tent staked out in the wilderness. âSo, um, how is that working out for you?â

âI didnât come all this way to get laughed at.â

She caught a note of apprehension in his tone. âWhat?â

âI got a bit of news. Youâre not going to like it.â

She braced herself. âJust tell me.â

âThe Jordans applied to be foster parents once again.â

Despite the heat of the day, she felt a curdled chill that took her breath away. Her throat went dry; she had to swallow several times before she could bring herself to speak. âFor Godâs sake, two murders and a third kid missing, all of which happened on their watchâthat doesnât stand in their way?â she demanded. âNo way will Social Services approve them.â

Mel was quiet. Too quiet, for too long.

âRight?â she demanded.

He stared out at the water. âI talked to about a half-dozen people at Social Services.â

âAnd?â

âApparently they dismissed me as a crackpot.â

âThat was risky,â she said, âyou pointing the finger at Vance Jordan. Iâm the one who needs to blow the whistle on him, not you.â As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized the decision was already made. It had been percolating for a long time, the need to end her self-exile. Coming to a place like this had only firmed her resolve. âItâs time, Mel. Past time. I canât do this anymore. Iâm done waiting.â

âClaireâClarissa. Heâs got too many friends all along the chain of command, and the ones who arenât his friends are scared of him. Exposing yourself now wonât accomplish anything.â

There was a good chance he was right, but the thought of Jordan with another foster child made her stomach churn. âIâll figure out something,â she said. âOn my own.â

âYou want to talk about riskââ

âThatâs why I want you to stay out of it. Look, Iâm doing this for myself, okay? I have to stop running.â There might have been a time when sheâd accepted her life underground, but that time was over. She simply couldnât keep it up. Instead of getting easier, being in hiding was getting harder. She was dying inside, unraveling with need. Her mother had been alone in the world, and sometimes Claire was convinced that was what had made her live so recklessly and die so young.

Claire sometimes heard of protected witnesses who came out of hiding and got themselves killed. People thought they were foolish, but she understood why they couldnât stay anonymous forever.

âI wonât let you,â he snapped. âJust wait, okay?â he said. âIâll figure out the next step.â

She merely nodded, pretending to agree with him. Then they parted ways in secret, like illicit lovers. That was the way all their meetings went. It was best not to be spotted together. She knew he was furious with her for insisting on risking herself in the Jordan case, but he must have known she wouldnât sit still and watch Vance Jordan become someoneâs foster father again. There was a ninety-day period before approval was granted or revoked. Ninety days to figure out how to come forward with what she knewâand to make someone believe her.

The prospect excited Claire as much as it frightened her. Mel had always insisted the chances of success were slim and the risk of exposure too great. But she kept thinking about how her life could change if Vance Jordan were arrested.

In her job helping people at the end of their lives, she had learned much about the importance of the way a person spent her time on earth. Running and hiding was not a life; it was just getting through the day.

Â 

George Bellamy was adrift. These spells came upon him in the gauzy numbness between waking and sleeping, courtesy of his disease. He was sometimes treated to an unprompted magic carpet ride through time and space, and at the end, he was amazed to find himself in the here and now. Hereâin this paradise of a place, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at it. And nowâat the last part of his life, which had not always been beautiful. It had never been boring, though.

Once he was gone, he imagined people would say heâd fought a brave battle with cancer or some such nonsense. In fact, he was not brave in the least; he was scared shitless. Who the devil wouldnât be? No one knew for certain what awaited him in the vast infinite, no matter what oneâs teachings were.

But still. Death was one of the Great Inevitables. George was working hard on accepting his fate, but a few things were holding him back, like the last uncut anchor ropes that kept a hot air balloon from soaring. If he wanted to fly free with boundless energy, he was going to have to find a way to untether himself.

Hence the visit to Avalon, to excavate a past that had always haunted him. Yet now that he was here, he felt himself balking. When Ross comes, heâd told Claire. Then heâd pay a visit to his brother.

George was grateful for Claire. Heâd gone to a great deal of trouble to find precisely the right personânot just for him, but for Ross. Because Ross was one of those uncut tether ropes.

George wondered what Claire thought of this place, and of the glimpse into the past heâd given her. She was easy to talk to, this quiet young woman. Perhaps it was her gift, or perhaps it was something people in her profession were trained to do. Once she learned the rest of the story, she wouldnât judge him or show disapproval. And honestly, in the place where he was in his lifeâwhat was left of itâhe didnât much care.

How much was the truth worth to a dying man? Heâd been wondering about that lately. Perhaps he would discuss it with Claire. She was easy to talk to, this quiet young womanâ¦. He frowned, frustrated to find his thoughts looping back on themselves.

Claire Turner. Turner. George wondered what made her so guarded, so hard to know. He hoped she would open up for Ross. The two of themâ¦ George had a good feeling. They could really be something together, if theyâd allow themselves that possibility.

He worried about Ross, of course, coming back from the war. George had no doubt his grandson had seen horrors beyond imagining. Ross would need to learn again that the world was a good place to be. Maybe Claire would be a part of that process. George certainly hoped so.

By the time he got himself up, he was feeling rather better. He shaved and dressed himself in chinos and a fresh golf shirt, and put on his favorite hat, the sporty one that covered his too-short hair. Then he went outside to see what the day was like. Moving slowly, with cane in hand, he went down a path that ran along the lakeshore. The air was so sweet it nearly took his breath away, and a searing grief streamed through him. How was it possible to leave all this?

âHello,â someone said behind him.

Startled, he turned to see a woman seated on a bench by the path. She had white hair and wore a violet dress and sneakers with no socks. Just the sight of her made him smile. âIâm sorry,â he said. âI didnât see you there. Too busy admiring the lake.â

âI donât blame you. Would you like to have a seat?â

âThanks. Nice morning,â he said. âAre you here on vacation?â

âMy married grand-niece and her husband persuaded me to come. I happened to mention Iâd spent summers at Camp Kioga as a girl and young woman, so they insisted that I should visit once again. It turns out the resort, in its new incarnation, offers a fifty percent discount to anyone who used to attend Camp Kioga.â She offered a charming smile. âI love discounts. Itâs my favorite thing about being a senior citizen.â

George chuckled, liking her more by the minute. âYou donât say. We have something in common, then. I used to come here, too. It was a long time ago.â Now he was thoroughly curious about this woman, who had nice brown eyes and a somewhat impish expression. He checked her hand. No wedding band.

He must not have been very discreet, because she smiled straight at him. âIâve never been married. I suppose that makes me a professional spinster.â

âIâm a widower,â he said. âAnd Iâve never much cared for the term spinster. Thereâs something lonely and unattractive about it, and you hardly appear to be either.â

âThank you. And for the record, I have never spun a single thing in my life, so the label is inaccurate, as well.â

âIâd best find out your name, then.â

âItâs Millie. Millicent Darrow,â she said.

Recognitionâremembranceânudged at George. âMillie Darrow. I should have recognized you from our college days. You and your sister Beatrice went to Vassar.â

âWhy, yes. I graduated in 1956.â She leaned forward and peered at him, hard. âGeorge? George Bellamy.â

âItâs good to see you, Millie.â

She took off her sun hat and fanned herself. âThis is extraordinary. What a surprise. What an incredible gift.â

She had no idea. She was the first person heâd seen in months who didnât know George was sick. He liked that. He was glad for the hat covering his peach-fuzz hair. âYou look wonderful, Millie,â he said.

âSo do you. How is your brother Charles?â

It was too complicated to explain the situation, so George said simply, âHeâs fine. Thank you for asking.â

âI always thought you were the handsome one.â

âLiar,â he said, laughing.

She replaced her hat. âItâs the truth, George Bellamy.â

âAnd I thought you were the sweet one,â he said.

âHow long are you staying here?â she asked.

âAs long as I can,â he said with an unbidden lurch of his heart. âAs long as I possibly can.â

Five

Because Ross Bellamyâs discharge had been expedited by request, he was supposedly moved faster than normal through outprocessing and demobing. Still, the journey home seemed to take forever. After debriefing at Fort Shelby, Alabama, he was finally sent on his way. He felt out of place on the commercial airliner to Newark, unfamiliar with the culture after so many months in the service. There were a number of soldiers aboard, and they chattered madly the whole way, revved up by nerves and excitement as they prepared to reenter civilian life.

Ross found himself seated in an exit row between two other soldiersâa woman who had not yet turned twenty-one, and a guy in his thirties who drank and talked the whole way, preoccupied with the taste of beer and a girlfriend named Rhonda.

âI donât know why Iâm so excited,â he confessed. âWe did a lot of Skype and e-mail, so itâs not like weâve been totally incommunicado. I guess itâs just the seeing-in-person thing, huh? Thereâs no substitute for it.â

âMakes me glad,â said the female soldier. âYou donât want technology to take the place of everything, right?â

Ross paged through an old copy of the New Jersey Star-Ledger. Gang murders, sports reports, community news. A headline about the state prosecutorâs office caught his eye; he scanned a story about corrupt state troopers. One of the prosecutors mentioned was Tyrone Kennedy. Father of Florence, the last friend Ross had made in Afghanistan.

âHow about you, Chief?â the other soldier asked Ross. âYou got a family waiting for you at home? Wife and kids?â

He shook his head, offered a slight smile. âNot at the moment.â

âInteresting answer,â said the female soldier. âIs this something youâre putting on your agenda?â

Ross chuckled. âNever thought of it in that way, but yeah. Maybe I am. Being in country so long makes you realizeâ¦having a family gives a guy something to hold on to.â

âSometimes the only thing,â said the woman. âSometimes itâs the thing that saves you.â

Ross knew she was right. The bond of family was a powerful, invisible force, feeding the will to survive. Heâd seen wounded soldiers keeping themselves alive by sheer determination alone. Sometimes there was more healing power in the sight of a loved oneâs face than in a team of surgeons.

âYeah, one good thing about deployment is it makes you appreciate the life you have,â said the beer-drinking soldier. âBecause nobodyâs life sucks as bad as bunking in the desert in winter.â

âHey, donât be so sure,â said another soldier, turning around in his seat. âYou havenât met my wife.â

âOkay, now youâre scaring me,â said Ross. He knew he was joking as much as the soldier. In his life so far, he had done everything he was supposed to do as a Bellamy. Heâd acquired a fine education and learned a useful profession. Heâd served in the military. He just assumed the rest would come to him, that he wouldnât have to go looking for it.

He liked women. He dated a lot. But heâd never found someone he wanted to wake up next to for the rest of his life, someone he wanted to have kids with, build a life. He hated the way his last relationship had ended just before he enlisted. It had faded awayânot with an explosion of emotion but something possibly more devastatingâdisappointment. Heâd been faced with the sinking realization that heâd made a huge mistake, convincing himself he was in love when he really wasnât.

âItâs been my experience that love happens when you least expect it,â Granddad had said. âSometimes itâs not convenient. So what you do is you simply stay open to the possibility, all the time.â

Ross tried to do that. Before going overseas, heâd dated a lot. He had good times. Great sex, sometimes so great he felt a flash of emotion and mistook it for love. But nothing ever lasted. He always ended up with a hole in the middle of his life. Without someone to share everything with, the future was just an endless string of days.

He wanted more than that. He needed more. The realization had been so clear to him on that final evac mission. He had vowed then to find a life that meant something, rather than waiting around for life to find him.

They landed in Newark. Civilians whipped out mobile phones and soldiers jumped up, grabbing their gear for the final push to the jetway. Families were gathered just past the TSA security point. There were women with kids clinging to them, spouses holding hand-lettered signs, parents and siblings, faces beaming through bouquets of flowers and balloons. A couple of contraband pets had been smuggled in.

Returning soldiers were enveloped by their loving families, many of them literally surrounded and swallowed up. Tears flowed and laughter erupted. Camera flashes strobed the area. Spontaneous applause erupted from onlookers.

Ross skirted the excited crowd, his duffel bag balanced on one shoulder and held in place with an upraised arm. Just seeing the rush of love that greeted everyone filled him with satisfaction. These soldiers had earned it. Theyâd fought and bled and wept and despaired, and they had earned the right to be home with their loved ones at last.

He was not naive enough to believe every single one of them was headed for some life of unrelenting familial bliss. Indeed, they would face hardships and disappointment and setbacks, just like anyone else. But not now. Not today.

He left the homecoming lovefest behind and scanned the throng for his mother. He tried not to seem too eager or desperate. But hell, heâd been gone a long time, long enough to start thinking of her fondly and remembering the good times.

There was a group at the back of the crowd, gathered under a sign labeled Any Soldier. It appeared to be some grassroots organization meant to provide a warm welcome home to any service person, particularly those who, for whatever reason, didnât have anyone to meet them on the ground.

Did they really think some soldier would avail himself of their greeting? They might as well be holding up signs labeled Losers Register Here.

To his surprise, a big-shouldered guy with sergeant stripes approached the group. At first he was tentative, his bashfulness at odds with his massive size. Someone in the group noticed him, and he was immediately enclosed by the friendly mass. After that, a few more soldiers approached, some looking almost furtive, but then pleased to have a hand to shake, a friendly word to exchange.

Ross walked on past the strangers. Any port in a storm, he supposed. Family meant different things to different people.

To others, he thought, spying his own name on a hand-lettered sign, it meant not a whole hell of a lot.

The sign read R. Bellamy, and it was held by a white-gloved, uniformed stranger in a banded hat. He wore a badge that said Royal Limo Service.

Great, thought Ross. His mother had sent a car service to pick him up from the airport. His stomach sank, and he mentally kicked himself for expecting anything else.

âThatâs me,â he said to the limo driver, offering a brief handshake. âRoss Bellamy.â

âWelcome to New York, sir,â the driver said with a vague accent. âMy name is Pinto. Can I take your bag?â

âThanks.â Ross handed over the duffel.

âBaggage claim is this way,â said Pinto. âDid you have a pleasant flight?â

âIt was fine.â

âWhere you coming from, then?â

âAfghanistan, the eastern part of the country, by way of Mobile, Alabama.â

Pinto gave a low whistle. âYou mean you was on deployment.â He set down the duffel and shook Rossâs hand. âGlad youâre back, man.â

âYeah.â The handshake felt ridiculously good.

The limo was actually a Town Car, which was a relief to Ross. A big stretch limo ran the risk of seeming ostentatious. The plush leather of the carâs upholstery sighed under his weight as he slid in and fastened his seat belt. His mother had clearly ordered the VIP package. There was an array of amenitiesâice and drinks, cocktail snacks, mints, a phone for customersâ use.

He picked it up and dialed his motherâs number. âMrs. Talmadgeâs residence,â said her assistant.

âItâs Ross,â he said. âIs my mother available?â

âHold a moment, please.â

âRoss, darling.â Winifred Talmadgeâs voice trilled with delight. âWhere are you?â

âOn my way from the airport.â

âIs the car all right? I told the service to send their best car.â

âOh, yeah, itâs great.â

âI canât tell you what an utter relief it is to know youâre back. I nearly lost my mind worrying.â

It was natural, even normal for a mother to worry. When your son was in a battle zone, it was to be expected. âThanks,â he said.

âI mean, what can he possibly be thinking?â she rushed on. âI havenât slept a wink since he announced his intention to go off to the Catskills in search of his long-lost brother.â

âOh,â said Ross. âGranddad. Thatâs what youâre worried about.â

âWell, arenât you?â

âOf course. Listen, traffic doesnât look bad at all. I should be there soon. Can we talk about it then?â

âCertainly. Iâll have all your favorites for dinner.â

âGreat, thanks.â

She paused. âRoss.â

âYes?â

âJust refresh my memory,â she said. âWhat are your favorites?â

He burst out laughing then. There was nothing to do but laugh. Here heâd been thinking she might be having a moment. Might be genuinely sentimental about him.

âHey, anything thatâs not served in a metal compartmentalized tray is fine with me,â he said.

He rode the rest of the way into Manhattan in blissful silence, leaning back against the headrest. In a way, he was grateful for the mother he had. Seriously, he was. He learned as much from her bad example as other people did from having good mothers.

Winifred Lamprey Bellamy Talmadge was a creature of her own invention. Lacking what she regarded as the right background, she had invented a whole new persona for herself.

Few people knew she had grown up in a seedy section of Flatbush, in a thin-walled apartment above her parentsâ pawn shop. Early in life, sheâd learned to be ashamed of her humble roots, and had made it her lifeâs missionâas sheâd put it when Ross questioned herâto rise above it. Sheâd made a study of the upper classes. She practiced speaking in an ultrarefined, boarding school accent, slightly nasal and beautifully articulated. She studied the way the wealthy dressed and ate and comported themselves. She totally hid who she was.

She buried her past, insisted on being called Winifred instead of Wanda. She feasted on novels of the mannered elite. As a high school girl, she set a goal to attend Vassar Collegeânot so much for the education, but for its traditional social affiliation with Yale. She wanted to marry a Yale man, and attending Vassar was the way to do it. With the focus and dedication of a nationally ranked scholar, she applied herself in high school. She knew she had to work twice as hard as the privileged girls of private schools. And she did, even winning lucrative scholarships. Such dedication, her teachers had said. Such discipline. Sheâll probably do something extraordinary with her life.

It could be argued that she had, in a way. He had to give her props for that. It was no small feat to pull oneself up by oneâs bootstraps, in a single generation going from Flatbush to Fifth Avenue simply by sheer force of will.

Ross knew all this about his mother because his grandfather had told him. Not to gossip or be mean but to try to give a hurting, grieving boy some perspective with regard to his mother, who had all but turned her back on him after the death of his father. Ross would never understand a person who ran from her past and hated who she really was. But he learned to put up with her paranoia and self-absorption, and his grandfather had, in time, made it cease to matter.

Ross gazed out the car window at the landscape passing by en route to the cityâfirst the tenements and creaky wooden row houses of the outskirts, the industrial midurban zone of boxy brick and metal buildings, and finally the tunnel leading to Manhattan, vibrant and congested, smelly and full of energy. His motherâs neighborhood, on the upper west side, was a calm oasis of residences with wrought-iron gates leading to fussy gardens.

Though Winifred had her widowâs benefits from her late husband, she still managed to live beyond her means. Her former father-in-law, George Bellamy, assured her that he was keeping her in the will. Granddad had vowed that as the widow of his first son and the mother of his first grandson, she had earned the privilege.

After being widowed by her first husband and divorced by her second, Winifred didnât know what else to do, having never made a career for herself. All the promise her teachers had seen in her, all the promise that had won her scholarships and a coveted spot at Vassar, had served one purpose and one purpose onlyâto marry well.

And indeed she had. The Bellamy family was wealthy and influential with roots that could be traced, not to the mongrel rebels who had arrived on the Mayflower, but to the genteel nobles who stayed in England and conquered the world. To Winifred, marrying Pierce Bellamy had been like grabbing the brass ring on the merry-go-round.

There was a catch, though. Something no one ever told Winifred. Or Pierce, for that matter. And the catch was that certain things couldnât be gleaned from a book. The finest education in the world could not instruct someone how to marry for the right reasons, or even to know what those reasons were. The best schools in the country could not teach a person to be happy and stay that way, let alone keep someone else happy.

For now, Ross would let himself be glad he was home. He would be grateful for every day that didnât involve surface-to-air missiles, sucking chest wounds, evacuation under fire or war-shattered lives. And he would do everything in his power to convince his grandfather to fight his illness rather than give up.

He dialed his grandfatherâs number, predictably getting a prerecorded voice mail message. His grandfather had a cell phone, too, and Ross tried that, as well. It went straight to voice mail, meaning the thing was probably turned off or had a dead battery. Granddad had never quite warmed up to having a cell phone.

Tonight, Granddad, Ross thought. Iâll find you tonight. Never mind that his mother was going to serve all his unremembered favorites. He would borrow the roadster and drive up to the wilderness camp where his sick and dying grandfather had gone, in the company of a stranger.

Ross picked up the phone again. He only had a few friends in the city. Educated abroad, then serving in the army, he hadnât really settled down anywhere. He was ready now, though. More than ready.

He tried calling Natalie Sweet, whom heâd known since ninth grade and who lived here. Thank God for Natalie. Other than his grandfather, she was probably the person closest to Ross. He got her voice mail and left a message. Then he did the same for his cousin Ivy, and was secretly relieved when she didnât pick up, since she wept each time they spoke of their grandfather.

The car pulled up at a handsome brown brick building. It was nominally the place Ross called home. In actuality, he had been moved around so much after his father was killed that he never quite knew where home was. Had it been the Bellamy family retreat on Long Island? His uncle Trevorâs place in Southern California? His grandfatherâs apartment in Paris? He had no emotional ties to this particular patch of upper Manhattan, no true anchor, except wherever his grandfather happened to be.

The doorman, Cappy, greeted him warmly. So did Rossâs mother, to be fair, the moment he walked through the door and SalomÃ© told him Madame was in the living room.

Winifred hugged him close, and her arms felt taut and strong around him. When she pulled back, tears shone brightly in her eyes. âIâve missed you, son.â

Tall and slender, she maintained her looks with regular visits to salons and spas. Her hair looked polished, her makeup perfect, despite the tears. In her own needy way, she did love him.

âIâm so relieved to have you back, safe and sound,â she added.

âThanks,â he said, taking a seat by a window that overlooked a manicured park, crisscrossed by pathways. âA little something I brought you,â he said, handing her a flat jar with a colorful label. It was caviar from the Caspian Fish Company Azerbaijan. âSlim pickings in the souvenir department.â

âThank you, Ross. You know I love caviar.â

âSure. I want to hear all about Granddad. Whatâs going on?â

She reiterated the words that had brought him racing across the globe: glioblastoma multiforme. Grade fourâwhich meant rapid progression. Refusing treatment. âHe said he wants to make the most of the time he has left,â she explained, her voice tinged with indignation. âAnd then what does he do? Hires some woman who is obviously after his money, and goes looking for some lost branch of the family. I think itâs complete and utter nonsense.â

Ross wasnât sure what she was referring to as complete and utter nonsense. Georgeâs diagnosis or his reaction to it? His quest to reconnect with his brother or the fact that there were other Bellamys in the world?

âDid you know anything about Granddadâs brother?â asked Ross. âDid Dad?â

She waved a hand in dismissal. âPierce knew about the brother. It was no secret. It was simply a fact. George had a brother and the two never saw each other or spoke.â

âAnd you didnât think there was anything wrong with that?â

âItâs not my place to judge. Nor is it yours. I always assumed they had gone down separate paths. Your grandfather was an expatriate until he retired a few years ago, and his sons areâ¦ Why, I scarcely know where anyone is these days. Itâs easy to lose track.â

âUncle Gerardâs in Cape Town, Uncle Louis in Tokyo and Uncle Trevorâs in L.A. Itâs not rocket science, keeping up with family members. Something else must have happened.â

âHeâs being a foolish old man,â Winifred pronounced. âThatâs what happened. I donât know if his lack of judgment is caused by the cancer, or if heâs simply old and foolish. I hope heâll listen to you, Ross. Youâre the only one who can reason with him. Heâs acting out of panic, going with a strange woman to a strange town when he should be here, with us,â his mother said, her voice taut with insistence.

Ross felt a surge of pity. Yes, she was self-centered. But she and Granddad shared a common bond. Ross and his grandfather were perhaps the only ones in the family who understood that Winifred was terrified of another loss, and it wasnât all about the money.

Once a year, on the anniversary of Pierceâs death, Winifred would go to the war veteransâ cemetery in Farmingdale on Long Island. There, she would weep as she lay a wreath at the unadorned headstone that was indistinguishable from all the others there, in the endless rows, except for the name chiseled in it. Each year she was joined in this ritual by her father-in-law, who would visit from Paris or wherever he happened to be working.

âHeâs a selfish, foolish old man to do this to his family,â she repeated.

âOh, thatâll bring him rushing back,â Ross pointed out.

âI would never tell him that.â

âSometimes you can sense someoneâs opinion without having it expressed directly.â He paused. Then something made him ask, âDid you ever really know Granddad, Mom? Did you love him, or did you love the way he took care of us after Dad was killed?â

âDonât be silly. The two are inseparable.â Then she burst into tears. âOf course I loved him. What on earth do you take me for?â

Ross touched her shoulder, knowing this was a rare glimpse at his motherâs closely guarded heart. She patted his hand and moved away from him. The two of them had never been at ease in one anotherâs company. Ross felt too restless to sit still. âIâm going to drive up and find Granddad. If I leave now, I can beat the rush-hour traffic out of the city.â

âYou just got here,â said Winifred.

âCome with me,â he suggested.

âI couldnât,â she said. âI have too much on my schedule.â

Ross didnât let himself comment about that. âI can stay for dinner,â he conceded. âThen I need to borrow the car.â

Â 

âThank God I caught you,â said Natalie Sweet, exiting the taxicab. âYour mother told me I could catch you if I hurry.â

In the remote parking facility where the car was stored, Ross set aside the car keys and opened his arms. She launched herself at him. They clung together for long moments and he inhaled the bubblegum-sweet scent of her hair. She was his best friend, and one of his oldest. He and Natalie had met at boarding school in Lugano, Switzerland. They had both been scared, skinny kids with mad skills at skiing and families that were far, far away.

Leaning back a little, he lifted her off the ground. âIâm glad you caught me.â

âWelcome home, soldier,â she said, and her voice in his ear was as welcome as an old favorite song on the radio.

âThanks.â He set her down. âYou look fantastic, Nat. The writing life agrees with you.â

She laughed. âMaking a living agrees with me. See how fat and sassy I am?â She perched her hands on her hips.

âYou look great.â

She had always been prettyâto Ross, anyway. Not a classic beauty; she had typical girl-next-door good looks, with the wholesome appeal of a loaf of freshly baked bread.

âSo things are working out at the paper?â he asked.

âIâll tell you all about it in the car.â She grinned at his expression. âThatâs right, soldier. Iâm coming with you.â

âI donât remember inviting you.â

She indicated a slouchy-looking weekender bag on the pavement. âYou didnât. But youâre going to need me and we both know it. Weâve got the Vulcan mind link up and running, right?â

In secondary school, theyâd both been closet fans of StarTrek: The Next Generation, a crazy dubbed version that aired on the Italian national station. To this day, he still remembered how to say âLive long and prosperâ in Italian.

âLook, itâs really good of you,â he said. âBut Iâm driving upstate by myself. Itâs not a pleasure trip.â

âHavenât you figured it out by now?â she asked, giving him a slug in the arm. âIâd rather have a rotten time with you than a great time with anyone else. So weâd better get going, or weâll get stuck in traffic.â

âYouâre not coming.â

âWhy would you waste valuable time in an argument youâre going to lose?â she asked.

âDamn. You are one huge pain in the ass.â

A few minutes later they were in a thick but moving line of traffic leaving the city behind, block by tattered block.

âThanks for letting me tag along,â Natalie said. âThis car kicks ass.â

Heâd never argue about his motherâs taste in cars. The Aston Martin roadster drove like a carnival ride. He could barely remember the last time heâd driven anything that didnât involve both hands and both feet simultaneously.

âYou didnât give me a choice,â he reminded Natalie.

âI love George. You know I always have, and I want to do whatâs best for him under the circumstances.â

âThatâs why I need to see him,â Ross said. âTo figure out the circumstances. I canât go by what my mother reported to me. According to her, heâs suffering from dementia. His judgment is impaired. He might be a victim of some predatory nurse.â

She reached across the console, touched his arm. âIâm so glad youâre back, Ross. I want to hear what it was like over there,â she said. âWhen youâre ready to talk about it.â

âYeah, Iâm not really there yet,â he said, knowing the trauma of his deployment was still too fresh to discuss with anybodyâincluding himself. Eventually he would need to talk about his time overseas, describe the things heâd seen and done.

Just not now. Everything was all too fresh. It was very, very strange to consider that only hours ago, heâd still been in the military. Only days ago, heâd been embroiled in a life-or-death firefight, and still bore the healing scratches of that final battle. He felt as though heâd been plucked from one world and set down in another. Not that he wasnât grateful, but he hadnât quite adjusted.

During the long, intermittently scenic drive upstate, he thought about the more immediate issue. His was a messy, screwed-up familyâmore than he knew, apparently. No wonder Granddad had taken off. Maybe heâd gone in search of a less screwed-up branch of the Bellamy family.

âWell, when youâre ready, so am I,â said Natalie.

âIâd rather hear about you, Nat. So you say work is good?â

âWork is great. The world of sports journalism is my oyster. I had a big break last yearâa piece on an up-and-coming baseball pitcher in the New York Times Magazine. My blog has a big following and Iâm working on a book. Oh, and hereâs something I bet you didnât know. Itâs our twentieth anniversary.â She touched his arm again, giving him a squeeze. It feltâ¦unfamiliar. People in his unit didnât touch.

âNo shit.â He draped his wrist over the arch of the steering wheel. âIâve never kept count. You mean we met twenty years ago?â

âYep. And it was hate at first sight, remember? You totally made fun of my braces.â

âYou made fun of my haircut.â

âItâs a miracle we lasted five minutes together, let alone twenty years.â

They had been forced to work together on a school project. The two of them came from completely different backgrounds, although that hadnât been the cause of their mutual dislike. Ross was an adolescent train wreck, grieving the loss of his father. He came from a family that had moneyâhad rather than made. There was a difference.

Natalie, on the other hand, had been a scholarship student. Her parents were missionaries working in an East African principality that tended to erupt with military coups every few months.

The two of them had teased and fought their way into a genuine friendship. Their bond came from their shared pain; they were both kids who had been set asideâRoss by his mother, who could not abide the thought of having to raise him alone, and Natalie by her parents, whose humanitarian ideals left no room for their daughter.

Reverend and Mrs. Sweet believed they were meant for a higher purpose than merely being parents to a gifted but awkward girl.

âThat officially makes you my oldest friend,â she declared.

âSame here. So weâre both old. When are you going to marry me?â

âHow about never?â she asked. âDoes never work for you?â

It was a running joke with them. They had struggled through dating woes in high school and commiserated at Columbia, where theyâd both gone to college, she to study journalism, and he, aeronautics. On a single, ill-conceived night, fueled by too many boilermakers, they had lost their virginity to each other. Theyâd figured out then that they could never be together as lovers. The delicate alchemy of their friendship didnât transform itself into passion, no matter how hard they tried.

âThatâs not enough for me,â sheâd said. âOr for you, either. Weâre forcing this, and we shouldnât need to. When itâs right, we wonât have to force it.â

Heâd teased her about having a secret wish to be a psychoanalyst. He hadnât disagreed with her, though.

As for Natalie, she always claimed her boyfriends didnât work out because Ross had filled her head full of unrealistic expectations. Sheâd been serious about one guy awhile back; some musician. Like all the others, it hadnât worked out.

Every time she broke up with a guy, Ross would accuse her of holding out for him.

âYouâre killing me here,â he said to her. âHow many rejections can one guy take?â

âFrom me? The skyâs the limit, dude. Whatâs your hurry, anyway? Most guys I know run the other way when it comes to marriage talk. You sound like youâre in some kind of race to settle down.â

âItâs not like that,â he said. âIt is that.â Especially after what heâd seen over there. âIâm tired of being alone, Nat,â he said. âI want to be someoneâs husband. Someoneâs dad, eventually.â

âBecause you lost your own dad at such a young age,â she said softly.

âYouâre probably right, Dr. Sweet. The happiest time of my life was when I was little, with my dad.â

âAnd now you want to recapture that by becoming a dad yourself.â She fiddled with the radio, stopping on a mellow Ingrid Michaelson song. âHate to tell you this, but it probably doesnât work that way. I wish it did, because you deserve it, Ross. You deserve some woman who will light you up for the next fifty years, and a bunch of kids to worry about.â

âDonât forget the house with a white picket fence,â he said, chuckling. âAnd the dog. Iâve never had a dog.â

âOkay, now youâre getting greedy.â She fiddled with the radio dial again, this time opting for some rock song he didnât recognize, with shouted lyrics. âItâs about damn time.â

âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â he asked, turning down the volume.

âYouâre always looking out for somebody else. Itâs about time you wanted something just for you.â

âWhat I want,â he said, âis to help my grandfather. To figure out whatâs really going on with him.â He told her what he knew of his grandfatherâs condition.

She cried a little, yanking Kleenex out of her purse. âDamn it. That sucks. I canât even tell you how much it sucks. Iâm so sorry, Ross.â

âThanks.â

âAnd you say heâs with some kind of private nurse?â

âApparently.â

âSounds kinky.â

âFor his sake, I kind of hope it is.â

âYouâre such a guy. And what about the rest of your family? Why are you the one who gets to go chasing after the old dude?â

Because heâs Granddad. Because I canât stand to lose him. âEveryone assumes Iâm the only one who can make him see reason. I think theyâre expecting him to return to the city as soon as I talk some sense into him.â

âAnd if he doesnât?â

âThen I think the Bellamy population in this little town is likely to swell. I canât believe Granddad never mentioned his brother, Charles, to me.â As Ross had hastily packed for the drive upstate, his mother had disclosed what little she knew of the situation. Charles Bellamy was younger than Granddad by about four years. They both went to Yale. And then, the year Granddad graduated from college, they parted ways and fell out of touch.

âHow did Charles end up in Avalon?â

âMy mother said he married a local girl and they ran some kind of camp or resortâher familyâs businessâon a seasonal basis. In the city, Charles had a career in law. Now theyâre retired and live in Avalon. Thatâs about all I know.â

He grew quiet with anxiety as they crossed into Ulster County, heading west toward the Catskills Wilderness. The truth was, he was afraid for his grandfather. If the two brothers hadnât spoken in such a long time, there had to be a huge reason for it. If that reason still existed, his grandfather could be in for a world of hurt.

Six

Getting started with a new client was, for Claire, a little like dating, only more one-sided. And maybe there wasnât such a great payoff. But like someone embarking on a date, she found herself preoccupied with George, uncovering who he was, trying to figure out the nuances of his heart. In a weird way, she had a crush on himânot a romantic crush but an emotional one. The liking deepened into familiarity. She started to recognize his signals. She could tell when he was getting restless or uncomfortable, or when he was feeling content.

Heâd had a quiet day, resting and eating little, but heâd asked her to go to dinner with him at the main lodge. A little after seven, she went to check on him, and he appeared to be asleep. It was tempting to leave him be, but heâd been insistent about the plan for the evening. He claimed he didnât want to miss dinner service. Tonight, he was determined to dine in style.

âGeorge,â she said, gently touching his shoulder. âGeorge, wake up. Time to get ready for dinner.â

His face was soft and mild as if he was in the midst of a beautiful dream. He sighed and blinked slowly; she could see him orienting himself. There was the picture window, framing the lake. The bedside table with meds lined up. The buzzer that would summon her at the push of a button.

âStill interested in dinner? If not, I can bring you a tray againââ

âNo. Iâm done acting like an invalid. All this fresh air and sunshine is making me feel better.â

She nodded. âItâs seven-fifteen. We have an eight oâclock table.â

âIâll be ready.â

In the tooled-leather binder in Claireâs room, there was a request that guests dress appropriately for evening dinner service in the main lodge. Casual dining was offered elsewhere on the property, but the Starlight Dining Room was meant for dinner and dancing.

She wasnât entirely sure what would be deemed appropriate. More than any other of her past job assignments, this elegant resort scene was a whole new world. Since finishing nursing school and specialty training, she had served a number of clients, but never one remotely like George Bellamy.

For dinner, she dressed in a beige matte jersey sheath and midheeled shoes, just a touch of makeup, her hair swept to the side and fastened with a celluloid tortoise-shell comb. It was not glamorous. It wasâ¦nondescript, and that was the goal. While some people strove all their lives to be above average, she aimed for average. People noticed and remembered the extremes. She wanted to be the woman everyone forgotâthe one in the insurance agency who helped you file a claim. The taxi driver. The math teacher, not the art teacher. The line cook, not the chef. Studying herself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she knew a moment of wistful fantasy. As a small girl being shuffled between her erratic mother and a variety of foster homes, sheâd had a favorite storyâ Cinderella. There was something in every girl that longed for a dramatic transformation. It was a metaphor, of course, a reward. The power of Cinderellaâs goodness transcended all the bad luck that beset her. And the transformation had to be huge. A girl wanted to go from rags to riches. Not rags to middle-of-the-road average.

Maybe just once, Claire yearned to put on something that would stop everyone in their tracks, cause them to stare, maybe whisper behind their handsâWhoâs that girl?

She could only dream of such a moment. Her job was to blend in, not stand out. She considered herself a master of this art. Regarding the girl in the looking glass, she saw the ultimate average person, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, beautiful nor ugly. She was simplyâ¦average. If she was to walk across a crowded room and people were later asked to describe her, no one would remember her.

George Bellamy had no limitations on making himself look good. When he came into the sitting room to meet her for dinner, she couldnât stifle a gasp.

âWow, look at you. You look like a million bucks.â

He turned in a slow circle, palms out, a smile on his face. âI feel like a million bucks.â He paused. âMaybe not quite a million.â

âAn even million,â she contradicted him. âLetâs put it this way. If Richard Gere gets very, very lucky, he might end up looking like you one day.â

âWell, now. A movie star? Thatâs quite a compliment.â

âThe suit looks amazing on you. Is it from the tailor shop you told me aboutâHenry Poole?â

âIndeed it is. You have a good eye.â

âItâs perfect on you.â And it was, down to the precise break in the hem of the trousers. His shoes were a lustrous black leather, polished to a gleam in the last light of the day. Every fold of his shirt bore a crisp crease, as though attended by an invisible valet. There was precisely three quarters of an inch of cuff showing, studded by silver cuff links with a stylized fish design. âA gift from my father,â George said when he saw her looking at the cuff links. âHe gave matching pairs to me and my brother. I shall have to think about what to do with these,â he added. âI have six grandsons.â

âThat many?â

âWe Bellamys are a prolific lot.â

She led the way down to the golf cart, which theyâd rented for getting around the resort. âYour chariot awaits. Would you like to drive?â

âCertainly.â He elected to leave his cane behind, for he was feeling spry.

They arrived at the main pavilion at precisely eight oâclock. George offered his arm and they went in together. The dining room looked beautiful in the evening light. The setting sun, reflecting off the glassy surface of the lake, bathed everything in a wash of pinkish gold. The tables were aglow with candlelight and set with gleaming signature china, polished silver, stemmed crystal glasses. A slender young woman effortlessly played piano, a gleaming Steinway. She was accompanied by a guy on muted trumpet and another on percussion; the number was an old-fashioned one Claire didnât recognize.

The crowd was made up of couples, mostly, or small groups. There were a few families with fidgety kids or sullen teenagers. But overall, the impression was of couples on a romantic getaway. Not that Claire had ever been on a romantic getaway. But she read a lot of books.

Although she shunned attention, the same could not be said of George. She was not the only one to admire his bespoke suit, his snowy-white hair and studied, upright posture. Heads turned as he passed; voices dropped to murmurs.

And inevitably, attention then went to Claire. She felt several dozen pairs of eyes on her. People were undoubtedly speculating about her and this exceedingly handsome older gentleman. Was she his daughter or his trophy wife? Perhaps he was her sugar daddy.

She tried to dismiss the looks and speculation. She waved away the resort photographer who circulated among the tables, offering to take peopleâs pictures.

Claire had not willingly had her picture taken since her junior year of high school. It was in an annual somewhere, âClarissa Tancrediâ squeezed between ChiChi Tambliss and Ginny Thompkins. The girl in the photo had been round-cheeked, with railroad-track braces and long brown hair, and a look in her eyes that was full of hope, despite all sheâd been through. Within weeks of School Picture Day, that girl had ceased to exist. The long hair had been cropped and dyed black. The braces were removed with a pair of needle-nose pliers, in a ladiesâ room on the Jersey Turnpike. And that expression of hope would never, ever return.

The maÃ®tre dâ seated them at a table by the French doors near the deckâprime real estate in a prime restaurant, she noted.

âI do believe this is the best table in the place,â she said. âHow did we rate the royal treatment?â

âMust be your overwhelming beauty,â said George, then winked when he saw she wasnât buying it. âEither that, or the fact that I gave the maÃ®tre dâ a tip the size of Chicago.â

She raised her water goblet in his direction. âTo you, Mr. George Bellamy, international man of mystery. Thank you for bringing me along on this journey.â

âDonât thank me yet. Summer in a rustic cottage is not everyoneâs cup of tea. I hope you donât go batty with boredom.â

âHighly doubtful, George.â She noticed him glancing around the dining room. âLooking for someone?â

âI ran into an old friend from college,â he said. âI thought she might be here tonight.â

âThatâs nice for you,â she said. âIs it a coincidence, orââ

âTotal coincidence. Iâd forgotten all about Millie until just this morning.â

âI hope I get to meet her.â His pleasure in the meeting was completely endearing, she thought with deepening affection. Wanting to connect with people was so very human. Even impending death didnât stave off the impulse. No wonder self-imposed isolation was so hard.

She studied the menu in bewilderment and delight. âI donât know what half this stuff is. And I canât actually pronounce it.â

âShall I order for us both?â

âYes, please. Just remember, Iâm watching my weight.â

âI remember. How could I forget? Youâre the first person in history to turn down a pastry from the Sky River Bakery.â

When the waiter came, George did the orderingâa salad that included something called frisÃ©e, garnished with fresh flowers. There was an entrÃ©e of local trout with sautÃ©ed wild ramps and chanterelles. He ordered wine, too, a white Burgundy from France.

Claire wished she could have more than a sip or two of the wine, but she couldnât allow that, any more than she could gorge on the menu items. She had to retain full control of her faculties at all times, and getting buzzed on wine was a risk she could not take.

Despite the restrictions, though, she was enchanted by the beautiful restaurant with its lakeside setting. Being here with George, for however long they stayed, gave her a chance to live a different life, even for a short while. This was how some people actually spent their time, in quiet conversation, smiling across a beautifully set table at a spouse or lover. What a concept. She tried not to want it too much.

George sat back, studying the surroundings with a bemused expression.

âIs it what you were hoping for?â she asked.

âFor the most part, yes. I was hoping it hadnât changed beyond recognition, and it hasnât. There was always this view of the lake. I think the stage was in the opposite corner.â

âWas there live music?â she asked.

âEvery night,â he assured her. âThere were live acts, too. Not just crooners but all kinds of entertainers. Magic acts, stunts, comics, you name it. A lot of them were quite good. Being so close to the city gave the resorts in this area access to all kinds of talent.â

âDid you have a favorite?â

âSure. There was a magician named Marvel who sawed off his assistantâs head twice a night. I remember being completely flummoxed when I saw her under the dock later, smoking a cigarette. I saw Henny Youngman right there on the stage one night,â he said. âEver heard of Henny Youngman?â

âSorry, no.â

âHe was a comedian, a big deal in his day. The Everly Brothers played here. And the Andrews Sistersâthey were regulars on the circuit.â

With his stories of a rarefied, forgotten era, he took her to another place and time. There had been a whole subculture of monied families in the city who retreated to the lakes upstate each summer, and the Bellamys were part of that tradition.

Claire could scarcely imagine it. She had never done anything as a matter of tradition. Her childhood had been a series of ever-changing acts of survival and in the end, she had performed the ultimate act of her own, and disappeared.

A few couples danced to the gentle piano music. Watching them, Claire felt something in a soft and secret place inside herâa sadness, a sense of futility. Sheâd never allowed herself to see falling in love as an option. She couldnât. It was too dangerous. She could never have any kind of lasting relationship. Anyone she got close to would face the same dangers she faced. Or worse, they would be used as leverage against her.

Oh, but she dreamed. When she saw people together like the couples on the dance floor, their love a palpable thing, she dreamed of what it might be like, and could not stop her heart from yearning. Then she would remember what it was like to be forced to run for her life and disappear. She wouldnât wish that on anyone. Convincing Social Services to bar Vance Jordan from being a foster parent was going to expose her to an insane level of risk. The last thing she needed was for someone else to get tangled up in her mess.

Providing skilled, compassionate care to terminal patients was a vocation few people understood, yet it was perfectly suited to Claire. She loved her patients while they were in her care, and her heart broke when she lost them. But she had come to discover that the heart was a sound and sturdy organ, capable of mending itself.

She could already tell she was going to love George very much. He was so dapper in his dress suit, proud and yet uncertain in the wake of a terrible prognosis, like a nervous bridegroom. She hoped he would find peace and clarity and eventually, acceptance.

They ordered dessertâhe had crÃ¨me brÃ»lÃ©e with raspberries; she had just the raspberries. He ordered small glasses of ice wine from a vineyard in western New York and she allowed herself one sip. It was an intense, sweet wine made from grapes gathered after the frost. The flavor was deep and complicated, like nothing sheâd ever tasted before. âThis is nectar,â she said, shutting her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she saw George watching her with an indulgent smile.

âWhat?â she asked.

âYouâre really quite a lovely young woman,â he told her. âRoss is going to like you enormously.â

Ross again. The grandson. âIâm here for you, George. You know that.â She rested her chin in her hand and watched the couples on the dance floor.

He finished his glass of ice wine. âYouâre bored with me already. I can tell.â

âNonsense. Iâm just getting to know you,â she said.

âItâs on my list, you know,â he said.

âWhatâs that?â

âDancing. I never learned to dance.â

âIâm surprised,â she admitted, turning to look at him. âYou seem like the kind of guy who would know how to dance. I figured it was a social skill, like knowing how to order wine or tie a bow tie.â

âYouâre right, and in general, it is exactly that. In fact, dancing lessons were given right here at Camp Kioga, but I avoided them. Because, you understandâ¦â

âCooties,â she suggested.

He chuckled. âYes, there was that, early on. But now Iâm sorry I never learned to dance, because Iâd like to know what it feels like to be out on the dance floor in a beautiful place like this.â

âNow that,â she said, âis definitely something I can help you with. Iâm actually an okay dancer.â She went occasionally to dance clubs, which gave her the illusion of having close friends or even a boyfriend. It was one of the quirky things she did to preserve her own sanity. Over time, sheâd learned a good number of dances, and some of the retro numbers were her favorites.

âExcellent,â he said. âWhen shall we start?â

She set down her napkin. âThereâs no time like the present.â

He looked momentarily disconcerted. Then resolute. âYour point is well taken.â He got up and moved to her side of the table, offering his right hand with a flourish. âMay I have this dance?â

âIâd be thrilled,â she said, taking his hand. âAnd Iâm having a hard time believing youâve never done this. You look like a pro, standing there.â

âStanding is the key word. Iâve watched a lot of Fred Astaire movies in my day. I couldnât ever get past the asking, though.â

âWeâre about to change that,â she said.

The small ensemble was playing âStardust Memories,â which lent itself to a simple box step.

âThe nice thing about dancing,â she said, âis that you really only need to know two thingsâhow to hold a frame, and how to engage with your partner. Donât worry about feet and legs. Those will come after.â

âI certainly hope so,â he said.

âTrust me. You have to trust me.â

âFine. Tell me what to do. Iâm all ears.â

âFirst, forget about everyone else in the room. Pretend itâs just the two of us. I swear, weâre not that interesting.â

âDone.â

âNow, hold up your hand, just like that, yes.â She slipped her own into his. âYour other hand needs to rest at my waist. Yes. Youâre very good.â

âI havenât done anything.â

âYou feel polished and confident,â she said, âthe way a true gentleman should. You smell good, too.â

âNice of you to say.â

âIâm being honest, George. You smell wonderful. Now, about the dance frame. Itâs not very technical. Itâs based on common sense and consideration for your partner.â

He had a natural flair for the hold. Next, she showed him the basic footwork. He caught on quickly enough, and seemed to have a strong sense of rhythm. The look of concentration on his face morphed into delight, and he laughed aloud, the sound eliciting smiles from the other dancers.

âHey, youâre a natural,â she said, though the attention made her feel self-conscious. They danced some more, and George laughed some more as she coached him through a couple of moves.

âI donât think weâll win any trophies,â he said, âbut Iâm having fun. Makes me wish Iâd taken this up before my sonsâ weddings.â

She decided to voice the question that had been nagging at her since their arrival. âWhere are they, George? Where is your family now?â

âThatâs not the real question,â he said. âThe real question is, why arenât they here?â

âI suppose that is the question. And you neednât answer it unless you want to.â

âThey think Iâm on a foolâs errand, coming to Camp Kioga.â

âAnd theyâve stayed away becauseâ¦â

âBecause theyâre convinced Iâll be back in the city before they can even get their bags packed.â

This was exactly as sheâd suspected. Most loved ones tried to cling to denial as long as possible. âJust donât make this a battle of wills, George. Nobody wins that kind of fight.â

âNot to worry. I have thought about this journey long and hard, to make sure itâs something Iâm pursuing for the right reasons, not just to be stubborn.â

The inner workings of a family held endless fascination for Claire. Perhaps this stemmed from her lack of one. She was intrigued by the way people loved each other, and fought and turned their backs on each other, and then came together again. She was intrigued by all the ways people learned to forgive and grow and strengthen their bond. There was such richness in their efforts, and such grace, whether those efforts led to success or failure.

George was so studied in the way he dressed, so fearful and sweet at the same time. She thought about how he had carefully ordered the food and wine and how much heâd savored her enjoyment.

If you were my grandfather, she thought, wild horses couldnât keep me from you.

Â 

It was dark by the time Ross and Natalie arrived in Avalon, a cluster of glowing windows and gaslit streets nestled beside Willow Lake. He was only vaguely familiar with the many little lakeside towns and villages of upstate New York, but Natalie claimed sheâd been to Avalon before.

âSeveral times, as a matter of fact,â she remarked, folding away the road map.

âHere? I never knew that.â

âMy folks settled in Albany after they came back from overseas. This was one of my favorite train stops on the way upstate.â She indicated a place called the Apple Tree Inn, a converted mansion with a lighted front porch and a sign advertising fine dining. âA guy asked me to marry him right there, about ten years ago.â

âYeah, right.â

âIâm serious. It was Christmas Eve. I was mortified.â

âWhat, mortified it wasnât me?â

âVery funny.â

âYou never told me that,â said Ross.

âI donât tell you everything. And honestly, it wasnâtâ¦my finest moment. He was adorable, but we were too young. I wonder whatever became of Eddie.â

âNothing,â Ross said. âHis life was over the second you turned him down.â

She laughed. âIâm so glad youâre back. I donât know what I did without you.â

âSent me jokes in e-mail,â he reminded her. âSeveral a day.â

âWell, itâs nice having you back where I can make fun of you in person.â

They stopped at a service station for directions to Camp Kioga. âItâs a good thing I came along with you today,â Natalie said, squinting at the unlit wilderness that surrounded them after they left the town behind. âA really good thing. Itâs pitch-dark out here. And deserted, too. I feel like weâre in one of those teen scream movies.â

âExcept weâre not teenagers and thereâs nothing to scream about.â

âSpeak for yourself.â She shuddered. âHow about you pull over and put up the top.â

âItâs still warm outside. Letâs leave it down.â

âThere are probably slimy nocturnal creatures everywhere.â

âIâll try not to run over any of them. And letâs hope nothing drops on your head.â

âRoss, I swearââ

âQuit being a baby.â

The lakeshore road took them northward. They passed a few farms and residences, and thenâ¦nothing. Finally, in the middle of nowhere, they spotted the sign: Historic Camp Kioga. 2 Miles Ahead. The pavement turned to gravel, and Ross slowed the roadster. The headlamps lit the surrounding dense forest, creating a tunnel of green. The shadow of an owl swooped over them, and occasional watching eyes flashed in the underbrush.

âOkay, this is seriously creepy,â said Natalie, turning up the volume on the radio. A bouncy song about love gone wrong was playing, which seemed to lighten the atmosphere a little.

âScaredy-cat,â said Ross. âFinally, here we are.â

The old-fashioned entranceway was constructed of two large timbers connected by an arch. Camp Kioga was spelled out in wrought-iron twig lettering. âJeez, even the sign looks creepy,â Natalie remarked.

The remainder of the driveway was illuminated by path lights leading to a big lodge at the lakeside. âNow, this is more like it,â she declared, regarding the glowing windows with obvious relief. âItâs even prettier than the brochures promised.â Inside, they could see candlelit tables, waiters in black coats, dancing couples. It was the picture of vintage rustic elegance, the kind of place that invited nostalgia. Or, thought Ross, old men in search of old memories.

He and Natalie went inside to a big lobby area and stood for a moment, looking around.

Peeled timber ceiling beams soared above the lounge area and registration desk. The room had a timeless atmosphere; it felt like the sort of place people imagined other, more functional families than their own visited together, a couple of generations back. Maybe in Granddadâs day.

At the registration desk, an earnest-looking woman waited expectantly. Adjacent to the lobby was a dining room, complete with live music and dancing couples.

âHe might be there,â Ross said.

Natalie touched his arm. âGo ahead,â she said, following the direction of his gaze. âIâll get us a place to sleep for the night.â

Leaving her at the desk, Ross went into the dining room. It was getting late and the crowd was thin. Ross surveyed the room, scanning the light dinner crowd, mostly couples. A small ensemble, on a raised dais in the corner, was playing the old tune âStardust Memories,â and several couples danced to the languid melody. His gaze skipped past them; it was well-known in the family that Granddad didnât dance. Then Ross heard a sound he hadnât heard in far too longâthe ringing tones of his grandfatherâs laughter.

His gaze made another sweep through the dancers, this time focusing on a tall man dancing with a slender, dark-haired woman.

Ross froze, his chest constricted with emotion.

George Bellamy was dancing. He wore a tailored dress suit with a crisp white shirt and narrow tie. His close-cropped, snow-white hair caught flickers of light from the rustic chandelier. He looked lost in pleasurable concentration, with a small, crooked smile on his face.

A thousand thoughts crowded into Rossâs head. He was unprepared for the sucker punch delivered by the sight of his grandfather. Striding toward the couple on the dance floor, Ross had an urge to physically remove the strange woman from his grandfatherâs arms. Maybe Rossâs mother and aunt were right. Maybe the stranger was shameless, worming her way into Granddadâs life.

âGranddad,â he said, keeping his voice low and his temper reined in, for now.

George Bellamy stopped dancing, stepped away from his partner and turned. Just for a moment, he appeared confused, disoriented in a way that made Rossâs pulse speed up in panic. Then Georgeâs face lit with a blissful smile. In the dim, kindly light, he looked youthful, perfectly healthy and utterly delighted. âMy boy,â he said, reaching out with his arms. âMy boy. I knew youâd come.â

The woman moved aside. George hugged Ross close, right there on the dance floor. Ross could feel dozens of eyes on him, but he didnât care. He was back. His grandfatherâs relief was palpable, and Ross knew George was thinking of the son who had gone to war and never came home.

A soldierâs homecoming was meant to be a joyous occasion. Yet the joy in this moment was muted by a sense of sadness. In his grandfatherâs embrace, he was that young boy again, grieving and afraid. It was astonishing how quickly those feelings came rushing back, as though they had been hovering just below the surface, never really gone, waiting to reemerge.

âMy boy,â Granddad said again. âMy dear, sweet boy. Welcome home.â

âThank you,â Ross said, wanting to hold this man close and never let him go. âCan we go have a seat?â

âOf course. Iâm so pleased you came, son. I didnât know when youâd arrive.â

âI got here as fast as I could. My mother says you hired some phony tart whoâs going to fleece you bare.â

Granddad stepped aside. Ross had no idea the hired woman was still standing nearby, overhearing this. âSon, Iâd like you to meet Claire Turner,â said Granddad.

âThe phony tart,â she added helpfully.

âGreat,â said Ross.

âMiss Turner, this is my grandson, Ross Bellamy.â

âDelighted,â she said.

Ross knew there was ice in his gaze as he offered her a greeting of curt politeness. He would soon be having what he expected to be a short, dismissive conversation with her. Yet there was something unsettling about her. No, there was something about him, regarding her. This woman is going to be trouble, warned a quiet inner voice. At first glance, she didnât look like a gold digger. She wore no jewelry, little or no makeup that he could see. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back, revealing an undeniably pretty face. She wore a plain dress that did not have to loudly advertise the obviousâshe had a knockout figure.

âPardon me,â Ross said. âIâm going to have a word with my grandfather.â

âOf course,â she said. âWhy donât you go to the bar where itâs quiet. Iâll settle things here.â

Iâll just bet you will, thought Ross, watching her go. She was mesmerizing to look at, with a soothing voice and manner that had probably won George over from the start. Ross felt nothing but contempt for her, yet against his will, that contempt was tinged by curiosity.

Natalie came to greet George. As she gave him a hug, she immediately burst into tears.

âThis is not helping,â said Ross.

âI just donât know what to say. Iâm sorry youâre sick, Mr. Bellamy, and I feel so helpless.â

âYouâve helped enormously by coming here with Ross,â said George.

âIâm sorry,â she murmured again, and handed Ross a key. âThe cabin numberâs on the tag,â she said. âIâm heading over there now.â

âCharming creature, Iâve always thought,â said Granddad as she withdrew. âThere was a time when I wondered if the two of you might marry.â He smiled at Rossâs expression. âItâs one of the few perks of being terminally ill. I get to speak my mind without getting in trouble for it.â

âNat and Iâ¦weâre not like that.â

âI know. You have a wonderful future ahead of you, my boy. Just not with her.â

The bar was quiet, and furnished with comfortable wing chairs and low tables. George ordered two glasses of brandy, looking pleased to see that it was RÃ©my Martin, properly served in crystal globe snifters.

The two of them sat together, facing a glowing fire in the river-rock fireplace. On the table between them was a chess set, the pieces already lined up for battle. George settled back and lifted his glass. âTo my grandson, the war hero.â

âAnd to my grandfather, the exaggerator. Iâm no hero.â

âYou came home alive and well. In my eyes, that makes you a hero.â

Ross was quiet. He had accomplished what Georgeâs son could not. He had come home in one piece. âWhenever I got in trouble over there,â he said, âI thought of you. And when I did that, the only option was to make it home.â

âAnd for that, I am profoundly grateful. I hope youâre planning to stick around, becauseâ¦well, you know.â He took a sip of brandy, closing his eyes as he swallowed. âHow are you?â

âIâm completely freaked,â Ross admitted.

âThat was my initial reaction, as well. Itâs one thing to grow old as I have, knowing I shanât live forever. Itâs another to discover my actual expiration date.â

Ross had always understood how hard it would be to lose his grandfather. But it had always seemed a distant eventuality, something that would happen someday in the nebulous, undefined future, taking him by surprise, like a sniper attack.

Instead the loss was predicted to happen this summer.

Ross hated that. With every fiber of his being, he hated the heartless prognosis.

Leaning forward, George nudged a pawn on the chessboard in his favorite opening move, the French defense.

âSo, about this illnessâ¦â Ross kept his voice low, but even he could hear its intensity. Almost independently, he answered the opening move with one of his own. He and Granddad had always played chess, almost compulsively.

âWe can go over all the technicalities in the morning. I promise not to die tonight.â George advanced another pawn and regarded him with shining eyes. âDear God, how Iâve missed you. I worried about you every moment.â

âIâm sorry for that. The work was hazardous but Iâm glad I served. I know you were opposed to my going, but it was just something I had to do.â

âAnd I couldnât be prouder. And now youâre back, and it means the world to me.â

The center of the chessboard was fairly crowded now, with flanks of pawns. The queenâs black bishop was hemmed in and useless.

Ross didnât give a shit about his future at the moment. âLook, Granddad, I donât care how sick you are. I want to know what the hell is going on. Whereâs everyone else? Uncle Louis and Gerard and Trevor? Why arenât they here with you?â

âWell, as you know, the elder two are overseas, but theyâll be in New York soon. Trevor and Alice flew in from L.A. when I ended my treatment at the Mayo Clinic. Theyâre staying at the apartment,â he said, referring to his residence in Manhattan. âI invited them to Camp Kioga with me, but they declined. They all think Iâm on a foolâs errand, and theyâre hoping youâll be the one to make me see reason and escort me back to the city.â

âYeah? So how am I doing?â

âNot so well, because I intend to stay here.â His face turned mild, reflective. âRoss, I had to make a choice. Iâve lived a full life. Iâve had my share of blessings and losses. I came here to face my greatest regret, and that is the long estrangement with my brother, Charles. Full-on treatment would âgive meâ maybe a few more months, but every day would be eaten up by appointments, painful and invasive procedures and tests. So I chose to come here, and invite my family up and have a day like I did today. I sat in a porch swing, did the New York Times crossword and prayed youâd be here soon.â He offered a smile that made Ross want to cry. âNow youâre here. Iâm sure the others will join us soon.â

âBut why here? And whatâs this about a brother?â

âNow that Iâm out of time there are some things I see clearly, and the need to reconnect with my brother is one of them. Things that happened in the pastâ¦I canât let them matter now. All my priorities have shifted. My bank balance? Doesnât matter what it is, either. It doesnât matter if I missed the latest episode of Greyâs Anatomy or if my damned socks match. What matters is making sure I come to terms with things in my past, and share my heart with my loved ones.â

Ross wasnât quite sure what his grandfather needed to come to terms with. What could be powerful enough to divide brothers for a lifetime? Whatever it was, he hoped they could make this quick. Suffer through an awkward meeting with the brother, then head back to the city and find a doctorâa team of themâwho could find a way to beat this disease.

He nodded his head toward the dining room. âAnd why her?â

George frowned at the game board. âSheâs exactly what we need.â

Ross ignored the we. âBut, Craigslist, Granddad? Seriously?â

âI was told one could find anything on the Internet. Apparently this is so. I simply listed the attributes I needed, and Godfrey put it all on the line.â George took one of Rossâs pawns with his bishop.

âOn the line?â

âYou know, the Internet.â

Rossâs mouth twitched. âOnline, you mean.â

âYes. Within hours, there were applicants queuing up to meet me. Godfrey prescreened them. It was disheartening, I tell you. Nothing like those match-up services theyâre always advertising. I wish you couldâve seen some of the candidates.â He chuckled. âDid you know thereâs a variety of tattoo known as the âtramp stampâ?â

âGranddadââ

âDonât worry, Claire doesnât have any tattoos. None that I know of. At any rate, I nearly gave up the search, and then I met Claire. Almost from the first moment, I knew she was the one. I had a feeling about her.â

âYeah, about these attributesâdid you check her references? Her qualifications?â

âOf course. I had to make certain she was exactly what I was looking for. Iâm sure youâll come to like her, too. At first glance, she seems a bit plain, but youâll soon realize thatâs not the case at all. She has a quiet sort of beauty. Doesnât seem to want to play up her looks the way most women do.â

âTo be honest, I donât give a shit about her except where youâre concerned. Level with me, Granddad. How did you happen to decide on this girl?â

He took out a small notebook. âWell now, letâs see. I started with a list of qualificationsâage twenty-five to thirty-five. Female, of course. Someone with a positive attitude and a sense of adventure. Heterosexual. Must love children of all ages. Must be open to relocation. No emotional baggage. Nursing skills a plus.â

âI donât get what you were thinking. This doesnât sound even remotely like a notice for a nursing position.â

âHow so?â

âI think when you specify age, gender and marital status, itâs more like a personals ad.â

âI had certain requirements. And those were some of them. You know I have nothing against homosexuals. But for this position it had to be a woman.â

Ross grabbed the list. âNursing skills a plus?â he read. âA plus? Like itâs optional or something?â

âItâs secondary to the other attributes,â Granddad said. âNot to get too graphic on you, but as this business progresses, my needs are not going to be terribly complicated.â

âYou canât know that.â

âSheâs available, you know,â George pointed out.

Ross stared at him, incredulous. âDid I hear you right?â

âIndeed you did.â

âWhat the hell do I have to do with any of this?â

âA great deal. Now, youâre not going to like hearing this, but it has to be said. Iâm all you have, son, and Iâm not enough family for you.â He raised his hand to stave off the objections he clearly anticipated. âI know you, Ross. Your heart is big, the way your fatherâs was. You were made for the kind of life filled with family. And itâs not a weakness. Itâs a gift. And introducing you to Claireâthatâs a gift. Perhaps my final one to you.â

âI donât needâ Granddad, sheâs the last woman Iâd want to date.â

âWhy? Sheâs lovely. Intelligent, soft-spokenââ

âWhoa. Iâm here for you, okay? Can you just please remember that?â

âAs you wish. I do want you and Claire to get along, though. Sheâs not going anywhere, so youâd best plan to make an effort.â

Ross took a moment to absorb what Granddad was saying. He needed a moment. It wasnât every day he encountered someone who saw him so clearly. George had always possessed that ability, Ross reminded himself. He could see into Rossâs heart. It was one of the reasons theyâd always been so close and why he trusted his grandfather so much. But thisâ¦

âLet me get this straight. You hired Claire based on the fact that you thought Iâd be attracted to her.â

âYes,â George admitted.

âAre you out of your mind?â

âThatâs quite possible. I might be, yes. This disease is notoriously unpredictable.â He studied the board. âIâm still giving you a schooling at chess, though.â

âYouâd better send her packing, because itâs not going to work.â

âOn the contrary. I saw the way you looked at her. Youâre intrigued.â

âAnd this comes as a surprise? Christ, youâve seen her. Of course Iâm intrigued.â

âExcellent. And the good news is, sheâs going to be entirely smitten with you.â

âDid she say that?â

âOf course she didnât say that. You just met.â

âThen how do you know?â

âGood question. She hides it well. Sheâs a complicated creature. Your favorite kind. You are wearing that confounded expression again, Ross.â

He let out a sigh, steepled his fingers together. âWe have a lot to talk about.â

âI agree. I hope weâll have time for plenty of talk this summer.â

âIâve got all the time in the world,â Ross told him. âItâs crazy, going from having every minute of the day spoken for by my Dustoff unit to having nothing to do.â

âNothing but trying to figure out the whims of a dotty old man suffering from a diseased brain.â

âNot funny,â Ross pointed out.

âIt wasnât meant to be.â Granddadâs smile was thoughtful. âYou look wonderful, Ross. Soldiering agreed with you, just as it did your father. You look so much like him, I nearly forgot who I was talking to. Thank you again for coming.â

âIâm here for you,â said Ross. âIâm here for whatever you need from me.â

âNow, that is music to my ears. Precisely what I was hoping to hear.â He nudged a pawn into position, putting Rossâs queen in dire straits. âYour move,â he said.

Ross sacrificed his queen, as George must have known he would do. Then he hid behind the balloonlike brandy snifter to take a sip. He was lying through his teeth, of course. He was here to take his grandfather back to the city and persuade him to save his own life. He finished his brandy and set down the empty snifter.

George reached over to do the same. He missed the side table and the glass shattered in a shock of brilliant crystal shards.

Â 

âOccasional intermittent blindness,â Claire explained to Ross Bellamy in a low voice. They had brought George back to the lake house and helped him to bed. Now she stood with Ross on the porch. She was trying to keep her professional facade in place, but it was hard. The guy looked like heâd stepped out of her best fantasyâtall and fit, a chiseled face, soulful eyes. Dimples. âThatâs likely why he dropped the glass. Iâm afraid disorientation and lack of coordination are also common symptoms.â

At the moment, standing in the moonlight and gazing out at Willow Lake, it was Claire herself who felt disoriented, and Ross Bellamy was the cause. The last thing sheâd expected wasâ¦him. Sure, George had sort of prepared her by explaining that Ross had been in the service, that he was tall like George and shared the Bellamy blue eyes, but still, she hadnât been prepared. The guy was like some kind of action hero come to life, even in civilian clothes. When heâd approached her and George on the dance floor, sheâd been caught off guardâand being caught off guard was a dangerous thing.

It wasnât just that she hadnât expected himâwhich she hadnât, not tonight. The thing that truly caught her off guard was her own reaction to him. The attraction had been as instantaneous and powerful as heat lightning. Sure, sheâd been attracted to men before; just because she lived a borrowed life didnât mean she was immune to sexual chemistry. This was even more intense. It didnât matter that the man clearly resented and distrusted her. It didnât even matter that heâd come with his girlfriend. From the moment heâd drilled her with that âwho-the-hell-are-youâ glare, sheâd been spellbound.

She focused on the issue at hand. âThereâs nothing to be done about it,â she told Ross, âexcept to keep an eye on him and help him with his mobility.â

In the glow of the porch light, she could see Rossâs jaw tighten with anxiety. She stifled an urge to take his hand; she sensed heâd find no comfort in her touch. She felt for him, though. The broken glass was probably Rossâs first concrete evidence that Georgeâs illness was no fiction, but something real and inevitable, an enemy he couldnât fight.

âIs that your medical opinion?â Ross asked. âOr personal?â

âMedical,â she said. âIâve spent hours familiarizing myself with his case.â

âHis case. Yeah, I guess heâs just a case to you.â

âHeâs a man who needs me. He needs you, too, and all those who love him. George deserves to find a sense of peace and closure. As horrible as this is, there will be unexpected gifts, too. Not everybody gets a time like thisâto spend or waste however he likes. For some people, everything is snatched away in an instant.â She stopped, wondering if sheâd revealed too much of herself in that statement.

Ross stared at her. âWhat he needs is a damn team of doctors. I put my faith in surgeons and scalpels. Thatâs the way lives are saved.â

âOn the battlefield, thatâs true,â she said.

âHe told you about me?â

âHe told me you were a medevac pilot in the army.â Claire could feel the tension rolling off Ross, and she sensed he was suppressing a lot. It was not uncommon, but it wasnât good for her patient. He couldnât be fully present for his grandfather if he was bottling up real feelings. There were things that needed to be let out. âI canât imagine what it was like for you.â

âYou donât want to imagine it. Nobody does.â

âYou saved lives,â she said. âAnd every life you saved was connected to countless others. Your grandfather is extremely proud of that, rightfully so. I hope knowing what a difference youâve made brings you peace.â

He shrugged. âGuys like me, we donât keep score. We donât know how many people weâve saved or how many we lost. None of the crew ever knewâor wanted to knowâwhat happened to patients after they were airlifted.â

âYou never had a follow-up? Never wondered about someone?â

âThereâve been a few guys who figured out how to get in touch with me,â he admitted. âA couple of e-mails to say thanks.â He pushed the tips of his fingers together, and his eyes looked lost in memories. âIâm one of the lucky ones, you know? I went to war for two years and never had to kill anyone. Going out flying and bringing guys backâit was a hell of a job.â

The less he said, the more her mind filled in the details. She tried to create a mental image of Ross at the controls, piloting a helicopter through the firestorm of battle, but it resembled a scene out of a movie. Maybe it was his movie-star looks, which shone through his grief and anger.

âAs for wondering about someoneâhell, yeah,â he admitted. âI wonder about every single one of them. And then I leave it at that. Trying to follow up on everything makes you crazy.â

âYour grandfather calls you a hero.â

âMaybe I was just an adrenaline addict.â

âDid you always want to be a pilot?â she asked.

He shook his head. âNever quite knew what I wanted to be, so for a long time, I was an asshole.â

She kind of wanted it to be true, so she could stop feeling so drawn to him. âYour grandfather didnât tell me that part.â

âYeah, he wouldnât. I partied my way through college and a couple of jobs I didnât much like. Enlisted almost on a whim, and it turned out to be the right thing for me.â He rubbed his jaw, looking weary. âDeployment wore me down, though, two years of it. I thought Iâd come back to the States and work as a civilian in medevac. Everythingâs on hold now.â

âI know it must be hard, coming home to this.â

He paced the length of the porch, stopping a few feet from her. âListen, the last thing I need is for some hired New Age nurse to be doling out platitudes to me. Iâll tell you whatâs hard. Coming home from a war to the news that my grandfatherâs dyingâthatâs hard. Finding out heâs given up on getting betterâthat, too. Oh, and realizing this is all going to go down in a strange place, surrounded by strangersâthatâs pretty damn hard.â

She watched the way his hands gripped the porch rail in a fury of tension. Though she couldnât tell him the truth, she was painfully familiar with the aftermath of trauma. One day, sheâd been a high school girl; the next she was a fugitive. Though it wasnât quite the same as surviving a war, she could recognize the lingering stress in Ross.

He subjected her to a penetrating stare, and a part of her almost wished he recognized that lonely girl, hiding inside her.

She wished his contempt was more of a turnoff. But it wasnât because she recognized his rage for what it wasâa shield against the terror of losing someone he loved. âIâm sorry,â she said. âI should have said that right off the bat. Iâm so very sorry. George is too nice a person for this to be happening to him.â

âI guess we agree on one thing.â He turned away to stare out at the lake, a mirror of ink in the darkness, where the reflection of the moon created a shimmering silver disc. âDamn, itâs quiet here. Kind of like night ops, only weâre not being shot at.â

She tried to picture him in uniform. She had issues with guys in uniform, but for some reason, she felt okay around Ross Bellamy. âNight ops?â

âMandatory exercises,â he said. âYou have to learn to do everything in the dark. Thatâs when the worst part of war happens.â

âAnd thereâs a best part of war?â

âItâs known as boredom. In my line of work, there were two modes of operationâboredom or full-on adrenaline. Not much in between.â

She wondered about the memories he carried inside him. âThis is a big adjustment for you. If you need to talk to someone about itââ

âWhat, youâre a shrink, too? Jeez, lady, youâre one-stop shopping.â

âI was going to say thereâs a vet center in Middletown.â

âShit, sorry. I know youâre trying to be helpful. Iâm okay for now. During demobilization, they gave us info about PTSD. Last thing I want to do is have a meltdown when Iâm supposed to be taking care of my grandfather.â

âThen we agree on two things,â she pointed out.

âNo, we donât. Iâm here to help him get better, and you seem fine with letting him get sicker, out here in the middle of nowhere.â

âIâm not âlettingâ him do anything,â she said. âHeâs here by choice, and the things that are happening to him canât be helped or stopped.â

âYou claim youâre some kind of nurse,â Ross said. âIsnât it your job to help people?â

âI am a nurse, and yes, that is my job.â

âSo where does the dancing come in? Is that part of my grandfatherâs treatment, dancing in restaurants? What the hell was that about, Nurse Turner?â

âIt was about taking care of my patient. He said he always wanted to dance.â

His shoulders sagged just the slightest bit. âI guess youâve noticedâmy grandfather is everything to me. Heâs the best man I know. And whatâs happening to himâ¦â His voice broke off on a rough note. âWe need to stop it, Claire. Please.â

It was the first time heâd addressed her by her first name, and it signaled a slight shift. She wanted to weep for him; she probably would later, in private. âThereâs no stopping it,â she whispered. âThe best way to help your grandfather is to give him as many good days as you can, for as long as you can.â

Ross shook his head. âItâs like heâs giving up on himself. Whatâs worse, he came here to see some guy who hasnât given him the time of day in what, fifty, sixty years. Heâs going to get his heart broken, and he doesnât deserve that, either.â

Even through the gloom, she could see the brightness of tears in his eyes. âPlease listen. Thereâs no easy way to say this, but try to understand. This is his life and he gets to choose. Now, you can either support him and wish him well, or you can begrudge him this time and criticize the choices heâs making.â

âSo if he wishes to jump in the lake wearing cement boots we should let him because he wishes it?â Ross demanded.

âNow youâre being ridiculous.â

âFor wanting my grandfather to seek treatment for an illness so he can get better? Come on, Claire. Help me out here.â

âHelp you out?â

âI have to persuade him to come back to the city. Iâm sure there are more doctors he can see, more courses of treatment to explore.â

Claireâs heart ached for him. She wished things were different, that she could agree with Ross. Instead she said, âDonât you think heâd treat this if there was a possibility of a decent outcome? Thereâs not. I hate to be so blunt, but thereâs not.â

He winced. âLook, all Iâm asking is for him to keep an open mind. Or for Godâs sake, to listen to reason. To actually seek treatment for his condition instead of giving up and retreating to some obscure hideaway like a wounded animal holing up to die.â

Claire placed one hand in the other, quelling the urge to touch his arm, or the back of his hand. âHeâs here with his doctorâs blessing, did he tell you that?â

âThen he needs to find a new doctor.â

âHeâs been working with a whole team. Any one of them will be glad to go over the case with you. And what theyâll say, with the deepest of regret, is that surgical resection is not an option. Chemo and radiation are strictly palliative measures, and the side effects are so severe, theyâd strip away any quality of life he might have. Your grandfatherâs doctors will tell you thereâs no further surgical or medical intervention for this. Not a single one will say that any life is better than death. Iâm employed by your grandfather, and heâs made his choice. This canât be about you, Ross. It has to be about George. Can you allow that? Please?â

He said nothing, but it was an angry silence.

âYou donât have to like me,â she said, struggling to keep the barriers in place. âI donât need for you to like me. But the sooner you figure out a way to be okay with your grandfatherâs wishes, the better itâll be for him.â

âRight,â said Ross. âGot it.â He fell silent again and stayed that way awhile longer. She waited, listening to the rustle of night creatures in the underbrush, the lapping of the lake on the shore. Finally he said, âHas he contacted the brother yet?â

The brother. She sensed Ross wasnât too happy about that development and wondered how much of the background he knew. âNot yet,â she said. âI think, actually, heâs been waiting for you.â

In the lake, a fish jumped, and something slipped into the water from the shore. Ross continued to survey the scene for a moment. Then he said, âIâm going to turn in. If he needs anything at all, you come and get me.â

âOf course.â

He turned and walked away, striding across the compound to an A-frame cabin.

Claire stood on the porch in the moonlight, peering into the darkness, feeling a crazy jumble of emotions. The guyâs moods changed like the swing of a pendulum, which was not uncommon in ex-soldiers. He was the last guy she expected to feel attracted to. It made absolutely no sense. He was freshly back from war, he was her clientâs grandson and he had shown up with a woman named Natalieâa girlfriend?

Claire knew she wouldnât do anything about the heart-lurch of yearning she felt. And as for Ross, he was going to be preoccupied by family business that promised to be complicated.

Families were so messy, she reflected, hearing the door to his cabin open and shut. People hurt each other so much. Even when they tried to do the right thing, when they acted out of love, they hurt each other. Family members worked so hard to be together, and for what? So they could fight and cry and butt heads. Being a member of a family was a recipe for pain and strife.

So why did she want it so much?

Seven

Ross awakened to birdsong and sunshine streaming in through his window. For a few minutes, he lay perfectly still, reorienting himself as he savored the miracle of a perfect morning. Heâd grown used to being awakened by the sound of explosions, alarms, chugging generators and radio calls, the descending whistle of a Soviet-made bomb or the champagne-cork pop of rifle fire.

Last night, Claire Turner had mentioned a nearby vet center. For now, he didnât need that. He just needed the gentle, quiet morning by the lake. He kept his mind in the moment, something he had learned to do to keep his sanity while in country.

The bed in his rented lakeside cabin was seriously comfortable, with crisp white sheets and an eiderdown that was thick but weightless. The foot of the bed faced a window with sheer, pale curtains rippling in the breeze, framing a view heâd only glimpsed by moonlight when theyâd arrived.

Willow Lake more than lived up to its name on the welcome signâthe jewel of the Catskills. The waterâs surface resembled hammered gold, reflecting the rising sun. It was fringed by every sort of tree, predominantly willows. In his mind, Ross heard the iconic strains of Griegâs âMorning,â though a much more prosaic reality penetrated the fantasy. Elsewhere in the cabin, a radio was playing Jay-Z rapping out âBig Pimpinâ.â Natalie was up.

He forgave his friend her choice of music because sheâd already made coffee. Its aroma permeated the place. He pulled on a faded pair of jeans, which fit him like old friends from his civilian days, and headed into the cabinâs tiny kitchen.

Natalie was dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt. She was sipping coffee and gazing out the window. She turned to him, her gaze lingering on his bare chest. âWhy, Chief Bellamy. The military life agrees with you.â

âYou mean I graduated from the scrawny kid you used to make fun of?â

âDefinitely.â

It had been boredom more than vanity that had driven him to spend hours in the workout tent. Between the adrenaline-rush moments of rescue ops, there wasnât much else to do. He also had to admit heâd succumbed to an element of competitiveness among the men. It was part of the rarefied culture of the remote outposts where heâd spent the past couple of years.

He helped himself to coffeeâstrong, dark coffee with real cream. It tasted so good he thought he was dreaming.

âYou guys stayed up late last night,â Natalie observed. âYour granddad okay? For now, I mean.â

Dream over, thought Ross, setting aside his coffee. âApparently he sometimes has trouble with vision and maybe coordination. He still managed to school me at chess, though.â

âFor what itâs worth, I couldnât tell he was ill,â she said. âAnd the nurse? Is sheâ¦ Howâs that working out? For what itâs worth, she doesnât look like a grandpa-kidnapper.â

âMy grandfather seems to like her. Weâll see.â Claire Turner. He was still trying to figure out how he felt about her, so he didnât say any more. âThanks for renting the cabin, Nat,â he added. âIn my rush to get here, it never even occurred to me to make a reservation.â

âNo problem. Itâs early enough in the season so there was plenty of room.â

The cabin theyâd been given was an A-frame, which stood shoulder to shoulder in a row with the others, facing the lake. A framed printout on the wall offered a brief history of the unit. The original structures had housed seasonal farm workers back when the area was agricultural, in the dust bowl days. Later, when Camp Kioga was in operation, the A-frames had housed camp workers or visiting entertainers.

Natalie had declared it perfectly appointed, with its Hudsonâs Bay blankets of colorful striped wool, vintage prints on the walls and retro furniture. The main floor had a raised bed facing the view, and there was a cozy loft in the peak of the A, accessed by a sturdy ladder. Ross and Natalie had flipped a coin for the loft, and sheâd won it.

âIâm off for a run,â she said. âAfter that, Iâll need a lift into town. I need to be on the noon train.â

âYouâre leaving already?â

âI have a grown-up job, remember?â

âYouâre going to miss all of the fun,â he said. âIn addition to my own family, thereâs apparently a mystery brother.â

âNo offense, but I have my own screwed-up family. I donât need to borrow yours.â

He walked outside with her. The cool air felt fresh on his skin. He inhaled deeply, put his arm around Natalie. âThanks for driving up here with me.â

âThatâs what friends are for.â She drew closer with surprising ferocity and lifted herself up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, âI wish this wasnât happening.â

He squeezed her tight in a bear hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. She felt both sturdy and feminine in his arms, but as always, his feelings toward her were platonic; she was like a sister to him. An extremely loyal sister. âYouâre awesome, Ms. Sweet,â he said.

âArenât I, though? Iâll come back for a visit.â She pulled out of the hug, and he saw that she was crying. âThese tears are not for you,â she quickly pointed out.

âI know,â he said, taking a deep, unsteady breath. âI know who theyâre for.â

When they separated, he noticed Claire Turner standing on the deck of his grandfatherâs cabin, observing them. She offered a brief wave of greeting, then went back inside. Ross wondered what was on her mind. He wondered a lot of things about her.

âShe thinks weâre a thing,â he said to Natalie.

Natalie gave his arm a slug. âDream on, Chief.â

âDo me a favor.â

âAnything.â

âWhen you get back to the city, see what you can find out about Nurse Claire Turner.â

âYou think sheâs scamming him?â

âI donât know what to make of her.â Based on his conversation with her the night before, Ross knew he was a long way from figuring the woman out. But he also knew that when he looked into her eyes, he felt something that was both strange and real, as though the two of them shared something.

âIâll put on my investigative reporter hat and see what I can dig up,â Natalie said, and took off for her morning run.

Ross had a quick shower before heading over to see his grandfather. The air had a watery smell and a light breeze ran its fingers through his damp hair, a welcome contrast to the grit and fleas that had plagued him not so long ago. After deployment, there were certain things he would never again take for granted, such as consistent hot water and a temperate climate.

Granddadâs summer rental was much more than a cabin. It was a whole house, with a dock and furnished porch, complete with accessibility ramps. The porch was hung with baskets of fresh flowers and a couple of hummingbird feeders. Ross knocked at the screen door. âGranddad,â he called, âyou up?â

âGood morning,â his grandfather said. âSplendid day, isnât it?â He was dressed and seated in a sun-drenched breakfast nook with the New York Times open in front of him.

Ross felt an unbidden beat of emotion. It was an ordinary, familiar sight, his grandfather with the morning paper, but now everything seemed fraught with importance. Donât die, Granddad, Ross thought. I want you to live forever.

His grandfather regarded him placidly. For a disconcerting moment, Ross felt as though his thoughts had been heard.

âJoin me,â Granddad said. âI was just finishing the paper. And lookâmy old fly-tying kit. Remember this?â

How could he forget? The kit was a treasure trove of string and bobbins, wing burners, tiny pliers and scissors, grips and holders and every sort of material, from deer hair to speckled pheasant feathers. Just the sight of it unleashed memories of the distant pastâGranddadâs big fingers, guiding Rossâs small ones as they smoothed back the fibers and wrapped a thread around the hook, fastening the end with a whip finish. Tying flies was a curiously intricate and intimate activity, one that seemed to lend itself to talk.

Granddad used to talk to him about everything. Maybe not everything, Ross realized now. There was the small matter of the brother heâd never mentioned.

He was about to broach the topic when Claire Turner came into the room. âGood morning,â she said, speaking in a neutral, well-modulated voice. The voice of a professional nurseâmatter-of-fact yet determinedly pleasant. He couldnât tell what she was thinking, or if she had any thoughts at all about seeing his and Natalieâs embrace earlier. Not that it was any of her business, or any of his concern what her opinion was, but he was just curious.

Okay, more than curious. She was an enigma to him, in her Bermuda shorts and plain white collared shirt, dark hair pulled back, no jewelry other than a watch. She reminded him somewhat of a female soldier, trying to downplay her femininity, hiding her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of neutrality. Ironically the harder she tried to conceal her looks, the more attractive she appeared. But Claire wasnât in a war, which made him wonder why she was so guarded. What battle was she fighting?

âMore coffee?â she offered.

He shook his head. âThanks, I had some earlier. Just came by to see my grandfather and figure out what the plan is for the day.â He tried to sound polite but dismissive.

She clearly got it. âIâll leave the two of you alone, then.â She handed George a small paper cup of pills, which he washed down with orange juice. âCan I get you anything else, George?â

âNot at the moment, thanks.â

âIâll be outside, then. Just give me a buzz if you need me.â She slipped out, swallowed up by sunshine as she crossed the porch and walked out onto the dock.

Granddad indicated a small box. âElectronic apron strings, I call it,â he explained. âI push this button, and Claire comes running. Or vice versaâshe can summon me from her end. Wish Iâd had something like this back in my youth. It would have made dating easier. Push a button and presto, a beautiful woman appears.â

âVery handy,â said Ross, watching the way the morning sun outlined her. Was she beautiful? Damn, after the past two years, every woman looked beautiful to him. He sidestepped the thought. âListen, I need to give Natalie a ride to the station in a little bit. When I get back, letâs talk. Okay, Granddad?â

âOf course. Iâd like nothing better.â

Â 

âSheâs not his girlfriend,â George said to Claire.

âI beg your pardon?â She realized heâd caught her staring out the window at Ross as he loaded Natalieâs things into the trunk of his sports car.

âNatalie Sweet,â said George. âSheâs not his girlfriend.â

âNot whose girlfriend?â

âYou know very well who.â

She watched them drive off together, then turned back to George. âAnd I need to know this becauseâ¦â

âWhy do you think, Miss Turner?â

âGeorge. You are not trying to fix us up.â

âI certainly am.â

âYouâre wasting your time.â

âGive the man a chance.â

âTrust me, the man does not want a chance with me.â She tried to suppress a small twinge. The loneliness of her situation was unbearable sometimes, particularly in the wake of meeting someone like Ross Bellamy. He was everything she secretly wished forâkind and caring, undeniably good-looking, the sort of guy she could picture surrounded by friends and familyâbut everything she couldnât have.

âHumor me,â George said. âThe prospect of a blooming romance gives me something to dwell on besides my grim fate. I want my grandson to meet someone wonderfulââ

âIâm sure he will one day,â she said hastily.

âPerhaps he already has. Heâs the finest young man I know, Claire, and my wish for him is to have the life he deserves.â

âYou canât make someoneâs life happen, George.â

âBut I can introduce him to someone like you.â

She decided to change the subject. âIâve been rereading an old favorite. The Great Gatsby.â

âThatâs a favorite of yours?â

âSure. I like the romanticism of it, the tragedy. The impossibility.â

George nodded. âIâd always meant to read Fitzgeraldâs other works but never got around to it. I wish Iâd been a faster reader. For that matter, I wish some of my favorite writers were faster. To my eternal dismay, I probably wonât ever read the new Ken Follett.â Bracing his hands on the arms of his chair, he got up. âHelp me with this box. I want to put some family pictures around the place, since Iâm planning to stay awhile.â

For his sake, she wished his family would get over itself and quit expecting George to head straight back to the city. Maybe now that Ross was here, heâd persuade the others to come.

The box turned out to be a time capsule of Georgeâs life. He showed her a black-and-white shot of his family from the 1940s. âThis was taken right here at Camp Kioga,â he said.

Even in the monochromatic photo, the place seemed like something out of a dream. The four of them were posed on a dock, and in the water was a sleek wooden Chris-Craft boat.

âI was about thirteen in this picture, and Charles was ten,â George continued.

âWhat a beautiful family,â said Claire. âI hope you were as happy as you look in this photo.â

âI suppose we were, a lot of the time.â

The mother was flawlessly groomed, in a wasp-waisted dress and high-heeled sandals, which, oddly enough, did not look out of place on the dock. The father stood slightly behind her, his posture very correct.

âHe lost his right arm in the first all-American air attack on Germany,â George said. â1942âhe was a senior officer in the army air force. He was supposed to be at a command post far from the action. But there was a shortage of personnel, and he went up with a bomber group.â George regarded the photo quietly. âThat was not supposed to happen.â

âNo oneâs ever supposed to lose a limb,â Claire pointed out.

âHe was awarded a Purple Heart and later a medal of honor.â

âYou must have been proud of him,â said Claire.

âI never really knew him,â George said.

She heard regret in his voice. âDidnât you tell me he took you and your brother to Yankees games? I bet you knew plenty about him.â

âIn some ways, yes, I could tell you plenty. I could tell you how he traced his ancestry back to the Norman Conquest and that the first Bellamys came to the New World on King Jamesâs business. I could tell you he was educated at Yale and expected both his sons to do the same. I could tell you he married an heiress who had even more money than he did. But I never really knew his heart.â

âSo now you know what your children and grandchildren need from you,â she pointed out.

He sat back, took off his glasses and polished them. âSuppose I show them who I really am, and they donât like me?â

âAw, George. Itâs not your job to make them like you. Itâs your job to be who you are.â

âEven if what I am is a cranky old bastard?â

âEven if,â she agreed. âHowever, youâre neither cranky nor a bastard.â

âJust old.â He chuckled as he took out two small boxes. One of them contained a few tarnished coins and an old-fashioned silver earring in the shape of a daisy. He gazed at the earring for a few seconds, then put it away. The other box was made of the unmistakable signature blue of Tiffanyâs. He opened it, showing her a diamond ring.

Claire went nuts for it. âThatâs the prettiest ring Iâve ever seen. Was it your wifeâs?â

âNo. I never had a chance to give it to the one it was bought for. That was back in 1956.â He handed over a leather-bound certificate. The ring was signed and numbered, certified as to color and clarity.

âWow,â Claire said, âI hope itâs insured.â

He studied the ring, on its pristine cream-colored pillow. Maybe heâd tell her one day. âItâs never been worn,â he said, then put it with the other box.

She was dying to know more, but didnât want to badger him. She picked up another framed picture and removed the tissue paper. âSo who are these people?â

âThat was taken at my youngest sonâs wedding,â said George. âI brought it along because we were all so happy that day.â

It was a joyful photograph, with everyone dressed to the nines and smiling, some even laughing. She focused on a young, skinny Ross, whose broad grin was framed by those irresistible dimples, and found herself wishing sheâd known that boy.

âThatâs the French Riviera in the background,â George said. âLouis and Lola were married in Cap dâAntibes. Ah, what a day that was.â

âYouâll have to give me a whoâs who,â she said. âYour wife is so pretty in this shot. When did she pass away?â

âItâs been ten years.â He paused. âThere wasâ¦an accident.â

Claire hadnât been expecting that. âIâm sorry.â

He gazed at the tall, elegant woman in the picture. âThere was a treacherous road involved, and a large motorcycle. And an Italian loverâdid I mention that?â

âUm, no.â

âShe and her Italian lover, a man in his forties, went off the road on his motorcycle.â

Ouch, thought Claire. âIâm really sorry.â

âWe were actually in talks about a divorce, but I ended up being widowed instead. I canât say I was happy about that, but it would be a lie not to admit she saved me a great deal of trouble, she and Fabio.â

âFabio. His name was Fabio?â

He nodded glumly. âTry explaining that to your family. And may I just say, Miss Turner, how much Iâm enjoying the expression on your face right now?â

âSorry. Itâs justâ¦this is quite a story.â

âI have many more of them, of every sortâhappy, tragic, funny, or simply inane. Life is long, Claire. Thereâs room for everything to happen to you, if you let it. I canât quite bring myself to regret my marriage. Jacqueline was the mother of my children and I would never speak ill of her.â

âAs for your childrenâyou have three sons,â she said, switching gears.

âI had four boys,â he said. âOne died.â

Claire touched his hand, brushing her fingers over the cool, dry skin. âYou donât have to talk about it if you donât want to.â

âIâm never really far from Pierce,â he said. âYet losing a child is one of those horrors from which the heart will not mend. Ever. Itâs actually the one thing that brings me a perverse sense of peace about reaching the end. To not have to face every single day with a sense of grief and loss is a comfort to me.â

âIâd like to hear about him one day,â she said.

âI would be pleased to tell you. Better yet, Ross could tell you.â

Her heart skipped a beat. âPierce was Rossâs father.â

He took out the last framed photo and sat it next to the others. âHe was killed while serving in the military, during operation Desert Storm.â

She had only the vaguest recollection of the conflict. She had been in grade school when it was going on, and the conflict had been as remote as a space shuttle launch. Seeing the man in the picture, with his hauntingly familiar smile, suddenly made it real to her. âIâm terribly sorry.â

âPierce was the best of them,â George said. âI know itâs wrong to compare oneâs children, but itâs true. He was the best. And Ross is like him in many ways.â

Claireâs throat heated with tears. âHe was lucky to have you, then.â

âI hope he thinks so.â George took out the last framed photo, this one showing a large group. âI have a dozen grandchildren in all. Ross is the eldest, and Micah, whoâs twelve now, is the youngest. And somehow, I fear this will be the hardest on the two of them, for different reasons. I suspect youâll find out more about that as you get to know Ross better.â

You are my client, not Ross, she thought, but didnât say. âNow that heâs here, you can see about contacting your brother.â

George looked away. âSuppose he refuses to see me.â

âThen at least youâll know you tried. And honestly, that seems unlikely.â She gestured at the oldest photo of George and his brother with their parents. âThereâs a foundation of love. Thatâs how it looks to me.â

âOh, there was love, for certain.â Georgeâs eyes were glazed with memories as he turned toward the lake. âBut that didnât stop us from fighting like cats and dogs.â

Eight

New York en route to Camp Kioga,
Avalon, Ulster County
Summer 1944

âMama, George wonât share with me!â Ten-year-old Charles Bellamyâs voice piped from his window seat on the hot, creaky train. âHeâs hogging Superman all to himself.â

âAm not.â George peevishly hugged the comic book to his chest.

âAre so.â

âAm not.â

âGive it here,â whined Charles, his voice climbing to a crescendo.

âYou donât even like Superman,â George grumbled.

âDo so.â

âDo not.â

âDoââ

âGeorge Parkhurst Bellamy. Let your brother read the comic book.â

âButââ

âGeorge.â When Mother took that tone, she meant business.

With a decided lack of grace, he slapped the book against his brotherâs chest. âHere, baby. And donât ask me to read any of the big words for you.â

Charles stuck out his tongue, reeling it back in when their mother leaned over the seat to check on them. She was always exhorting them to be on their best behavior on account of their father was Overseas, where the fighting was.

George didnât understand how his best behavior was going to help Father, though. Gone was gone, and acting like a perfect angel even when Charles was being a pest was not going to bring him back. Not this summer.

Maybe not ever.

Mother said he was in the diplomatic corps, working for the Office of Strategic Services, which was not as dangerous as being a soldier. Father had been a soldier at the very start of the war, and heâd lost an arm in battle. He could have returned to his family after that, but Parkhurst Bellamy claimed he had a duty to serve his country, and if that meant being a diplomat, then that was what he would do. You didnât need two arms to be a diplomat. You needed to speak several languages and know which wine to pick and which gifts to give.

Yet even being in the diplomatic corps was risky. Most kids didnât watch the newsreels before a Saturday matinee, but George paid close attention. There had been a very bad Nazi bombing in Tunis, in North Africa. George knew for a fact that his father had worked in Tunisia, and it was just pure dumb luck he hadnât been there in the explosion that had blasted several people to smithereens.

Usually Mother wasnât told where Father was, as a security measure. Father was always doing Top Secret things. And anyway, grown-ups tended to think âOverseasâ was enough of an explanation for kids. Now that he was thirteen, George considered himself in between a kid and an adult and he wished they would tell him more. He was like Clark Kent. He wanted the real story.

Most kids, including his little brother, Charles, professed their devotion to Superman. George had even caught Charles paging ahead in the latest comic book, skipping whole chunks of the story.

âLooking for the exciting parts,â Charles had explained with a goofball grin.

Here was the thing about George. When every other kid idolized Superman, paging through the comics to find the caped crusader in action, George tended to linger over the parts that appealed to him much moreâpages that featured Clark Kent in the newsroom of the Daily Planet, or Clark Kent in pursuit of a story. In Georgeâs opinion, Clark Kent was lots more interesting than Superman. You always knew what would happen when Superman came into the picture. With Clark, things were more uncertain.

Now, there was excitement, George would think. A regular fellow, rooting out the truth. To George, that was more intriguing than some guy from outer space, swooping around in a cape. That storyline was out of the realm of possibility. But Clark Kent on a hot news tip? Now, there was something that might really happen.

George was a boy who liked writing things down. He took notes about everything from the big stuff like D-Day, which had taken place two weeks earlier, to small details about his life, like the vendor at Grand Central Station who had just sold him a batch of homemade saltwater taffy. Ever since having his tonsils out last spring, heâd craved things like taffy or horehound candies to soothe his throat. The vendor had been gaunt and clad in rags, around the same age as Charles. The sight of a boy with nothing made George feel guilty.

âMother!â shouted Charles. âHeâs got candy! I want some!â

âGeorge Bellamy, you give me that.â She grabbed the candy by its torn wax-paper wrapping.

âHey,â George protested. âI bought that fair and square, with my own money. There was a kid at Grand Centralââ

âYou bought candy from a street beggar?â His mother rushed to throw the taffy out the window, then spritzed her hands with rosewater from her carpetbag. âHonestly, what were you thinking? You could get a disease.â

âAw, he was just trying to make some spare change,â protested George.

âNever you mind that. You know better than to take food from strangers.â His mother shuddered, then turned her attention to the rotogravure sheâd been reading.

Charles fidgeted, slamming the heels of his Buster Browns against the footrest as he pretended to read the comic book. Sometimes George got sick of having a little brother tagging after him. Especially a kid like Charles who assumed he was Georgeâs equal. He was nearly four years younger than George, yet he insisted on doing everything his big brother did.

Scowling with ill humor, George decided to write in his journal. He was pretty sure Clark would have kept a journal when he was Georgeâs age. You didnât get to be a crack reporter overnight. You had to practice for years, so George was giving himself a head start.

It was challenging, writing on the train, using the small table mounted under the window. His penmanship wobbled with the motion of the railcar, but he kept doggedly at it.

âEn route to Camp Kioga, in Avalon, Ulster County, New York, United States of America, Planet Earth,â he wrote. He felt very grown-up because his mother had allowed him to use his good pen, the one he had been given as a prize for winning the school spelling bee.

He had a vial of Skrip Spillproof Ink in the best color, which was peacock-blue. He reckoned Clark Kent used peacock-blue ink.

George focused on his task with total absorption. He wrote a very good article about street vendors in New York City, making sure all his punctuation was perfect. The story was so good he could imagine it being published in the New York Times. Everybody knew the New York Times published all the news that was fit to print. It said so right on the masthead.

George decided to make his own masthead. He needed a slogan. He wrote,

Â 

âAll the News Thatâs Fit to Print.â

Â 

Maybe he should think up something of his own:

Â 

âThe Printed News, All the Time.â

Â 

No, that wasnât right. Maybe:

Â 

âIf It Fits, Print It.â

Â 

âWhatâre you doing?â asked Charles.

âNone of your beeswax,â said George.

âLet me see.â Charles reached for the notebook. His hand bumped the unspillable ink bottle, and the vial toppled over. Unfortunately, unspillable did not mean unbreakable. The neck of the bottle snapped off and ink spilled across Georgeâs story, obliterating two pages of painstaking work.

âUh-oh,â said Charles.

âYou little pest,â said George. âI ought to knock your block off.â

âGo ahead and try it,â Charles said. âSee what it gets you. It was aâ¦an accident, you big bully.â His face reddened, and his chin trembled.

George was completely disdainful of his brotherâs show of emotion. âGo on with you,â he said. âGo away, baby.â

âSure Iâll go away,â Charles declared. âI donât care if I never see you again. Ever ever ever.â

Â 

Charlesâs threat proved to be impossible to carry out, since the lakeside bungalow that would be theirs for the summer required them to share a room with a bunk bed. They fought over who would sleep on the top or bottom. They fought over having the lamp on or off at bedtime. They fought over everything, bickering until their mother threatened to send them to Reform School.

Neither boy knew precisely what Reform School actually was. But it sounded like nothing good, and the threat of it stopped them from fighting for whole minutes at a time.

Eventually, however, the magic of Camp Kioga took over. The mothers would play bridge and smoke cigarettes and paint fake stocking seams on each otherâs legs as they talked about the war. The kids would go on expeditions deep in the forest. They would climb mountains to find the source of a spring, or take turns jumping off the high dive into the cold, clear lake. In the evenings there would be shows, sometimes an act from the city, or a sing-along led by Mrs. Gordon herself, the wife of the campâs owner.

The kids would stay awake late into the night, huddled around a campfire, telling ghost stories. Georgeâs favorites were the ones that were so scary they made his younger brother cry.

Meals were served family-style in a big dining room in the timber main lodge, which also had a loggia and deck overlooking the lake, a library and music room, and a billiard room. The food was delicious, because in this part of the world, food rationing didnât matter so much. Right on camp premises there was a victory garden, and a dairy and chicken farm. It was considered patriotic to grow oneâs own food. Every day, the tables were laden with big bowls of mashed potatoes with butter and cream, and cobblers made with stone fruit gathered from trees on the property.

Outward signs of war were subtle here, for the most part. Both George and Charles came to some understanding that they were meant to be Americaâs elite. Princes of society, they were called by a reporter from the Washington Post, who was at Camp Kioga doing a piece on the War at Home.

Maybe he was just doing the assignment so he could rusticate at a glamorous resort, but George didnât care. He was more interested in the reporterâMr. McClatchyâthan he was in the topic. Mr. McClatchy took notes and asked questions. He was old and kind of fat, and wore thick glasses. He was no Clark Kent but he clearly had a passion for what he did.

Journalism, he declared, shone a light in the darkest places of the world.

âBut whatâs the story here?â asked George. âPrinces of society? Who cares?â

âPeople who buy advertisements in the paper, thatâs who. They want to read about folks who arenât like them, folks who live a different way.â

âHow does that shine a light?â

âYou never know. Sometimes it doesnât. And sometimes youâre John Steinbeck.â

George had read The Grapes of Wrath on the sly, because it was considered shocking and scandalous. He had devoured page after page, with a sense of complete fascination. And he wasnât scandalized by the ending, which had caused the book to be banned all over the place on account of some lady kept a guy from starving by feeding him her motherâs milk. He thought it was heroic and beautiful in a weird way, like the rest of the book. It wasnât the kind of thing George aspired to write, though.

âMr. Steinbeck writes fiction,â he pointed out.

âHeâs a war correspondent now, for the New York Herald Tribune.â

âI keep a journal,â George offered.

âItâs a good habit to get into,â Mr. McClatchy said. âOrganizes your thoughts. Just make sure it never falls into the wrong hands.â

âYes, sir.â

George behaved like the prince heâd been dubbed. He was the best in sports, winning all the races, leading expeditions, basking in the admiration of the other kids. It all came naturally to him, and always had. Even in winter, the Bellamys spent several weeks in Killington, Vermont, at a ski resort. It was there that George had decided to join the elite Tenth Mountain Division of the U.S. Army. Heâd be a ranger on skis, like some kind of superheroâexcept he would be for real.

Figuring out what his superpower would be this summer was a challenge. The ability to see long distances, maybe, he thought one day as they were returning from a woodcraft expedition to the summit of Watch Hill. He shaded his eyes and surveyed the area, fancying he could see beyond the vast lake and ridge of mountains, clear across the Atlantic Ocean to the secret place where his father was.

âWho are those people?â asked Charles, pausing to point at a group in a clearing much closer at hand. It appeared to be a family in the yard of a boxy clapboard house. Some kind of celebration was taking place.

âLetâs go see,â said George. âSay, Warren, are you coming?â

Theyâd made friends with a boy from Larchmont named Warren Byrne, who thought he was important because he had attended camp every summer from the beginning of time, to hear him tell it.

âWeâre behind enemy lines,â George said, signaling Charles and Warren to drop low and fall into one of their favorite fantasies. They were getting pretty good at not making a sound while skulking through the forest.

As they drew closer, the thin, scratchy sound of a Victrola could be heard, along with laughter and conversation. There was a banner strung up over the front porch that read Farewell, Stuart. We Love You.

âThis is where the Gordons live,â explained Warren Byrne. The Gordons owned and ran the camp.

George had never thought of them as a family, just as workers who kept the dining room going and made sure the sheets were changed and the garbage taken out, the cabins cleaned and swept, the lawns mowed. And here, tucked away on a forgotten acre of the campâs premises, they had a whole separate life.

Stuart, it appeared, was a soldier.

âHeâs a marine,â George told the others. âYou can tell by his sage-green uniform. And heâs wearing an overseas cover, so I betcha heâs shipping out. Marines call that kind of cap a pisscutter,â he added, eliciting snickers from the younger boys.

âStuartâs my big brother,â said a voice behind them.

Georgeâs stomach dropped. Theyâd been caught, behind enemy lines. Should they make a run for it? Fight their way free? Surrender immediately?

Warren Byrne scampered off, like a coward.

âJeez, itâs only some girl,â Charles said, grabbing Georgeâs sleeve and pointing out the intruder.

âI ainât some girl,â she said. âI got a name. Itâs Jane. Jane Gordon. And Stuartâs my big brother and what are you doing spying on us?â

âWe were just exploring,â George said peevishly. He didnât know why he was peeved. Maybe because sheâd caught them, or maybe because she was just a dumb girl. She was about Charlesâs size, maybe a little bigger, with frizzy reddish hair and big teeth and one skinny arm threaded through a wire basket. She wore overalls of faded blue denim, the cuffs rolled up above scabby knees. The shins were bruised and the feet were bare.

âStuartâs going to the Specific Ocean,â she announced with lofty authority.

âYou mean the Pacific Ocean.â

âI mean what I mean.â She sniffed. âHeâs gonna be fighting in New Guinea. You know, like a guinea hen. And I have to go. Just because there is a celebration going on doesnât mean I can put off my chores.â

âWhat kind of chores?â asked Charles.

âCome on,â said Jane. âIâll show you.â Without looking to see if they followed, she marched along a beaten path, her dirty feet kicking up puffs of dust.

George hesitated, but Charles gamely followed along. Then curiosity got the better of George, and he brought up the rear. They came to a clearing with a big garden, its rows divided by long wooden planks. Nearby was a chicken coop, surrounded on all sides and the top by wire.

âI have to gather the eggs,â said Jane. âTwice a day no matter what. Itâs my job.â

âSounds like fun,â Charles said.

âItâs not.â She stood in front of a latched gate. âShows what you know.â

âWhatâs not fun about it?â

âHim, mainly. That bad rooster.â She pointed out a colorful bird with gleaming beads for eyes and colorful plumes arching from its tail. âHeâs mean. Heâs so mean.â

âWhatâs a rooster doing in there anyway?â George demanded. âHeâs sure not laying any eggs.â

âJiminy Cricket, donât you know anything?â Jane said with a sniff. âKeeping a rooster around the chicken coop protects the chickens from predators. Plus, you need a rooster in order to keep the flock going. There canât be any baby chicks without roosters. Anyways, the rooster pecks because he thinks humans are out to harm the flock.â Jane rolled her eyes.

âThatâs stupid,â said George.

âTheyâre chickens,â she said. âTheyâre supposed to be stupid.â

âThe rooster doesnât look all that dangerous. Itâs just a bird,â George pointed out.

âWith a sharp beak,â she said. She put her hand on the latch, visibly screwing up her courage. In that instant, George started to like her.

âYou want some help?â

âNo, Iâll catch fire and brimstone if one of you gets hurt.â She slipped through the gate and headed for the nesting boxes. âShoo!â she said to the rooster, flapping her hand in his face. âGo on with you.â

The rooster lowered its head and rushed forward with amazing speed, sharp beak brandished like a knife. She swung out with her basket. âGet away, you bad rooster!â

George stood outside the gate, torn by indecision.

Charles sprang into action, ignoring protests from both his brother and from Jane. He chased the rooster away, waving his arms and making crazy noises. Jane moved quickly, plunging her hand into each nest and snatching the eggs. Within a couple of minutes, they were safely outside the pen, the wire basket full.

Charlesâs face was flushed with excitement. âHey, that was something,â he said, running along the side of the pen, keeping pace with the rooster. âThat was really something.â

Jane batted her eyes like a matinee princess. âThatâs the first time I didnât get pecked in a long time.â

âItâs a cinch with two people,â said Charles. âIâll come and help you every day.â

âThatâs real nice,â she said, grinning at him.

George felt oddly out of sorts about the whole exchange. âYou canât just drop everything and come here to do farm work,â he said to his brother.

âSure I can,â Charles said, predictably. âMaybe I like farm work.â

George scowled at the basket. âThe eggs are no good,â he said. âTheyâre filthy.â

âNonsense. These are farm fresh eggs. None fresher.â

âTheyâve got straw stuck to them, andâ¦andâ¦â He struggled to think of a polite way to say it.

âManure,â she said matter-of-factly. âThat just means the eggs are fresh as can be.â

Charles giggled.

âItâs disgusting.â George regarded the eggs with revulsion.

âWhat did you eat for breakfast this morning?â Jane demanded.

âA cheese omelette.â

âHa. It was made from eggs gathered yesterday, just like this. I bet it was delicious.â She headed down the path. âCome on, you can help me wash them in the creek.â She called it a crick but George saw that she meant creek.

She waded right in and crouched down, dipping the wire basket into the deep, fast-flowing water.

âIâll help,â Charles said with his typical eagerness. He leaped for a river rock.

âItâs all right, I canââ

She didnât get a chance to finish. Charles missed the rock and plunged into the stream. He sputtered and flailed, fighting the current.

George was trying to figure out what to do. Should he jump in and rescue his brother, orâ

âI gotcha.â Jane grabbed the back of Charlesâs collar and tugged him toward her. He slipped and fell again, and down she went with a great splash, careful to keep her basket upright and above the water. They came up laughing, and sloshed over to the bank, their clothes plastered to their skin and their hair in straggles.

âWe broke two eggs,â she said.

âIâm sorry.â

âItâs okay, you didnât know.â They were both dripping wet and grinning like fools.

âI have to get back,â she said, wringing out her hair. âItâs my brotherâs last day.â

They walked her as far as the property edge. The afternoon sun beat down and Jane declared it lucky, as it was drying out her hair and clothes. âIâll see you around,â she said.

Charles and George stood watching her for a few minutes. She entered the yard through a gate and set her basket on the ground. Then she ran to Stuart, a tall, lanky young man with a huge smile and military haircut.

He picked her up and swung her around, and she tilted back her head, laughing uproariously as she clasped him around the waist with her legs. The rest of the family gathered around, watching with fond smiles.

âHey, you,â Stuart said, âyouâre all wet. You smell like the crick. And like sunshine! Iâm sure going to miss you, Sunshine.â

This was the kind of thing Mr. McClatchy ought to be covering for his paper, thought George. A family like this, one that didnât have a fancy house and expensive things. They had each other, and were bound by a love even a stranger could see.

McClatchy would probably say a story about an ordinary family wouldnât sell papers. Even though stuff like this made John Steinbeck famous.

âI miss Father,â Charles said as they hiked back to camp.

George slung his arm around his brotherâs skinny shoulders.

When they returned to their cottage, Charles bubbled over with stories of their adventure. As George knew would be the case, their mother was not amused. She scolded him about getting his shoes wet and said, âYou are here to make friends with the other guests. Not with the workersâ children.â

âDoes it matter?â asked Charles.

âOf course it matters.â

âWhy?â

âBecause the other guests are like you. Theyâre the sort of people youâll be surrounded with all your life.â

âWhat if I donât want to be with people like me?â Charles demanded.

George snickered. âNow you know how I feel, having to be around you.â

âNuts to you,â Charles said.

Nine

Deep in the wilderness, the children made their own rules. They played out stories from myth, legend, fairy talesâ¦or whatever George happened to scribble in his notebook the night before.

Jane, who was a little older than Charles and a little younger than George, turned out to be a good match for both brothers. She declared herself a royal princess and claimed dominion over all she surveyed. Charles indulged his usual obsession with Superman. George told them the story of the Three MusketeersâAthos, Porthos, Aramisâand the way they always fought as an inseparable unit, protecting each other from all harm. He taught them to say âone for all and all for oneâ in French. The Three Musketeers became their favorite game.

Despite the disapproval of Georgeâs mother, the three became fast friends. The Gordons didnât approve of the threesome any more than the Bellamys did. They, too, believed the hosts and guests should never mingle socially, but Mrs. Gordon was usually too busy running things to enforce many rules.

Their favorite expedition was the hike to the summit of Watch Hill. From the very top, all of Willow Lake could be seen, even the town, ten miles away on the opposite end of the lake. They could see the curvy lakeshore road that hugged the perimeter of the vast lake. From this perspective, Camp Kioga resembled a miniature model fort from colonial times. Spruce Island, the wooded atoll in the middle of the lake, rose up like a mystical green enchanted isle.

George had been getting headaches for a few weeks running, but he didnât tell his mother, because he didnât want to be confined to his cabin. Today the pain was stabbing like a knife. Ignoring it, he crept out on a rocky outcropping and sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the progress of a shiny black car on the road, far in the distance. You didnât see too many cars in these parts, what with gas rationing in force, just the occasional farm vehicle or bus, and quite often, a horse and buggy. Even wealthy people left their cars at home as a sign of patriotism.

âWhat are you looking at?â inquired Jane, sitting beside him.

He gestured. âThat car.â

The approaching car gleamed with importance. It was as black as a hearse, and left a trail of dust behind it.

They watched for a few minutes. The sun was just starting to slant toward afternoon, and its heat was so intense it seemed to pulse. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and the green smell of summertime rode the breeze. Bees browsed in the wildflowers that covered the hillside. Beside him, Jane was very still. She had a smell, tooâher motherâs homemade soap, scented with evergreen. For a few seconds, it was so quiet he could detect the cadence of her breathing. It was even and slow.

And then she gasped, startling him so that he nearly fell off the outcropping. âThat car is turning up the camp road!â

She jumped up and George gave a curt command to CharlesâLetâs goâand for once his little brother didnât argue or demand an explanation.

The three of them ran hell-for-leather down the hill. George told himself not to think or speculate. A reporter didnât judge or prognosticate until he had all the facts. George didnât let himself imagine what he would do if the car brought news of his father.

But the car kept rolling past the camp.

And that was when George knew. He knew Jane understood, too, because he could hear her gasping with sobs.

When they got to the Gordon house, the polished official vehicle was already there. They were too far away to hear what was being said. But in the end, it didnât matter. They could see it playing out before themâan officer in fancy dress uniform, cap removed and tucked ceremonially under his elbow. His posture straight, arm snapping in a smart salute.

Janeâs mother, coming out into the yard with her apron still on.

There was a brief exchange. Mrs. Gordon sank to the ground as though her bones suddenly melted, her own strength not enough to hold her up. The officer scrambled awkwardly to help her.

Jane turned to Charles and George, her eyes already haunted with unbearable knowing. âI have to go,â she said. She spoke with a curious dignity that made her seem older. Wiser. As if the girl who had gone up the hill was a different person from the one who had come down it.

âI have to go,â she said again. âMy mother needs me.â

Â 

The news made its way slowly through Camp Kiogaâ Stuart Gordon was dead. Heâd gone to the Pacific to fight in the war, and at the age of eighteen heâd been killed in action âin the performance of duty and service of his country,â according to the hand-delivered telegram.

George kept seeing Stuart in his mindâs eye, twirling a laughing Jane around and calling her Sunshine. He imagined similar scenarios unfolding all around the country. Families were interrupted in the middle of dinner, the middle of the night, the middle of their lives, to be told somebody young and strong and beloved was dead.

Charles started having nightmares. He would thrash and whimper in his bunk and wake up crying for his father.

Someone said Mrs. Gordon was suffering from a terrible heartache and would be going to New Haven to stay with relatives for a change of scenery. Losing her son was simply too tragic for Mrs. Gordon to contemplate the future without him.

Jane tried to explain. âEverything here reminds her of him. I heard my aunt Tilly say itâs causing a nervous disorder.â She scuffed her bare heel into the dusty ground. âThatâs a code word for crazy.â

George paid closer attention to accounts of the war in the newspaper. That was when he realized what he ought to do with his life. He ought to write for newspapers and magazines like Mr. McClatchy did. Somebody had to tell the world what was going on. Somebody had to tell the story behind the casualty numbers. If more people understood the true price being paid for the war, they might find a way to end it.

Jane was going away with her mother. Her father would stay and run Camp Kioga, but her mother couldnât bear to be here, where memories of her lost son lurked around every corner. Jane came to tell the Bellamy boys goodbye and said there was time for one more expedition through the forest, to their special place high on Watch Hill.

George felt cranky and out of sorts. He had that same headache, the one that pounded hard no matter whether or not his mother gave him a headache powder. He felt sleepy, too, but it was a beautiful day and he was not about to stay inside.

He didnât exactly know how to act around Jane. He felt like he should treat her differently because she was different. She seemed more serious to him, maybe a little quieter, a noticeable change since she was usually so animated and bubbly.

The hike to the top of Watch Hill made him especially tired. He felt more hot and sweaty than heâd ever been in his life. He and Charles and Jane stood at the summit, surveying the view below like gods of myth and legend.

There was something wrong with Georgeâs vision. The entire landscape blurred together like a watercolorâthe lake in the woods. The sky and the long squiggle of the road. Everything spun like a pinwheel. The voices of the others sounded hollow, like echoes shouted down a tube.

âMy mother doesnât want to help run the camp anymore,â Jane was telling them. âShe told my father it makes her too sad. Pa and I love Camp Kioga, though. It was started by my grandfather, and I want it to be mine one day, and I aim to make that happen.â

She sounded adamant, like she was in one of the melodramas they put on at camp.

George thought he should commend her for her loyalty and lofty commitment. The words swirled around in his head. He must have made some kind of noise, because the others turned to stare at him. Their faces expanded and contracted as though viewed in a fun house mirror. Their voices sounded funny, too, like the Victrola when it needed a turn of the crank.

And even though George meant to tell Jane she was brave and strong and that he admired her, something else came out. He fell to his knees while vomit erupted with undeniable force.

He had just barely enough consciousness left to feel humiliated.

He lost track of time and forgot where he was. Jane yelled something and Charles sped off down the hill. Then Jane crouched beside him and tried to give him water from her round, flat canteen. George couldnât swallow the rusty-tasting liquid. Could barely even open his mouth. Could see only pinholes of light. He felt the water dribbling away, could hear Jane crying, and he wanted to tell her it was all right but that would be a lie. It was not all right. Something was terribly wrong and he was just as scared as she.

An eternity passed. A lifetime. Maybe he slept. Maybe he died. No, sleep, because he became aware of a shadow falling over Jane, an eclipse plunging her into darkness, swallowing her whole.

Help. He couldnât say it, but he thought it. He needed Superman, not Clark Kent.

The hulking forms of strangers surrounded George. Somebody scooped him up. Maybe he was being swooped to safety by Superman.

But he wasnât safe. Things melted together and things fell apart. He had only blurred impressions, couldnât tell what was real and what was in his head. He sensed Jane Gordon being snatched away, reeled in, kept at a distance, growing smaller and smallerâ¦disappearing. His own brother Charles was pulled away, too, disappearing, separated from him, forbidden to go near him.

Vague impressions floated past George, and he struggled to separate the real images from the nightmares. He thought he saw men in special vulcanized coats arriving and shutting down everythingâthe dining hall, the cabins, the sporting facilities, the pool, everything.

Official signs from the health department were posted everywhere: Quarantined by the Ulster County Board of Health.

George was shrouded in blankets, piles and piles of them, even though his head was on fire.

He was plunged into a zinc tub filled with icy water.

He saw white lights. Naked bulbs staring down at him like monster eyes. His skinny, bloodless body no longer belonged to him.

Too weak to cry out. But his soul cried out. His heart cried out. Nobody heard him. There were noises in his head, sounds and voices. He didnât know what was real and what was in the comic book.

All around him, white light. White sheets in the hospital room, white blinds on the window, a long white passageway with no end.

His father. Concerned frown, lower half of his face wearing a surgeonâs mask, sleeve tied up at his left shoulder where his arm used to be. Why? Why? What was Father here for?

Voices in the stark echoing hallway. Highly contagiousâ¦ Commonly transmitted via contaminated foodâ¦ They spoke as if he could not hear. Maybe he couldnât. Or maybe this was just something else from the comic book in his head. The voices, though. He knew them. Mother, cryingâlong, desperate sobs. Father, coughing. No, not coughing. He was sobbing, too. George had never heard his father weep before.

And the doctor had not yet spoken the dreaded wordâthe true diagnosis. It was as if Mother and Father already knew. A scream came from his mother like a howl of pain from a wounded animal.

George told the ringing bells in his ears to be still so he could hear. He concentrated very hard on what the doctor was saying. A good reporter did that. He listened. He concentrated. He did not miss anything.

âIâm afraidâ¦â The doctorâBancroft was his nameâ Dr. Bancroft cleared his throat and started again. âMr. and Mrs. Bellamy, Iâm so sorry. Iâm afraid itâs the worst possible news,â he said. There was a pause, filled with the sounds of Georgeâs parents, still weeping.

âItâs polio.â

Ten

âGeorge has a list,â Claire said to Ross. âDid you know that?â They were on the porch, waiting for George to wake up from his nap. She had just collected the mail from the main lodge. George had friends all over the globe, and had already received a couple of cards and letters. It was a day of soft breezes and sunshine coaxing new blooms from the lilac bushes and inviting the wildflowers to open up. George had slept most of the day, and Ross had been on the phone withâshe assumedâvarious family members.

Claire was seated on the cushioned swing, listening to the clack of the chains as she moved. Ross sat nearby in a wicker armchair. Despite the relaxing setting, he seemed tense and restive.

âWhat kind of list?â asked Ross.

âItâs a kind ofâ¦I guess youâd call it a list of things heâd like to accomplish in the time he has left.â She watched Rossâs shoulders stiffen, and it hurt her to look at him. He was still so far from accepting the situation. She wished she could comfort him with a gentle touch or soothing word, but she sensed he didnât want that from her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

âLike finding his long-lost brother,â said Ross.

âThatâs on the list.â

âToday?â

âLetâs see how he feels when he wakes up.â

When heâd told her about his boyhood summers at Camp Kioga, giving her a glimpse of the vanished past, she could picture the two brothers exploring together, never knowing one day theyâd be enemies, looking back on the long-ago time of their youth. She could picture him and his little brother, Charles, and the girl named Jane Gordon playing at Three Musketeers, deep in their fantasy world.

Sheâd wanted to tell him he was an idiot. A man who didnât contact his brother for five decades needed to have his head examined. Butâ¦no. She couldnât allow herself to project her own issues on her patient.

And so sheâd listened. That was a huge part of her job. Exploring the events of the past and reconnecting with family tended to bring a sense of peace. She hoped this would be the case for George.

Like a dark fairy tale, the golden summer had turned shadowy with the Gordonsâ tragic loss of their son and Georgeâs diagnosis of polio.

Claire had only a passing knowledge of the disease from a unit in an advanced practice course in nursing school. Like every other doctor and nurse she knew, sheâd never seen an acute case. There were a few known late effects, and now she saw them in Georgeâs muscle and joint fatigue. The atrophied muscle at the base of his right thumb was a classic presentation, yet she hadnât connected the dots until he told her.

âDid your grandfather tell you heâs a polio survivor?â she asked Ross.

He spun around to face her. Sunlight slashed across his face. âGranddad had polio?â

âYou didnât know.â She swallowed, feeling guilty. âMy apologies, then. I thought he might have told you.â

âJesus,â Ross said. âPolio. Okay, I had no idea.â

âIâve been reading up on something called post-polio syndromeâPPS. Later in life, it can be the cause of joint and muscle pain.â

âHeâs in pain?â Ross asked. âHow much pain?â

âI ask him that every day, and he says itâs manageable.â

âPolio,â Ross said again. âHe never told me.â

âYou should ask him about it. He came down with the disease right here at Camp Kioga in 1944. Heâs a wonderful storyteller, as Iâm sure you know, and these days, stories of polio are incredibly rare.â

âIf he can live through polio, then why wonât he fight now?â Ross demanded. âHe was saved by medical science, sixty-something years agoââ

âHe was saved by a damned miracle,â she said. âThere was no cure for polio. There still isnât, just a vaccine.â

âOh, so we should just sit around in the wilderness, waiting for a miracle? Is that what we should do?â

âWhat we should do is what George wishes.â Claireâs heart ached for Ross, because his eyes were full of everything he would not say. Being here in this beautiful place was lovely, but she knew every moment Ross and George spent together was bittersweet, tinged by the shadow of Georgeâs illness.

In her profession, grieving relatives came with the territory. She had seen a whole range of reactions, from open hysteria to stoic acceptance, and everything in between, including those who tried everything to stave off death. People wrung hands and offered prayers, reminisced and baked and wept and comforted each other. They also fought, showing her everything from bickering to rage. Her least favorite were the ones who pretended to care when in reality, they were desperate to claim their piece of the inheritance pie.

Ross was still processing the raw shock of reality, she could tell, even from the way he held his hands, flexing and unflexing them.

âShit,â he said, watching a hummingbird dart in and out of the hanging plants.

âThatâs not on the list,â she said.

âWhat the hell good is a list?â he demanded. âWas this your idea? What are you, some kind of bad fairy, feeding an old manâs fantasies?â

She didnât let herself get mad. This was not about her. âWe all have goals,â she pointed out, âwhether or not theyâre written down. Some part of us wants to keep track, you know?â

âBullshit.â

She could already read his moods. Maybe, she thought, that was one of the reasons she felt drawn to him. He wasâor seemed to beâentirely honest and let his feelings hover close to the surface. She understood that he didnât trust her, and had decided not to fight it. She could never be fully honest with anyone. Sometimes the urge to explain everything was unbearable, building with painful intensity in her chest. She was desperate for someone to know her, not just her circumstances the way Mel Reno did, but her. She yearned for someone to affirm that she mattered.

Clearing her throat, she asked, âSo are you willing to help your grandfather reconnect with his brother?â

âSuppose I said Iâm not,â said Ross.

âThen youâre not the person he told me about, with such pride. But I think you are,â she said simply. She held out a slip of paper. âThis is Charles Bellamyâs contact information.â

He grabbed the note from her and stuffed it in his pocket.

âHeâs going to be so grateful, Ross.â

Ross ran his hand back and forth over his cropped hair. She wondered what it would look like when the military crew cut grew in. She would probably never know. And how pathetic was that, having relationships that were shorter than an army haircut?

âHis freaking brother,â Ross muttered. âThey havenât talked in an entire lifetime. Now suddenly there has to be some phony reunion thing.â

Claire thought about what George had told her about that long-ago summer. âI donât think itâll be phony.â

âOkay, but doesnât he get it? The time to act like brothers is when theyâre living, not dying. When being together and knowing each other and being close could do him some good, instead of just depressing him.â

âThereâs no reason to assume heâll be depressed. Itâs what he wants,â Claire said. âWhen you get to the place he is, you quit worrying about whatâs needed and you do what you want.â

Ross was quiet for a time. Then he asked, âSo what else is on the list?â

âEverything from serious talks with family membersânot just his brotherâto small gestures, like reading a special novel or playing a round of golf, to big thrills.â

He turned to her, cracked a smile. âWhat kind of big thrills?â

âActually the biggest one of all is something you might be able to help him with, in your capacity as a pilot.â

âWhat, he wants to fly a chopper? I guess I could arrange it.â

âNot fly it,â she said. âJump out of it. Out of a plane, actually. You know, skydiving.â

âSkydiving,â Ross said, glaring at her. âAre you kidding me?â

âYou know me,â said George, stepping out on the porch to join them. âI wouldnât kid about something like this.â

âGeorge,â Claire said, stopping the swing with her foot. âI didnât hear you get up.â She did a quick visual assessment. He looked somewhat refreshed by his nap, and he was moving well, his eyes alert behind the glasses.

âIâm pleased to find you discussing my list,â he said.

âAmong other things,â said Ross. âI never knew you were a polio survivor. Why didnât you ever tell me?â

âIt happened so long ago,â George said. âIt hardly matters. Did you know the greatest strides in rehabilitating polio patients came from a nurse?â

âSister Elizabeth Kenny,â said Claire. âShe demonstrated that polio patients who underwent physical therapy had a better chance of recovery than those kept immobilized. Is that how you recovered?â

George nodded. âEventually. I was in an iron lung at first.â

Her heart lurched as she recalled seeing all the old black-and-white photos of encased children, rows and rows of them in special hospital wards. How trapped they must have felt, how helpless.

âMy brother, Charles, used to read to me,â George said quietly. âPatients with acute signs of the disease arenât contagious, so he was allowed to visit. And the majority of people can be exposed and never come down with polio. Charles was probably one of those. They would let him come to the ward, and he would read books to me.â His eyes turned distant with memories. âWhen youâre confined to an iron lung, you live for the moments that take you away. Books did that for me. And Charles in particular. Although he was quite young, he was a remarkably good reader. He would entertain the entire ward. I recall him reading The Jungle Book, Peter Pan, Hardy Boys mysteries.â

She glanced at Ross and could tell he was warming up to the idea of approaching Charles Bellamy.

âBooks were marvelous companions for me,â George said. âBut it was hard to count oneâs blessings from inside an iron lung.â

Her heart lurched, and she met Rossâs gaze. He looked amazed to learn this whole new part of his grandfatherâs history. In college, Claire had studied the history of epidemiology. It was one thing to read about the polio epidemic, to study the statistics and patterns of contagion, the progression of the disease and the race to develop a vaccine. But until George, sheâd never met someone who had the disease.

âI should have been more appreciative,â George added. âIn many cases, too many cases, a diagnosis of polio was a death sentence.â

âIâm glad you didnât die, George.â

With a wink at Ross, he said, âIâm certain my grandson would say the same. In later years, I was always self-conscious about having a lame leg. I spent too much time brooding about what the disease took from me. But I was young, and couldnât help feeling robbed. I gave up on any sort of sport or physical activity.â

âI didnât realize the leg still troubled you,â Claire said. âItâs much less apparent than you think.â

âAt this point in my life, Iâm past worrying about other peopleâs opinions. Itâs remarkable how easy things are becoming now that Iâve stopped worrying about what people think. Should have done it a long time ago. Iâm sure Iâll say the same of skydivingââ

âYeah, about that,â said Ross. âIâm not so sure you need to be jumping out of an airplane.â

âThatâs why I waited so long to try it,â said George.

âCome on, Granddad. Seriously?â

âSerious as a heart attack,â George assured him. âItâs not very original, I admit. Everyone mentions skydiving as something theyâd like to do before they die. I think itâs a universal yearning to fly. We all want that freedom.â

âTrust me,â Ross said, âitâs overrated.â

âYouâre lying,â said George.

âOkay, itâs a kick in the ass,â Ross admitted with a hint of a smile. âBut only if youâve had major training and preparation.â

âI donât have time for that,â said George, matter-of-factly.

âHow about I take you flying. Do a couple of stuntsââ

âSkydiving,â Granddad insisted. âNothing else will do. I want the freedom. The long fall. What are you afraid of, Ross? That Iâll get hurt? That Iâll die?â He leaned back, folded his hands behind his head. âLook at it this way. If the skydiving kills me, you wonât need to worry about helping me with anything else on my list.â

âThe list is bullshit. It was your idea,â Ross accused Claire.

âI was hoping to find the two of you getting along better,â George said. âYouâve only just met, and youâre bickering like newlyweds.â

Claire flushed. âRoss is very concerned about you. He wants you to go back to the city. He wants you to keep pursuing treatment.â

Ross looked startled; clearly heâd been regarding her as the enemy. âItâs true, Granddad,â he said. âI want you to fight this thing.â

âOf course you do, my boy. Youâre a fighter. Always have been.â

âYou do have that option,â said Claire.

âYou know what I think of that option.â

She nodded. Folded her arms in front of her. âYou can change your mind anytime you want. There will be no questions asked. This isnât a competition or test of any sort. You get instant compliance with what you want.â

âI wonât change my mind.â He took a seat next to Ross. âDonât you think if there was a chanceâany chanceâto stay with you, I would?â he asked softly.

Claire had to look away from the expression in Rossâs eyes.

George, bless him, managed to summon a smile. âTake me skydiving, Ross. Iâve always wondered what it was like.â

âButââ

âI know itâs dangerous, son. I donât care. If I die in the attempt, Iâve only done myself out of a few weeks, right? Months, at the most. Sorry to be so blunt, but thatâs my thinking on the matter.â

âAnd Iâm supposed to help you with this?â Ross said, incredulous.

âWe were thinking you could make the arrangements,â said Claire.

âYouâre certified in tandem jumping,â George said. âWe could do it together.â

âSorry, give me a minute with this visual. You want to jump out of a plane, strapped to me?â

âThatâs correct,â said George. âI would consider it a complete privilege.â

Ross clenched his jaw and glared at Claire. âIâll think about it. Maybe make a few calls.â

She knew then that he would do it. He had a reluctant-but-willing look on his face. âSpeaking of your list,â she said, âthis came in todayâs mail.â She handed George an express mail packet.

He turned the packet over in his hands, checking the return address. âPenguin Group publishing,â he said, and his eyes lit with delight. âYoung lady, is this what I think it is?â

âWhy donât you open it and see?â

His hand trembled a little as he opened the parcel. Out slipped a book, bound in plain card stock, labeled Advance Reading CopyâNot For Sale. There was a worldwide publication date of September 28.

âFall of Giants by Ken Follett,â said George. âThis is top secret stuff, Claire. The most hotly anticipated novel since that vampire craze. How on earth did you get a copy?â

âI have my ways,â she said. She almost never stayed in touch with families of former patients, but in this case, sheâd made an exception. Sheâd looked after the mother of a production intern at a publisher, and he was so grateful for her help that heâd offered her any book on the companyâs list, at any stage of production. For Georgeâs sake, sheâd called in the favor.

âI shall enjoy this immensely. Thank you, Claire.â George turned to Ross. âSheâs extremely thoughtful.â

âUh-huh.â Ross clearly didnât want to hear about her thoughtfulness. âSo, letâs talk a little more about the list, Granddad.â

He tapped his breast pocket. âThe main reason Iâm here is to try to make amends with my brother, if thatâs possible. I need to see if there is anything left after fifty-five years of silence.â

âWith all due respect,â said Ross, âwhy havenât you called him yet?â

George smiled. âI confess, Iâm hesitant to disrupt other peopleâs lives. My ownâwell, that was thoroughly disrupted by this confounded diagnosis. Still, that doesnât give me the right to barge in on unsuspecting people.â

Claire watched them both closely, noting the strong family resemblance. In Ross, she could see the young man George might have been at one time. And in George, she could see the mature man Ross might become one day.

Sometimes she wondered about her own background, though she tried not to dwell on unanswered questions. Sheâd never met any of her grandparents. She knew of exactly four photographs of her mother, but was in possession of none of them. Even now, it was too dangerous to carry any connection to the past. The photosâone Polaroid and three snapshotsâwere being safeguarded by Mel, but Claire had memorized each one. Yet when she looked in the mirror, she didnât know if she could see her face in her motherâs face, or if there had ever been a time when her mother had looked at her and seen something familiar.

There was a slight tremor in Georgeâs hand as he took the small leather-bound volume from his pocket containing his list. âWhen I first heard my diagnosis, and my prognosis, I did pick up the phone. Many times. Such a simple thing, picking up the phone and placing a call. But between the time I held the phone in my hand and looked at the number I had tracked down for Charles, I could see the passing of a lifetime. Iâll just say itâI turned cowardly. This is too important for a simple telephone conversation. I didnât want to ruin my one chance. I want to get it right, so I need to come up with the best way to go about this.â

âWell, for one thing, you might want to do it before you jump out of a plane,â Claire suggested, and caught a glare from Ross. âIâm just saying.â

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

She felt a chill creep over her skin. She didnât 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 doctorâs test could reveal.

Â 

âWhat do you mean, sheâs not coming to dinner with us?â George asked Ross as they made their way to the main pavilion that evening. âWas it something I said?â

âNo, of course not.â

âWas it something you said?â

Probably, thought Ross. Heâd 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.

âShe wanted to give us time alone together,â Ross explained, because that was simpler. âThatâs what she said, anyway.â

âPull over,â Granddad said. âRight here, pull over.â

Ross stopped the golf cart at the side of the trail. âWeâre not going back for her.â

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 Gordonâs name and life span, 1926â1944.

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

The same words could be said of Rossâs father, and every other soldier whoâd 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 sunâs 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.

âA gentleman is never fully dressed without a boutonniere,â George declared as he climbed back in the golf cart. âYou never know who youâre going to meet, so itâs best to be prepared.â

Ross pulled the flower stem through a buttonhole of Granddadâs lapel. He held a smile in place even though he wanted to break down and cry. Holy crap, he thought. Holy crap, Granddad, donât leave me.

Hiding his grief and fear, he said, âYouâve been giving me that same advice for years. So far, nothingâs panned out.â

âNo reason to stop trying.â George reached out to affix Rossâs flower, the way he used to when Ross was a geeky kid. His hand shook, and Ross had to guide it to the buttonhole.

âAre you all right?â

âAside from this brain tumor, Iâm fine.â His voice was bright with irony. âOne of my meds causes the tremors. Donât worry about it.â

Right, thought Ross. I wonât worry.

George settled back on the seat. âClaire likes picking flowers,â he said. âThis 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.â

Rossâs gaze flicked to the ever-present buzzer. âGranddadââ

âNo, hear me out. I donât want to be overly dramatic, but if something needs saying, Iâm damn well going to say it.â

âHow is that different from the way youâve always talked to me?â asked Ross.

âIâm simply going to level with you. Youâre not meant to be alone, Ross. Youâre meant to find someone special.â

âThen donât shove some stranger at me.â

âShe wonât stay a stranger for long, if you keep an open mind and open heart. You might even fall in love. Youâve never done so, and I think youâd enjoy it.â

Ross threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh. It felt almost normal. âSure, Granddad. Iâll get right on that.â

âIâm not joking.â

âWell, I appreciate the sentiment, butââ

âItâs one of the things on my list,â said George.

Ross paused. âIâm starting to get an attitude about this list.â

âItâs essential. I want to make sure I donât leave anything undone, if I can help it.â

âFine, but itâs your list. Iâve got no business being on it,â Ross said.

âIâd like to see you settled into the life you deserve. It would bring me a great sense of peace.â

Granddad could be a manipulative old dude when he wanted to. âIâll work on it,â said Ross. âJust bear in mind, if and when I find someone, itâs not likely to be a nurse you hired through a personals ad.â

Ross parked near the lodge and headed inside with his grandfather. He didnât 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 wasnât used to that. âYou were right about the flowers,â he said, giving his grandfather a thumbs-up sign. âWe look good.â

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. âMiss Millicent Darrow,â he said with a flourish. âMillie, this is my grandson, Ross.â

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

The white-haired, well-dressed lady beamed at them. âHeâs as handsome as you, George,â 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, âSheâs sweet on you.â

âI believe the feelingâs mutual. She and I might be living proof that romance knows no age barriers. And I might try the filet for dinner tonight,â George said. âStayed away from red meat for years, and now I find I enjoy living dangerously.â

At the next table, Miss Darrow tilted her wineglass in his direction. âIâll drink to that.â

Â 

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 heâd 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.

âWhereâs George?â she asked, an edge to her voice.

âDancing with some woman. He said to tell you thanks for showing him some dance moves.â

âYouâre kidding.â

âNope.â He seemed to read her mind. âAnd donât worry, sheâs staying at the resort, and she has my number and yours.â

The idea of George with a lady pleased Claire utterly. âSo is this someone he just met?â

âHe knew her years ago,â Ross said. âHer nameâs 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 come back.â

âMillicent Darrow,â Claire said. âThatâs a classy-sounding name. She and your grandfather must have a lot of catching up to do.â

âSo it seems.â Ross ducked his head, but she caught the flash of a rare grin. He had an amazing smile. âAll I know is, he told me to make myself scarce and heâd call one of us if he needed anything.â

âWell, I guessâ¦Iâll wait up for him,â she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

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

She glanced at the sky, deepening with sunset. âUm, now?â

âTwilight until dark is the best time for it,â he said. âCome on, Iâve got all the gear we need.â

âReally?â The prospect of fly-fishing sounded ridiculously appealing to Claire.

âSure.â

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. Sheâd 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. âOver here,â said Ross, moving to the reeds at the bank of the stream. âEver been fishing?â

âNever.â She could feel a light spray from the waterfall on her face. âItâs so beautiful here,â she said. âItâs the most beautiful place Iâve ever seen.â

âIâm starting to see why my grandfather wanted to come to this place. Itâs like going to heaven.â He paused. âAnd that might be a damned poor choice of words.â

She smiled. âI bet heâd disagree. He and Millicent Darrow might even be there now.â

âOkay, not that I needed that picture in my headââ

âI was referring to the dancing,â she said.

âI wasnât,â he said. âCome on, letâs see if I remember how this is done.â

She followed him to the edge of the stream. The equipment was minimalâa rod and reel, lead and lineâand 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.

âIâve never seen someone fly-fishing before,â she said, entranced by the featherlight sweep of the lure on the end of the line. âNot in person, anyway. But in pictures and movies.â

âLet me guess,â said Ross. âA River Runs Through It.â

She nodded. âI love that movie.â Sheâd 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.

âThe scenery was nice,â he said, casting into the shadows again, âexcept Iâm not a big fan of death and dying in movies.â 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.

âIâm not having much luck. You want to give it a try?â He indicated the fly rod.

His sudden accommodating manner startled her. âI thought you didnât like me.â

âI thought so, too,â he agreed, softening the statement with a grin. âAre you wearing waterproof sandals?â

She looked down at her KEENs. âYes, butââ

âLetâs move over there.â He indicated a stony high spot on the other side of the rapids. âGrab my hand.â

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 wasnât 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. âIâll try to find it,â she said.

âDonât worry,â he said. âI have more.â

âAre you sure?â

âIn the grand scheme of things, losing a lure isnât the end of the world. Granddad and I made some flies earlier today. It was like old times. He still ties the best knot Iâve ever seen. Thatâs the whole point of fishingâto leave worry behind.â

âI thought the point was to catch a fish.â

âSecondary,â he said, tying on another fly and demonstrating a graceful cast. âFishing is all about connecting with nature, practicing an age-old art. Plus itâs a kick in the ass.â

âGive me that. I refuse to be defeated by a hook wearing a feather.â She tried again, this time plopping the fly down practically at their feet. âWhat am I doing wrong?â

âHere, you need to pull backâ¦Iâll show you.â He positioned himself behind her, his arm slipping easily around her waist. His hand covered hers. âDraw back like this. Donât try to kill it. Let the rod do the work.â

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 sheâd felt earlier. âOh, no,â she said, âlook, Iâm getting a bite.â

âEasy now.â 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. âYou want to tease it along and thenâ¦there. Itâs on the hook.â

âReally? Oh!â The fish fought, leaping in a fury of panic.

Ross showed her how to reel the thing in, then scooped it into a net. âItâs a beauty,â he declared, holding up the net.

Sheâd 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. âBarbless,â he said. âThis kind of hook doesnât do any harm. Want to say hello to your fish?â

She took it from him, trying not to flinch at the chill, slick feel of it. âHello, fish.â

Ross took a picture with his cell phone. She winced at the flash, never happy about having her picture taken. âNow what?â

âNow we let it go.â

âIâm glad you said that. I wouldnât want to eat it, after meeting it face-to-face.â

He bent down and lowered the trout into the clear water. âSee you around,â he said, straightening up and turning to Claire.

âSo thatâs fishing.â

âThatâs fishing. Catch and release.â He was still smiling, but the flicker of sadness in his eyes was unmistakable.

âTell me about fishing with George,â she said.

âIt was our thing, you know? Even before my father was killed, Granddad and I were close.â He tied on another fly. âSo whatâs your expert opinion, Nurse Turner? Is that going to make this easier or harder?â

She wasnât sure how to answer that. Ross was decompressing after two years of war, heâd 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 Rossâ¦ No.

âGive it another try,â he said.

âWhat?â

He held out the rod to her.

âOh,â she said. âSure.â She was glad to have something to occupy her hands. âEvery family is different, as you can imagine. People who are close donât have to struggle through unfinished business, because theyâve nurtured their bond over a lifetime. So in that sense, itâs easier. You focus on each other instead of dwelling on past regrets.â

âAnd in another sense?â

She found a rhythm and cast the line. This time it landed on the water, but nowhere near where sheâd aimed it. âIn another sense, losing someone you love with all your heart is the worst thing in the world.â

âIt is,â he agreed. Two words, yet his voice reverberated with sadness.

âYour grandfather told me what happened to your father,â she said. âIâm sorry. You must miss him so much.â

âWith all my heart,â he said. âThatâs how I tend to be, I guess.â

The way he said it gave her chills. She hoped her fascination with him didnât show. Fathers and sons, she thought. Family.

Turning away, she said, âMy aim is terrible. Tell me how to control my cast better.â

âWell,â he said, stepping up behind her again, âit all starts with your posture. Stay relaxed.â He slipped his arms around her again. With incredible patience, and an intimacy she hadnât expected, he guided her through the movements. The pretext was wearing thin, and they both knew it.

She didnât 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 heâd put her in this position by accident, or if this was a calculated maneuver.

âThis was a mistake.â His voice was quiet, but resolute.

She tried to focus on the motion of the fly. âLook, Iâm doing the best I can.â

âIâm not talking about the fishing.â He lowered his head, speaking softly into her ear. âIt was a mistake to touch you like this.â

âThen we agree on something.â Story of my life, she thought. She would never be anything but someoneâs mistake.

âWhat I mean isâ¦damn. This feels so damn good. I havenât held a woman in so long, Claire. You feel like a dream to me.â

The fishing pole dropped onto the stones. Either she turned, or he turned her in his arms; she couldnât 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 couldnât stop. And somehow, he seemed to sense that she was starved for closeness. She didnât 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.

Just that quickly, in a matter of seconds, he made her forget the world. This was the kind of thing she dreamed of, lying awake through so many sleepless nights when she felt so alone, she nearly came out of her skin.

It was the sweetest torture, this kiss. But it was torture, because in this single magical moment, she could taste everything she wanted but could never have.

Somehow she found the will to step back and extricate herself from his embrace. âUm, all right, then. Letâs stick with the fishing,â she suggested, trying for a light tone as she stooped to pick up the rod.

âYeah, I kind of forgot about fishing for a minute there. I wonât apologize, though. I liked that way too much to apologize.â

She found herself wonderingâwas it better to have tasted something she could never have, or should she have avoided it altogether, never knowing what she was missing? Too late now. She knew what it was like, and she knew that one kiss would haunt her. âWe canâtâ¦shouldnât be doing this.â

âFunny, I was just thinking it was the best thing thatâs happened to me since my discharge. Felt better than a three-day furlough. Kissing youâ¦just for a few seconds, it made me feel normal.â

âRossââ

âSo do you have a boyfriend or something?â he asked.

âI wouldnât have kissed you if I had a boyfriend.â

âGood.â

âWhy is it good?â

âBecauseâ¦is the position open?â

âNo,â she said firmly.

âWhy not?â

âItâsâ¦itâs complicated.â

âFine, dumb it down for me.â

âI didnât meanâ Ross, I canât talk about it.â

âNow Iâm really hooked.â

Quick, she told herself. Think up a lie. She should have said she had a boyfriend. But there was something about Ross Bellamy. She didnât want to hurt him, couldnât bring herself to lie to him. Yet she couldnât tell him the truth, either.

Why, oh why had she let this happen? Nothing but heartache could come of it. He was like a treat from the Sky River Bakery. Why tempt herself with something that was bad for her?

âIâve got another fish on the line,â she said, giving it a tug.

âDonât yank on it so hard,â Ross said, âor youâllââ

âOh. It jumped off. I pulled too hard.â

âIt happens.â

âI think the lure is gone, too.â She reeled in the line. âItâs getting too dark to see, anyway.â

They picked up the gear and waded back to shore. He held her hand to steady her, and didnât let go even as they walked along the pathway back to the cottage. The resort was illuminated by path lights and, like a fantasy, flickered with glimmering fireflies darting over the meadows and gardens. On the shore by the main lodge, the nightly campfire burned, and they could hear the muted sounds of other guests. Voices had a distant quality, adding to the sense of intimacy.

âSo are things going to be awkward between us now?â Ross asked.

The man didnât mince words. She wouldnât, either. âProbably.â

Â 

After the dancing, George offered to drive Millicent Darrow back to her cabin in the electric cart.

âIâd rather go to your place,â she said.

He gave a burst of surprised laughter. âYour wish is my command.â

Ross and Claire were nowhere to be found. George hoped they were off somewhere together, getting to know one another.

âThank you for putting up with me on the dance floor, Millie,â he said.

âYou are not a terrible dancer. And you have the best cottage of the resort,â said Millicent Darrow. âThe largest and most private.â

âBack in the fifties when we were here, this was the boathouse. Itâs been beautifully refurbished. Come on in, and Iâll show you.â

âPerhaps in a while.â She lifted her hair up off her neck. âItâs so warm tonight. Do you mind if I dangle my feet in the water?â

âMy dear, you can dangle anything you want in the water.â The wine theyâd sipped after dinner made him feel silly. It took so little these days.

âFine, then I shall.â She stepped out of her sandals and slowly lowered herself at the end of the dock. âAh, that feels delightful.â

He joined her, rolling up his trousers and sitting next to her. âJust like old times.â

âBetter than old times. I was never one of the fast crowd. You know, the kids who stole beer and went skinny-dipping.â

âI canât say the idea of stealing beer appeals,â he said. âBut the skinny-dippingâ¦â

âGeorge Bellamy!â

âDonât act so shocked.â Boldly he reached over and tugged at the sash of her dress. It was one of those light, flowy things anchored only by the sash, but he hesitated, to make sure this was what she wanted.

âIâm not shocked. At my age, I donât shock easily.â She laughed, a bright unfettered sound that carried across the water. Then she stood up, leaving the dress pooled on the dock. Georgeâs joints creaked as he levered himself up, but he was quick to shed his clothes. Then, hand in hand, they jumped in. The cool water felt like silk as it flowed over him.

They paddled around for a minute, and he loved the feeling of buoyancy and the sound of her breathing, in soft gasps of delight. And he liked the idea that she didnât know he was sick.

âAre you all right?â he asked.

âIâm wonderful.â

In the dark, he found her hand, pulled her closer and leaned in for a kiss. âYes, you are.â

âI still remember you from all those years ago,â she said. âGoodness, I had such a crush on you. I desperately wanted you for my first husband.â

He chuckled. âYou were always the blunt one.â

âThen Iâll be blunt again. I desperately want youâ¦not for a husband, either.â

He almost couldnât believe what he was hearing. Sometimes he had hallucinations, thanks to his condition. Was she a hallucination? No, she was right here, soft and cool against him. He could hear her soft gasps of breath, could feel the press of her mouth against his.

Like errant teenagers, they got out of the water and snatched up their clothes. In the cottage, he found a pair of thick terry-cloth bathrobes. He paused to hang a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and swallow a pillâjust in case. The master bedroom was equipped with gas logs, and he lit a fire with one press of the remote.

âThatâs lovely, George,â she said. âEverythingâs lovely.â

He didnât let himself think of failure, or the future, or anything but the moment. No, they werenât young and strong and beautiful. They were both quite elderly and out of practice, but so willing and eager it made up for everything else. There was surprise and delight and a glow of pleasure that made him feel, just for a moment, as though he were flying.

Eleven

Ross decided to approach the brother in person, rather than calling first. He figured it would be harder for the guyâCharlesâto turn him down to his face. Besides, and Ross couldnât deny this, he was curious. Heâd just found out about a whole unknown branch of the family; of course he was curious. And hopeful, too. Maybe the brother would give Granddad a reason to keep fighting for his life.

He checked the address again and drove through the tree-lined streets of Avalon. His mind wandered, as it seemed to every couple of minutes, to Claire Turner. Kissing her at the waterâs edge had been filled with unexpected magic. He might tell himself she could be anyone; the first woman he kissed after reentering civilian life was bound to seem special. But he was drawn to her in a powerful way he couldnât yet explain to himself.

He wasnât supposed to like her. Heâd vowed to Granddad he would never like her. But just as Granddad had predicted, she intrigued him. And yeah, she turned him on. Right or wrong, he was far from done with her.

With an effort of will, he forced himself to focus. Todayâs task was about his grandfather.

Last night, after the fly-fishing, Ross and Claire had checked out the well-stocked library at Camp Kioga. Poring over scrapbooks and photo albums, they had learned quite a bit about Charles. In 1956, heâd married the daughter of the camp owner. The couple had divided their time between New York City and Avalon, raising four childrenâtwo boys and two girls. Charles and Jane had recently settled in Avalon full-time, having bought a home in town the year before.

The neighborhood was old and established, with nice but not-quite-ostentatious homes. There were front porches hung with potted flowers and sidewalks swept clean; the street was marked with Children at Play signs. From the outside, the house appeared to be a fine and comfortable abode, one that bore a plaque from the historical society, designating it a landmark. A small brass plate under the house number identified the name of the residents: Bellamy.

The name was not that unique, but it was a little disconcerting to consider that the strangers living here were his relatives. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and rang the bell.

Waited. Wished he could be anywhere but here, bracing himself for an awkward meeting. Wished the situation could be anything but what it was.

What the hell was he going to say? How did you phrase something like this? What didâ

The door swung open. âYeah? Can I help you?â

It was a kid, about high school age, with light hair and eyes, a Yankees T-shirt.

Ross hesitated. Maybe he had the wrong house. Except there was something weirdly, obliquely familiar about the boy. In the room beyond the foyer, a few others were playing Wii Golf on a flat-screen TV. Ross was familiar with video games of all sorts, having passed many an hour playing them overseas, racking up car thefts and bonus points between sorties and rescues.

âHello,â said Ross. âIâm looking for Mr. Charles Bellamy. Is he in?â

âIâll go see if I can find him,â said the boy.

At the same moment, a female voice called, âMax? Who is at the door?â

âSome guy for Granddad,â Max said over his shoulder.

Granddad. Just like Georgeâs grandchildren called him.

Behind the boy Ross could see a hall tree hung with hats and jackets, an umbrella stand and a table. The wall was lined with framed photographs of smiling subjects posing by the lake, or on a ski slope, or in some undefined setting that probably meant the world to them. These could be Rossâs aunts and uncles, his cousins.

An orange cat lay on the carpeted stairs, its front paws tucked under its chest, fluffy tail gently swishing back and forth. A white-haired woman came into the foyer, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She studied Ross curiously. âYes?â

âIâll go find Granddad.â Max headed down the hallway.

Ross caught himself maintaining a military bearing, there on the front porch. âMrs. Bellamy?â he asked.

âYes?â She tilted her head to one side, the light glinting off her eyeglasses. He wondered if she saw something in him. Did he look like Granddad? Some said he did.

âIâm sorry to disturb you, maâam. My name is Ross Bellamy. Iâm George Bellamyâs grandson.â

The tea towel dropped from her hand. For a moment, her face went slack with surprise. Neither of them moved to pick up the towel. She touched the edge of the hall table as if to steady herself. Ross hadnât really thought about what reaction to expect, but it probably wouldnât have been this pained vulnerability. And something else. Fear? But the woman had nothing to fear.

âI didnât mean to startle you,â he said quickly. âMay I come in?â

âOh,â she said. âOh, certainly. Iâm Jane, by the way,â she said, though Ross had already guessed as much. She stepped aside. âJane Bellamy. And yes, please, come in.â

Granddad had wondered aloud if Charlesâs marriage had lasted. Apparently it had. Ross had often wished his grandfatherâs marriage had worked out better. He and JacquelineâGranny Jack, as Ross and his cousins called herâhad lived an eventful, glamorous life. But losing their son had wounded them in hidden ways and sent them spiraling off in different directions, each trying to cope with a devastating grief.

Even though heâd been a kid himself at the time, and shell-shocked by his own grief, Ross had realized his grandparentsâ marriage was deteriorating under the strain. They never got around to divorcing each other, but in the end, the two of them had led separate lives. The way sheâd died with her lover had been a shock to everyoneâexcept maybe Granddad.

âLetâs, er, letâs go in here where we can sit down.â Jane Bellamy gestured down a short hallway.

âThank you.â Ross stooped to pick up the towel and handed it to her.

She led the way to a sunroom overlooking a broad, well-kept backyard, away from the noise of the grandsonâs Wii game. âSo is Georgeâ¦has something happened?â She held herself very still as though bracing for bad news.

âGranddadâs in Avalon. Heâs got a place up at the Camp Kioga resort.â

âMy goodness. I should have guessed it. The assistant manager, RenÃ©e, mentioned a Mr. Bellamy had checked in. But I thought it was a coincidence. I never imagined George would come back. Never in a million years.â

âHeâd like to see his brother, Charles,â said Ross.

âI just never imagined,â Jane said again.

Just then Rossâs grandfather stepped into the room. For a few disoriented seconds, Ross thought it actually was Granddad, tall and slender and gentlemanly, with thick white hair and blue eyes. âImagine what?â he asked his wife. The voice was Granddadâs, too.

âThis young man is Ross Bellamy,â Jane said. âHeâsâ¦Georgeâs grandson.â Her voice changed as she spoke Granddadâs name.

Charles did not exhibit any of the fear or vulnerability his wife had shown, just a benign neutrality. âHow do you do?â He offered Ross his hand.

âGeorge would like to see you,â Jane added.

âWhen?â he asked bluntly.

âAt your convenience, of course,â said Ross. âBut soon, if possible.â

Charlesâs mouth quirked momentarily into a smile. âAll right, then. A visit from my brother George. He couldnât have come here in person?â

âHe didnât want to disturb you, or put you on the spot.â Ross was wary of Janeâs silence and the guarded neutrality he observed in Charles. This was precisely why his grandfatherâs plan for the summer was such a bad idea. These people had the power to hurt Granddad. âHe wanted you to have the opportunity to think it over.â

Jane and Charles regarded each other briefly. Jane looked away first, smoothing her hands down her apron. Although Granddad had characterized this as a dispute between brothers, Jane appeared to be the most agitated of all.

Charles either kept a poker face or he genuinely didnât care. âWhat brought this about?â he asked. âWhy now? And why would he come here?â

Granddad had admonished Ross not to beg. âBut what the hell,â heâd said with a touch of dry humor, âgo ahead and tell them Iâm dying. No sense in holding back on the truth, and Iâm not too proud to play the sympathy card.â

âMy grandfatherâs not well,â said Ross. And then, to his complete surprise and horror, a thick heat formed in his throat, a gathering of tears. From the moment heâd first received word of grandfatherâs illness, Ross had not wept. And now, with a few short words uttered to a pair of strangers, he was about to lose it.

âSorry,â he said, staring down at the floor and pushing his fists together hard. He forced himself to look at them. Get a grip. Get a grip.

Jane started to say something. Charles caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Charles looked so much like Granddad, Ross wanted to scream. It wasnât fair that this younger brother got to be so vital and healthy, while Granddad suffered with a fatal disease.

Ross cleared his throat. âThe prognosis isnât good,â he stated in a rush. âThatâs the reason for the timing of thisâ¦request.â

The big orange cat came in, padding delicately around Rossâs ankles.

âLet me get you something to drink. Iâve got some lemonade in the fridge.â Jane seemed eager to do something.

âThank you,â said Ross. âThat sounds good.â He hoped heâd be able to keep it down; he felt sick to his stomach with unexpressed grief. It had been swelling inside him like a silent, invisible storm, and for some reason, it had chosen this moment to break the surface.

âWeâre very sorry,â Charles said. âI can see this is a sad time for you. So George isâ¦heâs not in the hospital, then.â

Ross shook his head. âFor the moment, heâs doing all right. Butâ¦thatâs temporary. He stopped treatment but Iâm trying to persuade him to start again. So for that reason, Iâm hoping youâll agree to see him as soon as possible.â

Jane placed her open hand against her chest, like someone having a heart attack. Ross could see her struggling for composure. âIâll just get those drinks,â she murmured, and hurried into the kitchen.

âIf I could ask,â Charles said, âwhat did George tell you about me?â

âFrankly, sir, he never mentioned you until recently. Most people in the family werenât aware he had a brother.â Ross pressed the tips of his fingers together. âTo be honest, Iâm not sure why heâs so adamant about seeing you. But thereâs nothing I wonât do for my grandfather. Iâm probably closer to him than I am to anyone else in my life. Heâs justâ¦heâs everything,â he repeated.

âI understand. There was a time when I felt the same way about George.â

Ross was surprised to hear something so honest and personal from Charles, who had been circumspect until now. âIâm sure my grandfather would like to talk to you about that.â

âAnd I feel likewise.â

Their gazes caught and held. Ross felt a terrible kind of relief in finding something in common with this stranger.

Jane returned with a tray of lemonade and cookies. âFeel likewise about what?â she asked.

âAbout my brother. I was just telling Ross here that Iâd like to talk to George about times past. We went from being the closest of brothers to being strangers on different sides of the Atlantic,â said Charles. âThis could be our one chance to figure out what went wrong, and perhaps even try to make it right.â

As Jane was leaning to set down her tray, one of the glasses toppled over. It landed with a bang on the antique cocktail table, ice cubes and pale liquid fanning across the surface, the glass shattering.

Both Ross and Charles stood up.

âStay right there,â Jane said urgently. âItâs my mess, and Iâll clean it up. I need to blot that up before everything is ruined.â

Twelve

Avalon, Ulster County, New York
Summer 1945

There was always a special excitement in the air on arrival day at Camp Kioga. Jane Gordon had done a count-down on her wall calendar, marking off each day with an X as summer approached. Of course this year, things were different in several ways, none of them particularly good.

Stuart was nearly a year gone. He would never again be around to help out, to tease everybody and make chores seem like fun. No one would ever hear his off-key whistling as he mowed the grounds, made fresh lines of white lime on the tennis courts, strung up the volleyball nets, repaired the bunks.

Their mother wasnât present, either. After the double shocks last year of Stuartâs death, followed by the hasty closing and quarantine of the camp when George Bellamy came down with polio, something had happened to Mama. Something had caused her to change until she didnât seem like Janeâs mother at all.

Before the news about Stuart, she used to sing as she gazed out the kitchen window over the sink, enjoying its view of the lush lawn and dirt road leading to the house.

Ever since that road had been traveled by the shiny government car, bringing the news about Stuart, Mama had not been the same. She behaved in strange ways, still gazing out the window but no longer singing. Sometimes she would just wash the same juice glass or salad plate over and over again, until Jane or her father noticed and took her by the hand and led her away to the sofa or porch swing.

No one said much, just that Mama was so sad and quiet, but as time went on, things got even worse. Jane had awakened one night to a rhythmic soundâshush, shush, shushâand had gone downstairs to find Mama in her kerchief, methodically sweeping the porch. It was pitch-dark.

It had frightened Jane to see her mother behaving so strangely. âMama?â sheâd said softly, âItâs the middle of the night.â

âYes, yes,â Mama had said. She wasnât looking at Jane at all, not one bit. She hadnât really looked at Jane since the day of Stuartâs memorial.

âMama, you should come inside,â Jane said.

Mama stared straight through Jane, and said, âOh!â

A puddle appeared on the porch floor at her feet.

âMama! You, um, gosh, Mama. I think you wet yourself,â Jane had said in mortification.

A few days afterward, Janeâs father took her aside and said her mother had suffered something called a Nervous Breakdown. She had to go away for a while, to a place called a sanitarium. There, sheâd be with doctors and nurses who would help her get better.

As the weeks and months passed, Mama gradually did get better. Every Sunday afternoon, Jane and her father went to visit her at the clinic in Poughkeepsie. She was nothing like her old singing, piano-playing self, but she could carry on a conversation, dress herself and do her hair.

She tried coming home to Avalon a few times but it was too much for her. Eventually it was decided that she would stay with her sister in New Haven.

Jane tried never to feel sorry for herself but sometimes she couldnât help it. When she started feeling the blues, she would slip into a canoe and paddle on the lake for hours, exploring the deep and secret places of the forest-bound water.

Despite the troubles with her mother, there was something irrepressible in Jane that made her look forward to the coming summer. Some days, she even forgot about Mama, which made her feel guilty. When she confessed this to her father, he held her close and said, âItâs all right to live your life, Janie. Itâs the only thing to do sometimes, just live your life. Come on now, you can help me hoist the camp flag for opening day.â

As camp hosts, they were never supposed to play favorites, but Jane couldnât help herself. Last year her most favorite guests of all had been the Bellamy brothers, George and Charles, and when she learned they would be back again this year, she was beside herself. She had loved their adventures together, the Three Musketeers exploring the world, watching out for each other. She was thrilled to know theyâd be together again this summer.

âI was so worried, Pa, you know. About George.â

Her father nodded. âEveryone was. If the polio had killed him, I think we would have heard.â

She threw her energy into the pulley to raise the flag. âI canât wait to see him! Iâm so glad heâs all right.â

âJanie, he might not beââ

The tolling of the camp bell interrupted him, and they both hurried to offer a Kioga welcome to the guests. People arrived in big buses. Because of gas rationing, almost no one took a private car, not even the wealthiest of them.

Feeling grown-up at age twelve, Jane wore a new sailor dress and her best Mary Janes. She had her hair in ringlets, and Mrs. Romano, the head cook, said she looked just like Shirley Temple. Sheâd worked very hard all day to stay clean.

With her father and the rest of the staff, she greeted guests old and new. When someone asked about her mother, Jane gave the reply sheâd rehearsed again and again, until she could say it without crying: âSheâs spending the summer with her sister in Connecticut.â

Jane even managed to smile at Violetta Winslow, who was a terrible snob with nothing good to say about anyone. Mrs. Winslow declared that the new paint job on the cabins looked nice, but that she hoped the interiors had been refurbished, as well. âIâm sure youâll find everything to your liking,â Jane said.

It was almost unbearable, waiting for Charles and George to exit the bus. Jiminy Cricket, she thought. Were they going to be the last ones off? It wasnât fair to make her wait. It just wasnât.

She had big plans for them this summer. She wanted to find the source of Meerskill Falls, the cataract that tumbled down from the soaring heights above Willow Lake. She wanted to swim to the very bottom of the deepest part of the lake. She wanted to ride the river rapids and climb the rocks of the gorge.

A slender woman in an elegant sundress emerged from the bus. She wore a red scarf and dark glasses, which made her look like Lana Turner. Could it beâ¦?

Yes. It was definitely Mrs. Bellamy. At last, Janeâs favorite guests had arrived. Charles came bounding out of the bus. He had grown much taller, Jane saw, weaving her way through the milling guests. He looked wonderful. Oh, they would have so much to talk about, theyâ

Mr. Bellamy got off the bus next, his empty shirt-sleeve pinned up out of the way. He turned and spoke to someone behind him, and a large, burly workman appeared, holding George in his arms.

Jane stopped, the contents of her stomach curdling with dreadful apprehension. Why was George being carried off the bus?

She knew why, though. She didnât want to understand, but she did. She stood frozen in place as a camp worker brought out a folding chair and set it up. No, it wasnât a folding chair butâ¦a wheelchair.

Jane had never seen one up close before. She watched in fascination as the workman stooped and lowered George into the chair.

George did not look wonderful. Thin and pale, he stared straight ahead, unsmiling, as his father went down on one knee in front of him to adjust the footrest on the chair. The expression on Georgeâs face was completely blank, yet even from a distance, Jane could see his eyes were haunted.

A small but extremely shameful and terrified part of her wanted to run away. She simply did not know how to act in this situation.

It was too late to hide, so she continued forward, and approached the Bellamy family. âWelcome back,â she exclaimed, and was rewarded by a delighted grin from Charles. She caught Georgeâs eye, too, but saw no pleasure in his thunderous expression.

âI didnât realize you wereâ¦â

âGo ahead and say it,â George taunted. âA cripple. Iâm a cripple.â

âI was going to say, I didnât realize you were coming until Pa told me yesterday. Iâm glad you didnât die of polio,â Jane stated baldly.

âWell, that makes two of us.â

And just like that, a flash of inspiration told her how to act in this situation. Not as if everything were normal and the trouble did not exist. That would be a mistake.

After Stuartâs death, some people said stuff like, âHeâs with the Lord now,â and âHe died while serving a higher purpose,â but Jane never felt comforted by the well-meaning words. And some people simply didnât acknowledge that there was anything strange going on with Janeâs mother. They acted like it was completely normal for a woman to freeze solid for two days straight, or to stare at nothing for hours. They pretended it was normal for her to go to a special hospital and then tell her husband and daughter she could not live with them anymore.

And somehow, pretending nothing was wrong hurt more than taking the trouble head-on.

What Jane needed was for someone to notice the pain and confusion she felt every day. She wanted someone to tell her how awful it was. Maybe that would mean sheâd have to admit there was no end in sight. But maybe then she could come to believe life was still worth living no matter what.

She was not going to pretend with George. What had happened was terrible. The least she could do was be honest with him.

âWelcome back to Camp Kioga,â she said to the Bellamys. âWeâve made quite a few changes around here. I canât wait to show you. Come on, letâs go.â

Charles fell in step with her. No one else moved. Jane stopped walking. âGeorge, are you coming?â

Fury burned in his eyes, as though he suspected her of mocking him. âShow my brother around. I have to be wheeled everywhere I want to go, in case you didnât notice. Iâll just go to our cabin.â

There was a tense, quiet moment of challenge. Jane saw through his anger. One thing she had learned in the time after Stuartâs deathâpeople got mad to cover up for feeling sad. And they always wanted someone to rip away the mask.

âCome on,â she said. âThereâs nothing to do at the cabins except read books and listen to the radio while the grown-ups talk their faces off.â

âThatâs all I can do, anyway.â

âYou got eyes to see, donât you?â she asked.

âYes, butââ

âCome on, then. Thereâs a new swimming dock. Can I push you in your chair?â

âNo.â

âI can,â Charles said, and took hold of the handles.

Thirteen

Jane embraced her mission. She was relentless when it came to George Bellamy. Coaxing him out of his shell of anger and despair became her personal quest. Of course, she had her chores around the camp, which were many now that she was older and her mother was away. But the rest of the time was devoted to George.

She could usually find him on the porch of the Bellamysâ lakefront cottage. Pa had installed a ramp so George could be wheeled up and down. Each day, she thought up a reason to coax him out. âThereâs a nest of robins that just hatchedâ was todayâs suggestion.

âNo, thanks.â He clung to glum hopelessness.

âMr. Jacoby said we could come and see his worm farm. Ever seen a worm farm?â

âNo, and I donât want to.â

âWhatâs wrong with you?â Charles asked, coming out on the porch. âWho doesnât want to see a worm farm?â He stomped away in disgust.

Jane felt torn between the two brothers. She really did want to show them her neighborâs worm farm. On the other hand, she wanted to stick with George and see if there was anything she could do to make him feel better.

âHow about this?â she asked. âHow about you tell me what you want to do, and weâll do it.â

âI donât want to do anything.â

âEven doing nothing is doing something. Just sitting here is something, but itâs not very interesting. You have to pick.â

âWho says?â

âI say.â

âWho are you to boss me around?â He jutted up his chin, glaring straight ahead.

âIâm the daughter of the owner of this camp, thatâs who,â she said. âNow, pick something, or Iâll do the picking.â

He turned his furious eyes on her. Finally, with utmost reluctance, he said, âIâm supposed to learn how to maneuver this thing by myself.â

âThen why donât you?â

âBecause itâs impossible.â

âNo, youâre impossible. I think moving the chair is just hard. Thatâs different from impossible.â

âEasy to say when youâre not the one doing it.â

âYouâre not doing it, either.â

âBecause I canât.â

âBecause you wonât. And wonât is different from canât.â

âYouâre just a dumb girl.â

âYouâre just a lazy boy. Iâll make you a wager. I wager if you can get yourself down the ramp to the path, Iâll make it worth your while.â

âIn what way?â

âYouâll see, after you get down the ramp. I promise it will be worth it.â

âItâll be the beeâs knees,â said Charles, coming back to join them.

âWhat do you know?â George asked.

âI know when something is worth seeing.â

In the end, his curiosity won out. He puffed and strained and grew red in the face with the effort, but he made it down the ramp without tumbling over. Jane didnât congratulate him; she sensed that making a big production of his progress might only make him shut down again.

âThis way,â she said. âItâs not far.â She led the way to the barn. It was near her house, through a boundary marked Employees Only. Going into a restricted area was irresistible to the boys, she could tell.

âAll right,â George said, his temples running with sweat. âIâm here. What were you going to show me?â

She motioned them into the barn, warm and fragrant with the scent of molasses-coated feed and dry hay. Making a shushing gesture with a finger to her lips, she bent down and moved aside a pile of straw in an old manger box. There, in a bar of sunlight streaming through the rafters, was a black-and-white mama cat, her body curved around a litter of powder-puff kittens.

The boysâ faces lit up.

âCan we hold them?â asked Charles.

âNot yet. Theyâre too little. Salemâs really tame, though. Sheâll let you, when the time comes.â

The three of them took to visiting the barn every day. Charles usually grew restless and amused himself by climbing to the hayloft or playing on the tractor. George showed enormous patience with the kittens, talking softly to them, making friends with Salem. Within days, the kittens were venturing forth from their nest, exploring the world around them.

Georgeâs parents had given him a Kodak Brownie camera, and he took pictures of everything. âThey each have their own personality already,â he pointed out. âThat one is really bashfulâthe black one. The one next to him is always finding something to play with. And the one that looks like Salem is curious about everything. I call him Doctor. I brought him a toy today.â He took out a string with a button tied on the end, and played it along the floor.

It quickly caught the kittensâ attention. Following the lead of the ginger-colored kitten, they all eventually went to inspect the irresistible toy. At first, one would bat it and then slink back to see what it would do. Then, as they gained confidence, they would seize the button, engaging in a tug-of-war for possession. George brought the button closer and closer to his feet, then his knees, then his lap. Eventually the kittens climbed his legs and settled into his lap. Soon, he was able to cuddle and pet them.

âAll it takes is a little patience,â he said, offering rare, sweet laughter as one of the kittens batted its paws at his shirt buttons.

âTheyâre wonderful, arenât they?â said Jane. She loved the sight of the kittens, crawling all over him. âHere, Iâll take a picture.â

âNo.â George spoke sharply, startling a couple of the kittens.

âFine, I wonât.â She didnât push, knowing he probably didnât want a photo of himself in a wheelchair.

âWhatâs going to happen to them?â

âMy father will let us keep one,â she said. âAnd Iâm going to ask him if I can take one to my mother in New Haven.â

âYour motherâs in New Haven?â

âShe lives there now.â

âForever?â

Jane nodded, swallowed a knot in her throat. âEver since my brother was killed, she hasnât wanted to live here.â

George grew quiet. âBecause she misses him too much?â

âWe all miss him too much. Being here at the farm and Camp Kioga made her sad all the time. She canât do everyday things anymore.â Jane had no idea how she managed to push out the rest of the words. âIn a way, itâs better that sheâs there, staying with my aunt. See, when sheâs having a bad spell about Stuart, I, um, umâ¦I get kind of scared of her.â

Jane was surprised to discover it was possible to talk to George there in the dim barn, with shadows plentiful enough to duck into. In a way, she felt screened from him, the way she did in the confessional at church. The sense of privacy made it easier to speak honestly.

âIâm sorry,â George said.

Sheâd heard the phrase so many times in the past year, she wanted to scream. Everybody was sorry. Sorry Stuart had been on a boat that got hit by a Japanese shell blast. Sorry heâd been blown to kingdom come. Sorry there wasnât even enough left of him to send home in a box. Sorry her shattered mother couldnât be pieced together again any more than Stuart could.

Everybody was sorry but no one could fix anything.

âI bet you hate hearing that,â George said as though reading her mind. âI bet you hate hearing people say how sorry they are.â

She shuffled her bare foot through the straw on the floor and nodded her head. How had he known?

âI hear it a lot, too,â he added. âLots of people were sorry I got sick. They were so sorry all the time that I started being sorry, too, and feeling sorry for myself. So the reason I said just now I was sorry is that I want you to know, Iâm going to quit feeling sorry for myself. Right now. Right this minute.â

Jane paused, not sure she had heard correctly. But she had; there in the barn, quiet but for the mewling of the kittens in his lap, there could be no mistaking what heâd said. Very slowly she raised her head. Her face lit with a smile that nearly lifted her off her feet. âWas it the kittens that convinced you?â

He shook his head. âNope. Not the kittens.â

She waited for him to say more, but he just stayed quiet, his expression a little mysterious.

Â 

After that day, the three of themâCharles, George and Janeâtook to going on long hikes with Jane leading the way, sometimes having to pry big rocks out of the path or use her fatherâs pruning shears to clear away branches. Day by day, George grew stronger, his arms quicker and more sure as they pumped the large wheels of his chair. When they came to the steep parts, Charles would push the chair from behind, never daunted by an uphill slope, even one that made his face red with exertion.

Charles turned sinewy and suntanned from his daily efforts. Janeâs skin was perpetually scratched from insect bites and forays in the underbrush. And slowly, gradually, George changed, too. He went from being a passive participant in their adventures to taking part in his own way. They still played games of Three Musketeers or Pirate King or Superman, but not the way they had in the past with the three of them racing and jumping and climbing. Perhaps George could no longer run through the forest like a Mohawk on the hunt, but he could narrate stories of danger and adventure, while Jane and Charles listened, enraptured, or acted them out. Sometimes Georgeâs stories made them do things that were risky or silly, but they always ended with laughter.

At first, Mrs. Bellamy would fret and wring her hands every time Jane conceived of another adventure. But Mr. Bellamy would always give them permission, and off they went, out into the summer forest. Jane was even allowed to take them to the campâs rifle range, and under supervision, the boys were given shooting lessons by the resident marksman, a war veteran who had lost a leg. George seemed inspired by the idea that a man with one leg had mastered a sport. He practiced hard at his lessons and was soon the best shot at the camp.

Jane loved seeing George come out of his shell. She loved being one of the Three Musketeers again. He taught her and Charles to play chess and backgammon. They worked crossword puzzles together and held spelling bees with the other campers.

One night, Jane organized a game of hide-and-seek. She grew frightened when everyone but George had been found. She and the others called and called, and her heart beat faster every second, like a panicked bird.

âOver here,â Charles called. âHeâs been calling for us, but our yelling drowned him out.â

George sat on the ground at the edge of the woods. There were burrs and bits of grass in his hair and clinging to his shirt, but he didnât seem injured.

âHeâs fine,â one of the other kids yelled. âNot even bleeding or nothing.â This caused the others to lose interest, and they all dispersed.

Her knees wobbly with relief, Jane sank down beside George. âWhat happened?â she asked. âWe were so worried.â

âI took a spill,â he said, swiping angrily at his cheeks.

âIâll go find your chair.â Charles went thrashing off into the dark.

Jane stayed with George, trying to make her pulse slow down. âAre you all right?â she asked him. âGeorge, youâre shaking.â

âI got lost and my chair tipped over, and I had to crawl out of the woods. Do you know what thatâs like, crawling through the woods in the dark?â

âNo, I donât. Maybe now youâll realize youâd better figure out how to walk,â said Jane. She knew better than to baby him, particularly when he was being a baby.

âI canât, you ninny. Donât you think if I could walk, I would?â

âI think youâre scared to try, same as you were scared of pushing your own chair when you first got here. But you managed to get around all by yourself. All it took was a lot of hard work.â

He stared down at his left leg with an expression of extreme concentration. âDo you know what tracers are?â he asked in a small voice that was almost a whisper. âIn polio victims, I mean.â

She shook her head. âNever heard of âem.â

âTracers are tiny threads of live muscle tissue in the damaged area. If you have tracers, supposedly those live muscles can be developed and will eventually replace the tissue that atrophied. Do you know what atrophied means?â

âDamaged, I guess.â

He nodded. âPretty much. In the hospital, I used to sit for hours studying my leg, looking for tracers.â

âAnd did you find them?â

He shrugged. âI donât have a trained eye.â

She wanted to touch him, maybe give him a hug or smooth her hand over his hair the way her father did when he told her good-night. Instead she challenged him. âMaybe you have to find those muscles by trying to use them. Like trying to walk.â

âYou donât get it,â he snapped. âWalkingâs different.â

âWhy, because itâs hard? Jiminy Cricket, youâre not scared of hard work, are you?â

âNo, but what if I do all the work, and it does no good?â

She thought about that for a moment. âWhatâs the worst thing that can happen? Youâll fail? Believe me, some things are worse than failing.â

Fourteen

Family Dance Night at Camp Kioga was a silly affair. That was what Jane had always thought, anyway. The dance instructors came from the city, and they always acted as though dancing was the most fun anyone could have. Jane secretly did think dancing was fun, though sheâd never admit that to the other kids, especially Charles and George. They would surely make fun of her.

âIâm not going,â George said, balking at the entrance to the dining pavilion. There was a five-piece ensemble and couples of all shapes and sizes on the dance floor. The men had pressed slacks and shiny shoes, and the women looked like flowers in their full skirts, underlaid with crinolines that belled out when they twirled.

âSure you are. Thereâs peach melba for dessert tonight,â Charles pointed out.

âFine, Iâll eat the peach melba but forget about the dancing.â

âEverybody dances,â Jane said in her bossiest voice. âNo exceptions.â

âThatâs baloney.â

âHuh. Shows how much you know.â

âI canât dance. I canât even walk.â

âThen dance however you can,â she stated. âCome on.â

She didnât look to see if the brothers followed. Usually if she just forged ahead, they went along with her. A famous ensemble was playing that nightâthe Klinger Kabaret from downtown Manhattan. They were so good that, along with the peach melba, they brought a smile to Georgeâs face. The dance instructors had Jane dancing with every boy in the place, and some girls, too, since there were always more girls than boys.

Charles was pretty good, for a boy. He was especially good at the bumps-a-daisy and the jitterbug, which was all the rage. Jane picked him for the last dance of the night, and they jumped and jived like a pair of professionals. As they swooped around the dance floor, she spied George and did a double take.

âCharles,â she said, practically yelling above the brassy blare of the band, âlook at George. Am I seeing things?â

âYouâre not seeing things.â

They nearly tripped over each otherâs feet as they stared at George. He was in his chair off to the side, drinking a root beer soda. And he was tapping his feet to the music.

Jane and Charles descended on him. âYouâre moving your feet, George!â she exclaimed. âGood for you! Youâre moving your feet.â

âYeah,â he said. âSo?â He couldnât keep the grin from his face.

âSo nothing,â she said. âDance with me.â

âDance with you? Youâre crazy, youââ

âCharles will help,â she declared, and plopped herself right into Georgeâs lap. At the same time, Charles zoomed the wheelchair out onto the dance floor. The other dancers barely took note, they were so caught up in the wildness of the number.

George laughed aloud, and it sounded wonderful to her. She knew a moment of fleeting happiness then. It was a flash of perfection, a sense that everything was all right. She was in Georgeâs lap with her head thrown back in laughter. Charles pushed the chair in crazy circles as the three of them spun in time with the music, their spirits enmeshed, three broken pieces momentarily bound together.

Â 

After the dancing, Jane insisted there was nothing George could not do, and she set out every day to prove it.

âCome swimming with us,â she said one afternoon after escaping Mrs. Romanoâs constant demands in the kitchen. She was wearing a hand-me-down romper swimsuit from one of her cousins, and she hated it, but the day was burning hot and she was dying for a plunge in the lake.

âNope,â said George.

âCome on.â Charles nudged Georgeâs shoulder as he grabbed a couple of towels. âItâs hotter than hades today.â

âYou go ahead,â George said.

Jane turned on her heel. âLetâs go, then. Heâs not interested.â

âHave fun stewing in your own juices, George,â said Charles, following her.

Jane knew George wouldnât last long on his own. He didnât anymore. He always found a way to join in, even if it just meant sitting in the shade and watching her and Charles play. True to form, he ended up going with them to the swimming dock. They found a nice shady spot near the locker that housed the towels and life vests, and George parked himself there.

Charles gave an Indian war whoop and pounded down the dock, doing a cannonball off the end, creating a huge splash. Jane felt torn, not wanting to abandon George but yearning to join in with the other kids.

âGo on,â he urged her. âI brought my camera. Iâll take some pictures.â

With a squeal of delight, she ran to the dock and launched herself. The cold water felt like silk on her skin.

âOver here,â said Charles. âWeâre playing water tag. Iâm it!â

Jane swam madly, determined not to be tagged. More and more swimmers joined in until there were at least a dozen kids involved. It was the most glorious summer day imaginable. The only thing that could have made it more glorious would beâ

Jane stopped swimming to tread water. She looked around for George, but heâd moved from his spot. Then she spied him. He was pumping his wheelchair as fast as he could down the dock. Heâd strapped a life ring to the chair, but not to himself. The chair gathered speed as he spun the wheels faster. Jane tried to call out, but her voice was gone, stolen by shock.

The rolling chair ran out of dock and kept going. George was ejected and hit the water with a big splash. For a stunned second, everyone was frozen by dread. Then the chair bobbed to the surface, buoyed by the life ring.

The chair was empty.

Jane screamed. Charles swam toward the dock, his arms and legs churning like eggbeaters.

After what seemed like an eternity, George broke the surface, hauling in a huge breath of air. âIâm okay,â he called. He looked around at the other kids. When they realized he was all right, they started hooting and clapping.

âYou creep,â Jane accused him, paddling over. âYou scared us to death.â

âLook at me now,â he said. âIâm swimming.â

Not very well, she noted, but he was. He was swimming. He paddled slowly and clumsily toward the dock. Charles and the others lost interest in the drama and went back to their game of tag. Jane followed George, and they both clung to the ladder attached to the dock. âIâm real proud of you,â she said. âI am.â

âWhen I first went off the end,â he said, lowering his voice so no one else could hear, âI sank like a stone. And it crossed my mind that I might drown if I just quit fighting and let myself go. But all of a sudden, I knew I had to get stronger and save myself. And so I started swimming.â

âGeorge!â She put her arms around him and gave him a swift, wet smack on the cheek. Instantly realizing what sheâd done, she shoved away from him and swam in the opposite direction. She couldnât resist looking back at him, to see if he was as embarrassed as she was.

He didnât look embarrassed. As long as Jane lived, she knew she would never forget the expression on his face.

âHey, look up here!â yelled Charles. He was standing on the dock with the Brownie camera. âSmile!â

Treading water, George and Jane grinned up at the camera box.

Â 

âHold on to Doctor, will you?â George said, handing the orange kitten to his brother. âDonât let her get away.â

âSure,â Charles said, cuddling and nuzzling the little creature.

The kitty was Janeâs parting gift to the Bellamy brothers. Summer was over, and the time had come for them to go back to the city. Janeâs father had told her she could give one of the kittens to them, and of course they chose Doctor, who was as sweet as her mother, with the same coloring. Now it was time for all of them to head home.

Jane tried not to feel too despondent as she stood watching George, who had wheeled his chair to the edge of the chipped-gravel parking area, where everyone waited for the buses to the train station in town. He had that special fire in his eye, the one that flared when he was about to say âCheckmateâ in chess, or when heâd thought up a really good story to tell her.

âWhatâs going on?â she asked.

He didnât answer. Instead he set the brake of the wheelchair and braced his hands on the armrests. Through the summer, his hands and arms had turned so brown and strong, he reminded her of Stuart, who used to pick up and toss around hay bales as if they were nothing.

Frowning with concentration, George folded up the foot-rests of the wheelchair and planted his feet on the ground.

Jane held her breath. Every instinct urged her to step forward and help, but she resisted. The last thing he needed was for her to interfere, or to caution him not to take a risk. She glanced at Charles and saw him practically biting a hole in his lip.

George lurched forward, but fell back into the chair. He didnât look at either Charles or Jane. She crushed her teeth together to keep from telling him not to rush, not to feel as if he had to do this right now. He tried again. Failed, twice more.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Planted his hands and feetâ¦and levered himself up out of the chair.

The kitten mewed in protest, and Jane glanced over to see Charles ease his grip on the little creature. George took a step forward. One, then another. Then he stopped. His face was damp and livid from the effort. Jane couldnât stand it anymore; she rushed forward and took his arm. He was trembling, but smiling.

âGood for you, George,â she whispered. âI knew you could do it.â

âI had to. My mother wants to put me to bed and treat me like an invalid for the rest of my life. My father thinks I should go back to the Childrenâs Institute, and I donât want to do either. So I better figure out how to walk on my own.â He wobbled, and she held on harder, helping him back to the chair.

âThree lousy steps,â he said.

âItâs a start,â she replied. âYouâll do more tomorrow, and more every day. Promise me you will.â

âAll right, but you have to promise me something.â

âAnything, George. I swear.â

âWhen I come back, you have to promise to dance with me.â

Fifteen

âWhat are you doing this evening, Granddad?â asked Ross.

âI have no plans. Unfortunately my friend Millie has gone up to Albany to visit friends and wonât be back until tomorrow.â

âSo you and Millieâ¦â Ross was slightly freaked by this development. He wondered if the old lady had spent the night.

âWe had a lovely time. And a gentleman will say no more.â

Ross gave a nervous laugh. His hat was off to the old dude, but he was content to let the matter rest. âAnyway, about tonightâ¦â

âWhat did you have in mind?â George took off his reading glasses and set them aside.

âDo you feel up to a visit with your brother?â

George sat forward, gripping the arms of his chair. âAbsolutely.â

âAnd his wife, Jane? Should she come, too?â

âSheâ¦â Granddad cleared his throat. âShe most certainly is welcome.â He leaned back in his chair, somehow managing to look both relieved and apprehensive. âTonight. I can scarcely believe it. Claire, did you hear?â

âI did, and Iâm really happy for you, George.â

After some discussion, it was determined that a private dinner, catered by the resortâs kitchen, would be served on the veranda of Georgeâs house on the lake. This would keep the reunion as intimate as possible. Things were bound to get emotional. He felt the building tension later that day, as he helped his grandfather get ready.

âTell me again what heâs like,â Granddad said. âWhat was your first impression?â

Ross passed him a handheld mirror. âTake a look. The two of you might as well be twins.â

Granddad beamed. âPeople used to say we shared a strong family resemblance. In our younger days, I was always the athletic one. Then, after I fell ill, I turned into the bookish one.â He rubbed his thigh.

Now that Ross knew about the polio, he saw his grandfather in a different light. Granddad had endured a devastating disease. One that had changed him forever. Yet he had gone on to a good life. Ross hoped to persuade him to put up a new fight now. Maybe seeing his brother would motivate him.

âI canât thank you enough for arranging this, son. It means the world to me,â said Granddad.

âMore than happy to do it. You know that.â

âDid you like him? And Jane?â

âThey were surprised when they met me. Butâ¦cordial. I liked them well enough. For strangers, that is.â

âDid they tell you anything aboutâ¦the past?â Granddad sounded tense.

âNo. Itâs between the two of you,â Ross said. âYou can tell me or not. Itâs up to you.â

âMaybe my foolishness will be a reminder to others not to let something like this happen.â

âSince Iâm an only child, itâs not likely,â Ross said jokingly.

âYou have your stepbrother and stepsister,â Granddad pointed out.

âGood old Donnie and Denise. How could I forget?â

âRossââ

âDonât worry, Granddad. I get along fine with them.â

âI wish Iâd been so sensible, back when all this happened.â

âAll what?â Ross held out a dress shirt.

George threaded his arms into the shirt. âIt was a volatile time for both of us, our college days. We were rivals, competing over everything from grades to club memberships.â

âThatâs what brothers do. But they donât usually quit communicating for fifty years because of it.â

âI confess, the rivalry went deeper than that.â

âObviously. What was it? I donât get it,â said Ross.

Granddad hesitated, then picked up a silver cuff link. âI didnât approve of the girl he married.â

âJane.â

âThatâs correct. I made no secret of my disapproval. I know it sounds impossibly snobbish in this day and age, butâ¦things were different back then. A personâs background used to matter more. I like to think I didnât consider our family superior to Janeâs, just different. The Gordons were farmers and the owners of Camp Kioga. They didnât get rich doing it, and Jane did domestic work. All those years ago, she worked as a housekeeper in New Haven. Charles and I were students at Yale. The contrast was quite pronounced. And then when Charles announced his intent to marry her, well, our parents were beside themselves. She was definitely not their idea of a proper daughter-in-law. It made for an extremely tense time. Extremely tense.â

A tremor started in his hand, and Ross had to help him with the other cuff link. âYou were a product of your time,â he said, determined not to judge his grandfather.

âIâm not proud of the way I was back in those days. I held on to my righteous indignation, and Charles married Jane. After that, we justâ¦stayed apart. Each of us went on with our lives. I moved to Paris, married your grandmother. We both had families, careers, busy lives. One year, when the children were little, our parents invited Jackie, me and the boys on a ski holiday in Gstaad, Switzerland. In a magnanimous moment, they invited Charles and Jane and their kids, as well. But by then, Charles was serving in Vietnam. And of course, Jane declined. Your grandmother and I didnât go, either. I couldnât get away from the paper and Jackie was drowning in little boys, as she liked to put it. My parents ended up going on their own. Then we received word at the Trib about a devastating accident on the aerial rope-way to Les Diablerets Glacier. A cable had snapped. The tram car, crammed with eighty passengers, plunged a hundred meters.â He paused, shuddering a little.

Ross had heard the story, growing up, but the incident had always seemed distant and unreal. He wasnât sure why that was. Losing his own father in a single moment of violence had turned the world upside down. Granddadâs loss had been just as hard. Perhaps harder, losing both mother and father in the same instant.

âIt mustâve been a nightmare for you,â he said.

Granddad nodded. âI should have reached out to Charles then. Under normal circumstances, we would have seen each other, but he wasnât able to attend the funeral.â

âBecause he was serving in Vietnam.â Ross sensed there was more to the story, much more.

âTime passed,â his grandfather went on. âIt just slipped away. I let it, and I suppose Charles did, as well.â

Ross studied his grandfatherâs face, weathered by the years, his eyes a pale and distant blue. He seemed drained and diminished by the memories as he took out two ties. âWhich one, do you think?â

Ross grinned. His grandfather was like a kid getting ready for a dance. âThe stripes, for sure.â

âExcellent choice.â Granddad turned to the mirror and looped the tie around his neck. âI taught Charles to tie a tie. Our father wasnât so good at it, with his one arm.â

âYou taught me, too,â Ross reminded him.

Granddad crossed one end of the tie over the other. âThe Windsor knot. The most basic of gentlemanly arts.â He looped the other end through, and then stopped. A frown creased his brow.

âGranddad?â

âI justâ¦ I donât knowâ¦â He looked flustered, and his left hand trembled. âIâve done this ten thousand times.â

Ross tried not to let his worry show. âLet me,â he said, taking his grandfatherâs hands. âPlease.â Ever so gently, his heart breaking, he tied the tie into a perfect Windsor knot. Then he took his grandfather by the shoulders and turned him toward the mirror. âI love you, Granddad,â he said. âYou look like a million bucks.â

Â 

The cottage had been readied by the resort staff, with fresh flowers, dinner and wine. The table was set with three places; Ross and Claire thought it best to have dinner elsewhere. Jane and Charles Bellamy arrived at the appointed time. They looked nervous as they walked through the door. For a moment, all three of them froze. The two brothers stood facing each other, their hesitation painful to watch.

For no reason he could fathom, Ross took Claireâs hand and held on hard. Jane put a hand on her heart. It rested there lightly, like a bird about to take flight. Charles and George simply stared for several moments.

Finally Granddad said Charlesâs name and they shook hands. The handshake quickly escalated into a hug. The moment they touched, the tension seemed to melt into some other emotion. Ross couldnât see their faces, but their body language said it allârelief and comfort, cautious joy. After a long moment, they stepped back.

âIâm glad you came,â said George.

âOf course I came,â said Charles. He stepped aside and gestured Jane forward.

Granddad gave her a hug, this one briefer, more stiff. She was clutching a wad of Kleenex. âI came prepared,â she said.

âYouâve met my grandson,â said George. âAnd this is Claire.â

As she greeted them, Claireâs face glowed. She seemed to take true pleasure in the reunion. Ross let go of her hand, having forgotten he was holding on. For the umpteenth time, he wondered if she was for real. Because right now, she seemed too good to be true. She had arranged the dinner perfectly, working with the catering staff to make sure everything was just right. Even the soft music playing in the background was rightâa swing era hit from the forties or fifties. She was completely centered on his grandfatherâs needs, and had been as nervous as any of them about this reunion. âIâm so glad you could come on short notice,â she said.

âAs am I,â said Granddad. âWeâve got a lot to talk about.â

Jane was already perusing the family pictures heâd placed around the room. âAh, George. I canât wait to hear. Itâs wonderful, the three of us, together again. The Three Musketeers. Thatâs what we called ourselves as children,â she explained.

âUn pour tous, tous pour un,â said Granddad.

âI think a toast is in order,â Charles added.

Claire took Rossâs hand again. âWeâre out of here, then,â she said.

Jane beamed at them. âYou make a lovely couple, you two.â

Claire snatched her hand away. âOh! Weâre notâ¦ Iâm here for George. In fact, he knows how to get in touch with me if he needs anything. Iâve posted my number by the phone, too.â

âThank you,â said Charles. âIâm sure weâll be fine.â

Â 

It was nearly sunset when Claire and Ross left the lake house. She sensed his tension as he walked beside her, then paused to look back at the glowing windows of the cottage.

âLooks like theyâre getting along fine,â she said, knowing heâd been worried.

As they watched, George poured a glass of wine and turned to offer it to Jane. But Jane didnât seem to notice; she was turned toward her husband. George stood holding the glass, and even from a distance he looked diminished, somehow.

Then Charles took the glass from him and handed it to Jane, and they poured two others, raising them in a toast.

âHe forgot how to tie a tie,â Ross said.

Claireâs heart softened at the sad resignation in his voice. This was one of the hardest things about an illness like Georgeâs. You watched a person fade away, bit by bit. At the end of it all, everything fell away. The only thing left was the love you had in your life.

She shuddered, realizing when her time came, there would be nothing. Not unless she found a way out of hiding.

âHeâs lucky you were there to help him,â she said gently.

Ross was quiet for a moment. Then he said, âThereâs something my grandfatherâs not telling me about the situation between him and his brother.â

Claire had sensed the same thing, but sheâd trained herself to let her patientsâ stories unfold in their own timeâif at all. âThis was a big step.â

âLetâs go grab something to eat,â he suggested.

âWe could go to the lodge.â

âI have a better idea,â Ross said, and took out his car keys. âDonât worry, we wonât go far.â

His uncanny ability to read her made Claire a little nervous. She wasnât used to people being able to see inside her. For the most part, people she met didnât even try; sheâd been that successful at making herself anonymous. Ross was different. He was not the sort of person you could hide things from, not for long. This made him uniquely risky to know, yet she was intrigued. Even more so when she saw his car. âA convertible! Can we have the top down?â

He grinned and tossed her a baseball cap. âThatâs the point. Hop in.â

âWhy are you being so nice to me?â

âIâm always nice,â he assured her.

She thought about how they kept butting heads about Georgeâs treatment. And then she remembered the kiss. Yes, he knew how to be nice.

He pushed a button and the top retracted. He put the car in gear and rolled out of the parking area.

She didnât know much about cars, but she could feel the power of the roadster as they rolled out onto the main road.

Claire wasnât much of a driver. At sixteen, sheâd been taught to drive by her foster father, Vance Jordan. The very man from whom she was hiding now. It was chilling to think about how completely sheâd placed her trust in him. Two nights before watching him murder two innocent boys, she had gone for a practice drive with him, shining with pride as he quizzed her about road rules in preparation for her driverâs test.

She never did take that test, but in time, sheâd obtained a licenseâunder her new name, long after the girl sheâd been then had ceased to exist. It had taken her a long time to be able to sit in a car next to a man without breaking into a cold sweat.

Ross Bellamy inspired much different emotions in herâlonging and frustration. Affection and yes, lust. None of which were a good idea for someone in her situation. She tucked her hair into the baseball cap and fiddled with the radio, finding a station she liked. It was a perfect night at the leading edge of summer, the air sweet with the cool scent of new growth. They explored the area at twilight, and found an old-fashioned drive-in restaurant, where they ordered root beer floats, burgers and fries to go. Then they headed up to a scenic overlook by the lake, above a wide stretch of water rimmed by sheer rock. Float planes landed here, and there was a long dock where they could tie up. At present there was a toy-size single engine plane moored to the dock.

Claire shuddered, reminded of Vance Jordan. When sheâd gone to live with them, Vance and Teresa had flown her to Pier 8 on the Hudson to celebrate. Back then, he had seemed like the perfect father figure, dashing and confident as he worked the controls.

She shook off the memory and dipped a long-handled plastic spoon into her cup, scooping up soft ice cream. She hadnât had a root beer float or a French fry in years, and it felt completely decadent to indulge.

The moon came up, bathing everything in a bluish glow. âLook at that,â said Ross, leaning back in his seat. âBeautiful. Clair de luneâis that what youâre named after?â

âNo,â she said. She was named after someone who had been deceased for twenty-five years, having appropriated the identity when she went underground. But of course, she couldnât tell him that.

âWhatâs your family like?â he asked. âYou never say much about yourself. Where do your parents live? What does your father do?â

âAbandons his family,â she said. âNo, wait. That would mean he stuck around long enough to abandon me and my mom.â She looked away, lowered her head, instantly regretting what sheâd just blurted out. The question had caught her off guard. âI donât really have much in the way of family.â

She didnât get asked about the topic. Didnât let anyone get close enough to ask. âMy mother died when I was young. I had a series of foster parents, and have been on my own sinceâ¦high school.â

âDamn,â he said softly. âThatâs rough, Claire. I had no idea.â

âIâm all right,â she said, wishing she could say more. She hoped he wouldnât dig deeper, yet at the same time, a part of her wanted him to. She wanted to tell him everything about herself. The trouble with being in her situation was the constant battle to stay silent about things that truly mattered. âSorry, but I donât really like talking about it,â she said. âI didnât grow up with many opportunities to do things like this. Summers on the lake, sailing and fishingâ¦itâs like a dream.â

âSo how did you spend your summers?â he asked.

âI watched a lot of TV. My entire understanding of summer camp came from teen slasher movies.â

âNo wonder you like this better.â

He had no idea. Her mother had been an only child, and had virtually nothing to say about her parents. Claire remembered asking her mother about this once. Sheâd been in third grade, and had brought home a flyer from school about Grandparentsâ Day.

âNot going to happen, baby girl,â her mother had said, tossing the flyer in the kitchen garbage. âLike I always tell you, your grandparents arenât around. Itâs just you and me against the world.â It was the only explanation Claire would ever get.

âYou donât talk about yourself much, either,â she said to Ross, determined to deflect further questions.

âSure I do.â

âLiar.â

âAsk me anything. Iâm an open book.â

âOkay, when you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?â

He thought for a minute, going back to the kid heâd been. âEverything,â he admitted. âA ski racer, a rock star, a fireman, a Formula One driver, a spy and a rocket scientist.â He paused and added, âAn uncle. I really liked my uncles and wanted a bunch of nieces and nephews. Itâs tricky, though, when youâre an only child. I tended to be drawn to things that were hard or impossible. Wonder what that says about me.â

âThat youâre a big dreamer,â she said. âItâs no crime.â

âWhen I was sixteen years old, my mother sent me to H.E.L.âthe Human Engineering Laboratory. Iâm sure the irony of the initials completely escaped the folks who ran the facility.â

She frowned. âSounds scary.â

âIt was a program meant to help kids figure out their affinities and aptitudes. They subjected us to a battery of tests, the idea being that if we knew what we were good at, weâd be better prepared to face the Real World.â

âDid it indicate youâd be a good helicopter pilot?â

âI honestly donât remember.â He scooped a bit of ice cream out of his float.

They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the chorus of chirping frogs and watching the stars come out. It was incredibly relaxing, sitting with Ross Bellamy, eating a decadent meal and escaping the world, just for a while. âThis is a great spot,â she said.

âReminds me of the kind of place where people go to park and make out.â

She nearly choked on a French fry. âDonât get any ideas.â

âToo late. Iâve been having ideas about you all evening.â

âBad idea.â She set aside her dinner, her appetite gone. Just once, she would love to explore the suggestion she read in his eyes, indulge the desire that seemed to warm every inch of her.

âOn the contrary, it felt like the best idea Iâve had in a long time. Kissing youââ

âShouldnât have happened. It was unprofessional of me. Iâm here for your grandfather and nothing more.â

âBut if something more happensâ¦?â

âTrust me, it wonât.â

âWhy not?â

âBecause we wonât let it. People shouldnât get emotionally involved in a situation like this. Itâsâ¦ It just doesnât make sense.â

âWhen does love ever make sense?â

âWho said anything about love?â

âI just did.â Ross laughed. âYouâre looking at me like Iâve got frogs coming out of my mouth.â

Claire was inept at flirting, and it never led anywhere good. âFrogs, I can deal with. Flirting, not so much.â

âDid you know my grandfather picked you because he thought Iâd like you?â

âNonsense.â Yet she couldnât help remembering how adamant George had been about Natalie Sweet not being Rossâs girlfriend.

âAsk him. Heâll tell you.â

âWhy would he do something like that?â

âHeâs worried about me. Wants me to settle down, have a family.â

Now it was Claireâs turn to laugh. âWith me? In that case, Iâm sure he knows heâs barking up the wrong tree.â

âAnd why is that?â

She countered with another question. âWhy is this so important to him?â

âHe doesnât want me to be alone.â

âAnd what do you want?â

âI want to make out.â

Of course he did. He was a guy. âRoss.â

âJust being honest.â

She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her back against the car door. âYou were the first person your grandfather told me about after he hired me.â

âI suspect because Iâve given him the most to worry about.â He pinched the bridge of his nose; his voice was anguished as he said, âChrist, I wish Iâd spent the past two years with him instead of in a war zone.â

âHeâd hate to hear you talking like that,â she pointed out.

âThatâs why Iâm telling you, not him.â

âYou can tell me anything you want, Ross.â She had an urge to touch him, but instead tucked her hands between her knees.

Ross stared straight ahead, though she sensed he wasnât seeing the moonlit curves of the distant hills. âHeâs the true North in my life. Always has been, but particularly since I lost my dad. I figured heâd quit worrying about me now that Iâm out of the army, but now heâs decided to worry about my future.â

âBecause he cares about you so much,â she stated.

He set his cup in the drink holder and grew thoughtful. âHeâs right about one thing. I donât want to be alone anymore. Iâm so damned ready to start a new chapter now that Iâm back. Have a family of my own, make a life somewhere quiet and safe. After what I saw over there, Iâ¦itâs all that matters.â

It felt achingly intimate, getting a glimpse of his dreams. She could listen to him all night. Yet at the same time, she wanted to ask him what would happen if he discovered he wasnât able to have those things. Would he curl up and die? Or keep moving, avoiding attachments?

Finally he relaxed and turned to her with a grin. âFirst things firstâhow about we work on getting a date. Does this count as a date?â

She laughed, pretending she found his question amusing. âYeah, sure.â Flustered, she checked her mobile phone and the monitor receiver, to make sure she hadnât missed a message from George.

âEverything okay?â asked Ross.

âNo news is good news,â she said.

âHow did you end up picking this sort of nursing, anyway? Ushering people out of this life? Is it something you grew up dreaming of?â

âVery funny. Sure, every little girl dreams of growing up to help people die.â

âThen whatâs the appeal?â

âAppeal isnât exactly the word. Itâs more like aâ¦calling. That suits me. Work that matters, and work that needs to be done well, and with love. I can love my patients with all my heart,â she said. âI love them for as long as they have. And then I let them go and move on.â

âI donât know how you do it,â he said. âHow can you stand it?â

âI just do.â She paused, realizing her voice had turned rough with emotion. She did have a passion for her work, but she wasnât used to discussing it with anyone. Ross was so dangerously easy to talk to. âThis area is something I found when I was doing practical training. It was easy to be drawn to the really gratifying areasâtaking care of babies, clinical work, the E.R.âpatching people up and sending them back to their lives none the worse for the wear. I liked those specialties. They were easy to like. Then I looked deeper at the work and at myself, and I realized nursing is a very nuanced profession, with so many ways of helping people. I learned that helping doesnât always mean curing. Sometimes it means doing whatever will help the patient to find comfort and closure. We talked a lot in our classes and evals about what constitutes a good death. It made for interesting discussions, but nobody really knows the answer.â

âCongratulations, Miss Turner,â he said with a gleam in his eye. âYou win the round for which one of us is the better bullshit artist.â

She didnât react other than to tilt her head to one side and regard him with a quizzical expression. âIâm sure I have no idea what youâre talking about.â

âIâm going to make a prediction,â he said. âOne of these days, youâll show me who you truly are.â

The way he said it gave her chills. No one had ever talked to her like this before, and she didnât quite know what to make of him. âAre you accusing me of hiding something?â

âItâs not an accusation. Just an observation. Feel free to prove me wrong anytime you want.â

Â 

When Claire and Ross got home, Charles and Jane were just getting ready to leave. Claire thought Georgeâs coloring was off, but maybe that was the wine. He was smiling and relaxed, so she said nothing.

âIt was wonderful,â Jane was saying to Ross. âThank you for bringing us together.â

Ross nodded. âThanks for coming.â

Claire felt an echo of the warm buzz of attraction that had swirled through her all evening. Ross Bellamy was like a heady, dangerous drug.

âWe have some big plans,â said Charles. âThereâs going to be a family reunion.â

âA fabulous one, right here at Camp Kioga,â Jane added, bubbling over with a sense of mission. âIâm going to arrange everythingâGeorgeâs family and ours, all of us together here.â

Claire shot a glance at Ross. His smile looked a bit strained. âAre you up for something like that, Granddad?â he asked.

âAbsolutely,â said George. He seemed pleased but tired. âIf anyone can put something together on short notice, Jane can.â

âWe left a family album here so you can look at it, Ross,â said Jane.

âIâll do that, thank you.â

âGood night, George,â said Charles. âWeâll see you tomorrow.â He held the door for his wife, and they left, Jane chattering away, already planning.

âIt was a fine eveningâharder in the anticipation than in the actual doing,â George said, his voice a bit wistful. âCharles and I were rivals in so many ways. It all seems quite foolish now.â

âYou sure youâre okay with a big family reunion?â Ross asked again. âYouâre not just agreeing to make them happy?â

âItâs precisely what I want,â George said. âA chance to meet their children and grandchildren. I always wondered about him. Them.â He frowned, rubbed his temples. âHelp me to bed, will you, son?â

Apprehension sharpened Rossâs features as he glanced at Claire. She tried to look reassuring as she said, âGood idea. Iâll get your meds, George.â She took her time, hearing their murmured conversation. She hoped they werenât talking about her. Dear God, no.

When she rejoined them, George was propped up in bed, paging through the photo album his brother had left for him. It was overstuffed with pictures in black and white, fading Kodachrome snapshots, Polaroids that had gone rusty at the edges and a number of printouts from modern digital cameras.

George was focused on a shot of Charles in a military uniform, surrounded by his wife and four kids.

âGranddad?â Ross said softly.

George blew his nose. âIâm sorry I missed all these years of my brotherâs life.â Then he waved a hand impatiently. âEnough regrets. Iâm feeling tired. Iâll be better in the morning. Dim the light, would you? Itâs too bright.â

âHere you go.â Claire handed him a small cup of pills and a glass of water.

He swallowed the pills, then made a shooing motion with his hands. âNo more hovering. Itâs early. Go back to your date.â

âWe werenât on a date,â she said, not looking at Ross.

âThen youâre idiots, both of you. Any fool can see youâre attracted to one another. Even my brother noticed. Go away. Let an old man get some rest.â

They left the room, and Claire went to the kitchen to get started on the dishes.

âLeave that,â Ross said. âThe catering staff will do it in the morning.â

âDo you know how foreign that soundsââcatering staffâ?â Sheâd never even stayed in a place with room service.

âItâs a Mohawk word for âget your sweet ass over here and hang out with me some more.ââ

Heat flared in her belly. âI think youâd better go.â

âWhatever you say.â But instead of heading for the door, he crossed the room and gently trapped her against the counter.

She put her hands on his arms, but she didnât push him away. He felt so strong, soâ¦safe. And then he kissed her, first with a tender touch of his lips and then pressing harder, tasting her with an intimacy that made her dizzy.

After a moment, she managed to pull back. âWhat are you doing?â she whispered.

âKissing you good-night,â

âYou canât kiss me good-night.â

âI just did. I feel like doing it again.â

âStop it, Ross. I mean it. There are so many ways this is wrongââ

âExcept that it feels exactly right.â He cradled her face between his hands. âDo you know how long itâs been since I kissed a woman?â

âAbout twenty-four hours.â

âBut before that, it was more than two years. Damn, you feel good.â

âYou should go now.â But she discovered that she couldnât move. She didnât want to. She wanted to stay here all night, in his arms.

âIn a minute.â He bent to kiss her again. She told herself to step back, not to be an idiotâ¦but her heart didnât listen. Her need was overpoweringânot just for the kisses and the intimacy, but for the connection. Heâd said he wanted her to show him who she was, and for the first time in her life, she saw that as a possibility. It was only fair to warn him, however, what he was getting into.

âRoss,â she whispered against his mouth, âthereâs something you need to know about me.â

âI want to know everything,â he said. âYour favorite song, your favorite color. What your breathing sounds like when you sleep, the color you painted your apartment, the books you like to readââ

âI donât mean things like that,â she said. Oh, she wished it were that simple. She wished she could tell him anything but the truth. She tried to imagine the words she would use. I saw a cop commit two murders, and heâd kill me if he ever found me.

Way to ruin the mood, she thought.

He kissed her some more, his lips gently nipping at the curve of her neck. âHow about,â he said, âwe do this for a while, and then you can tell me later.â

âGood plan, butââ

A thud sounded in Georgeâs room.

Ross sprang back as if sheâd scalded him. âGranddad!â

They jumped up and ran to Georgeâs bedroom. Georgeâs monitor was on the floor, presumably knocked there as heâd reached for it.

âHeâs having a seizure,â Claire said, rushing over to the bed. She checked his airway and turned him on his side.

Ross snatched up the phone by the bed. âIâm calling 911.â

âYou canât,â she said, the words rushing from her.

âWhat?â

She knew he was going to hate what she said next. He was probably going to hate her. But she had to level with him. âYou canât call 911 because your grandfather has a DNR order. Do not resuscitate.â

Sixteen

Ross called 911.

He didnât care what Claire was saying about some bullshit DNR order. His grandfather needed help. Maybe she had a piece of paper that said he wasnât to be resuscitated, but that didnât mean he couldnât be treated.

Granddad was strapped to a backboard, his neck encased in a cervical collar, precautions to keep him stable during transport. He regained consciousness and said something, but an O₂ mask muffled his voice. As his nurse, Claire rode in the ambulance. Ross followed in his car.

At Benedictine Hospital, Granddad was whisked into the emergency department. By the time Ross parked and raced to the ward, Claire was already conferring with a doctor and a pair of nurses. Granddad lay surrounded by machines, wheeled trays, tubing, hovering residents and nurses.

âThis is Ross Bellamy,â Claire said. âHeâs Mr. Bellamyâs grandson.â

âAnd my grandfatherâs not DNR,â he stated, refusing to look at Claire. âHeâs full code, and thatâs how heâs to be treated. So get to work.â

Dr. Randolph, a young resident with a half-grown beard and tousled hair, stepped forward, holding the manila folder from Claire, filled with Granddadâs medical records. âJust so you know,â said the doctor, âfull code means all possible lifesaving and support measures will be taken. Your grandfatherâs having trouble breathing. There might be obstruction or collapse of the upper airway. That likely means intubation and placement on a ventilator. Other measures might include catheterization, defibrillation, transfusions, feeding by tubeâ¦â

The list of horrors seemed to go on and on. Ross reminded himself these were lifesaving measures. Heâd seen it in battle. The procedures were never kind, but at least the patient lived.

A loud crash sounded, drawing everyoneâs attention to Rossâs grandfather. Somehow, heâd worked a hand free of its Velcro strap and had knocked over a tray of instruments. Claire rushed to his side, waved away the tech who had been working the bag valve.

âHe seems to be breathing a little better,â said Dr. Randolph.

Granddad coughed, waving his hand weakly. âFor the love of God, Ross,â he said. âWhat part of âdo not resuscitateâ do you not understand?â

Â 

Though Granddad refused to be admitted to the hospital, he was kept for a few hoursâ observation. The emergency department was bright with glaring lights, noisy and busy with crying kids, babbling drunks, people moaning with sickness or injury, staffers calling orders back and forth. Ross gritted his teeth through some gruesome flashbacks to the war, but he shoved them into a dark corner of his mind so he could focus on his grandfather. A knee-length blue curtain offered a thin illusion of privacy.

âWhen you were off fighting,â Granddad told him, âI was in a war of my own, at the Mayo Clinic. You think I didnât want to fight this disease? You think I didnât want to beat it? I gave it all I had, Ross. They numbed my head, screwed a steel frame into my skull and zapped me with gamma rays. Pumped me full of chemoââ

âYou never told me, Granddad.â

âAnd you never told me everything you saw in your war, either. Ross, the tumor keeps recurring. It wonât stop, not ever. I wonât go through that again. I wonât. Not even for you.â

George drifted off to sleep. Ross left the curtain area in a hurry, feeling his emotions unspooling fast.

Grief came to life like a spring thaw after deep winter. He had spent the past two years staying numb, lost in a bubble that separated him from everything. Now the bubble had burst; feelings he hadnât experienced in years were flooding through himâthe desperation and sadness of his grandfatherâs illness, the sense of futility.

Granddad. Memories suddenly flowed through him, powerful, a raft of feelings.

Although he didnât make a sound, Claire must have sensed the shift in him. She followed him to a quiet area by the water cooler. He was crying. When the hell had he started crying?

âI told myself Iâd be ready when the time came,â he said, his voice rough and unsteady. âI lost my dad and dealt with it,â he said, swiping his sleeve across his face. âIâll deal with this, too.â

âOf course you will. Itâs the only way to honor your grandfather.â

âHell, I know that. But Iâm not doing so hot.â He took a deep breath and it surprised him to realize he was still alive. Because heâd always thought something that hurt this much would kill him.

âYes, you are,â she said.

âNo. Heâs seen his brother. I want to get him back to the city. Back to the doctorââ

âWhat about what he wants? Thatâs whatâs important here. You can break down. You can be afraid, but you have to keep the focus on George.â

Ross knew what he was afraid ofâbeing without his grandfather. Yet after tonight, he also knew dragging him back to treatment would mean pointless suffering. âYeah,â he said after a while. âI know. But I donât know what the hell I am going to do.â

âTake things a day at a time. Maybe even an hour at a time. The best thing you can do for George is to be present in the moment. Have your meltdowns with me. I can take it. But if your grandfather senses youâre worried and stressed, heâll be worried and stressed, too. When youâre with him, just let that go.â

Let go. Ross pictured himself letting go. A soldierâs hand in the midst of an emergency. A fish caught at the waterâs edge. Let go, he thought. Let go.

Her simple words wrapped around his mind, rescuing him as surely as someone borne away on a medevac flight. Her gentle presence lifted him up, carried him away. The best way to love his grandfather now was to let go.

Â 

Ross called his uncle Trevor and told him what had happened. Trevor insisted he bring Granddad to the city right away.

âI think youâd better come here,â said Ross. âEveryone should come here, and soon.â

They argued, because the rest of the family still clung to the hope that Granddad would get better. Ultimately Ross was in charge. Trevor agreed to come to Avalon. His brothers, Gerard and Louis, would not be far behind.

Ross and Claire returned to the curtain area. His grandfather was still dozing, but when he woke up, they were going to take him back to Camp Kioga.

âCan he hear us?â asked Ross.

âMaybe.â She straightened a corner of the institutional-blue blanket that covered him.

On the waist-high bed, Granddad looked lost somewhere, lost in a world of dreams. Ross looked around the area, gathering up his things. There wasnât much to grabâGranddadâs bedroom slippers, his old cardigan with the patched elbows, left in a heap like yesterdayâs laundry. When Ross picked it up, something drifted from the pocketâa photograph. An old black-and-white print with deckled edges. It showed a boy and a girl in the lake, treading water, laughing up at the camera.

On the back of the snapshot, someone had written, âGeorge Bellamy & Jane Gordon, Camp Kioga 1945.â

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.

âMother wants us to pick up a pie to bring to the camp picnic,â George said. âYou drive, and Iâll check out the scenery.â

A pair of girlsâponytailed, barelegged, in tennis whitesâstrolled past on their way to the tennis courts, and George followed them with his eyes. âI donât mind a little sightseeing now and then.â

Charles took the wheel, driving with his elbow propped on the window frame and a grin on his face. âYou go right ahead and flirt all you want,â he said good-naturedly. âMe, Iâll wait until the real thing comes along.â

âLife is too short to wait around for anything,â George declared. The breeze felt good on his face, and the air was sweet with the smells of summerâfreshly cut grass, blooming flowers, the dry scent of the sunâs heat on the pavement. âBurn that Candleâ by Bill Haley and His Comets was blaring from the radio as they passed beneath the main gate.

âBack at Camp Kioga at last,â Charles declared. âI canât believe itâs been ten whole years.â

Time had flown by. It was the summer before Georgeâs 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 didnât take much convincing. He often thought about his boyhood summers here. So much drama packed into such a short timeâa series of childish adventures had ended abruptly with the twin disasters of a young manâs tragic death and Georgeâs affliction with polio. The summer after that, heâd finally come to grips with his illness and realized that the true limitation to healing was himself. Drawing on reserves of strength he didnât 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 himâfrom all the Bellamys, reallyâby polio. Georgeâs rehabilitation took more time and energy than he ever could have imagined. When heâd demonstrated the will to walk again, his parents had left no stone unturned, seeking out the best clinics and programs for him. Heâd gone to Warm Springs in Georgia, where FDR himself had spent some time. After V-E Day, theyâd taken him to the famed Institut Fleurier, in the NeuchÃ¢tel canton of Switzerland.

The hard and painful work of restoring function to his legs consumed him. FDR had said that once youâd 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 Georgeâs rehabilitation. Heâd lost time in school, too, and ultimately found himself only a year ahead of his brother Charles at college. He told himself he didnât mind, though he knew people compared the two brothers. George didnât 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 didnât 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 theyâd left behind, or something they never really had to begin withâinnocence, 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 hadnât run into her yet; theyâd only been here a few days. He wondered if heâd even recognize her; sheâd 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, heâd looked George in the eye and said, âMake the family proud, son.â

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 youâll 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. âI do wish youâd join in the dancing, really. I can see a half-dozen girls here who would love to cut a rug with you.â

He was always ready with a smooth answer. âMother, Iâm not the dancing type. Iâll let Charles do the honors.â

The fact was, George had never learned to dance. The last time heâd been on a dance floor, it had been right here at Camp Kioga. Heâd 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 heâd recovered the ability to walk, heâd 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 didnât push too hard. She had suffered the fright of her life with Georgeâs 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 Yaleâs 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 wasnât so sure about that, but he had promised to bring them a cherry pie from the Sky River Bakery.

âHoly smokes, look at this stuff.â 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.

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.

âJiminy Cricket,â someone said, the voice cutting through the others in the bakery, âI can never make up my mind about my favorite flavor.â

Something about that voiceâits timbre or inflectionâresonated 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 couldnât 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.

Sheâd changed in a hundred ways, but the things he remembered best about her were exactly the sameâwide 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 hadnât 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 herâ¦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 wasnât 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 thisâmoments 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? âHello, what are you doing for the rest of your life?â âExcuse me, but I think Iâm falling in love with you?â Anything he might say would surely sound ridiculous. Besides, what would a lively girl like this want with a gimp like George?

âHo-lee smokes,â said a voice behind George. âSave my place in line. Thereâs someone I have to talk to.â

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.

Â 

âWhoâda thunk it? Iâm already half in love with Jane Gordon,â 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. âDo you believe in love at first sight? Because Iâm pretty sure thatâs what happened to me.â

âBaloney.â 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 hadnât second-guessed himself, if heâd 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 heâd met a special girl.

âAnd to think sheâs been living in New Haven all this time, and we never even knew,â Charles went on. George took a small, controlled sip of his highball.

âWe donât know any Gordons, do we?â their mother asked. âStill, that name sounds familiar. Are they staying at the resort?â

Charles laughed, his abundant blond hair gleaming in the glow of the candles on the table. âHereâs the crazy thing,â he declared with a grin of pure exuberance. âTheyâre not staying at the resort. They run the resort.â

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 theyâd never run into her there. In his mind, heâd 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.

âOh, for heavenâs sake, thatâs why the name is familiar,â said their mother. âTheyâre just a local family.â

When he heard the pronouncement, George felt the knot in his chest unfurl. He no longer felt regret that he hadnât 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 didnât fit in with the college set. Neither he nor Charles had any business getting romantic with her. He certainly wasnât 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 hadnât 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 didnât fit into her world.

Yet as Charles went on and on about herâJane Bonnie Gordon, a farmerâs daughter raised right here in Avalonâit dawned on George that his brother didnât understand.

âSon,â their father said to Charles, âwe donât blame you for enjoying a little summer flirtation, but donât make it into anything more than that.â

âToo late,â Charles said breezily. âIt already is more than that.â

Their mother fanned herself. âDear heaven, do you meanââ

âOf course not,â Charles said quickly. âWe only found each other today. Sheâs swell, and youâre going to love her.â

âAnd where does she go to school?â Mrs. Bellamy asked pointedly.

âJaneâs not in school. She says her fatherâs barely getting by, trying to keep this place in the black. But I want you to understand, Iâm going to ask her out, court her the way I would any other girl.â

âSheâs not any other girl,â their father said in a low warning tone. âSheâs not for a young man like you.â

âDonât be a fuddy-duddy.â Charles laughed. âThis is not the nineteenth century. Weâre not in Bizetâs Carmen.â

The fact that he had brought up the operaâabout a class struggle that had ensued when a cigar-factory girl fell for a powerful aristocratâproved 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 hadnât he stepped forward? Why hadnât 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 Georgeâs favorite thing about himself.

âOh, look whoâs here,â said Mrs. Bellamy. âThe Darrows will be joining us for dinner tonight.â 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 Churchillâs resignation as prime minister to the introduction of the Salk vaccine for polio.

âWhat a blessing,â declared Millicent Darrow, the younger of the sisters. âHow fortunate that we wonât have to worry about polio anymore.â

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.

At the conclusion of dinner, the musical ensemble struck up âDance With Me Henry,â and the girls looked expectantly at the brothers. âMy favorite,â said Millicent.

âYouâll have to forgive my brother,â said Charles Bellamy to the sisters. âHe refuses to dance.â

The girls exchanged a glance. âNot even a tiny foxtrot? Georgie, say it isnât so.â Beatrice tucked her lips into a pout.

George, who couldnât stand being called Georgie, offered his smoothest and most charming smile. âThink of it as a humanitarian gesture,â he said. âI donât want to prey on some hapless girl and cause her irreparable physical harm.â

The sisters laughed. âI assure you, weâre made of sturdier stuff than that. Good Yankee stock.â

âWhat about the psychological damage of being paired with the worst dancer ever to blight the floor?â he inquired, arching an eyebrow at them. âBelieve me, no one can overcome that.â

âTrue,â Millicent agreed. âA reputation is more fragile than the physical body. A broken bone can heal. A ruined reputation stays ruined forever.â

âWill you listen to yourself?â Charles looked incredulous. âYou sound like an old biddy.â

She glared at him. âWell!â

âBut you look like a young biddy,â he said soothingly.

âThatâs better.â She batted her eyes at him, then turned to George. âDidnât you have to take dancing lessons at school? I thought it was considered one of the gentlemanly arts.â

âYouâre right,â he said. âIt is. Perhaps that explains why Iâm no gentleman.â

They all laughed as if heâd made a great joke.

âHow did you get out of dancing lessons? Where were you when everyone was learning to dance?â

In an iron lung, he thought. Fighting for my life.

He could feel his brother watching him. Charles had never understood Georgeâs reluctance to tell people about the polio. And George couldnât understand why it was so hard to grasp. Why the devil would anyone want to advertise such a weakness?

Unlike his older brother, Charles had led a charmed life. Everything came easily to himâgrades and excellence at sports, ease in social situations, everything. He was the all-American golden boy, for sure. It was probably no wonder he couldnât relate to a polio victim with a game leg.

âWe missed you at the bridge tournament this afternoon,â Millicent said to Charles. âWhere were you?â

âAround and about,â Charles said.

George suspected Charles had managed to sneak off to spend time with Jane Gordon. Charles should know better. Then again, heâd always been one to follow his impulses, and damn the consequences.

âWho won the tournament?â asked Charles.

âGeorge and Beatrice, of course,â she said.

âMy big brother always wins at everything,â Charles said with a rueful smile.

âDonât be too impressed,â George said, noticing Charles had managed to avoid actually saying where heâd been during the bridge game. âI tend to only try things I have a chance at winning.â

âAh, so thatâs your secret,â said Millicent.

âI just disclosed it, so itâs a secret no more.â

âI shall have to think about this one,â Charles said. âThe key to success is to only do things you can succeed at.â

âIt works for me,â said George. âKeeps frustration to a minimum, anyway.â

The band struck up a lively version of âMoments to Remember,â and a raft of couples glided onto the dance floor. âAre you sure you wonât dance with me, Georgie?â Beatrice asked, making a new effort.

âTrust me when I say I value your health and mobility too much to inflict myself on you.â

âTell you what,â Charles suggested, smooth as silk. âLetâs send George to grab another bottle of wine for the table. And Iâll dance with both of you at the same time. Weâll invent a new dance.â

The girls were charmed by the prospect of two against one. As Charles stood up and offered each of them an arm, George shot his brother a look of relieved gratitude.

âDonât forget that wine,â Charles said. âMake it a good one. Make it two.â

âIâll be back in a jiff.â George rose from the table, thinking about every step he took. For years, he had dedicated himself to hiding the ravages of the disease. A London tailor made all his clothes, from dress suits to casual wear. Every pair of slacks, even his golf chinos, had been designed to conceal the mechanical brace he wore on his left leg. As he crossed the big, busy dining room, he knew he moved with confidence because he had practiced it.

Since it was a Friday night at the lodge, the dining room was particularly busy. Friday was the day the men came up from the city to join their families at the summer retreat. Parkhurst Bellamy was no exception. Like the others, he had arrived at the cocktail hour and had been drinking steadily ever since. He and Georgeâs mother were deep in conversation with the elder Darrows. They made a good-looking and self-satisfied foursome, the personification of the American success story.

George discovered that if he blurred his eyes, everyone in the room looked the same. Pale and well-groomed, dressed in expensive clothing and smoking imported cigarettes dispensed from monogrammed cases.

At the edge of the crowd stood someone who didnât fit in. Her hair was too frizzy, her features too vivid, her expression too unguarded.

Jane Gordon was working in the dining room that night. In a plain serverâs frock and apron, she stood at the dessert table, cutting slices of layer cake or adding dollops of whipped cream to the banana creme pie.

During a break in the action, he saw her slip out a side exit to the broad deck overlooking the lake. On impulse, he followed her. George rarely did things on impulse, but he couldnât stop thinking about his missed chance in the bakery. Besides, his dinner companions were all on the dance floor.

She didnât notice him at first, as she stood at the rail of the deck with her back to the dining room. A string of paper lanterns illuminated the deck, deserted now with everyone inside dancing. She faced the lake, which lay in placid splendor, bathed in moonlight. It was a soft summer night, the temperature just right, the breeze as gentle as a babyâs breath.

George stood in the shadows, wondering what to say to her. Maybe his initial attraction to her had merely been a fleeting nostalgia, he thought. But no; judging by the way his heart sped up, the feeling was still there.

His stupid leg brace creaked. She turned quickly. âOh!â she said. âIâm sorry, did you need something, sir?â

She spoke in a funny upstate accent. Back when they were kids, he hadnât really noticed that about her. âHello, Jane,â he said, stepping into the light.

She relaxed visibly at the sound of his voice. âGeorge Bellamy. I saw you in the bakery earlier, but I didnât get a chance to say hi.â A dazzling smile lit her face. âSoâ¦hi!â

âHi yourself. I, um, should have said something in the bakery, but you seemed busy. I didnât want to distract you.â

âIâve been wondering about you all day, George.â

Oh, boy, he thought. Maybe sheâd felt the same magnetic attraction that had stricken him. âJaneââ

âLook at you! Youâre all better.â

His heart sank as he realized what she was thinking. It had nothing to do with attraction. âRight,â he said. âAll better.â

âItâs kind of a miracle, huh? Last time we saw each other, you were in a wheelchair. Now youâre standing there, ready to take on the world. And here I am, shirking again.â

âIs that what this is?â he asked, all too eager to change the subject. âShirking? Itâs very pleasant.â

âDonât report me, okay? Old Mrs. Romano, in the kitchen, is a drill sergeant. I hate getting in trouble and letting people down.â

âI canât imagine a girl like you doing that.â

âOh, believe me, I can be a lot of trouble.â She fanned herself with her apron. âI just needed to get some air. Cigarette smoke bothers me.â

It bothered him, too, so much so that he was unable to smoke like most men his age. Yet another legacy of the polioâthe intolerance of smoking, thanks to his weakened lungs.

âIs your brother really dancing with two girls at once?â she asked, peering through the window.

âWhat can I say?â George inquired. âHeâs a man of many talents.â

âHow about you?â she asked. âDo you have talents of your own?â

âI keep them hidden,â he said jokingly.

âWhy?â

âModesty. What about yourself?â

âIâm good at a lot of things,â she said with a grin. âLike pie-cutting.â

âThatâs admirable.â

âWhipping cream,â she added. âI excel at whipping cream.â

âNot every girl can say that.â

She giggled. Her gaze strayed to the window. Another dance was starting and the Darrow girls appeared to be exhorting Charles to stay with them.

âHeâs popular,â Jane observed.

âYou noticed. Does that bother you?â

âNot really,â she said easily. âIâm not the jealous type. Besides, I have nothing to worry about. Heâs already half in love with me.â

George was startled into laughter. âI beg your pardon.â

âIâm not being vain, just truthful. Charles is half in love with me.â

George was stunned by her frankness, and her confidence. And completely, unjustifiably envious. âAnd the other half?â

âIs waiting to see if the feeling is mutual.â The moonlight made a beautiful bas relief of her face, accentuating its bone structure. Suddenly she didnât look like a local mongrel, but as refined as a princess.

âWhat are you waiting for?â

She touched her finger to her bottom lip. âMaybe Iâm holding out for someone else.â

He wondered if she was teasingâor if she was feeling the same electric attraction he was.

George gave himself a stern talking-to. Taking up with this girl would lead to nothing but disaster and heartache. She was a working-class girl with a troubled mother and a father who was just getting by. She had no education beyond high school. Nothing but blazing good looks and an innate personal charm that would one day make some man extremely happy. Just not a man like George Bellamy.

Besides that, Charles liked her, though the infatuation was bound to fade away by the time the leaves began to turn.

âYouâre wasting your time, holding out for someone else,â George told her.

She moved close to him on the deck. âAre you sure? Are you absolutely, positively sure?â

Time stood still. Even the night breeze seemed to quiet as if the world was holding its breath. The chorus of crickets fell silent. George had the crazy sensation that his life had contracted to this one moment. He couldnât help imagining what it would feel like to put his arms around her. Would she feel sturdy and firm, or soft and willowy? He wondered what her hair would smell like, how her lips would taste. He was teetering at the edge of a cliff in the dark, about to take the plunge even though he had no idea what lay beyond.

And he didnât even care. For this moment, nothing else mattered but the girl standing before him. Passion and need swirled around him like a fog, obliterating everything that used to matterâcommon sense, status and background, education and family expectations.

George had never felt this way before. Heâd wanted to feel this way about a girl. Heâd certainly tried. Now he realized how different things were with Jane. This was no weak affinity contrived by his parents as they steered him toward an appropriate young lady. This was a raw and undeniable hunger he could not resist or combat in any way.

He took one more step closer. Exerting a huge effort of will, he moved with excruciating slowness. If he just grabbed her and kissed her with the full force of his passion, it might scare her. He didnât want to scare her. He didnât want to do anything but make her happy.

Now she stood just a heartbeat away. Her mouth was half-open, slack with anticipation. The air between them stirred as he whispered her name. He couldnât think straight. He couldnât think at all.

âDo you remember what you promised me, last time we saw each other?â Jane asked.

âItâs been ten years.â

âI remember. You promised youâd dance with me.â

âAs I recall, you promised Iâd dance with you,â he said.

âAha. So you do remember.â

He remembered everything. Every single secondâthe way she used to challenge and laugh at him. The kittens in the barn. Swimming in Willow Lake. Finding the tracers in his legs. Their firstâtheir onlyâchildish kiss. Everything.

âIn that case,â Jane continued, âyou owe me a dance.â

He was no good at it but a skillful performance wasnât the point. The moment he touched her, nothing else mattered. Nothing except his hand, snug against her trim waist. His other hand, holding hers. In that moment, he knew a happiness so complete, it made him laugh softly for no reason. Gazing down at Jane, he was lost in her, lostâ¦

âThere you are,â Charles brayed from the doorway. âIâve been looking all over for you. You out here stealing my girl?â

With a jolt of horror, George came to his senses and stepped back. âUh-huh, stealing your girl. Good one, Chaz.â

He hadnât met Janeâs eyes. Later he would always wonder. If heâd looked, what would he have seen in her expression? Regret? Longing, confusion, or resentment? The fact was, he knew almost nothing about this girl and had no right to wish he did.

âIâd better get back to work,â Jane murmured, and slipped inside.

Eighteen

A bittersweet nostalgia tinged the days of summer that year. All the Bellamys knew it would probably be the last time they would spend together as a family at Camp Kioga. By this time next year, George would be a Yale graduate. He would embark on his Grand Tour, the prize at the end of college. It was a tradition for young men of breeding to spend six weeks after graduation touring the great capital cities and countryside of Europe.

Privately George was glad to see the end of summer. It was painful seeing Jane Gordon every day, knowing she and Charles were secretly cultivating a love affair. He had to force himself to look the other way. Charlesâs ardor would fade with the season.

At last, summerâs end arrived and the torment was coming to a close. Each year, the resort hosted a series of closing activities, including athletic contests, parties and sailing events, and a farewell songfest on the shore, with everyone gathered around a campfire.

The Bellamys went on a final sunset sail together. The wind was slow, but no one complained. Tonight, speed was not the point. The point was to absorb the splendor of the lake and surrounding wooded hills in order to keep a little piece of summer in their hearts to carry them through the winter.

âSometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this, in an impossibly small town like Avalon,â said Charles. âI think I should like it quite a lot.â

âNonsense,â his father chided. âYouâd be bored before the first frost.â

âI donât know about that.â

âI do. My sons are both going to be men of the world.â

âWhatever you say, Father,â George intoned, just to keep the peace. Honestly, he did want that. New York, Paris, Shanghai, even the ruined capital of Tokyo was said to have rebuilt itself after the war into the most modern city on the globe. He wanted to see the sights and meet people, write about the great issues of the day.

Georgeâs mother dabbed away a tear. âWeâve had such marvelous times here,â she said.

âYeah, like that time I got polio, just marvelous,â said George.

âNot funny,â said Charles. âPeople all over the place came down with polio.â

Parkhurst Bellamy patted his wifeâs shoulder. âThere, there, pet. Weâll be back.â

âI suppose we might, but never like this. Never the four of us as a family. My three precious boys with me.â

âItâll be even better,â her husband assured her. âSomeday soon, the boys will be married. Theyâll have wives to bring and eventually, children of their own.â

She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. âDo you hear that, my sons? You have a duty to your family.â

They all laughed, though they knew she was only half joking.

Â 

Finally the day had arrived to say goodbye to Camp Kioga. As they cleared their belongings out of the bungalow and did a final walk-through, George felt a little queasy. He didnât know why, but he had a feeling he would not be back, despite what his mother said about future generations here.

Members of the camp staff were already swarming the cottages, getting them ready to close up for the season. He looked around for Jane, but didnât see her. Maybe she and Charles were sharing a private farewell. George pulled his mind away from the notion. He had no business speculating. Summer was over.

Their things were all loaded into the DeSoto, and Charles came loping up with his sloppy duffel bag, cramming it in the trunk. There was a suspicious ghost of lipstick on his cheek, in precisely the subtle coral shade favored by Jane Gordon. George had memorized the color, describing it in fine detail in his journal.

Hellâs bells. He just remembered something. âI have to go back to the bungalow,â he said. âI left my journal there.â

âOh, George,â his mother said. âYouâd forget your own head if it wasnât attached.â

âIâll be right back.â He walked quickly, trying not to favor his bad leg. He couldnât stand the idea of leaving behind his private notebook, in which he wrote his observations every night before bed. Some of the entries were merely prosaic, others profound; all of them were private. Heâd left it in the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, along with his favorite pen.

Workers had already started on the bungalow, bringing out armloads of linens. In the bedroom, he found Jane Gordon, and froze. In her hands, she held the Moleskine notebook.

âI came back for that,â he said, his gut twisting with anxiety. He couldnât tell whether or not sheâd read any of it. Surely there hadnât been time. The idea of Jane reading his private thoughtsâfar too many of which were about herâmade him furious. At the same time, he was fighting a fierce urge to kiss her, long and hard. He could barely look at her as he ungraciously snatched the journal from her. âGoodbye, Jane,â he said tersely, and walked away.

Nineteen

Georgeâs son Trevor showed up the morning after the trip to the E.R. He brought his daughter, Ivy, who took one look at George and burst into tears as she collapsed into his arms. Then she spied Ross and squealed, leaping into a hug. âThe family drama queen has arrived,â said Ross, catching Claireâs eye.

Ivy was adorable in every sense of the wordâadorable to look at, a china doll with silky California-girl hair and a taste for bohemian chic; she had an adorable personality, too, with an air of complete sincerity and genuine sweetness. Though she greeted Claire with caution, she spoke kindly.

âThank you for taking care of my granddad,â she said.

âHeâs really wonderful,â Claire said. âYouâre lucky to have a grandfather like George.â

âI know.â Ivy looked around the resort. âAnd itâs incredible here. Iâm glad we came, Granddad. The whole family will be here soon.â

âIn that case, Iâm going to get some rest,â said George, a gentle dismissal. âLater today, we can go into town together.â

As they left the cottage, Claire said, âI have to go see the catering director. Iâm organizing a special welcome dinner for the rest of your grandfatherâs family.â

âThat sounds nice,â said Trevor. âThank you.â

âYouâre younger than I pictured you,â said Ivy. âHave you been doing this kind of nursing for long?â

âFive years,â Claire said. âI started right out of nursing school.â

âIt must be hard,â said Ivy.

âYes.â Claire saw no reason to lie about it. âThatâs no reason not to do it, though. Every patient Iâve ever worked with has left me a gift.â She smiled a little at Trevorâs expression. âNot that kind of gift, despite what you might have been told. I mean, some part of their heart or wisdom, something to hold on to. My second private patient was a child, a nine-year-old named Joy. Sheâs the one who convinced me to believe in miracles.â

âShe got better?â

Claire shook her head. âNot that kind of miracle. The miracle of what the human spirit can endure, and how much the heart can hold. I miss her. I miss them all, but this is not about me.â

Ivy started to cry again. âSheâs fabulous,â Ivy said to Ross, right in front of Claire. âNo, I mean it, you are,â she added, turning to Claire. âAnd Ross thinks so, too. I can tell.â

âWhat I think,â Ross said, âis we should keep the focus on Granddad.â

âYes. What happened last night? Why didnât he stay in the hospital? I thought you wanted him to get better,â Ivy said.

âWe all want that,â said Ross. âWe canât make it happen, though. No one can. The doctor gave me a packet of information about this illness. Itâs grim stuff.â

Trevor nodded. âIâve been reading up on it, too. But are you sure this is right?â

âHell, Iâm not sure of anything. But at the hospitalâ¦ Weâre not putting him through that. He just wants to be with us. In fact, there are some pretty specific things he wants. He made a list.â

While Ross explained the list to his uncle and cousin, Claire headed to the main lodge. It was a relief, knowing Ross was an ally now.

Â 

George had an appointment in town, and he was dressed for a business meeting.

âYouâre seeing a lawyer, Granddad?â asked Ross. âSeriously?â

âIs there any other way to see a lawyer?â asked George.

âYou have Mr. Matlock in the city,â Ross pointed out. âHeâs been your lawyer for years.â

âThis is a small bit of work, an amendment to a document,â George said. âHardly worth bothering Sherman with.â

âWhat kind of document?â

âNow that youâre back, Iâm giving you power of attorney, provided you donât use it to force me back to the hospital.â

A look of apprehension shadowed Rossâs face. âWhat about Trevor?â He gestured at his uncle.

Trevor raised his hands, palms out. âItâs all yours.â

âI want it to be you, Ross,â said George. âFor a number of reasons. There has always been a particular clarity between us, ever since you were a boy.â

Ivyâs eyes grew large. âMomâs going to have a cat.â

âIvy,â her father said in a warning tone.

âJust saying.â She turned to her grandfather. âWe can all go into town together. Dad and I will explore the town and catch up with you later.â

âThat sounds like a splendid plan,â said George.

Â 

The nameplate on the door indicated a partnership of threeâMelinda Lee Parkington, Wendell Whitcomb and Sophie Shepherd. Ross held the door for Claire and his grandfather and they stepped into the reception area. The desk was occupied by a girl who resembled an escapee from an anime conventionâpink hair, facial hardware, black lacquered nails. The Happy Bunny sign on her desk said Daphne McDaniel and the slogan, They Donât Pay Me Enough To Be Nice To You.

She looked up at the three of them, and focused on George, who held a thick legal-size envelope. âCan I helpââ

âMake it happen, Wendell,â said an angry male voice. A guy with flame-red hair strode out of one of the law offices. âItâs what Iâm paying you for. The mother of my kid took off with him and I have my rights.â He paused at the reception desk. âI need to book a meeting next week,â he stated.

âIâll get right on that,â Daphne said coolly. âAfter I help these people. So have a seat, Logan.â

âIâm kind of in a hurry.â

She fixed him with a donât-screw-with-me stare. âTwizzler?â she asked, pushing a large glass candy jar in his direction.

He grabbed one and stepped aside.

âAll righty then,â she said to George. âIâm sure Sophieâs eager to meet you. Right this way,â she said, taking them to a conference room.

A moment later they were joined by the lawyer George had retained. Sophie Shepherd was blonde, chic and pregnant. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, and she wore pearls and a dove-gray suit with a pink silk blouse draped over her enormous belly. After greeting each of them with a handshake, she set a legal file on the table.

âI see congratulations are in order,â said George.

âThank you.â

The sight of a pregnant woman never failed to give Claire a pang. Having a baby was out of her reach; it would be the height of foolishness to have a child when Claire had to be prepared to run at any moment. Still, she couldnât help envying women like Sophie.

âYour first?â asked George.

âMy fifth, actually. I have two grown kids from my first marriage, and my husband Noah and I adopted two of our own. So this makes five for me. And speaking of kids, I need to let you know something in advance. I used to be married to Greg Bellamy.â

âCharlesâs boy?â George smiled. âThatâs delightful.â

âGranddad, he was her first husband,â Ross pointed out.

âOh, er, thenâ¦not so delightful,â said George.

âI only bring this up in the interest of disclosure,â Sophie explained. âMy two oldest children, Max and Daisy, are Bellamys, so in that respect, thereâs a family connection. Iâve since remarried, but I wanted you to be aware of it. If you prefer to work with one of my associates, Iâll understand.â

âNot at all,â George assured her.

Claire caught his eye. âGeorge, if you donât need anything else, Iâll wait outside.â She didnât need or want to be privy to the details of any legal arrangements of her patients. She slipped out and made her way to the reception area.

The receptionist was just saying goodbye to the red-haired guy called Logan. Claire tried not to speculate about his dilemma, but she couldnât help herself. He was almost blindingly handsome in a youthful, intense way. She surmised from his angry remarks that some woman had taken his kid somewhere. Claire told herself this was a perfect example of the complications and pain she was avoiding by being entirely on her own with no ties to anyone.

Yet another of the many lies she told herself.

Daphne scribbled something on the back of a card and handed it over. He stuck it in his pocket and turned on his heel. The receptionist eyed him over her catâs-eye glasses as he yanked open the door and left. Noticing Claireâs attention, she said, âEverybody needs a little eye candy.â She opened the glass apothecary jar of Twizzlers. âHelp yourself.â

Claire smiled, but shook her head. âNo, thanks.â She paged through a copy of Coastal Living, her gaze lingering on photos of summer picnics and lakeside gazebos. Did people really live like this, surrounded by flowering shrubs and fancy patio furniture? She set the magazine aside and picked up the New York Times, giving herself a reality check by skimming a story about criminal proceedings against a mob boss.

The meeting with the lawyer didnât take long. By the time they exited the conference room, George and Sophie seemed like old friends.

Sophie handed them a flyer. âMy husbandâs band is performing at a benefit later today. Itâs a concert in the park, to raise funds for the local library.â

âYour husbandâs a musician? How nice.â

âOnly as a hobby, but he loves it. Noahâs the drummerâdefinitely not the star of the show. Heâs a veterinarian.â

âDonât let her fool you,â Daphne said. âNoahâs a good drummer, and the band is great.â

The invitation read, âInner ChildâOne Performance Only. Sponsored by the Friends of the Avalon Free Library.â

âWhat kind of music does the group play?â Claire asked. She pictured an elegant piano quintetâ¦and drums.

âMostly ska and old-school punk rock,â said Sophie.

Daphne grinned. âSophie, you need to work on your rocker-chick image.â

Â 

They all went together to the library event. Claire was fairly confident George wouldnât want to stay long. He tired so very easily. Yet today, an afternoon nap and a dose of meds gave him a second wind.

The event was in full swing when they arrived. An outdoor stage had been set up in the park surrounding the library. It was a fine, breezy evening. Wind-borne seeds floated in the sunlit air, and delicious smells emanated from the booths and stands. Ross pushed his grandfatherâs wheelchair, passing booths for face painting, people dressed as characters from books, volunteers selling paving bricks with patronsâ names, a stand offering kolaches from the Sky River Bakery. Claire watched families strolling around together, and she noticed Ross watching them, too.

âI love it here,â Ivy exclaimed. âRoss, donât you love it here?â

His gaze tracked a pair of kids running around with balloons. âThis is the kind of thing soldiers think about when theyâre overseas,â he said.

He had a way of saying things with unvarnished frankness. She wondered what it would be like to simply speak her mind and not have to think about every word that came out of her mouth. Sometimes Ross seemed to sense she was holding back, but heâd never know how much. Every moment she was with him, it grew harder and harder to hide herself. More than anyone sheâd ever met, he saw her heart, and the prospect frightened her.

A sharp blast of feedback screeched from the tall speakers. She saw Ross flinch, and suspected it was fallout from being at war. But he seemed to shake off the tension and turned toward the stage.

A guy with shaggy hair, wearing ripped, skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt stepped up to the mic. âIâm Eddie Haven,â he announced, âand weâre Inner Child.â He introduced the band membersâa girl named Brandi on bass, Noah Shepherd on drums, and on keyboard, Rayburn Tolley.

With a jolt of recognition, Claire studied the keyboard man. âThatâs the cop who pulled us over on the first day,â she reminded George.

âIndeed it is. Ross and Ivy, your mothers set the law on us, did they tell you? That young man pulled us over.â

âGood Lord.â Ivy turned to Claire. âIâm mortified.â

âHeâd been told I was kidnapping George.â

âAt least he didnât give you a speeding ticket,â George pointed out. âThat was decent of him.â

âIâd like to dedicate a song to your favorite librarian and mine, Maureen Davenport,â Eddie Haven announced. He made a grand flourish on his electric guitar while the applause crescendoed. Looking pleased but hardly comfortable with all the attention, a young woman stepped on stage and issued a brief welcome.

âItâs thanks to our community support that our library fund is growing,â she said. âThereâs still a lot of work to be done. And donât forget, weâre still looking for a sponsor who would like naming rights for our new genealogy annex. I know itâs an ambitious request, but in working to save the library, Iâve learned to be audacious.â

âThatâs what we love about her. Sheâs bringing sexy back to the library,â Eddie said, and was answered by wild hooting and applause.

The first number was an upbeat ballad that soon had a swarm of kids jumping around in front of the stage. Claire noticed George cringing a bit, and she gestured at Ross. They moved away from the speakers.

âNot to your taste, Granddad?â Ross asked.

âApparently not, but Iâm glad I came.â

The music changed to a slow, emotional love song, and couples started dancing. Eddie Haven had a compelling voice, raspy with sentiment. âGo,â said George, âthe two of you. Dance.â

âGranddadââ

âYou heard the man,â said Ivy.

Ross rolled his eyes, but clearly decided against further argument. âMay I?â he asked Claire.

Despite the artificiality of the situation, she felt an unbidden thrill. He held her decorously, but it still felt like a forbidden embrace. She loved the warmth of his hand in the curve of her waist, and the hardness of his shoulder as she leaned into him. Maybe it was his background as a soldier, or his profession as a medical rescue pilot; when she was with him, she felt irrationallyâbut gloriouslyâsafe. It was embarrassingly romantic, under the circumstances. Snap out of it, she thought, but ignored her own inner voice. Nothing she told herself eased the crush she had on this man.

âYour hair smells like flowers,â he whispered.

She tilted her head to look up at him. He seemed to hold her a little closer, and she enjoyed a few lost minutes, a brief fantasy of being with him, out in the open. When the song ended, they looked around and saw that Georgeâs chair was empty. After a momentary panic, they spied him with Trevor and Ivy, apparently chatting up the town librarian.

âWhat do you suppose theyâre talking about?â Claire asked.

âI bet heâs propositioning her.â Ross paused. âI think she likes it.â

As they watched, the librarian hugged George, then stepped back, dabbing at her eyes. George was beaming as he returned to them. Ivyâs eyes were shining with pride, and Trevor looked thoughtful.

âWhatâs going on?â asked Ross.

âWell, now,â George said, settling back into his chair. âThat was a successful exchange indeed. I managed to help the library and cross off an item on my list.â

âHow so, Granddad?â

âI wanted to make an indelible impression,â he said. âWhat better way than to buy the naming rights to the library annex?â

âWhat,â said Ross, âyouâre getting a building named after you?â

âNot exactly,â said George, his expression softening. âAfter your father. The Pierce Bellamy Annex. Has a nice ring to it, donât you think?â

Claire watched Rossâs throat work as he swallowed hard. âYouâre really something, Granddad,â he said.

George nodded. Claire could tell by the way he was holding his head that he was done for the night. She caught Rossâs eye, and a message passed between them.

âLetâs call it a night,â Ross said to the others, and they headed back to the lake.

Â 

Although George had rallied after the hospital visit, Ross sensed the progress of his disease in subtle ways. A misused word, a dropped utensil, or frozen moments in the middle of a conversation. Granddad slept a lot, but when he was awake, he seemed restless. The hospital incident had ripped away the last pretense of normalcy.

Ross couldnât believe it, didnât want to believe it, but he was moving into acceptance mode now. It broke him up to think of it, but what else could he do?

Trevor and Ivy went to town to meet with Jane Bellamy. They wanted to help her organize the family reunion, which was coming together fast. No one talked about the reason for the urgency, but it was on everyoneâs mind.

Rossâs goal was to give his grandfather a good day. This morning, Granddad had said he wanted to go sailing on the lake.

âGive me a hand with the boat,â Ross said to Claire. âWeâll get everything ready, and then Granddad can join us.â The catboat had a sleek hull and a good padded seat astern for his grandfather. It reminded him of the little boat they used to take out on Long Island Sound, back when he was a kid.

She followed him to the dock. âJust let me know what to do. Iâve never been boating before.â

He caught himself staring at her legs and having completely inappropriate thoughts about her. âWatch that mooring rope, will you?â He indicated the rope loosely coiled around a cleat on the dock. âGrab the line. Do it now.â

âWhat? What line?â Even as she spoke, the rope slithered into the water and the boat bobbed away. âNow what?â she asked, watching the boat in dismay.

âYou were in charge of the rope, you go get the boat,â he said.

âIâm not jumping in.â

He shot her a look, then kicked off his shoes and peeled his shirt over his head. The water was cool and ribboned by sunlight, and within a few strokes, heâd grabbed hold of the mooring line and towed it back to the dock. âThanks a lot,â he said, levering himself up out of the water.

âNo problem.â

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 hadnât 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.

âOkay, you can help me seat the mast,â he told her.

âYouâre going to have to tell me what to do.â

âTry to keep your balance,â he said. âIâll hold up the mast, and you guide it to that hole right there, in the bow. Watch your fingers.â

She was nimble and cooperative, and he felt himself relaxing in spite of himself. In short order, theyâd 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 didnât want to be, even though it had been Granddadâs 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. âWhat?â

âNothing. Just checking you out and having a sex fantasy about you.â

âRoss.â

âI know, Iâm a jerk. So sue me.â

âYouâre talking nonsense.â Her cheeks lit with a blush, which pleased him inordinately. She turned away. âHow about you show me how toâ¦I donât know. Batten the hatches. Rig up the lines.â

Okay, so she didnât 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 heâd owned for years. âEverything shipshape, Skipper?â 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. âAre we sailing yet?â she asked, her eyes dancing.

âWeâre sailing,â said Granddad. âYouâll want to sit up on the rail when it starts to heel.â

âAny second now.â 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. âCareful there. A boat like this wants to throw you in the water if you donât balance it out.â

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, Granddadâs ringing laughter, the sweet trickle of water under the hull.

âSailing is awesome,â Claire said. âI had no idea. Itâs exhilarating and relaxing at the same time.â She beamed at George. âThis was a treat.â

All in all, it was a golden day, filled with moments Ross hoped heâd never forgetâhis 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. âIâm going to lie down for a bit,â George said.

âIâll help you,â 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.

âYou all right?â asked Ross. âWarm enough?â

âJust right,â Granddad said. âThank you for today.â

âAre 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?â

Granddad nodded, though his eyelids drooped with fatigue. âYou asked me where heaven was. And my answerâs still the same. Right here, my boy. Right here with you.â

Â 

Claire watched Ross leave the house and walk to the end of the dock, lowering the boatâs 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 peopleâs grief, but it was familiar to her. Expected. Anticipated, even.

Yet watching Rossâbig shaking shoulders, big clenched fistsâshe felt a fresh twist of sympathy. She cared about him so much; it hurt to see him hurting. Until now, sheâd been able to detach herself from other peopleâs pain, yet Ross was different. Ross mattered far too much to her. The approach sheâd used in the past wasnât 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 Claireâs 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 couldnât be stopped or even reversed. And when you landed, pain was involved.

Twenty

Over the next several days, the rest of Georgeâs family arrivedâhis 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 wasnât 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 BellamyâCharlesâs 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.

Trevorâs 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. âDonât try to keep track of everyone,â Ross advised her, surveying the busy lobby. âEventually youâll figure out whoâs who.â

âItâs wonderful to have a big family.â

âIt can be a mixed blessing,â he said.

âIâve always wondered what people mean by thatâmixed blessings.â

âYouâre about to find out.â 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 youngerâbut 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.

âClaire,â said Ross, âIâd like you to meet my mother, Winifred.â

Hence the lack of warmth, thought Claire. âNice to meet you,â she said.

âAnd my aunt Alice,â added Ross, presenting a woman who was slightly younger and plumper than Winifred, though equally fashionable and dour. âSheâs Ivyâs mother.â

âWeâre the ones who asked the local police to check on George,â said Winifred.

At least she didnât pull any punches. âHeâs lucky to have a caring family.â

âYes, he is.â Winifred subjected Claire to a thorough study. âHelp me understand. Why on earth would a young woman simply take off with an elderly man?â

âI appreciate your candor,â she said. And honestly, she did. It was so much worse to pretend. âThe answer is, Iâm a licensed private duty nurse, and George engaged my services.â

Winifred and Alice exchanged a glance, heavy with doubt. âIf you truly wish to help, youâll persuade him to return to the city,â said Alice. âThatâs what he needsâpeople who want to do him some good.â The two women turned resolutely and headed for the dining room.

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

âI donât take their suspicions personally. Theyâre worried about your grandfather.â

âTheyâre worried about his money.â

âItâs not so much about the money. Itâs more about holding on to what they have.â

âYouâre a nicer person than most,â he said.

âThanks, but I canât agree. Just stating a fact.â

âChrist, can you not take even the smallest compliment?â he said. âI just canât figure you out, Claire.â

âExcuse me,â she said, flustered. âI need to check on George. I think theyâre almost ready in the dining room. Do me a favorâbring him in when I signal.â

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 Georgeâs list, sheâd had a strong dose of small-town lifeâand 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 Georgeâs favoritesâincluding dessert from the Sky River Bakery, an extra microphone for the sound system and a karaoke setup.

Claire savored the expression on Georgeâs 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.

âThank you all for coming,â George said from his place at the head of the table. âYou 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 donât 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.â

He lifted his glass, which was filled with a bright concoction of Midori, lime and vodka. âSpecial thanks to whoever created the Bellamy Hammer. Iâve always wanted a cocktail named after me.â

âHear, hear.â Glasses were lifted in a salute.

âAnd now I must ask you to bear with me,â said George. âItâs one of the worldâs small mercies that I will be performing for one night only. This is something Iâve always wanted to doâsing to my family.â

âYouâve got to be kidding,â said one of the teenage grandsons.

âIâm afraid not, my boy. Now, help me to the stage.â

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 croonerâs 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 âL-O-V-Eâ 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.

âIâm sorry,â he said, his shoulders hunching. âIâ¦wanted to be better for you.â

âGranddad, youâre fine,â said Ivy, hurrying up to the stage. âYouâre perfect.â 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 grandfatherâs moment. The set ended to appreciative applause, to laughter and, of course, tears.

Youâre 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.

âI wonât inflict any more of my singing on you,â he said, seating the mic back in its stand. âIâll just claim my youngest granddaughter for a last dance, and then call it a night.â 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. âHeâs just so wonderful.â

âDance with me. Heâll like that.â

She had a moment of hesitation, then gave in for Georgeâs sake. Ross was a natural on the dance floor, exuding confidence. When it came to Rossâs 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 didnât 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 comingâthat one day sheâd meet a man and lose her heart. Sheâd been so careful, though. How had this happened?

Reality intruded in the form of a vibrating pocket.

âSorry.â Ross pulled back and took his mobile phone from his breast pocket. The display was lit with a message she probably wasnât supposed to see, but he turned it in her direction. âOMG, U TOTALLY LUUURVE HER.â

âFrom my cousin Ivy,â he said easily.

Claire burned with embarrassment. âSheâs a big tease.â

âMaybe. But sometimes sheâs right about things.â

Â 

Now that the family had arrived, everything grew more complicated. They all but took over the resort. The girl 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 couldnât 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 partyânot for skeet, but for targets, at the campâs 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 Georgeâs life from hour to hour. Granddad slept more and more, just as the doctor had predicted. Yet he didnât 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 theyâd 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. Heâd 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 teamâthe Hornetsâwhich 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 clubâs biggest success story was that their star pitcher, Bo Crutcher, had gone on to a successful career with the Yankees.

Rossâs friend, Natalie Sweet, came up from the city. A sports writer with a growing reputation, she was always up for a ball game. She didnât pull any punches when she saw Ross. âYou look totally different,â she said.

âDifferent how?â he asked.

âYou seemâ¦ Okay, this is going to sound weird, under the circumstances. You seem comfortable here.â

âBelieve me, nothing about this is comfortable. But I have to keep reminding myself of whatâs important. My grandfather, and making sure every day is a good one.â

âWow. Thatâs soâ¦un-Ross-like. Youâve always been an action hero. Now youâre Mr. Mellow.â

âClaireâs a good influence on me.â The admission slipped out, surprising him as much as it did Natalie. âHey, speaking of which. You were going to see what you could find out about her.â

Natalie hesitated, then said, âYeah, Iâve been busy. And look, buddy. Weâve got a baseball game to watch.â

Surrounded by billboards for local businesses, the playing field was flooded with stadium lights. The bleachers were jammed and the concession stand busy selling hot dogs, beer and popcorn. Nasally organ music whined over the PA system, and excitement crackled in the air. The Hornets were playing a team called the Bremolos, and apparently it was a heated rivalry.

A local girl named Chelsea Nash sang the national anthem, followed by the traditional commandâPlay ball!

âHoly cow,â said Rossâs cousin Micah, shading his eyes, âthatâs Granddad down there.â

âLadies and gentlemen,â said a mellow-voiced announcer, âweâve got a VIP in the house to throw out the first pitch tonight.â

âCool,â said Micah. âI betcha Granddadââ

âJust listen,â hissed his sister, Hazel.

âHeâs back in Avalon for the first time sinceâwowâsince 1955. Please welcome Mr. George Bellamy!â The announcer elongated the name, and applause erupted from the stands.

Arm raised in greeting, wearing an honorary Hornets jersey, Granddad walked out to the mound under his own steam. The sight of him in the glare of the stadium lights, with the organ playing the âChargeâ theme, brought a lump to Rossâs throat. He looked so frail, yet his smile was broad as he wound up and threw a pitch to the catcher.

âOkay, not totally humiliating,â said Micah.

âGranddadâs awesome,â said Hazel, and started to cry.

Applause accompanied Georgeâs walk off the field.

Ross climbed down from the bleachers to find Claire. She had his cane at the ready, and the wheelchair parked nearby. âThanks for that,â he said, knowing she had organized it.

âIt was my pleasure,â she said, flushing a little.

They hadnât spent much time alone together since the dancing. Ivy had been teasing him endlessly about having a crush on Granddadâs nurse, but Ross didnât mind. He did have a crush on her. In the midst of this family tragedy, he had an ill-timed but undeniable crush. Granddad had noticed, of course. Heâd always been able to read Ross like a book. Ross tried to brush the issue aside, claiming he wanted all his focus to stay on Granddad.

âNonsense, my boy,â the old man had said. âThereâs never a bad time to fall in love. Look at me and Millie.â

âYouâre in love?â

âYou find that so unlikely?â

âI find itâ¦quick.â

âItâs the only way to be when you donât have all the time in the world.â

âYouâre going to break her heart.â

âI explained my situation to her. It was pleasant, at first, to have someone who didnât know I was sick, but as weâ¦as things progressed, I realized she deserved fair warning.â He was quiet for a few moments as he took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, then cleaned the lenses with a corner of his baseball jersey. âShe told me to go ahead and break her heart. Said sheâd rather be with me for a summer than not at all. Sheâs a remarkable woman, that Millie.â

Ross saw Charles and Jane Bellamy in the bleachers, waving vigorously. George excused himself to go say hi. Jane held a drooling great-grandbaby in her lap. Ross had met a number of their family membersâtheir younger son Greg and his wife, Nina, Charlesâs granddaughters, Jenny and Olivia, and their husbands and babies. Charlesâs grandson, Max, worked part-time at the resort. There was a granddaughter, Daisy, who had gone to live overseas for a time, and their eldest son named Philip, who was out of town on an extended trip with his wife.

At this point, they all seemed like relative strangers to Ross. They were nice enough, but strangers.

âWhat are you thinking?â asked Claire, watching him.

âAll these new BellamysâGranddad is just so eager for me to bond with them.â

âOf course he is.â

âA bond like that canât be forced or hurried,â he said. âItâs the kind of thing that grows over time together, shared experiences.â

âHe knows that,â Claire assured him. âBut it has to start somewhere.â

True, thought Ross. But the feeling was bittersweet, because behind the sentiment was the knowledge of the void his grandfather would leave behind.

Granddad rejoined them a moment later, looking tired but happy. âIt was a good pitch, wasnât it?â

âOutstanding,â said Ross. âYou always had a good arm.â

âYouâre being too generous.â He took his cane from Claire. âAnother item accomplished.â

âWay to go, George.â

âOh, Iâm just warming up. Thereâs lots more to do. You donât think Iâve forgotten about the skydiving, do you?â

Â 

A 150-mile-per-hour free fall with his grandfather strapped to him was well outside of Rossâs comfort zone.

Granddad joked that if the fall killed him, he wouldnât have to worry about the rest of his list. Ross had found a company in nearby New Paltz with a flawless safety record and an array of the best equipment. Duke Elder, the owner-operator, was ex-army like Ross. Heâd been a paratrooper during his term of service and later got his pilotâs license, certified for a number of aircraft. In addition to the parachute jumping, he also ran an air transport service to Newark, Logan and LaGuardia.

They went to the airfield on a cloudless day. The family gathered around and watched a short instructional video. George looked as excited as a kid in his jumpsuit, goggles and helmet.

âA helmet, eh?â heâd observed wryly. âIâm not sure I get the point. If something goes wrong at ten thousand feet, Iâm going to break more than my head.â

Claire caught Rossâs eye. âThen make sure nothing goes wrong.â

âI see she doesnât hesitate to nag you,â George observed. âI like that in a woman.â

âYouâre joking, right?â Ross asked.

âItâs a sign that she cares,â George replied.

âItâs a sign that sheâs a nag,â Ross said.

âOr how about this?â Claire said in exasperation. âItâs a sign she gets annoyed when you talk about her as though she isnât there.â She stepped forward and clasped George in a hug. âHave fun,â she said. âItâs going to be amazing.â

âI want to go.â Rossâs cousin Micah looked yearningly at the aircraft. Granddad took him over to check it out.

Winifred challenged Claire. âDid you put him up to this?â

âWhy would I do that?â

âWell, I should think thatâs obvious,â Winifred said.

âMom.â Ross sent her a low-voiced warning.

She ignored it. âThe sooner George is gone, the sooner she gets her hands on his fortune.â

âExcuse me,â Claire said, and she walked away.

âThereâs something off about that girl,â his mother said. âI canât put my finger on it. Sheâs hiding something.â

âYeah, like the fact that youâre out of your gourd.â Ross lowered his goggles and went to board the plane with his grandfather. Everyone else stayed behind, in a small cluster of worry near the landing site.

The ascent was swift and loud. Granddad held himself very still, gazing out the hatch window. He caught Rossâs eye, leaned over and handed him a tiny, folded bit of paper. On it, heâd written down a line from Platoâs Republic. Ross stuck it deep in his pocket.

They reached thirteen thousand feet, and it was time to go. Just before stepping through the hatch, Ross checked in with his grandfather one final time. âYou sure?â he mouthed.

Granddad nodded and gave a thumbs-up. He mouthed the words, âYour move.â Behind the goggles, his eyes shone, and he was laughing, though the wind drowned out the sound. Ross was so damn grateful he was giving this to his grandfather. As he secured the tethers for the tandem jump, he just hoped like hell he wouldnât screw up the ending.

Ross had made hundreds of jumps; heâd felt the rush of exhilaration and the roar of air past his ears during training and drills. But sharing the 150-mile-per-hour fall with someone he lovedâwas a high heâd never felt before. The risk and trust involved in this filled him with tenderness and awe.

When his altimeter beeped, he gave a hand signal for âGo time.â He extracted the pilot chute from its pouch and threw it into the surrounding airstream. The bridle of the pilot chute then pulled the deployment bag out, the lines releasing one stow at a time until fully stretched. With a dramatic gust of air and swift upsweep, the main parachute inflated.

Everything decelerated to a slow drift under the canopy. Ross steered with the control lines, giving his grandfather as smooth a ride as he could manage. He could feel Granddadâs excitement like an electrical current. When he depressed both toggles, the wing slowed and the two of them swung forward, momentarily pitching the flight angle of the wing upward, like a brief ascent to heaven.

Twenty-One

The glow of success that emanated from George after the parachute jump was infectious. âI have a new rule for everyone,â he declared at dinner that night. âDo notâI repeat, do not save your peak experiences for later. Have them now.â

Claire found herself looking over at Ross, and quickly glanced away. Georgeâs words stuck with her, though, pointing out a painful truth. She wasnât just saving her peak experiences for later. She was saving everything for later.

She was sitting on the dock, in the moonlight, when Ross came to her. âWhatâs up?â he asked.

âI have a slightâ¦housing dilemma.â

âWhatâs that?â

âMiss Darrow.â

âMillie?â

âDoes that freak you out?â

âAre you kidding? It inspires me. In fact, this could work out well for us.â

âI donât understand.â Ah, but she did. She did.

âYouâre homeless,â he said simply.

âI could try to sneak inâ¦â

âAnd risk interrupting something? Forget it.â

âI can bunk with your cousins. Ivy said thereâs plenty of roomââ

âNo way. Iâm not going to pass up a chance to get you alone.â

Her heart skipped a beat. âWhy?â

âIâm done,â he said simply.

âDone what?â

âDone pretending I donât think about you all the time. Done trying to keep my hands off you.â

âRossââ

âThatâs as honest as I know how to be, so itâs up to you. Say the word, and Iâll walk away and you wonât hear me say this again. You have to tell me, Claire. The decision has to come from you.â He paused, regarding her with an intensity that feltâ¦physical. âI think you want to,â he said. âI really think you want to.â

Sheâd spent years trying to avoid exactly this situation. Sheâd succeeded, too, but not because she was so strong or smart or resourceful. It was because she hadnât met Ross Bellamy. Now that she had, sheâd never be the same. Now that sheâd felt his arms around her and his lips on hers, a door had been opened. Sheâd known she could never go back to her old in-between life, never forming more than a temporary or superficial connection with another soul.

âWell?â he prompted.

She shut off the part of her mind that was rational, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. There was a lifetime of yearning and need in the way she clung to him, which should probably warn him off. Instead he held her close, and she was filled with a feeling that was new and fresh and exhilarating.

If he walked away right now, she would never forgive herself.

His hands skimmed down her back and then pulled her closer, and the warm pressure of his touch stole her breath. She felt everything with a heightened awareness, not just his embrace but each tiny detailâthe slight breeze on her skin. The fresh smell of the lake. The soft churr of a creature in the underbrush. The moon itself shone with a peculiar sharpness, as though sheâd taken some drug. She hadnât, though; that was the extraordinary thing. Here was the world stripped bare for her, perhaps for the first time.

They walked hand in hand to his cabin, lost in a haze of desire. Even so, she took in the silver flow of moonlight on the lake, the flicker of a distant campfire, and the faint pulse of music from the main lodge across the water. She hadnât seen the inside of his place yet, and was not surprised to find it uncluttered and relaxing. He poured two glasses of ice wine, as if heâd somehow known it was her favorite. Out of long habit, she took her customary sip and prepared to set it aside. But the sweet, frost-cured wine was so delicious. One sip was not enough.

âCheers,â she said softly, and drank the entire glass.

âNow youâre talking.â He brought the bottle into the bedroom.

Into Ross Bellamyâs bedroom. Oh, this was a huge step for her. He had no idea how huge. And he had no idea how much she wanted it. The lake breeze blew softly through the screened window, ruffling the pale curtains. In the dim light, she was drawn to the personal things in the room, like three different ties draped over a shirt on a hanger, as if heâd been trying to figure out which one matched. A stack of books on the bedside tableâThe Complete Book of Fly Fishing, a fat, dog-eared bestseller, and a slim volume with the unexpected title, Meeting God in Quiet Places. There was a shelf with things from his pocketsâcell phone, scribbled notes, a knife.

And then there was the bed. The frame was made of vintage birch with a hand-painted rustic scene on the headboard. The linens were a pile of luxury, including a thick duvet and a folded Pendleton blanket. Her dress slipped away when he untied the sash. She heard him catch his breath, and it was a complete turn-on. She was so used to hiding herself, she hadnât been prepared for this sense of liberation. As for Ross, he was fresh out of the military and looked it.

They lay down together, and they shared everythingânervous laughter, sighs of delight, endless kisses, more wine, some good-humored but urgent fumbling with the condom. Claire was filled with an overwhelming urge to tell him everything, to shed her secrets like articles of clothing, stripped from her body, piece by piece. He was shaking as he sank down slowly, too slowly, and she lifted herself to meet him halfway and clasp him close, as close as sheâd dreamed of. There was a moment of hesitation, a slight wince of pain, but she drew him closer still. He froze, holding himself with sinewed arms, his face in shadow but his voice a rasp of disbelief as he said, âNo way.â

âWay,â she whispered. âIâm so glad I waited for you.â

He kissed her and moved with exquisite slowness, creating a deep rhythm of intimacy that made her feel as though sheâd suddenly taken flight, and then burst into a thousand pieces. She cried outâhis name, perhaps, or maybe it wasnât a word at all, and floated back to earth like a leaf on a breeze, settling safe in his arms. Neither of them spoke for the longest time. It wasnât necessary. He had discovered one of her deepest desires, and she surrendered it gladly. Gratefully, even.

Finally, here was someone with the uncanny ability to see who Claire really was, because he saw her heart. The secrets she gave up were the secrets of her heartâthe loneliness and longing for someone who would love her. The sweetness of his embrace. Claire couldnât be honest with her words, but she could with her touch.

It was addictively pleasurable; it was a kind of searing pain, released from a hidden place deep inside her. This relinquishing of control was what sheâd been protecting herself from. And no wonder. It was dangerous. It made her completely vulnerable. It made her feel as if she might die at any moment. It made her feel as if she might live forever.

Twenty-Two

Awakening slowly, filled with the pleasurable fatigue of intense lovemaking, Ross reached out to gather Claire closer to him.

His arms came up empty. Where the hell was Claire?

Granddadâsome emergency with Granddad.

Ross yanked on a pair of jeans and sprinted barefoot across the compound. His grandfather was sleeping peacefully. Maybe she went to the lodge to get coffee.

He returned to his cabin to grab a sweatshirt and put on some sneakers. At the main pavilion, there was morning coffee. There were resort guests in tennis whites and golfers heading out for the day. But no Claire.

The morning desk clerk said sheâd requested a ride to the train station. Sheâd left only a verbal message that there was a personal emergency, and she wouldnât be back. The early train had left more than an hour ago.

Thoroughly confused now, Ross wondered if heâd scared her off. It was possible. Heâd had the shock of a lifetime when heâd discovered she was a virgin. Was. She was so not a virgin anymore, not after last night. Heâd been her first, which totally blew his mind. Maybe it blew her mind, too. Maybe sheâd freaked out and goneâ¦where? He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number. After a few rings, a generic voice-mail message greeted him. He hung up.

Then he called Natalie. When sheâd come up for the baseball game, she said she hadnât had time to look into Claireâs background. Maybe by now she had.

âI was wondering if you found out anything about Claire,â he said.

âOh my God, you slept with her.â

Damn. How had she figured that out? âIt gets worse. She took off. Pulled a classic disappearing act,â he said.

âRoss, Iâm really sorry, but I canât say Iâm surprised. Sheâs notâ¦ Iâm pretty sure sheâs got a lot to hide. I was going to tell you at the baseball game, butâ¦â

âWait a minute. You knew at the game? Why didnât you say anything?â

âIt didnât seem right. You seemed so happy with her, Ross.â

âBut sheâs a liar.â

âI donât know what she is. Justâ¦maybe her being gone is for the best, you know.â

âI donât know, Nat. I donât know a damned thing.â

Â 

He found his grandfather on the porch, drinking a cup of tea and staring at the compartmentalized pillbox with his medications.

âClaire usually helps me with this,â he said, frowning in confusion.

âClaireâs gone,â said Ross. âShe left word at the front desk that she wouldnât be back, and took the early train to the city. No explanation, no goodbye. Nothing.â

âThat doesnât sound like her.â

âFunny you should say that.â Ross took the compartmentalized tray of pills and found the care notes on the chart. Every detail was documented with the time of day and Claireâs initials, and her signature at the bottom of each page. C. Turner. Until this moment, heâd never even seen her signature. It seemed strange that he never had. Last night, as heâd held her and whispered in her ear, heâd had the sense that he knew every single thing about her. Right.

âWhy is it funny?â asked Granddad.

âBecause when it comes down to it, we donât really know what sheâs like.â Ross gave his grandfather the same pills heâd had the day before and filled in the time on the chart. If Claire didnât return, theyâd need to find a replacement.

Last night, everything had been vivid and clear. The attraction that had been growing between them all summer had turned into even more than heâd hoped that it could. Heâd fallen asleep with the certainty of holding his destiny in his arms. Right again.

âI thought I had her figured out, Granddad,â he said. âI was even starting to think I had us figured out.â

âSon, once you have a woman figured out, the fun is over. Thereâs nothing wrong with having more to discover.â

âYeah, Iâm getting the feeling she doesnât want me or anybody to discover more about her. She gave me so damn little, now that I think about it. I should have asked for more.â

âPerhaps,â said Granddad. âThen again, perhaps sheâs already told you everything you need to know.â

That she was quiet and thoughtful. Almost freakishly modest, devoted to her job, played a mean hand of pinochle and had a sly sense of humor. That she was vulnerableâyes. And cautious beyond all imagining. In a way, she reminded him of war refugees in Afghanistan, whose eyes were haunted by traumas they refused to talk about.

âWhat if she doesnât come back?â he asked his grandfather.

âThen you go to her,â Granddad said simply.

âLike a stalker,â said Ross. âI donât think so.â He was already coming to terms with losing her. It wasnât right. Theyâd met under the most contrived of circumstances. Fresh out of the service and facing the loss of his grandfather, heâd been in no shape to take on an intense relationship.

âBaloney,â Granddad burst out. âSon, Iâve given you plenty of advice through the years, but if youâve heard nothing else, please hear this. Donât hesitate when you know something is right.â

âButââ

âLet me finish.â Granddad raised his hand, its tremor a grim reminder of his illness. âThere are more opportunities lost to hesitation than I can say. Chances slip by while youâre standing there weighing your options or rationalizing choices or putting together a damn decision matrix. If your heart tells you something, who are you to argue? There is more wisdom in one beat of the human heart than in an entire think tank filled with brain matter.â

âGranddad, I appreciate what youâre saying, but Claire and I arenât like that.â

âIâve been watching you together. The two of you are exactly like that.â He paused, gazing out at the scenery, aglow in the morning sun. âPowerful feelings tend to scare us,â he added. âAnd when weâre scared, we deny them. All Iâm saying is, donât let all the extraneous nonsense in your head distract you from that which was true.â He picked up his notebook, and a breeze wafted through the pages. âBelieve me, I know whereof I speak.â

Ross noticed the left side of his grandfatherâs face was pulled downward, and he was starting to slur his words. âMaybe you should lie down, take a nap.â

âIâll sleep when Iâm dead,â he snapped. âAnd Iâm not kidding about that. Look, I havenât lived a perfect life. Far from it. Iâd like to claim Iâve gained wisdom through the years, and maybe I have, but thereâs really only one thing I can leave you with, and thatâs this. Live. Just live your life. Quit worrying about what people will think, and fling yourself into things. Make mistakes. Itâs amazing how much I missed because I was afraid to make a mistake. But if you realize youâre going to make mistakes no matter how careful you are, then maybe youâll be less afraid.â

Afraid? Ross wondered if he was afraid.

âDo the things that matter,â Granddad continued. âI once spent a week of my life paving my driveway. The old one was a neighborhood eyesore, pitted and buckling from tree roots, and weeds were poking up through the cracks. So I spent an entire week supervising a crew of workers. I oversaw every aspect of the work, even dictating how the pavers were placed and the height of the shrubberies. Damn. I wish I had that week back,â he concluded. âIâd spend the time so differently. Thatâs all Iâm saying. Donât trade your life for crap that doesnât matter.â

âI wonât forget,â Ross assured him.

George scowled at a half-read novel Claire had left on a table. âYou already are forgetting.â

Ross reminded himself that no matter what his problem was with Claire, he had to stick by his grandfather. âYou want to talk about whatâs really bugging you?â

Granddad was quiet for such a long time, he thought he might have nodded off. Then he said, âIt was Jane. The rift between me and Charles.â

âIt was her fault?â

There was one beat of hesitation. Then he said firmly, âIt was my fault. But Jane wasâ¦â He took a breath. âCharles and I were both in love with her. And of course, he was the brother who won her heart.â

âWhy do you say âof courseâ?â

âBecause he was always the decisive one. I tended to hesitate and analyze everything, asking myself how each hypothetical would play out. Charles, now, he was the reckless one, the plunger. He never questioned. He tended to feel something and then dive right in. Anyway, he fell for Jane and set about winning her heart. I fell for Jane and spun out the entire relationship in my head, concluding it would be a disaster. All I could think about was how different we were. I came from a background of privilege, and she was proudly working class. Our parents barely spoke the same language. None of this meant a thing to Charles, because he was an idealist. He believed that with enough love and commitment you can conquer the world.â

âAnd how about you, Granddad?â

âI was the cynic. I believed the world made a mockery of love and sincerity. By the time Jane proved me wrong, it was too late to matter. She already belonged to Charles. There was a moment when I thought I might have a chance, butâ¦but I was wrong.â

Again, a hesitation. A world of unexpressed thoughts lived inside that long silence.

âGranddad?â

âI simply donât know where to start.â

âYouâve already started. You told me about coming here when you were a boy. And again when you were in college. I figured out from what you said that both you and your brother were sweet on Jane.â

âIt was all so long ago.â His grandfatherâs eyes turned misty with memories.

There was something he wasnât saying. Ross couldnât put his finger on what that might be.

Georgeâs eyes were shut now. Ross got a blanket and gently laid it over his lap, to keep him warm when the shadows crowded in.

Twenty-Three

New Haven, Connecticut
Autumn 1955

In the journalism department at Yale, George was at the top of his class. He was known for his smarts. Heâd made editor of the Yale Daily News, a campus paper that rivaled anything a college had ever produced. His colleagues on the paper called him Clark Kent because his investigative skills were legendary. His rivals called him âClark Canâtâ because he seemed to have no luck with the ladies.

There was a reason for that, but no one would ever know it. George had given the girl he loved to his brother.

That was how he came to think of the situation. How he would always think of it. No one else was aware of his sacrifice, because he kept the truth in the deepest, most secret corner of his heart. Yet Georgeâs brother had no idea George had handed Charles his heartâs desire.

There was no point in discussing it. George didnât want his sacrifice to be known. He wasnât a candidate for martyrdom. He was just seeking a way to escape into the future and stop dwelling on the past, stewing about things that might have been, if only heâd been more confident. More assertive. More willing to follow his heart.

Then again, he rationalized, a romance with Jane Gordon wouldnât have gone anywhere, anyway. They came from different worlds and would have been destined to break each otherâs hearts by summerâs end. So it was Charles, not George, who would suffer that heartache.

Their parents would probably never know of the drama and rivalry surrounding Jane Gordon. Contrary to their motherâs oft-expressed hopes, neither brother found himself tempted by the Darrow sisters. The Darrows and the Bellamys had harbored aspirations of a dynastic union between the families, but despite their best efforts, nothing materialized.

From time to time, someone would ask him why he was in such a lousy mood so much of the time, or why he didnât throw himself wholeheartedly into the fun and challenge of his senior year at Yale.

Many seniors were melancholy, already regretting the end of their time at Yale. Not George. He couldnât wait to be finished. To be gone. Because now, Jane Gordon was in the picture. It wasnât enough that the past summer had been filled with her. She was in New Haven, too, living with relatives and looking after her mother. Even worse, George had heard she had a job on campus. It was amazing to him that heâd never encountered her before.

George was determined to create an amazing future for himself. In order to do that, he had to quit thinking about Jane Gordon. He had to pretend he felt nothing for her, and he had to stop wondering if she felt the same way. They had never spoken of their feelings. He might be wrong. Might be making an assumption. Might be reading more into the situation than was actually there.

Except he wasnât. There was a small, barely acknowledged part of him that knew the truthâsomething unspoken but powerful had sprung up between him and Jane. He knew this as surely as he knew the principles of objective journalism.

And so did she, though sheâd never said a word about it. Her attraction to him couldnât be seen or touched, but he felt it the way he felt the autumn rain on his shoulders as he crossed the campus between classes and seminars. Occasionally he wondered if heâd only imagined it. Then heâd remember the expression on her face, that night on the deck overlooking the lake, and heâd feel sure she was fighting an undeniable attraction as hard as he was.

George and Charles both belonged to different fraternities and different eating clubs at Yale. This was unorthodox within the same family, but the brothers instinctively felt the need to live separate lives. Their schedules rarely intersected, and Charlesâs obsession with athletics kept him busy at the boathouse for rowing practice, the tennis courts or golf course. George was a member of the shooting club and did no other sports. He saw very little of his younger brother. He dared to hope that Charles had come to his senses and realized it was better for everyone concerned to stop seeing Jane Gordon.

At a mixer with Vassar early that fall, George had the first inkling that she was still in the picture. He was waiting his turn at the bar when he heard one of the Darrow girlsâhe often forgot which was whichâspeaking sotto voce. Clearly she didnât realize George was nearby.

âDidnât you hear?â she said. âCharles Bellamy is seeing some local girlâa townie. They say she works as a chambermaid at the provostâs residence.â

âThat canât be right,â another girl said. âCharles Bellamy? He would neverâ¦â

George had heard enough. With a stone-cold feeling in his stomach, he approached his brother the next day.

He found Charles hard at workâat the campus squash courts, lobbing his way to a victory over his best friend, Samuel Lightsey. It was a golden Indian summer day, the temperature reaching toward eighty. Despite the heat, autumn was in full regalia, the quadrangle carpeted with leaves that scrambled before the breeze.

Watching his brotherâstrong and athletic, his every move shaped by the grace of self-confidenceâGeorge could not stave off a feeling of envy. The polio had taken much from him, but what he regretted the most was the loss of speed and grace. Although more than a dozen years had passed since heâd been stricken, he could still remember what it felt like to run like the wind, to master any sport he attempted.

All of that had gone by the wayside. George did his best to not let it matter. Ultimately, though, regrets washed through him every time he encountered a physical challenge. He pulled back from anything that might show the world his weakness. The swimming pool therapy and the exercises that had gotten him out of the wheelchair only went so far. He was grateful enough to have regained the ability to walk. He wished he could find a way to keep himself from yearning for more.

It didnât help to have a brother who was a natural and effortless athlete, who dominated every sport he attempted. Charles never flaunted his prowess, but he didnât hide it, either. He loved sports and challenges too much to pretend he wasnât any good at them.

At the end of the match, Charles simply raised a fist in victory and then shook hands with his opponent. They noticed George watching from the sidelines, and Charles waved him over.

âHiya, big brother. Just finished a match. You should have seen the way I schooled this fellow.â

âIâll get you next time,â Samuel vowed. âGotta bounce. Meeting my fiancÃ©e for dinner. Gwen doesnât like me to be late.â

George sensed Samuelâs pride in his new status as a bridegroom-to-be. He had proposed to his sweetheart a couple of weeks before, and heâd been walking on air ever since.

Charles slung a towel around the back of his neck and found a seat in the shade. He took a long drink from a canteen and then offered it to George, who shook his head.

âHey, Sam asked me to be his best man. How about that?â asked Charles.

âTerrific. Seems like guys are getting married left and right these days.â

âSeems that way.â Charles twirled his squash racket.

âI guess we Bellamy boys are late bloomers when it comes to girls,â George suggested. âUnless thereâs something youâre not telling me.â He didnât want to have to repeat gossip, but he needed to figure out if there was any truth to the rumor.

âWell, now that youâve brought it up,â said Charles, âthereâs something Iâve been meaning to tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know.â

George already did know. In some part of his mind, the news had already embedded itself. Asking for an explanation had been a mere formality. He sat very stiffly, keeping his face from giving anything away. âGo on,â he said.

âI got a girl,â Charles said. âThe most wonderful girl in the world, and Iâm going to ask her to be my wife.â

No, thought George. Donât say it.

âItâs Jane Gordon.â Charles blushed and grinned.

Georgeâs heart hit the pavement. His palms began to sweat, and his mouth went completely dry.

Charles didnât seem to notice. âRemember, I started falling for her last summer at Camp Kioga,â he said. âShe lives in New Haven, you know.â

George did know. âI heard she does some kind of domestic work,â he said dully.

âShe keeps house for the school provost. I canât wait for you to get to know her again, now that weâre all grown up. Sheâs swell, like sheâs always been, ever since we were all kids. Itâs only natural weâd fall in love.â

George shook his head. This sounded like a disaster in the making. âIt wonât work, Charles. I know sheâsâ¦â An angel, he thought. A dream in the flesh. ââ¦a nice girl. But it could never work.â

There was one beat of hesitation, long enough for George to realize Charles wasnât completely naive about these things. But he held his ground. âWeâll make it work.â

âMother and Father will never stand for it.â

âTheyâll get used to the idea. Hellâs bells, all they have to do is get to know her and they will love her as much as I do.â

âYou are delusional. This is our parents weâre talking about. Theyâd disown you before theyâd stand for you marrying aâa chambermaid.â George tried to maintain a reasonable tone.

âHousekeeper. If they disown me for finding the girl I love,â Charles said stubbornly, âthen theyâre not the people I thought they were.â

âDonât make them choose,â George warned his brother. âTheyâll never forgive you.â

âThatâs baloney.â But a note of worry crept into his voice.

âAnd what about her family?â George persisted. âTheyâre not going to approve, either. They wouldnât want to see their daughter trying to fit into a family where she doesnât belong.â

âShe belongs with me. Damn it, George, weâre in love. Donât tell me thereâs anything wrong with two people being in love.â

âItâs not love,â George snapped. âYouâre infatuated with each other. Itâll fade awayââ

âItâll last forever. I feel it in my bones. I thought youâd be happy for me.â

âHappy to see you marching straight into disaster?â George demanded. âI just donât want you getting hurt.â As he spoke, he wondered if there was another reason for his objection, buried deep inside.

âWhat hurts is being apart from Jane,â Charles insisted. âWait until you fall head over heels in love. Then youâll understand.â

George crushed his hand into a fist, rubbed his bad leg hard. âGive it a rest, Charles. You are young. Thereâs no hurry.â

âThatâs why weâre going to wait until next summer to get married.â

Married. Charles and Jane, married. âItâs not going to work.â

âItâs Jane, for Godâs sake. Weâve known her forever. We were the Three Musketeers, remember? One for all and all for one.â

âWe were kids, playing a game. This is life. Marriage isnât a game. Itâs playing for keeps. Youâll end up miserable. Sheâs a domestic, donât you get that? She comes from nothing. She has no education, no refinements. Sheâll drag you downââ

âHellâs bells.â Charles glared at him. âAt least Iâm not a coward. Youâre a cripple, George, but not in the way you think. Youâre crippled by your own fears.â

George couldnât believe what heâd just heard. âGo to hell,â he said.

âSay, you just got me all riled up, George. I was going to ask you to be my best manââ

âDonât,â George warned him.

âI wonât,â Charles said. âAnd I donât need your blessing. Iâd like to have it, but I donât need it.â

Â 

George was appalled by Charlesâs plan. It felt wrong in too many ways to count. But Charles was determined; he forged recklessly ahead, picking out a date the following August, planning an open-air ceremony at Camp Kioga. The guy had stars in his eyes.

Maybe, thought George, it was Jane who would see reason. Yes. He would talk to Jane, make her see what a mistake this was.

He waited one evening outside the provostâs residence. It was a cool autumn twilight, the sky heavy with unshed rain. Visitors, faculty and administrators came and went. Then he saw a janitor come around the side of the building and realized the hired help would use a different entrance. He went to the mews behind the row of grand houses and leaned up against an old carriage house that had been converted into a garage. A row of dustbins and garbage cans leaned against the building.

He wasnât sure what heâd say to her; they hadnât seen each other since closing day at camp last summer. He halfway talked himself out of approaching her. Then, just as the lights came on in the windows of the big white house, a few people exited through the back. No one seemed to notice him as they headed to the street.

He picked out Jane immediately: a slender girl in a dark dress, with an apron and a heavy-looking satchel. Although he didnât want to feel it, his heart took a leap. She walked slowly, with a shuffling gait. He looked around, seeing students strolling between dining halls and libraries. In sharp contrast to Janeâs somber dress, they looked lively and fashionable in argyles and sweater sets.

âJane,â he said, approaching her, trying not to limp.

âGeorge!â Her face lit with a smile that made him catch his breath. âThis is a surprise.â

He glanced around. Then he felt ashamed for feeling furtive. âI didnât mean to startle you,â he said. âI wanted to talk about, uhâ¦â What an idiot. What a tongue-tied idiot.

She slowed her steps, tilted her head to one side. Something flickered in her faceârecognition. Yearning. A tacit acknowledgment of the unspoken emotions that had flown between them last summerâ¦before Charles had commandeered her attention.

George cleared his throat, battled his nervousness into submission.

âItâs about Charles,â he said.

Her eyes narrowed. The wind plucked at her apron. The expression on her face indicated that she understood just what the issue was. âThen shouldnât you be talking to Charles?â

âHe wonât listen.â

She tossed her head and walked on, leaving the campus behind. George had no choice but to follow her. And a tiny part of him was willing to admit a twinge of curiosity about the way she lived, in a part of New Haven heâd never seen, despite his years as a student. The air smelled of rain, and the wind picked up, ripping dry leaves from the maples lining the streets. Within a few blocks, they came to a working-class neighborhood of nondescript buildings and row houses.

âThen why come to me?â she demanded.

âBecause you will.â

âWhat makes you think that?â

âJane, you understand the way the world works. You know marrying Charles would tear both our families apart.â

Her face paled. âHe told you we were getting married?â

âDonât do it, Jane. It would destroy our parentsââ

âBe honest, George. For once in your life, be honest. Tell me what your real objection is.â

He regarded her, keeping his face devoid of expression, hiding everything. âYou donât really want to know that.â

The rain started in earnest, sheets of big drops. They took shelter in the doorway of a linen shop that had closed for the day. The breeze lifted her hair in whimsical tendrils, creating a crown of autumn-colored curls. Instead of flinching from his anger, she took a step toward him. There was a terrible unspoken plea in her eyes, a mixture of pain and passion and a longing that mirrored his own. She took another step, and he had the strangest fantasy. The shop window behind her displayed a draped ivory tablecloth, and for a second it resembled a bridal veil, spread out behind her. She stood so close he could practically taste her, the lips full and soft-looking as she said, âYes, George. I do.â

With her yes filling him completely, George forgot where he was. He swept his arm protectively around her, and that was his undoing. Her nearness and the feel of her next to him turned into a consuming fire, fed by all the moments of self-denial, finally burned to ashes by the simple, stark honesty of her touch. His will was not his own; desire became a force larger than himself. He could no sooner stop it than he could stop the wind. He grabbed her by the upper arms, hauled her against him and crushed his mouth down on hers. At last, he thought. At last.

A sound came from herâresistance? Surrender?âand there was a thud as her satchel hit the ground. Her fists dug into his shirt.

George tried to ease away. This was his brotherâs girl. Some small corner of his brain acknowledged thatâhis brotherâs girl.

But something kept him from letting go.

Jane. Jane held him there, clutching his shirt, kissing him with the same hunger he felt.

And then something shifted. A change in the wind, lashing like a ribbon of ice.

No, he thought. No no no.

With an effort that felt physically painful, he stepped back, holding her at armâs length.

She blinked against the driving wind, and tears streamed from her eyes. âGeorgeââ

âDamn it,â he said, too afraid to hear her out. âWe canâtâ¦.â He fumbled for the right words. âI came to stop you from marrying my brother.â

She stared up at him. She looked beautiful, shattered, her eyes begging him for something he didnât have in him to give. âGeorge,â she said softly. And then even softer, her voice all but drowned in the squeal of the wind. âYou know what will stop me.â

He did know. And it was the one thing he could not offer.

âNothing but trouble can come from this,â he said, his heart turning to stone even as he spoke. âLeave the Bellamy family alone, Jane. Iâm asking youââ

âAnd that,â she said, snapping the spell like a dreamer suddenly disturbed from sleep, âis why I refuse to do as you say.â

âJaneââ

She picked up her satchel. âIf you care about your brother, you will forget this ever happened.â

âIf you cared about him, you wouldnât have let me kiss you,â he shouted above the wind.

âI didnât let you.â

âNo, you begged me for it.â

Her face paled to a dull white. âIf anyone is going to ruin anything, itâs you, George. Unless you find a way to be the brother Charles needs you to be, then everything will be ruined. You have to understand that I want youââ

âNo,â he said. âDonât say any moreââ

âI want you,â she persisted, âto be happy for Charles and me. To dance at our wedding as we celebrate our love.â

âYour love?â he asked incredulously. âYour love?â

âCharles loves me,â she said. âHeâs the one who dared to say it.â With that, she tugged her shawl more tightly around her. Then, in a whirl of wind and icy sleet, she walked away with a curious dignity, her head held high, despite the lash of the rain in her face.

He called her name but the wind snatched it away. Her words echoed in his head. Heâs the one who dared to say it. Even louder was the roar of the words she didnât sayâshe had not said that she loved Charles.

Â 

Things were tense for the Bellamy brothers all that winter and into the following spring. George and Charles avoided each other, drifting further and further apart. George had made no secret of his disapproval of Jane. He had been a complete idiot about it, to be sure, but he couldnât unsay the words he had hurled at Charles. Nor could Charles unsay the things heâd leveled at Georgeâcoward. Cripple.

Ever since then, the brothers had dealt with one another on a perfunctory basis. Their manner toward each other was like an early frostâcold and brittle, though not very deep.

Georgeâs final year of schooling was challenging, and his plan to go to work abroad materialized. He was offered a chance to work at the International Herald Tribune, a prestigious paper headquartered in Paris.

Charles was more and more absent from the school social scene. He either didnât notice or didnât mind that people gossiped about him for having a âtownieâ girlfriend. Georgeâs parents found out about the situation and despaired over Charles, but he would not be swayed. The Bellamys clung to the hope that Charles was swept up in an infatuation that would wear off.

George wasnât so certain; Charles could be stubborn. George kept his own pain hidden behind a mask of disapproval. He steered clear of the provostâs residence, not wanting to encounter Jane. He still believed Charles was making the mistake of his life with this girl, but he was done trying to interfere.

Until one windswept night in late March. Winter that year clung to the northeast with stubborn talons. Only the week before, there had been more snow. People worried aloud that springtime would never come. Freezing rain slung itself sideways against Georgeâs window, reminding him inevitably of another stormy night in the fall, and a kiss that still haunted him no matter how many months had passed.

As an upperclassman, he had the privilege of a single private room on the ground floor. His desk was situated below the single window. A narrow, Spartan bed was set against the opposite wall. He was up late as usual, working on a paper for a demanding professor. The rhythmic clack of his typewriter and the zip of the carriage return accompanied the din of the storm outside.

At first he didnât hear the knock at the door. Then the noise penetrated his consciousness, an urgent rapping. Mystified, he opened the door.

âJane?â

âPlease, I need to come in.â

He stepped aside. âYouâre soaked to the skin.â

She was crying, shivering from the cold. âGeorge,â she said through chattering teeth. âOh, George.â

âOver here,â he said, grabbing her hand. Her skin was wet and icy cold. âYou need to warm up, or youâll catch your death.â He brought her over to the big iron radiator, which exuded a dry heat. âItâs after midnight. What the hell is going on?â

She was trembling so much she had trouble speaking. âItâsâ¦itâs Charles. And me. Both of us. We quarreled, and itâs over between us, and the buses arenât running and I didnât know where else to goâ¦â She shook with cold and with sobs that seemed to come from the deepest part of her.

George went to the door, looked one way and then the other. The hallway was completely empty. It was an infraction of the worst degree to have a female in oneâs room, though in practice it was quite a common occurrence.

Not for George Bellamy, though. For him, this was a first.

To his relief, no one seemed to be around at this hour. He shut the door quietly and turned back to Jane. Her face was pale as milk, her lips a vivid, alarming blue, and she convulsed with shivers.

He snatched his terry-cloth swimming robe from its hook on the back of the door. âGet out of those wet things,â he said.

Her hands shook so much she couldnât unfasten her own buttons.

âHere,â he said, âlet me.â

His hands were shaking, too. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. She wore a shirt dress fastened in the front by nine buttons. He counted them as he worked his way from north to south.

The soaking wet fabric clung to her chilled skin. He peeled it away, trying to maintain a clinical detachment, not really succeeding. He draped the wet dress over the radiator, and steam rose from it, creating an eerie light in the room.

Beneath the dress she wore a slip so sheer he could see everything beneath it. Without so much as a beat of hesitation, he peeled this off, as well. And even covered in goose bumps, even shivering and sobbing, she was unbelievably beautiful.

Swearing between his clenched teeth, he wrapped the big robe around her, held her close and rubbed her vigorously. Water from her dripping hair seeped into the shoulder of his sweatshirt. She felt like heaven in his arms.

She started to speak in broken phrases but was still too cold and upset for coherence. She had been drinking, too. He could smell the faint, yeasty essence of beer on her.

And all against his will, he was flooded with desire. He tried to focus on what she was saying. Over and over again she said, âWe quarreled. Itâs over. He doesnât love me after all. Iâm left with nobody to love me.â

âHush,â George said, cradling her head against his chest. âHush, itâll be all right.â He knew he ought to ask her what happened with Charles, but the truth was, something else was happening here and he didnât want to say anything to stop it. Heâd let an opportunity slip past before, and he wasnât about to do it again. Instead he let the soothing, whispered words come without thought. âHush, Jane, itâll be all right. Iâm here. I love you.â

Her breath stopped, halting mid-sob. She gazed up at him, her eyes luminous in the glow from the desk lamp. âGeorge?â She offered his name as a question, or maybe a supplication.

He couldnât think when she gazed at him like that. All he knew was what his heart told him, with no regard for common sense. He was in love with her. He had been for a long time, but never allowed himself to express it until now. Simply saying the words unlocked a mystery that had hidden inside him all his life. Now he knew for certain what love felt like.

âYes,â he said, cradling her face between his hands, talking between kisses. âYes, itâs true, I love you. I never said anything because of Charles, but now I can tell youâI love you. I always have.â

The robe parted, and he yanked off his sweatshirt one-handed over his head, filled with a wild need to feel his flesh next to hers. She was still chilled, but soon warmed in the press of his embrace, and within a few moments, a fire flared.

In the tiny, cramped dorm room, the only place to go was to the bed. He lay her down and kissed her with a long, searing kiss, half-drunk with wanting her. She was everythingâthe world, the universe, everything. He touched her everywhere and she was still crying, but softly now, and every few moments she would say the words âPlease.â And then âDonât.â And then, âStop.â

Please donât stop.

George couldnât have stopped even if he had wanted to. The fire would not be put out. She was everything heâd ever wanted, every dream heâd ever had, and he was not going to stop. Ever.

Â 

The night went on and on. They were by turns urgent and then tender, impossibly slow and irresistibly quick. Emotion and fulfillment flowed like a river between them, and George finally knew the true meaning of ecstasy.

Did she know she was his first? Heâd always been awkward with girls and self-conscious about his bad leg, and heâd never had a serious girlfriend. Now he was glad his heart had made him wait for Jane. He wasnât certain whether or not she realized that, and whether or not it mattered. At one pointâhe was sure he had not imagined itâshe leaned down and touched his withered thigh, anointing his flesh with her tears.

George couldnât be sure he was doing everything right. He was too embarrassed to ask, so he focused on Jane and took his cues from her. If he touched her one way and her breathing changed, or if she made a tiny involuntary sound or clutched at him, he knew he was on the right track.

He felt drawn to her in so many ways. As kids, theyâd clicked together like matching pieces of a puzzle. Even when he was recovering from polio that second summer, when he hated everything in the world including himself, she hadnât given up on him. Sheâd forced him to push to the edge of his limitations. To push beyond. When he saw her again last summer, so very different, yet fully recognizable, sheâd taken his breath away. So much so that heâd been unable to speak.

That had been his fatal error. Heâd missed his chance with her while Charles stepped boldly in. George regretted that moment so much, the hesitation that had cost him his heart. He would tell her he was sorry. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

The rest of his life.

Suddenly the idea of making a life with Jane Gordon did not seem so insane. All his stupid prejudices fell by the wayside. The thought of stepping past artificial barriers erected by his parents struck him as incredibly liberating. No wonder Charles had been so convinced the world would embrace his romance with Jane.

Charles.

George wasnât ready to think about his jilted brother just now. Jane filled Georgeâs heart to overflowing. For the moment, everything he had to give was hers.

Though they scarcely spoke as the night pulsed away, moment by moment, they drew closer than mere words could ever bring them.

By the time they slept, replete, intoxicated with love, lying across each other in a state of dazed exhaustion, George was finally able to face the truthâhis heart was lost entirely. The future heâd imagined for himself was gone now, like an unremembered dream.

Â 

Later in the morning, he awoke to an empty room. The swim robe was hung on the back of the door.

George sat up, squinted at the blinding flood of sunlight slipping into the room around the edges of the window shade. He went to the window, raised the sash and then the window itself to look out over the quadrangle. A host of songbirds greeted him. The storm was over, leaving a world washed clean. He could even smell the springtimeâdamp grass and budding flowers. Overnight, winter had gone away.

A sparkling layer of dew lightly blanketed the quadrangle. Few people were out and about at this hour. The cross-country team, in white shorts and V-neck under-shirts, jogged past in a cluster. Ordinarily George would feel a pinch of envy at the sight of those well-honed bodies, graceful with the innate self-confidence that came from physical accomplishment.

Not this morning, though; not with the memory of the night before lingering so fresh in his mind. As she had that first summer after the polio, Jane had made him look past his limitations and celebrate the things he could do.

After last night, he had the feeling he could do anything.

âHey, Bellamy, you putting on a show or what?â someone yelled, startling George from his thoughts.

He realized heâd been standing buck naked at the open window, lost in memories of his night with Jane.

âThatâs me,â he yelled to his friend Jeffords, who was walking toward the dining hall. âA real showboater.â He wondered how it could be that the world had changed overnight, and no one but him seemed to notice.

He turned back to the room, studied the slant of sunlight across the bed. The sheets and covers had been twisted every which way. Just looking at that bed brought back every touch, every kiss, every intimate detail of their night together. He could not believe how close theyâd been.

At weddings people spoke of two becoming one. George had always considered that a lot of hot air. Each person was a separate entity, bound into his or her own skin.

Last night heâd learned otherwise, learned it was possible to break free of oneâs own self and cross some mystical divide to join with another. It wasnât just the sex, either. There was something even more powerful at work, something George hadnât been certain he believed in until last nightâlove.

Finally he came to understand why writers and artists through the ages created their work as a monument to the simple human notion of love. Men had waged war, crossed oceans, scaled mountain ranges, all for the sake of love. Epic poems, vast sculptures and even whole palaces had been created to celebrate it.

George Bellamy understood at last.

Whistling through his teeth, he grabbed his towel and robe to head across the hall for the showers. He paused and buried his face in the robe, hoping some of her essence lingered in the fabric. No such luck, though. It simply smelled likeâ¦his robe.

In fact, no trace of Jane remained in the room. She had left like a thief in the night, and somehow heâd let her slip away. In the future, he would have to keep her close.

No wonder Charles had been so adamant about marrying her.

The thought of Charles unsettled George. Last night heâd been blind and deaf to everything that wasnât Jane. And that included his brother.

This morning, by the stark light of a new day, he was forced to confront the notion that heâd made love to his brotherâs girl. His former girl, George insisted to himself. She had come to him, tearful and troubled. Until this moment, George hadnât let himself consider where his kid brother had been last night.

Heâd undoubtedly been heartbroken. Perhaps heâd been full of rage, smashing things, tearing his hair out.

That, in fact, was quite unlikely, George conceded. Charles had always been a ladiesâ man.

Could be the reason for the rift was that Charles had strayed.

âYour loss, my gain,â George muttered.

As he picked up his shower caddy, a gleam caught his eye. Bending down, he retrieved the object from the floor between the bed and nightstand. It was a silver earring in the shape of a daisy. Janeâs earring.

George placed it carefully, almost reverently, in the top drawer of his bureau. He let out a burst of relief, and realized he had been holding his breath in, with a strange little insane worry.

The earring was evidence that the previous night had really happened. Heâd actually taken Jane Gordon to bed.

It was a relief to have physical proof; otherwise there was a danger that heâd dreamed the whole thing.

Twenty-Four

George carried the earring like a talisman in his pants pocket, replacing his lucky rabbitâs foot. He took it out while in French 505 as the professor was droning on about the nuances of the subjunctive case in the literature of French classicists.

âWhatâve you got there?â asked Jeffords, holding up his textbook to whisper behind it.

âWhatâs it look like?â George whispered back. In fact heâd never really studied a womanâs earring up close before, never paid attention to how they worked. It was slightly shocking to see the way the earring was made. It resembled a tiny torture device, like a thumbscrew. Apparently it stayed in place by pinching the earlobe.

Ouch.

His friend lost interest in the earring and leaned over to whisper to the guy on his other side.

The morning dragged on interminably. He couldnât stop thinking about Jane. He couldnât wait to see her again, though he wasnât quite sure how to go about it. Swept away by last nightâs grand passion, he had neglected to extract the most basic information from her.

Such as where she lived.

And her telephone number.

And whether or not she even had a telephone. For although the twentieth century was more than half over, he knew some homes still lacked modern conveniences, such as a telephone.

The first hint that something was amiss came all too quickly, rolling in like stormclouds covering the sun. And that hint was carried in his pocket. Jane had not only slipped away while he slept, but sheâd left nothing but the earring. Maybe it wasnât such a good luck talisman after all, he thought, turning the tiny screw one way, then the other. Why couldnât she have awakened him? Or at least left a note?

The only way he knew to find her was to wait by the provostâs house for the end of her shift. He must have timed it wrong that first day, for he waited two hours and never saw her coming or going. Maybe it was her day off. The only one who might know how to contact her was the only person George would never askâhis brother, Charles.

On the second afternoon, he got there early and stayed late, until dusk painted the sky with smudges of charcoal.

Come on, Jane, he silently urged her.

He pictured her emerging from the ornate old house in her housekeeperâs apron. She would spy him, and a smile would light her face. Then sheâd fling herself into his arms. Heâd catch her and hold her close and scold her for sneaking away without a word.

And she would laugh and say a Yale man ought to be smart enough to track down the girl he loves.

Mosquitoes came out as the light slipped away. George slapped at the pests in annoyance. He was about to abandon his vigil when at last he noticed people at the servantsâ entrance. A small group of women emerged, all of them in domestic garb. They looked the same to him, like pilgrims in a play. He stood up, squinting in the light to try to pick out Jane.

The women were laughing together and chattering. There were six in all. Two of them hesitated and used a Zippo lighter to light up cigarettes. The group crossed the street to the bus stop to start their journey home.

At last he figured out which one Jane was, recognizing her slender silhouette and unruly hair escaping its combs. Unlike last time, she stayed with her coworkers, giving him no chance to speak with her alone.

Her name was on his lips, but he hesitated. If he called out, then what? Would he embarrass her in front of her friends? Worse, would they guess what had transpired that stormy night, in his dorm room? Would her reputation be ruined?

He didnât wish to be the cause of that.

While he deliberated and debated with himself, Jane looked over and seemed to spot him. She half raised her arm in greeting.

At that same moment, a group of fellows came out of the DeWitt House, where the unruly Gamma Delta society held their meetings. These men were at the top of the social echelon here at Yale. They were Georgeâs peers; he was one of them.

âGeorgie Porgie, puddinâ and pie,â declared Greenhill, hooking an arm around his neck. A cloud of liquor breath fogged the air. Theyâd apparently started cocktail hour early today.

âKissed the girls and made them cry,â finished Sterling. âWhat the hellâre you doing here all by your lonesome, Georgie Porgie?â

âTrolling for girls,â brayed Akers. Then he spotted the domestics across the street, at the bus stop. âOh, look. There they are now.â

âThe maid brigade,â Greenhill shouted.

George had a bad feeling about this. âGuysââ

âCome give us a kiss, girls.â Akers made a lewd gesture.

âI need to grab me one of those,â declared Wilson. âThe ideal woman. She lets you screw her any which way you like, and then she irons your shirt.â

The others roared with laughter. Georgeâs stomach clenched.

The housekeeping staff huddled closer, turning their backs to the jeering men.

George didnât dare approach Jane now. Not with these jackasses around. He wished she could see his regret. He hoped she would understand he had abandoned her to avoid drawing attention to her. No point incurring the scorn of this lot.

âI heard the hired help can be hired to do a lot more than help,â said Akers.

âYeah, like when they say no, they mean yes. And donât means do. And stop means go.â

âThey can go all night. They never want to stop.â

George couldnât escape the memories that drummed through his mind. Please. Donât. Stop.

Please. Was she begging him to leave her alone?

Donât. Was that what sheâd meant? Donât touch me?

Stop. Heâd heard her say it. But could he have missed her meaning?

Damn it. He had to talk to her.

âMaybe Iâll just go grab me one of those right now,â said Greenhill. âThe redhead looks like a tasty morsel.â

âGuys, I got a better idea.â George grabbed the back of Greenhillâs jacket and aimed him in the opposite direction. âLetâs go see what theyâre serving at Kellyâs Pub.â He chattered away about nothing, knowing it would take some fast talking to distract them and make it believable.

They were mean, small minds, easily manipulated. Within a few moments he had convinced them to try their luck at Kellyâs. He wanted to shout to the world that Jane was the woman he loved, but people like this would never understand.

He dared to look over his shoulder and saw her watching him, but she was too far away to read.

Â 

George tried again the next day, waiting for quitting time. For once in his life, he was going to be audacious instead of cautiously circling around, questioning himself and missing his chance. Heâd gone all the way to Manhattan on the train, and heâd picked out a signed and numbered diamond ring in Tiffanyâs, cheerfully going into debt over the purchase. It had flawless color and clarity, and a leather-bound certificate declaring its perfection. He rehearsed his speech in his head. He planned to approach her directly, ask right in front of her coworkers if he could speak to her.

Iâm in love with you, he would say. Itâs a permanent condition.

Come to Paris with me, heâd say. Letâs live together in Paris.

It was the perfect solution. Parisâthe city of lovers. A world away from his parents and from social snobs who didnât believe it was possible for a Bellamy to be with a working-class girl.

They would be thousands of miles away from prying eyes, and theyâd have the world at their feet.

Yes. He felt the deep satisfaction of things coming together, a plan falling into place. He couldnât wait to tell her. He took a seat on the bench at the bus stop and tried to pass the time by reading the paper. There was a review of a new play, âWaiting for Godot,â which had just opened at the John Golden. The author, Beckett, was an Irishman, but he lived in Paris, too. George took it as a sign that he was making the right decision.

The drama featured Bert Lahr, who had played the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz. George wondered if that might be a sign, too.

âHey, stranger,â said a voice behind him.

He glanced up from the paper, startled. âCharles.â

Georgeâs brother was dressed in gray flannel slacks and a V-neck cashmere sweater vest. His hair was shiny with Brylcreem. In his hands he held a bouquet of flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

âWhat are you doing here?â he asked George. âJust enjoying the fresh air of springtime?â

George didnât know what to do, so he nodded his head while his mind raced. Spring truly had arrived, seemingly overnight. The lane was shaded by trees draped in pale green new leaves. Huge old lilacs bore lavish clusters of flowers. Every garden bed was crowded with tulips and daffodils.

âRight,â said George. âHow about yourself?â

âIâm meeting Jane,â Charles said, gesturing. âShe works just over there.â

I know. Georgeâs mouth felt dry as dust. He had to figure out what was going on without disclosing anything that had happened. He cleared his throat, indicated the flowers and candy with a nod. âWhatâs the occasion?â

Charlesâs ears turned red. âWe had a little spat a couple of days ago.â

A little spat. The kind that had sent Jane running out into a storm at midnight, convinced the affair was over. The kind of spat that had sent her into the arms of another man. Into his bed.

âWeâre good now,â Charles said hastily. âI went to see her last night and she forgave me. I think her feelings are still a little tender, though. Iâve got a lot of making up to do.â He lifted the bouquet to his nose. âPeonies are her favorites.â

George stood up, feeling a twinge in his bad leg. He briefly considered sticking around, confronting the situation head-on. Yet if he did that, her reputation would be in shreds. Nothing good could come of exposing what theyâd done. Not now, not like this. âIâd better get going. Got a journalism seminar tonight. Robert Eisenstadt is speaking about his postwar photographs.â

âStick around for a few minutes,â Charles suggested. âYou can say hello to Jane. George, Iâd really like it if the two of you would get to know each other. Sheâs a really wonderful girl.â

I know, George thought again. She was all he could think aboutâtheir night together, the whisper of his kisses across her skin, the desperation that had turned, by some magical emotional alchemy, into love.

âCharles, Iâm sorry,â he said, thrusting the newspaper into a nearby trash bin. âI just donât see that happening.â

Â 

When it came to his personal life, George had never made much use of the skills and techniques he had learned as a journalist. He did now, though. Now he took advantage of everything he knew in order to discover where Jane lived. He found out her motherâs maiden name was Swift and her auntâs married name was Scanlon, and that they lived on the east side of town. There was no individual telephone service in the neighborhood.

That evening, his search brought him to a clapboard-covered row house in a dilapidated section of Lower State Street. It was an area where workers lived between their back-breaking twelve-hour shifts at the wire plant or hosiery mill, where they yelled at their wives, raised their kids, played sandlot baseball, drank beer on their front porches and dragged themselves off to work the next day.

This was Janeâs neighborhood, he thought, handing over cab fare to his driver. Heâd never set foot in it before. Compared to the manicured greenswards of the Yale campus, this was like a different planet. How strange it must be for Jane to ride the bus each day between these two worlds.

âYou want I should wait?â the driver asked.

âNoâ¦er, yes.â He knew he wasnât likely to find another taxi in the area. âCan you give me ten minutes?â

âSure. I got nothing but time.â

George wasnât certain why heâd said ten minutes. Maybe he figured that was how long it took to find the woman you love, to lay your heart on the line for her. And when the ten minutes were up, you either moved on or moved in.

Simple.

A couple of doors down, a mongrel cur dog gave a husky bark. There was the sound of a door slamming. George squared his shoulders, crossed a weedy patch of grass that passed for a front yard. Through the window, he could see the family, an older couple who were probably Janeâs aunt and uncle. The third woman must be Janeâs mother, whom he had not seen since the summer of 1944. He scarcely recognized her, with her hair gone white, her expression blank, her hands frantically knitting, as though her life depended on it.

The four of them were gathered around a tall radio console, its dial glowing amber. The voice of Walter Winchell drifted from the speaker, clearly audible through the open window.

George was consumed by the urge to rescue Jane from all this, to sweep her away to a different life.

Paris was waiting for them, but there was just one obstacle. Sheâd said it was over with Charles. Sheâd never said she loved him.

He suddenly felt self-conscious about the Yale sweater he was wearing, the school colors blazing in the twilight. He pulled the sweater off and slung it around his shoulders. Then he made a fist and firmly knocked at the door. He prayed Jane would be the one to answer it, but no such luck. The uncle came, opening the door wide. The house exhaled a whiff of something oniony.

The uncle was a big man with a beer belly and an unshaven face, handsome in a rough fashion. He wore work trousers and an undershirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes twisted into the sleeve. âYeah?â

âMy name is George Bellamy,â he said. âIâm here to seeââ

âHeâs here to see me, Uncle Billy,â said Jane, stepping through the door. âWeâll be out on the front porch.â

âYeah, okay,â said the uncle. He scowled at George. âI thought you was one of them religious boys that goes door to door, spreadinâ the word.â

âUh, no, sir.â

The man gave a nod, and headed back to the radio show.

It was all George could do to keep from grabbing Jane right then and there, and spiriting her away forever. Instead he said, âIâm here to plead my case.â

âThereâs nothing to say, George.â They sat together on the stoop, though it offered little in the way of privacy. The neighborhood was a busy place, people calling their kids in for the night, dogs barking, pots and pans clanking, couples fighting. Bikes lay abandoned in some of the yards.

âYou came running to me,â he said. âYou spent the night in my room. You call that nothing?â

âI call it a mistake, made out of impulse and panic. I honestly thought Iâd lost Charles forever. I had nowhere to turn, so I turned to you. All I wanted was someone to talk to.â

âWe did a whole lot more than talk.â Please. Donât. Stop. He could hear her, plain as a radio broadcast.

âThat was aâ¦an accident. A mistake. Iâd had too much to drink and I was confused. I didnât knowâ¦didnât expectââ

âBaloney,â he burst out. âYou came to me knowing how I felt about you, how I stillââ

âNo. I didnât know you felt anything but contempt. Thatâs certainly all you ever showed me.â

âThen why did you come to my room?â

âBecause Charles respects you. I thought you might talk sense into him, convince him to change his mind.â

âYou knew better than that,â he said. âDrunk or sober, you knew you had my heart, Jane. Donât deny it.â

âOh, George.â Tears coursed down her cheeks.

âYou felt it, too,â he accused. âI know you did.â

âButââ

âHush, just listen. Itâs not too late for us. I have a job in Paris. I start next month, right after graduation. We can go to Paris together, live like natives there, in an old-fashioned apartment on the Rive Gauche. Itâll be like a dream come true.â

She smoothed her skirt over her knees and looked out at the beaten-down neighborhood. âWhose dream, George?â

âOurs, silly. Itâs Paris, for Peteâs sake. Who doesnât dream of Paris?â

âYou donât know anything about my dreams,â she said brokenly. âIâm not going to Paris with you. Iâm not going anywhere with you.â She gestured at the weedy neighborhood. âThis is my world. My life. I look after my mother. I help my father with the camp in the summer. How am I going to do that if I live in Paris?â

âWeâll figure something out, find an arrangementââ

âWe wonât do anything of the kind,â she said, swiping at her cheeks. âDonât you understand? Iâm all my mother and father have. You canât âarrangeâ for my parents to have another daughter, no matter how much money you have.â

âThen Iâll cancel my plans for Paris. Iâll move right here to this house if you want,â he blurted out. âI love you, Jane. Iâll do anything to be with you.â He plunged his hand into the pocket of his trousers, closing his fist around the small ring box.

âStop it,â she snapped. âYou donât love me any more than I love you.â

He let go of the box and touched his empty hand to her cheek, feeling the damp heat of her tears. âThen why are you crying? Answer me that.â

âBecause Iâm frustrated. You wonât listen. You need to understand, Iâm with Charles now. Weâve reconciled.â

âThree days ago you were with me,â George reminded her, surprising even himself with the unblunted cruel edge to his voice. âYou declared it was over with Charles and you came running straight into my arms. Into my bed, Jane.â

âI should not have done that. I told you, I was upset, because all of a sudden, the future I thought I had was gone. It frightened me.â

âIâll just bet it did. So you were scared of losing your rich boyfriend? Did you think to replace him with somebody equally wealthy, soââ

Her slap shut him up, a sting of heat he almost welcomed because it kept him from saying even more regrettable things. At the same time, the feeling was akin to the horror of being encased in the iron lung all those years ago. He felt trapped. He wasnât sure where his next breath was coming from.

The suddenness and violence of the blow seemed to startle her as much as him. âI shouldnât have done that,â she said, wrapping her arms around her middle and leaning forward, as though her stomach ached.

âDoes he know about us?â George demanded, determined to feel nothing.

âHe canât ever know. It would hurt him too much. It would destroy him.â

âWhat about us? Weâre destroying each other right now.â That was how it felt to him. He was crushed. Devastated.

âFor Charlesâs sake, we must put this behind us. As if it never happened.â

âThatâs impossible.â

âAnything is possible.â She stood up, wiping her hands on her apron in a decisive fashion. âDonât contact me again, George. Go to Paris. Find your dreams there.â

âI already found my dream,â he said. âThat night, in my roomââ

Fresh tears gleamed on her face. âThat wasnât a dream. It was an accident. A mistake.â

âDonât do this.â

âItâs already done.â She put her hand on the door latch. For the first time, he noticed the diamond ring, winking on her left ring finger.

The entire exchange had taken exactly ten minutes. George was glad heâd asked the cabbie to wait.

Â 

âBe happy for me, George.â Charles sounded a little desperate as he dogged his brotherâs footsteps through the terminal of LaGuardia Airport. George was on his way to Paris, and Charles had come to see him off.

âIâm not going to pretend to be happy,â said George, trying to stay focused on the bustling redcaps and liveried pilots hurrying to their flights.

âItâs bad enough Mother and Father wonât give us their blessing.â Their parents had begged Charles not to marry Jane Gordon. They threatened to disinherit him, yet he refused to veer from his path. âI suppose I can understand Mother and Father disapproving. Theyâre so old-fashioned. But you. Why canât you be happy for us?â

âBecause I donât need a crystal ball to see whatâs going to happen. Youâre too different,â George insisted. He kept up the argument about class differences because it was easier than telling the truth.

âHey, varietyâs the spice of life,â Charles reminded him.

âWhen it comes to building a life, you donât want it so spicy.â George couldnât stand the thought of Charles and Jane together, having to smile through their wedding, through family holidays and gatherings, having to pretend he wasnât dying inside.

âI just donât get it,â Charles said. âWeâve known Jane since we were kids.â

âSheâll break your heart,â George blurted out. âSheâs trash.â

Charlesâs chin snapped up as though heâd been punched. âApologize.â

âWhat, for wanting to spare you a lifetime of pain?â George asked. âBecause thatâs what youâre in for. I know you donât want to see that right now, but itâs true.â

âAnd I know you can get the hell out of my sight. Come back when youâre ready to apologize.â

âIn that case, letâs make it never.â

Twenty-Five

Despite their bitter quarrel, George fully intended to man up and go to his brotherâs wedding that August. By then he was living in Paris, a Yale grad with a job doing exactly what he lovedâwriting. He covered stories and events that mattered to the worldâarmed conflicts in Egypt and the Suez, earthquakes and the Olympics.

He lived in a flat with a balcony overlooking the Place de la Concorde and kept company with literary friends. He visited the haunts of Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas and J.P. Donleavy. He read banned books, drank absinthe and even seduced two women.

One of the women he seduced claimed she was falling in love with him, and he let her, because she was exciting. She was Jacqueline duPont, heiress to a champagne-exportation fortune. She was fiercely beautiful, sexually sophisticated and fashionable enough to have her photograph in Womenâs Wear Daily.

For about two seconds he considered inviting Jackie to attend his brotherâs wedding as his date. But George rejected the notion. It was out of the question. He could not imagine Jackie, in her Chanel suit with her heirloom pearls, witnessing Charles marry a chambermaid.

George buried himself in work and in a matter of weeks won the attention of a key editor at the paperâthe Trib as it was called by insiders. He worked in a cramped and cluttered office alongside journalistic giantsâthe ascerbic Art Buchwald, the relentless Desmond Burke, and other revered veterans of journalism. From early on, Georgeâs career was guided by the same demanding editor who had overseen the Pulitzer prizewinning coverage of the Blitzkrieg.

Two days before George was due to fly to New York for the wedding, he was presented with a career-making opportunity. He would be given exclusive access to a high-level meeting of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. General de Gaulle would be there.

George accepted without hesitation. This event was important to the world. He told himself he would do the job and catch a transatlantic flight in time to get there for the wedding. Sure, he was cutting it close, but that was the nature of modern journalism. You followed a story moment by moment, provided up-to-the-minute report-age. There was even a new term for itâbreaking news.

He filed his story at the eleventh hour, sending it clacking over the Telex machine to be published not just in the Trib, but in the New York Times. Once this was accomplished, he discovered there was only one flight that would get him to the wedding on time.

Events conspired to delay him. That was what he knew he would tell himself later. The train out to Orly Airport ran behind. At the airport, he found himself crushed in a busy, jostling crowd. There was a line at the ticket counter. When he got to the desk, he discovered his pocket had been picked. He had no ticket, no passport, no cash. He talked the clerk into selling him a ticket with a promissory note, and hoped the border authorities would accept his story of the theft. The clerk told him he would have to run in order to catch the New York flight before it closed its hatch and taxied down the runway.

Running was not Georgeâs strong suit. He was in a leg brace, which he still had to wear on occasion, and the hinges and mechanisms simply did not allow him to move at a speed faster than a brisk walk.

He was a hundred meters or so from the departure doors when he saw the Pan American airplane pulling up its boarding stairs.

Did he shout loudly enough to be heard, or just loudly enough to say he tried?

In the end it didnât matter. A missed flight was a missed flight. Heâd left himself one chance to make his brotherâs wedding and heâd missed it.

Thank God.

Â 

George plunged into work with a passion. He lived and breathed the news of the day. He produced story after story, covering topics as diverse as the opening of a new museum to state visits to violent uprisings.

He lobbied hard for the chance to interview Jonas Salk. He sat in the Prince de Galles hotel with the scientist and spoke with him about developing the live-virus polio vaccine.

He didnât tell Dr. Salk heâd had polio, for he wanted to keep the interview professional, not personal. But at the end of the conversation, as they shook hands and the staff photographer moved in to take a photo, Dr. Salk kept hold of Georgeâs hand, turning it palm up.

There was a telltale sign, so subtle no one ever noticed itâno one but experts. In an unaffected hand, the muscle at the base of the thumb was thick and healthy. In Georgeâs hand, the muscle was almost nonexistent.

Dr. Salk asked simply, âWhen?â

âThe summer of â44,â George said. He was surprised to feel a jolt of leftover emotion from that timeâterror, rage and grief, knowing heâd contracted a disease from which he would never fully recover.

âIâm very sorry,â said Dr. Salk.

Georgeâs mind flashed on Ward 8 at the polio clinic where heâd been sent in an attempt to save his life. Clear as yesterday he could hear the screams of other boys brought back from surgery, the wrenching sobs of parents being told their babies had died in the night. And always, like a nightmare, he couldnât escape, he heard the rhythmic suck and shush of the iron lung.

âI was one of the lucky ones,â he said.

Â 

In December, George received a letter on his motherâs personal letter-pressed stationery. Calls home via telephone were rare because the connection was usually quite poor, so he looked forward to his parentsâ letters. From Charles, heâd heard not a word; clearly his brother was sticking to his vow not to forgive George until he apologized.

For all that he was a prolific and tireless journalist, George was not much for writing letters. He didnât enjoy writing about himself. Heâd sent Charles a telegraph the day of the wedding: âMissed flight. Nuptials must go on without me. Best wishes.â

That had been their last communication.

George found it remarkably easy to avoid dealing with his brother and apparently it was the same for Charles. All George knew about Charles came via his motherâs weekly letter. And Theodosia Bellamy had little enough to say about her younger son, only that he seemed to be doing well and intended to get his law degree.

Charles. A lawyer.

George wondered what kind of litigator he would be. He might sue his brother for breach ofâ¦what? Of brotherhood?

Then in December came unexpected news. Charles and his wife had a baby boy. His name was Philip Angus Bellamy, in honor of both his grandfathers.

At first George felt nothing but a small twinge of curiosity. No envy, of course; he was no fan of babies. They seemed to be noisy, puking, snotty things that disrupted peopleâs sleep. No, thank you.

Later, sitting at an outdoor table at his favorite zinc bar in Montmartre, sipping cold, acrid pastis and reading Le Monde, a belated notion struck him. He drummed his four fingers on the enameled surface of the table.

Charles and Jane had been married in August.

Theyâd had a son in December.

His fingers tapped on the table: tap tap tap tapâ¦tap.

August, September, October, Novemberâ¦December.

Five months was not the correct gestation time, was it?

Not unless you were a Nubian goat.

AugustSeptemberOctoberNovemberDecemberâ

It was not uncommon for babies to be born prematurely. But not by four months. That was simply impossible. Especially since Georgeâs mother reported that Philip was a healthy eight-pound baby boy.

It was of course considered impolite to count, but George counted. He checked the date mentioned in his motherâs letter. He opened his small leather-bound pocket calendar, the one heâd been given as a graduation gift. He took out a pencil.

Counted back nine months from the date the baby was born.

The point of his pencil broke as it landed on the day in late March. George tried every way he could think of to avoid seeing the truth. But there it was, staring him in the face.

That was the dayâthe nightâheâd been with Jane. And nine months from that night, an ocean away, Jane had given birth to a baby.

Â 

George went a little crazy after that. He got roaring drunk and stormed the citadel that was Jacqueline duPontâs flat on Avenue Marechal Foch, the one she shared with three other young women of privilege. He made love to her with a harsh insistence that surprised and delighted her, and she told him so.

âIâm glad you liked it,â he said. âLetâs get married.â

She laughed and touched him in a way that was probably illegal in some parts of the world. âI thought youâd never ask,â she said to him.

They eloped on New Yearâs Eve, taking a private jet to Monte Carlo, courtesy of the duPont family. Jackie was more adventurous than sentimental, and she regarded elopement as the ultimate adventure.

Amid the glittering lights of the French Riviera, they found a civil judge who was happy to take their money and officiate the union. There was no fanfare, just a hasty signing of documents and, at the Hotel Villa Mondial, a room service order that cost a fortuneâchampagne, oysters, caviar, chocolates decorated with gold leaf.

Although Georgeâs family was well off, Jackieâs money made their lives worry free. It made them fun and exciting. George could have retired from the paper, but he insisted on staying and working harder than ever.

Jackie was prolific in her own way, giving him four sons in the first ten years of their marriage. He discovered that he loved babies after all, and lavished his adoration upon Pierce, Louis, Gerard and Trevor.

Their lives were a busy whirlwind. George rarely thought about homeâthe States, as the ex-pats in Paris referred to the U.S. It took no effort at all to maintain the silence with his brother.

It was through their parents that George learned Charles had volunteered to serve in Vietnam, and was now a JAG officer in some jungle outpost.

When their parents were killed in a cable car mishap in Switzerland, Charles was incommunicado, still serving overseas, and George took care of the arrangements. The estate was divided evenly down the middle. Within a matter of years, the brothers were living lives so separate they might as well have been strangers.

Â 

INVITATION

THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
IS REQUESTED
BY GEORGE AND CHARLES BELLAMY
ON THE OCCASION OF THE FIRST OFFICIAL
BELLAMY FAMILY REUNION.

Â 

SATURDAY THE 21ST OF AUGUST, 2010.
CAMP KIOGA, RR #47, AVALON,
ULSTER COUNTY, NEW YORK.

Â 

RUSTIC ACCOMMODATIONS PROVIDED.

Twenty-Six

Claire had been mere inches away from believing love could change everything. What sheâd found with Ross was that powerful, a seismic shift. As she lay in his arms, feeling safe and protected and adored, she was able to forget the whole world. How had she lived so long without this? How could anyone?

Once found, her love for Ross felt as necessary and as natural as breathing.

She thought sheâd mastered the art of detachment long ago. Sheâd taught herself to keep her distance from people, and had accepted that this was the way it had to be. It was working well for herâuntil Ross Bellamy came along. He had undone all her hard work, taking away the wall around her heart.

And like an idiot, sheâd allowed it. One night with Ross had turned her into a different person, filled with emotions sheâd never dared to feel before. The timing of the call back to reality had been cruel in the extreme. Sheâd been drowsing in Rossâs arms, floating with happiness as she relived the night before.

The outside world had intruded in the form of a text message. She had glanced at her mobile phone where it lay on the floor by the bed, gleefully abandoned the night before. The message light was blinking insistently.

She had slipped from Rossâs bed with painstaking care, praying there had not been some crisis with George in the night. There hadnât. This crisis was hers and hers alone. The message had come from Mel Reno many hours ago. Sheâd been so preoccupied with Ross that she hadnât noticed. It wasnât like her to be so careless.

Then again, she wasnât herself at all where Ross was concerned. He turned her into someone entirely new, reinvented out of whole cloth. With Ross, she became someone she barely recognizedâa woman filled with love and joy and vulnerability, a woman whose future looked completely different from the bleak self-isolation sheâd once envisioned for herself.

It was all a fantasy, as delicate and friable as spun sugar. She should have known better, of course. She did know better, but with Ross, sheâd encountered something much more powerful than reason. But then, one glance at the message had driven home the insanity of what sheâd just done. It hadnât felt crazy at the time, though. It had felt exactly right, and leaving him was like ripping a hole in herself.

She had gone quietly outside. The sun was just coming up, and a shimmery calm glazed the lake, reflecting the rich pink and amber light. The temptation to leave a note for George was almost overwhelming, but she had resisted. Though sheâd come close to forgetting the rules last night, reality had slammed home with brutal force. The only way to stay safe and keep others from being harmed was to leave no trace, no footprint in other peopleâs lives. She had tried calling Mel. Tried sending a text. There was no response. This was unheard of. He always responded, night or day, no matter what.

Though she purposely kept herself from knowing too much about him, she did have a number for his landlord. The guy was groggy, but the news galvanized her. Mel had been mugged. He was in the ICU at University Hospital. She called and frantically asked for a report.

âAre you family?â the receptionist had asked.

âIâmâ¦â Not anything. She wasnât anything to anyone. âHis daughter,â she lied, scribbling the address and room number.

The report was bad. Heâd apparently been left for dead and was in critical condition. There was not a doubt in her mind about why heâd been attacked. And not a doubt about what she had to do. Sheâd almost forgotten about the belongings sheâd stashed by the resort exit. Almost, but not quite.

She retrieved the bag, caught an early train to the city and joined the anonymous stream of humanity, making her way on the subway from Grand Central to Penn Station and from there to Newark. She went straight to the hospital but outside the building, she balked. Heâd almost been killed. By going to see him, she was exposing him to even greater risk. Still, she was a nurse. Perhaps she could fake her way in. She rummaged in her bag for her phone, but it was missing. She must have left it behind, or dropped it. Pacing back and forth near the round plaza in front of the hospital, she tried to remember what sheâd done with it. Careless. Sheâd never been so careless. Falling in love with Ross had made her stupid on top of everything else. It was a given that she couldnât go back to Avalon. Ever. Sheâd never see Ross again, or any of the Bellamys. She wouldnât be with George at the end, wouldnât be there for Ross. Iâm sorry, she thought, her throat aching. Iâm so sorry.

She couldnât let herself dwell on what sheâd lost. She had work to do, arrangements to make.

The plaza of the hospital campus was jammed with pedestrians sweltering in the summer heat. She didnât trust anyone in the department, but she couldnât put this off any longer. She needed to buy another phone and minutes card with cash, find an Internet cafÃ© she knew of andâ

âYou are one hard girl to find,â said a quiet male voice. âI suppose you know that.â

She spun around, already in defensive mode. At the same time, recognition clicked in. âRoss. What are you doing here?â she asked, ignoring an urge to tumble into his arms. âHow did you find me?â

He handed over her phone. âYou left something behind.â

He must have figured out where she was by the last number sheâd calledâthe hospital. Stupid.

âAnd I flew, with Duke Elder,â he added.

The parachute guy.

âYou shouldnât have come,â she said, but she already felt herself wavering.

âSneaking out of a guyâs bed isnât exactly unheard of,â he said. âBut Iâm not stalking you. After last night, I thoughtâ¦ Claire, you canât just take off without any explanation.â

She wavered some more. He looked wonderful to her. Tired and exasperated, butâ¦wonderful. There was something undeniably thrilling about having a guy come for her, so fast and decisively, driven by passion. Before she could turn soft and weak with emotion, she started walking briskly away. âI donât think youâre stalking me. This has nothing to do with you. Itâs a personal matter.â

âWrong,â he said, falling in step with her. âIt has everything to do with me. Whatâs going on?â

He sounded angry, hurt. He had every right to be. And she had every reason to distance herself from him. âI canât explain, and I donât have to. The situation with your grandfather wasnât right for me.â

âHow about the situation with me?â he asked. âWas that right for you?â

It was the best thing that ever happened to me. She wished she could tell him. Falling in love had been a revelation, like seeing the ocean for the first time. In one incredible night, sheâd seen a glimpse of a happiness so complete it brought tears to her eyes. âLast night was a mistake.â The lies scratched her throat like sandpaper.

âI donât believe that for a minute, and neither do you.â

âYou donât know me,â she lashed out in desperation. âYou have no idea what I believe.â

âClaire, I need answers to some basic questions. Like who the hell you are. I already know you appropriated the social security number of a child who died twenty-five years ago,â he said.

âThatâs ridicââ

âAnd thatâs just the start. I can go deeper, and I will, ifââ

âPlease donât.â She whispered the plea, and to her horror, felt her eyes burn with tears. âPleaseâ¦â

âThen talk to me. I need to know whatâs going on.â His smile was gentle now, tinged with sadness. âYouâd be surprised what I know about you. Natalie checked out your backgroundââ

âNatalie should mind her own business.â

âI asked her to. Youâve been on your own for a long time. You probably believe youâll go through life alone. And thatâs so insane, Claire, when all we both want is to be together.â

âSpeak for yourself,â she said. âIâm not interested.â I canât be. She felt a pounding sense of urgency. The longer he hung around here, arguing, the more danger he was exposed to. âPlease go. Iâm sorry for misleading you and giving you the wrong idea.â

âYouâre apologizing?â He gave a bitter laugh of disbelief.

âGood point. I donât need your forgiveness,â she said. âGoodbye, Ross. Itâs best just to part ways now.â She felt the stares of passersby. Just what she neededâmore attention. From the corner of her eye, she saw something. Police in uniform. They were looking around the crowded area, clearly in search of someone. One of them rested his hand on his holster.

Grabbing Ross by the shoulders, she drew herself into him, hiding against his tall, solid form. Forgive me, she thought, despite her earlier words. It was the quickest way she could think of to hide her face. As she held him close, she wished she could stay in his arms forever.

Instead she watched through slitted eyes. To her horror, the cops went inside the hospital.

She tore herself away. âI have to go.â She hurried into the main entrance. One of her former patients had been here, and she knew the way to the neuro ICU. To her relief, the two cops were headed in the opposite direction, toward the emergency department.

Ross was right behind her. âClaire, youâre acting crazy.â

âIâm here to see a sick friend, if you must know,â she said.

âYou donât have any friends,â he snapped. âBelieve me, I checked.â

âYou had no right to check on me,â she said, battling a fresh wave of tears.

âExcuse me?â He let out a laugh of disbelief. âDonât you get it? I love you, Claire. I want to know everything about you. And Iâm not letting you go anywhere.â

It was the I love you that broke her down. She swayed against him. âYou have to,â she said, even though she couldnât stop clinging to him. âYou have to let me go.â She knew he wouldnât. Not Ross. He embodied loyalty and caring; it was what she loved about him. Yes, loved. She wasnât going to kid herself anymore. She thought about how safe and cherished sheâd felt in his arms. How smart he was, how much she trusted him.

The world seemed to blur into the background. She didnât see visitors and hospital staff walking by, didnât hear the elevator bells or pages over the PA system or the sound of aircraft in the distance. She only saw Ross, and the way he was looking at herâexpectant, insistent. As if he cared about her more than life itself.

With slow deliberation, she pulled a tissue from her bag and dried her face. What if she told him who she really was, and he changed his mind about her? On the other hand, how could they ever have anything real between them if she constantly lied about her history? By the time her tears were gone, she knew she was going to let him in, come what may. You can never really escape who you are, she realized. You can change your name. Move to a new home. Make up a new story for yourself. But ultimately the person at the core couldnât change. She had needs and desires that would finally catch up and overtake her. She had a heart that couldnât help falling in love. The terrible reality was, she could not go on alone, not after meeting Ross.

âI do need to check on someone,â she said softly, and found the charge nurse on duty. Though expected to recover, Mel was in an induced coma and on a ventilator. Standing next to Ross and watching through a wall of reinforced glass, she didnât recognize the draped figure surrounded by tubes and monitors. âHeâs the closest thing I have to a real friend,â she said. âAnd this happened to him because of me.â

âWhat?â

âThereâs a reason I donât have any friends,â she whispered.

The charge nurse shooed them toward the exit. âYou can call for a status check,â she said.

Once outside, Ross studied her closely. âIâm not going anywhere.â

âBut your grandfatherââ

âAlready warned me not to come back without you, Claire. Listen, whatever happenedâ¦you can level with me.â

âPeople who get close to me tend to get hurt,â she said.

âIâll risk it.â

All right, she thought. Heâd made it through two years in a war zone. He was as stubborn and tenacious as his grandfather.

âLetâs go in here,â she said, heading for an Internet cafÃ© near the hospital. âI need to show you something.â

The atmosphere was dim and intimate, like a speakeasy. Although the webcam above the screen wasnât enabled, she stuck a Post-it note over the lens, for good measure. He bought them each a soda and Claire typed in an address and an old, scanned photo came up, showing row upon row of flat pavers with grass in between. âFairacre Burial Ground,â she said, and zoomed in on one of the pavers. The engraving was simple: âMario and Joseph Balzano. D. 2001.â The sight of their names brought back echoes of the old horror. Theyâd just been a couple of kids. Then a man theyâd trusted and respected had attacked like a cornered wolverine. âIâve never gone to see their grave in person,â Claire told Ross. âI couldnât risk it.â

âWho are they?â

She scrolled sideways to another paver marked âClarissa Tancredi. D. 2001.â It always freaked her out, seeing it etched into a gravestone.

âAnd whoâs that?â he asked.

âThat,â she said, starting to tremble. âIs me.â

Twenty-Seven

The reason Claire had never slept with a guy had nothing to do with a set of moral standards or lofty ideals. The reason sheâd never done it before was that she was afraid to make herself vulnerable. Yet with Ross, sheâd wanted to do exactly thatâto surrender, trusting him with the intimate landscape of her bodyâ¦and her heart, as well.

She hadnât been prepared for how powerful it could be. In that long, magical night, sheâd discovered that sex was not just sex. It was a way to show him who she was without saying a word. For someone who had been hiding her identity for so long, this was a gift beyond price.

Now she had to use her words. Now, in order to tell him who she was, she had to tell him her terrible secret. Maybe if he understood who she used to be, heâd understand who she was. This was a leap into the unknown for her. She had done it before, to save her own life. This time, she was saving herself from something else.

She led the way outside and scanned the area, then headed toward a shady parking lot. There were security cameras here and there, but she kept her back to them. She looked up at Ross, seeing nothing but love and acceptance in his face. Then she inhaled a long, slow breath, as though preparing to jump off a high dive. âThereâs something you have to know before I go on. If I tell you these things, you might be facing the same risk as I am.â

âWhat kind of risk?â

âThereâs a guy whoâs out to kill me. Iâve been hiding from him since I was seventeen. I think he might be behind the attack on Mel.â

âWhoa, hang on. Some guy wants to kill you?â

âBecause of what I saw. Because of what Clarissa Tancredi saw.â

âAnd what was that?â

âA double murder.â

âYou saw a double murder?â

Every night in my dreams, she thought. Even now.

She nodded, her heart speeding up as she realized what she was about to do. âThe girl named Clarissa ceased to exist one sunny morning. I was reborn the next day in an alleyway behind a bar, when I walked away with nothing but a backpack and a large envelope filled with official documents. It was, um, the strangest, most radical thing you can imagine, dumping everything Iâd been up until that point and becoming someone with a whole new story.â

âYou switched identities? Are you telling me youâre in the witness protection program?â

âItâs not like the ones you see on crime shows. Those programs are for people whoâve seen a federal crime. In the absence of a federal investigation, thereâs no program, regardless of what I saw. Murder is a crime against the state, so itâs up to the state to protect any witnessesâor not.â

He took her hand, carried it to his mouth and pressed a kiss there. âI want to hear this, Claire. And then weâll figure out what to do.â

Â 

Her heart pounding even faster, she started from the beginning. The story came out in quiet whispers, like a slow leak of air from a balloon.

From the day sheâd entered the foster care system until she was sixteen, the program had worked for Clarissa Tancredi. Thanks to the compassion and dedication of her case worker, Clarissa was cared for by families that enriched her life.

At sixteen, sheâd been placed with a foster family deemed ideal by every standard of the state system. Her new family consisted of a work-at-home mom, Teresa Jordan, and her husband, Vance, a police detective. There were already two foster brothers in residenceâMario and Jo-Jo Balzano. The Jordans lived in Forest Hill, a venerable old neighborhood that defied everyoneâs preconceptions about Newark. Its historic mansions, tree-lined avenues and good schools made it a haven for prosperous families. The big house on Ridge Street was not the kind of place someone could live on a copâs salary, but it was said Vanceâs wife had money. She worked as a freelance theater set designer, more for the glamour than for the income. She was an aspiring playwright, though sheâd never had anything produced. Her plays were intricately plotted, full of unexpected twists and turns. âI hate being predictableâ was her motto.

When Claire was placed with the Jordans, she had every reason to expect the peace and security of a nurturing family life. That was what sheâd been promised, anyway.

Vance and Teresa seemed like the perfect coupleâaffectionate and communicative, incredibly good-looking, interested in the kids. Perhaps their only fault was that they were a bit too indulgent, but they made no apology for this. Teresa had confessed that they were unable to conceive a baby. They decided to become foster parents, hoping in some small way to do their part for the communityâs less fortunate.

Being childless did have its benefits. While other parents were running themselves ragged, keeping up with all their kidsâ activities, Vance and Teresa put all their love into each other. A birthday or anniversary might be marked with an extravagant piece of jewelry. For his fortieth birthday, Teresa surprised Vance with flying lessons, and he ended up getting a pilotâs license. After that, they took weekend float plane trips to Pier 8 in the city, or sometimes to remote lakes in the Poconos. It seemed like a dream life.

Yet in time, it became clear that all wasnât quite right. There seemed to be something almost obsessive, smothering, about the way Teresa loved her husband. Clarissa didnât know much about marriage, but she sensed Teresaâs adoration of her husband was over the top. Then again, maybe it was a rare and lucky thing to be loved like that.

The only thing was, Vance was having an affair with his partner at work, a junior detective named Ava Snyder. The boys had told Clarissa shortly after sheâd moved in. They fancied themselves amateur detectives and tended to snoop around. They got away with everything because on the surface, they were just goofy kids who had been left behind when their mother, an undocumented worker, was deported. No one ever thought they had the smarts to solve a mystery or get away with spying on people, but that was exactly what they did. Theyâd seen Vance sneaking around with his partner, had hacked into his computer and tailed him like a couple of pros. Vance swore he would dump Teresa and marry Ava Snyder as soon as he could save up enough to break free of his wealthy wife.

If Teresa ever got wind of the affair, sheâd freak out.

Or maybe not. She had a flair for drama, and a habit of saying, âI always have a plan B.â

As things turned out, Clarissa was the one in need of a plan B. By seventeen, sheâd had everything taken from her, including who she wasâher name, her past, the few connections she had to people who cared about her, everything.

She didnât dare complain. At least she was alive.

Mario and Jo-Jo, her two foster brothers, had not been so lucky. Theyâd discovered Vance was stealing evidence and forfeited drug money. Apparently that was his plan for gaining freedom from his wife. Claire had been horrified, even though everyone knew police corruption was common and pervasive. It seemed like such a breach of the public trust. She and the boys approached Teresa about it, and Teresa was shocked, as well. âI canât rat out my own husband,â sheâd said, looking heartsore, âbut you do what you have to do.â

Sheâd given them the address of a substation in a South Ward neighborhood, and told them to wait there for an internal affairs guy who would help them do the right thing. Clarissa had missed the bus; sheâd called the boys to say sheâd be arriving late to the meeting. By the time she arrived, it was nearly dark. Boarded-up houses, forbidding-looking brick buildings and steel garage doors topped with razor wire dominated the deserted streets. At first she thought sheâd missed the meeting. Then she saw three guys halfway down the block. Sheâd nearly called out to them until she realized something wasnât right. Vance Jordan was herding the boys into an adjacent alley. He was yelling at them, and they were acting scared. She heard Vance demanding, âWhereâs Clarissa?â

âShe donât know a thing,â Mario had said. âSwear to God.â

She froze and shrank into the shadows while the shouting continued. She found a rusty iron fire-escape ladder and hoisted herself to the first level, crouching on a grill overlooking the alley. She had no idea what her next move would be, so she made herself as small as possible and didnât make a sound. There was a flash and popping noise, and Jo-Jo dropped to the damp, grease-stained pavement.

The thing about killing two people was that you could only do one at a time. Mario fought back. He had a knife, maybe a utility knife. But it didnât matter. A second later, he was as still as his brother. She nearly passed out, trying to keep from making a sound. A thousand screams and sobs were trapped in her chest, clawing to get out. Heâd shot the boys, one and then the other, with no more emotion than if heâd been swatting a fly. The boys had loved Vance. Theyâd idolized him, dreaming of one day being detectives themselves.

Vance Jordan scoured the area, removing traces of himself.

Donât look up, she prayed. Donât look up.

Jordanâs hand was bleeding; maybe it had been cut with the knife in the struggle. He wrapped a cloth around his hand, but the cloth kept unraveling. With jerky movements, he nudged the boys onto their backs and emptied their pockets, maybe to make it look as though theyâd been robbed. He used something to cut the pocket from Marioâs jeans. Of course he would do that. A police detective would know exactly what evidence to look for at a murder scene, and exactly what he needed to remove.

Clarissa realized he was removing traces of his own blood. As he made his way to his car, something dropped from his bundle and fluttered to the curb, unnoticed. He jumped in the car and drove off. Clarissa let out a series of terrified sobs, still so shocked that she could barely think. She half jumped, half fell from the fire escape. At the edge of the alley where the bodies lay, she paced back and forth, hugging herself and shaking.

A car or two passed, one a low-riding clunker emitting loud music, another a sedan driven by a driver barely tall enough to see over the dashboard. She held her breath, nearly fainting as she waited for someone to notice her, or to see the bodies, orâ¦

She spotted the object Vance had dropped in his haste. Every nerve of her body vibrated as she realized it was a pocket cut from the boyâs jeans.

The fabric was stained with blood, most likely from Vance Jordanâs cut hand. Thatâs why he hadnât left it behind. She knew evidence shouldnât be handled too much. Holding it gingerly, she dropped it into a zipper pocket of her backpack. Her hand shook so much as she took out her phone that she couldnât dial. That was something they didnât show you on police showsâthat in reality, your hands and fingers stopped working when you were scared. It took her several tries to dial 911. Her shaking thumb hovered over the send button. Send. Send what, exactly?

âNine-one-one, whatâs your emergency?â

Another thing that stopped workingâher voice. She felt as though she was being strangled.

âHello? Whatâs your emergency?â

She found her voice, formed words she never dreamed sheâd be speaking: âI just saw a murder. Two boysâ Mario and Jo-Jo Balzano. Heâ¦he killed them.â Sheâd watched enough crime shows on TV to know this was an open-and-shut case. She knew the killer. She had a piece of physical evidence.

âAre you safe?â

âNoâ¦yesâ¦I guess, for now. Pleaseâ¦â

âWhatâs your name?â

Something kept her from saying it. âHeâ¦ I saw who did it.â

âCan you tell me his name?â

âIt was Vance Jordan.â

There was a pause, pulsing with disbelief. Then the dispatcher said, âCould you repeat that, please?â

Clarissa hit End. It should have been a simple matter to make a statement to the police. Instead it began a long nightmare that had no end.

A few minutes later, her phone vibratedâCaller Unknown. Now what? NowwhatNowwhatNowwhat? The words bounced around in random panic. Her first instinct was to go home. But home was where the killer lived. She forced herself to think things through.

It occurred to her that the call from her mobile phone had been recorded. She knew this for certain when the next call came in from Vance Jordan. The dispatcher must have alerted him. âClarissa, letâs talk.â His voice sounded the same as it always did. Calm. Fatherly. âItâs not what you think.â

âIâm not thinking anything. I know what happened.â

âKiddo, youâve got it wrong. What happened is thisâsome lowlife dealer popped those boys. Iâm sure the scumbagâll be arrested tonight, and itâll all be over tomorrow.â

âThatâs a lie,â she said. âI saw, and I can prove it.â

âYou canât prove shit, girlie. And the entire departmentâs on my side. Hell, I play golf with the other general assignment detectives. Iâm the fucking godfather of the primary investigatorâs firstborn, and the duty sergeants report to me.â

She knew it was true. He was a golden boy in the department, surrounded by layers of allies. âI can prove it,â she repeated stubbornly.

âWhy, because you saw something? Do you know what a joke a single eyewitness is? Even the stupidest public defender would rip you to shreds. Nobody convicts based on a single witness, especially a girl like you. Youâd probably end up doing time for perjury. So come on home, and weâll figure this out. Those boys were troubleâthey would have hurt you if they hadnât been stopped. Come on, Clarissa. You know me. Iâd never hurt you.â

That was when she knew heâd kill her. There was something in his tone. She tried to sound normal when she said, âAll right. Iâll come home.â She ended the call.

The phone vibrated again, its display window lighting like a beacon. A beacon. Some mobile phones were like tracking devices. Their whereabouts could be detected. She dropped it as though it were a live snake and turned to run. Then she changed her mind, ran to the next block and placed the phone under a seat on a transit bus. Maybe that would buy her a little time.

She spent the night in a gas station ladiesâ room, not sleeping, but shivering and crying and trying to figure out what to do. In the morning, she dragged herself out into the open. Jabbing coins into a pay phone, she called her case worker and babbled out her story. Sherri told her to calm down, and they arranged to meet. Sherri never made it to the meeting. Sheâd been taken to the hospital, the victim of a hit-and-run accident. She was not expected to live.

Claire had nearly gone crazy with griefâ¦and guilt. She spent the day in the shadows, terrified Vance would find her next. She was afraid to call anyone else, afraid for anyone connected to her. When the bad guy was a cop, you couldnât call the cops.

Just as Vance had predicted, a lowlife gangbanger had been arrested for killing Mario and Jo-Jo. While in custody, heâd been stabbed to death with a prisonerâs homemade knife. These things happened.

She racked her brain, trying to figure out where to turn for help. She remembered Mel Reno, a volunteer who coached the school chess team. A quiet, middle-aged guy, he was well-liked by the students, and brilliant when it came to chess. He had a past, though, which sheâd found out from Vance himself. He had been talking to someone on the phone, probably Ava. Reno was a laughingstock, a disgrace, forced to resign from his job under a cloud. Heâd been in charge of protecting a family of witnesses, and theyâd all been killed. Fucking bleeding heart, Vance had said. A couple of witnesses got popped, and he ran like a cat on fire. Fucking coward.

Mel had believed every word sheâd told him. Sheâd been jubilant, until he explained her fate. She was going to have to disappear.

And Vance Jordan was going to get away with murder. In the Star-Ledger, he was pictured with a grieving Teresa and quoted as saying, âThey were always so troubled, those boys. We had no idea something like this could happen.â

The way Mel explained it, the case was closed. With limited resources, the department was only too happy to go along with the explanation of the gangbanger who was stabbed to death right after his arrest. Even the existence of Marioâs pocket stained with Vanceâs blood wouldnât be enough. If she produced the evidence and gave a statement, sheâd be exposing herself to a terrible risk, possibly for no reason. Public prosecutors had difficulty protecting witnesses, particularly when the suspect was a cop. There was no staff or dedicated financing for witness protection. Sometimes a program could be cobbled together with a combination of petty cash, drug forfeiture money and general operating revenues. Sometimes relocation worked. But in a case like Claireâs, sheâd never make it long enough to testify. Mel felt sure of this.

The proof appeared in a footnote to the article about the murders. The Jordansâ foster daughter, Clarissa Tancredi, was assumed to be involved in drugs, just as the boys had been. Vance and Teresa were pleading for information as to her whereabouts. Her embarrassingly homely yearbook picture ran like a milk-carton ad.

Clarissa Tancredi had to disappear for good.

Sometimes, especially in the early days of her exile, she grew so exhausted trying to stay alive that she was on the verge of giving up and surrendering to her fate. She imagined walking into a police station and telling her story. She wouldnât let herself, though. She owed it to the boys who had been silenced to stay alive. She wondered if anyoneâother case workers or Teresa Jordan or people at her schoolâwondered what had become of Clarissa Tancredi. Did they know why sheâd disappeared without a trace?

Mel had set out the phony grave marker himself, a silent message that she was gone for good. The technique was common in witness security programs, but something had awakened Vance Jordanâs suspicions.

Â 

Ross listened with his body held tense. She appreciated that he hadnât interrupted or questioned her. Heâd just let her finish, as though sensing the need for the bottled-up story to come out.

âMel recently found out Vance was going to be a foster father again,â she explained. âMel must have tried to alert the authorities.â She stared at the ground. âItâs my fault. Iâve known for years that Vance Jordan is a killer on the loose, and I was too afraid to do anything about it.â

âDonât you dare do this,â Ross said. âDonât you blame yourself.â

âButââ

âThereâs something I need to know. Whatever happened to the evidence you picked up, the one with Vance Jordanâs blood on it?â

âIâve still got it. I thought I had the ultimate proof, because the report to the public never mentioned that Marioâs pocket had been cut out. Itâs something that would only be known to someone whoâd been there. Investigators often leave out key details as a way to test a witnessâs reliability. In most murder cases, I could tie it up with a bow and give it to the investigators and walk away a hero. I almost did that. I almost delivered the evidence in person. Then I thought about sending it in anonymously. But in surrendering the one piece of evidence, Iâd be playing my entire hand.â

âAnd it sounds like this guy knows exactly how to deal with evidence,â Ross said.

She nodded. There was a blue wall around Vance Jordan. Nobody messed with him. âI feel like such a coward.â

âKeeping yourself safe has to be the number one priority. If anything happens to you, then he will get away with murderâfor good.â

âYou sound like Mel.â Her heart constricted as she thought of Mel, lost in the shadows, his prognosis uncertain.

Ross held her as she cried. She told him how scared she was for Mel. She told him about the case worker involved in the hit-and-run accident, and how she was afraid that anyone she tried to tell would get hurt.

âYou asked me once why I donât get involved with people,â she said. âThis is why. And you wondered how I could stand doing this job, caring for people who are going to die on me. Itâs because dying is not the worst possible thing that can happen to a person. Failing to liveâthatâs worse.â

âEverythingâs going to change now,â Ross assured her.

âHow?â

âJust tell the truth.â

âThe way those boys did?â

âAh, Claire. Weâll figure this out together.â He made a brief search of his wallet, extracting a business card.

He was a fixer. A rescuer. That was what heâd done in the army. Swooped and rescued people.

Twenty-Eight

Blurred vision was among the many symptoms of Georgeâs ailment. He found that if he held himself very still and blinked a few times, the world would come back into focus.

Sometimes, however, he was in no hurry for clarity to return. The genius painter, Claude Monet, had produced some of his best work while going blind. With lines softened by dappled light, the scene appeared before him in dreamlike splendor.

George was no painter, just an observer. He was seated in a cushioned Adirondack chair that was so big and imposing, it resembled a throne. The chair had been placed on the grassy lawn by the resort lodge, where a team from the resort staff was setting up for the family reunion.

The first annual Bellamy family reunion.

For George, it was bound to be the last. He hoped it would go well. He wishedâdear God, he wishedâhis son Pierce could be here. He wished for that every day.

Jane had taken on most of the planning, in consultation with two of her granddaughtersâOlivia and Dare. From a distance, and seen through a haze of sunlight, Jane could easily be mistaken for a slender girl. She wore a sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a yellow ribbon around its crown.

Ah, Jane, he thought. Jane.

As though summoned by his thoughts, she came toward him, still surrounded by a gauzy nimbus of light. âOlivia made a seating chart,â she said. âWould you like to take a look at it?â

George smiled and shook his head. âIâm sure itâs fine. Remind me again, which one is Olivia?â

âSheâs the daughter of our eldest son, Philip.â

George wondered if there was the smallest bit of strain in her voice. He couldnât tell. Philip and his wife, Laura, had been away, so George hadnât met him yet. âAnd sheâs an only child?â

âShe has a half sister, Jenny. Both girls have given me great-grandbabies, and I couldnât be happier. Can you imagine, George? Iâm a great-grandmother.â

To him, she would always be as young and fresh and beautiful as sheâd been the last time heâd held her in his arms. He stayed silent. He had a searing headache now, but he ignored it.

âPhilip was always quite a serious young man,â she said, though George hadnât asked. âLaura is his second wife. His first marriage wasâ¦ He didnât follow his heart. He married Pamela Lightsey, Sam and Gwenâs daughter.â

âI remember Samuel Lightsey from Yale,â said George.

âPamela is lovely, and for Oliviaâs sake, they worked hard to make a go of it. Butâ¦they had to try too hard. His heart was somewhere else. It was all a long time ago.â

âJane,â said George, âthereâs something Iâve always wondered.â He didnât quite know how to ask. He took a small object from his pocket. âI have something that belongs to you.â He handed her the earring.

âI donât recognize that.â

âYou left it in my dorm room in 1956.â

She stood very still for a moment. Then she sat down in the chair next to him. âI canât believe you kept it all this time. Iâm sure I threw away its mate decades ago. Thought it was a lost cause.â

âI see.â

She turned to him, leaning slightly forward. âDo you, George? Because I donât think you do.â

âThen suppose you tell me,â he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

âIâm not making excuses, but those years after Stuart died were incredibly hard for me. My mother shut down. She wasnât there for any of us, and it was awful. My father did his best to raise me, but understandably, there were gaps. Vast ones. I was a vain and careless girl, plagued by insecurity. That nightââ she indicated the earring ââI was tipsy, as well, as I recall. I was in a panic over a loversâ quarrel and flattered by your attention.â

âIt was more than attention, and you know it,â he said. âI did love you, Jane, and the only reason I gave you to Charles wasââ

âLetâs be clear,â she broke in. âYou didnât give me to anyone, George. And Charles didnât take me. If that is what caused this rift then youâre insane. I did a stupid, hurtful, impulsive thing, and Iâm sorry for any pain that caused you. Please understand, I gave my love to one man and one man only, and itâs been that way for fifty-five years, and it will be that way for the rest of our lives. What you must understand is that I chose. I chose the life Iâve had, and itâs a good one. Itâs been good beyond my wildest dreams. I can only hope you feel the same about your life.â

âI couldâ¦up until I lost Pierce,â he said. His heart was sore with unhealed grief. Perhaps, he thought, losing Pierce was the reason it had seemed so important to get to the bottom of the story behind Philip. Now George realized his curiosity was entirely wrong-headed. Passing on DNA didnât make a man a parent. Parenting made him a parent. Philip was Charlesâs son in every way that mattered.

Unlike Mrs. Gordon, George had not let himself neglect his other sons when Pierce died. However, that was when Jackie had changed, turning away from her husband, as though she couldnât bear their combined hurt. She had pursued her romantic adventures discreetly at first, but ultimately she ceased to care whose heart she broke. People grieved in different ways; George knew this. They loved in different ways, too.

Janeâs hand covered his. âGeorge. Oh, my dear sweet George.â She got up and hugged him fiercely, and placed a kiss on his cheek. Then she went back to the preparations.

Georgeâs vision blurred again, the world melding into a sun-dappled Impressionist painting. A powerful feeling swept through him, and the image changed, coalescing into the face of his lost son. The wind sang strangely in his earsâSee you soon.

Twenty-Nine

âGood heavens, woman, Iâm not dead yet,â said George, giving Claire the once-over. âDonât you have a more cheery-looking frock than that?â

Claire plucked at the skirt of her gray dress. Like all her other dresses, it was decidedly plain, designed to help her fade into the background. âThis is your day, George. Nobody cares what I wear.â

âBalderdash. Iâm calling Ivy.â He grabbed his mobile phone.

Claire didnât argue. This was Georgeâs day. She had never planned to return to Avalon, yet sheâd found herself aloft in Duke Elderâs plane, flying northward over the Hudson, which formed a bright ribbon leading to the green-clad highlands of Ulster County. For the first time ever, she dared to believe there could be an end to her ordeal, that she could actually have a life that didnât involve a constant series of goodbyes.

Ross had contacted someone named Tyrone Kennedy with the state prosecutorâs office. Mr. Kennedy put his best assistant on the case. Based on a retest of evidenceâthe boysâ clothingâthere was enough forensic evidence for an arrest. Once he was charged, Claire would produce the missing piece of the puzzleâthe bloodstained inner pocket. Mel Reno was put under guard, and was expected to make a full recovery.

And just like that, everything shifted. Claire didnât quite trust that the ordeal was finally over, though. Sheâd been let down by the system so many times.

This time would be different. Ross had promised.

Although still wary, she decided that at least for today, sheâd put her worries aside. She was in her room in the cottage, scowling at the other four dresses hanging in the closet. Beige, brown, charcoal and black, her standard palette.

âEeny, meeny, miney, moe,â said Ivy, rapping at the door frame to her room. âGranddad said to help you figure out a dress for the reunion.â

When Claire turned and saw Ivy, she gasped. âYou look incredible.â

In a floaty, colorful silk print dress, Rossâs cousin flitted into the room, part girl, part butterfly. Her sandals were made of thin braids of colorful twine, and a rakish-looking clip held her hair in an informal updo. âYou like?â she asked, twirling. âYou think Granddad will like?â

âOf course. He didnât care for this one,â she admitted, indicating the gray sleeveless sheath. âWhich one of these, do you think?â

Ivy regarded the selections for about two seconds. âNone of the above.â She grabbed Claireâs hand and marched her downstairs. She stopped to poke her head into her grandfatherâs room. âAre you all right in there?â

âI could use some help with my tie,â said George.

His voice was thinner, a bit vague. Claire didnât say anything, though. She didnât want anyone to worry today.

âI donât know how to tie a tie,â said Ivy.

âI do.â Claire picked up the silky necktie. âHold still, George.â His coloring was slightly off. âListen, if you need anything at all, you let me know.â

âIâll be all right. Ivy, can you get my cuff links? In the top drawer of the bureau there.â

She rifled around in the drawer. âGranddad, whatâs this box from Tiffanyâs?â

âThat,â he said, âis a very old ring, and itâs part of a very long story.â

âWow, itâs gorgeous. Must be worth a fortune. Did it belong to Grandma Jackie?â

He offered a slight smile. âI like to think itâs still looking for its owner.â

âGranddad. I never knew you were such a romantic.â She helped him with his cuff links. The blast of a revving engine sounded outside. âYikes, whatâs that?â she asked.

âThat,â said George, putting on his sport coat, âis my ride. Just a little something Iâve always wanted to do.â

Connor Davis, Oliviaâs husband, had a Harley. He and George were going for a ride, and then they would arrive at the reunion in style. Ivy and Claire stood watching them go, the motorcycle a silver flash in the sunlight. George reached out both arms as if to embrace the very air around him. Over the low purr of the motor, they could hear his distinctive laughter.

âMy granddadâs so wonderful,â Ivy said, her voice breaking.

âHe is,â Claire agreed.

âIâm scared. I donât want to lose him.â

They watched together until the Harley rounded a curve in the path and disappeared. Ivy took Claireâs hand. âAnd donât think youâre off the hook.â She brought her across the way to the rustic bunkhouse where the girl cousins and family friends were staying. Their shared accommodations were a throwback to Camp Kioga in its heyday as a summer camp. The walls were decked with authentic-looking handicrafts from times gone byâa painted wooden paddle, signed by campers in the 1970s, a crazy quilt from the sixties, collages made of found objects from the lake and the woods.

âMakeover time,â Ivy announced, then turned to Claire. âResistance is futile.â

Claire blushed, though the idea intrigued her. Sheâd undergone makeovers in the past, but they were all designed to make herself even more nondescript and anonymous, which was clearly not the goal here. âIâm all yours.â

Ivy and the others descended, choosing a sunflower-yellow sundress and heeled sandals with gleaming gold straps. âLove the dress,â said Claire. âNot too sure about the sandals, though. I donât wear heels.â

âYou do today,â Ivy said. âTheyâre perfect. And theyâll look incredible on the dance floor.â

Claire examined the spike-sharp heels. âTheyâre weapons of mass destruction.â

âHush, youâll be fine.â Hair and makeup were next, and the pampering felt like pure indulgence. âIâm an artist by trade,â Ivy explained, brandishing a wand of highlighter. âI do painting on ceramics.â

âNo offense,â said another cousin, Gerardâs daughter Nicole, âbut that watch youâre wearing is butt-ugly.â

âNo offense taken,â Claire said easily, removing the chunky watch and stuffing it in her pocket. She didnât explain why she had to keep it with her.

âRoss freaked out when you took off,â said Ivy, brushing highlighter on Claireâs brow.

âWhat do you mean, âfreaked outâ?â

âHeâs head over heels in love with you.â

The matter-of-fact statement gave her chills. âThatâs a bit of an exaggeration,â Claire said.

âNope,â another cousin piped up. Her name was Bridget, and she was doing Claireâs hair with a curling iron and a spritzing bottle. âIvyâs right. Weâve never seen Ross like this before. Heâs had girlfriends in the past, but with you, heâsâ¦different. We all thought heâd be so crushed about Granddad that heâd barely be able to function. But heâsâ¦okay. Not happy with the situationânone of us is. But heâs found a kind of peace, and a lot of that is thanks to you.â

Claire had no idea if they were right. She did know she loved him, even though sheâd spent most of the summer trying not to. Like the most powerful of emotions, love had a will of its own, and would not be denied. She had no idea where it would lead, but for the first time in her life, she wasnât afraid of what waited for her around the next corner.

âReady for the big reveal?â Nicole led her to a full-length mirror. âCheck this outâta-da!â

Claire regarded the girl in the mirror. The bright yellow look-at-me dress accentuated her figure. Her hair was no longer a mousy-brown pulled back with a clip, but a glossy brunette framing her face in flattering waves. The makeup accentuated her eyes and lips, and the color in her cheeks was a blush of pleasure. âWow,â she said. âI lookâ¦just, wow. You guys are miracle workers.â

âIt wasnât a huge stretch,â said Nicole. âYouâre really pretty, Claire.â

âYou just need some practice in hair, makeup and wardrobe.â Ivy handed her a pair of hoop earrings. âTry these.â

They went together to the reunion party, chattering excitedly about meeting all the other Bellamys. This was to be the first official meeting of George and Charlesâs relatives together. Claire felt confident it would go well. These people were not perfect, but they all wanted the same thingâa joyous celebration.

âWhoâs that girl?â asked a familiar voice, stopping her as she made her way toward the buffet table to get something to drink.

She turned, a smile on her face. âWhat girl?â

Ross slipped his arm around her waist. âI donât recognize her.â

Claire savored his expression, an irresistible mixture of pleasure and pride, tinged with unabashed lust and maybe even love. She thought the attention might feel like all too much, but not today. Today, she wanted to shine. âYour girl cousins gave me a makeover. And as a special bonus, the high heels can be used to aerate the lawn.â

âYouâre a knockout.â He turned to survey the arriving guests. âI hope one of Great Uncle Charlesâs relatives is a doctor, because Iâm going to need CPR.â

âSophieâs husband, Noah, is a vet.â

âHe might have to revive me. Seriously, Claire, you take my breath away.â

âI hope that doesnât mean youâre not going to dance with me,â she said.

âThe whole world is going to want to dance with you, but Iâm keeping you all to myself. Speaking of which, I wanted to ask you something, honey. How do you feel about a town like Avalon?â

âHow do I feel? Iââ She broke off, pondering his question. Sheâd never let herself get attached to a place before, yet here, the bond seemed to grow as naturally as the willows dipping their fronds into the lake. The beauty of nature and intimacy of small-town life, where everyone knew everyone else, had seemed daunting at first. She remembered feeling exposed and vulnerable, beginning with the day a cop had pulled her over. Over the summer, however, Avalon had come to represent a place of safety. âWhy do you ask? And did you just call me âhoneyâ?â

âYou got a problem with that? I hope not, because Iâll probably be calling you honey from here on out. Dear. Sweetheart. She Who Must Be Obeyed.â

âRossââ

âI love you. I love you so much.â

Despite the presence of the gathering crowd, she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. âI love you, too. In theâ¦the biggest sense of the word. If I could think of a bigger way to say itââ

âYou just did.â

She couldnât stop smiling. âI have a question for you, too. How does it feel, making another personâs every dream come true?â

The blast of the Harley engine heralded Georgeâs arrival.

âTo be continued,â said Ross. âThe guest of honor is here.â

George was flushed but smiling as Ross helped him dismount from the cycle, and Connor drove it away to park. âNot quite as invigorating as skydiving,â George said. âBut nearly. How did you like my grand entrance?â

âVery impressive,â said Claire.

George did a double take. âMy, my. Look at you. This is much better. You are unbelievably beautiful, and Iâm honored.â

âAw. Thanks, George. How are you feeling? A lot of people are here to see you today.â

âThen letâs get this party started.â

She stayed close to George as the bandâthe local group Inner Childâwarmed up and people gathered at the buffet tables. Philip Bellamy strode eagerly over to greet George. The eldest of all the various Bellamy cousins, he had been away, and he hadnât met George yet. Philip was tall and handsome, exuding personal charm and confidence. âIâve been looking forward to meeting you,â he said, taking Georgeâs hand.

George studied him for a long moment. His eyes, though faded in color, seemed to glow brighter as he regarded Philip. âIt is,â he said in an emotional voice, âa distinct honor.â

Philipâs mother, Jane, seemed tense and uncharacteristically quiet. Claire had come to think of her as the bubbly one. This was a solemn moment, though. The brothers had been estranged for the span of Philipâs life. Meeting him now feltâ¦significant.

George removed his hand from Philipâs and gave him a long, tight hug. âThank you for coming,â he said.

âYou bet,â said Philip. He introduced his wife, Laura. âIâm just glad we got back from our trip in time for the reunion. And this,â he added, indicating the swaddled infant in Lauraâs arms, âis my grandson, Ethan Bellamy Davis. Heâs Connor and Oliviaâs son.â

Before George could protest, Laura placed the baby in Georgeâs arms. Claire, who had volunteered to take pictures of the dayâs festivities, caught a snapshot of his expression as he gazed with a look of wonder at the tiny face.

âI believe that makes you officially hisâ¦great-grand-uncle,â said Philip.

George cleared his throat. âNo, that makes me officially older than rock itself.â He handed back the baby, offering congratulations to the parents. He studied Philip for several moments. âItâs very, very good to meet you.â Then George turned to Charles. âYour sonâs a fine man.â

âJust like his father,â Jane said softly.

âGo and get something to eat,â George said with sudden briskness. âIâm told thereâs to be dancing later, so youâll need sustenance.â

He watched them go, his eyes misty and thoughtful. Ross helped him take a seat in the wheelchair. He was so quiet, he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Claire observed him keenly; he could be in the grip of a seizure.

âGeorge?â she softly prompted.

âIâm all right. Justâ¦processing two different stories, one here, and one here.â He touched his head and then his chest, and Claire knew he was still sorting through events of the past that had splintered the family apart long ago. She hoped today, the healing would be complete.

âA wise man once told me thereâs more wisdom in a single beat of the human heart than an entire board of experts,â Ivy said.

âYour grandfather said that?â asked Claire. âGeorge, youâre brilliant, you know that?â

âNo,â said George, âIâm terribly flawed. The mistakes Iâve made in my lifeââ

âLook at this.â She gestured at his family, everyone laughing and talking and eating. It was a beautiful scene, like a painting, with the lake and the forest in the background. âYou and your brother did this. Itâs a monument to the life you lived. Be proud, George. Be happy for the times youâve had.â

âNow that,â said Ross, âis why youâre paying her the big bucks.â

George chuckled. âYou were the one who scolded me for finding her on the Internet.â Then his humor faded. âClaire is right. Iâve been keeping my list, tallying things up, but what Iâve realized is that my greatest achievement is right here. This family. They areâ¦proof that I was here. That I mattered.â

Claireâs throat heated with emotion. In the end, a human life amounted to the love he shared. Sheâd been so wrong, thinking she could go through life without it.

Ross reached down, pressing a hand to his grandfatherâs shoulder. She aimed the camera, liking the unstudied pose of the two of them. She got the shot, but the low-battery light blinked.

âIâll be back in a few minutes,â she said. âI need to go grab the spare battery. There are a lot of shots Iâll want to get today.â As she made her way along the wooded path to the cottage, she found herself wishing sheâd hired an event photographer, but it hadnât occurred to her or to anyone else. Apparently one of the BellamysâDaisyâwas a professional photographer, and the family usually relied on her for pictures. But she was away, so they would have to make do with Claireâs snapshots.

She practically floated along the path. She felt flushed with love, her heart soaring. Did she want to stay in Avalon? Did she want to stay with Ross? It was all she could do to keep from climbing to the nearest rooftop and shouting yes. This was it, the leap of faith sheâd always dreamed of, and now she was actually doing it. Because now sheâd found a reason to take the risk.

Humming under her breath, she let herself into the cottage. The minute she stepped inside, she sensed that something was different. A faint, ineffable tension hung in the air, like a smell that was not quite a smell. A sound she couldnât identify, perhaps the creak of a floorboard or the intake of a soft breath.

An icy sense of danger flashed over her. She turned and ripped open the door, but it was already too late. Someone grabbed her from behind. Pinned her against the door, one hand on her throat, the other drilling the cool, smooth muzzle of a gun up into her jaw.

Thirty

âDid someone go see whatâs keeping Claire?â asked Ross. He thought sheâd gone in search of another camera battery, but maybe heâd misheard. It had been more than an hour since heâd seen her.

A very busy hour. The Bellamy family reunion ballooned into a huge affair. Both brothers had big extended families, lots of grandkids and a few greats. Some of the kids were getting an early start on the fireworks, probably too impatient to wait for dark. He could hear them going off down by the lakeshore.

âI did.â Ivyâs voice sounded tense. âI went to find her.â

âWell?â

âSheâs gone. And, umâ¦Ross, I donât actually know how to say this. Granddadâs antique Tiffany ring is missing from the cottage, too.â

Ross took a step away from his cousin and Natalie. In the distance, the dancing went on. He could see his great-uncle Charles dancing with his wife, and nearby, Granddad with Miss Darrow. After all Granddad had said about the past, today could have been an emotional train wreck. But it hadnât. It had been a celebration of joy, all because Granddad and Jane and his brother chose to focus on the love in their hearts, not rivalry or bitterness, not the vanished past.

âRoss? Whatâs going on?â asked his cousin.

âI have to go,â he said hurriedly. âTell Granddadâjust tell him Iâll be back as soon as I can.â

Â 

âYâ¦youâre supposed to be under arrest,â Claire said through clenched teeth.

âAnd your friend the prosecutorâs assistant is supposed to be alive and kicking,â said Vance Jordan. He looked exactly the sameâlike a TV cop, handsome and strong.

God. Dear God. It was happening all over again. And it was all her fault.

âIâm disappointed in you, Clarissa,â said Jordan. âYou were smart for a long time, staying quiet the way you did. You kept our secret, not like those other two. Most people have trouble keeping secrets.â

She hadnât had any trouble at all. It was easy for three kids to keep a secret when two of them were dead.

Everything she had come to believe about the terrible vulnerability of love turned out to be true. The moment Vance Jordan assured her that if she tried anything, the Bellamys would start to die, one by one, she shut down. There was not a doubt in her mind that heâd make good on his threat. She did everything he asked of her. Everything.

Â 

The small float plane bobbed at the side of the dock, tugging at its mooring line. Sounds bounced off the sheer rock walls that edged the lake. She could hear birdsong and the sighing of the wind, the lapping of the water against the pontoons of the plane.

She didnât ask what his plan was. He was going to force her to hand over the pocket with his blood on it, the one piece of physical evidence that tied him irrevocably to the murders. And the sad thing was, she would surrender it without a fight. Too much was at risk now. Sheâd entwined her life with Ross and his family, and that gave Vance the ultimate power over her.

That didnât mean sheâd given up. She still had the transmitter in her pocketâthe ugly watch sheâd removed earlier.

The consummate police officer, Vance had bound her hands with zip ties, but not her feet, since he needed her mobile. He looked away for a few seconds while checking a portable GPS, and she used the heel of her sandal to loosen the mooring rope from the cleat. The line had been hastily tied, and slipped loose.

Vance himself had once told her that there was no such thing as the perfect crime. The bad guy, heâd explained, always managed to do at least one careless thing. Find that one thing, and you nail your guy.

Back when theyâd had that conversation, sheâd never imagined him as the bad guy. Now, everything she used to admire about him scared herâthe strong, manly hands, the square jaw, the decisive attitude.

The sharp look of rage as the breeze blew the float plane away from the dock.

âFuck,â he said. âGrab that line. Do it now.â

Claire played dumb. âWhat? What line?â

The plane drifted farther. Jordan cast around, probably looking for a pole, but there was nothing. âDamn it. Youâre going in after it.â He clipped the plastic zip tie to free her hands, then shoved her off the dock.

The chilly water closed over her. A sound like none sheâd ever heard before drilled through the waterâthe zip of a bullet. Every part of her recoiled, though she knew she wasnât hurt. Heâd pulled off a shot to show her he meant business. If heâd meant to hit her, she would be dead.

She held her breath for as long as possible, stalling for time. This prompted him to fire another shot. Then, when she was on the verge of exploding, she surfaced.

âGrab the fucking rope,â he said. âDo it.â

She flailed, grabbed for it, missed on purpose, keeping his attention on her. It was crucial to keep him distracted, because sheâd seen a shadow flicker in the trees along the shore. They werenât alone.

âIâm trying,â she gasped. âJustâ¦donâtââ

He fired again. At the same time, Ross approached from behind, stooping low and grabbing Vanceâs ankles. He yanked back, and Vance fell flat on his face. Even through the echoes of the gunâs report, Claire heard the air rush from his chest. The gun skittered across the wooden planks and fell in. Methodically, in a way that reminded her that Ross was a trained soldier, he delivered pitiless blows to Vanceâs eyes, neck, groin, with movements as fluid as a dancerâs. Then he frisked Vance and took a second gun from an ankle holster.

Only seconds had passed. Claire was treading water, holding the mooring rope in her hand. Shaken to her core, she slowly swam to the dock, looping the rope around a cleat. She held the edge of a pontoon, and looked around, trying to decide how to get out of the chilly water.

Ross was using his belt to tie Vanceâs wrists behind his back.

âClaireââ

âDonât move,â said another voice.

Claire froze. âTeresa.â She could see Vanceâs wife reflected in the surface of the lake. Teresa had been waiting in the plane all along. Now she stood on the pontoon, holding a cable shroud in one hand and a gun in the other.

âDrop that, or Iâll shoot her,â said Teresa.

Without hesitation, Ross let go of the small handgun heâd taken from Vance. It dropped into the lake and sank out of sight.

Good move, thought Claire.

Teresa stepped from the pontoon onto the dock. âGet out of the water,â she ordered Claire. âMake it quick.â She turned to Ross. âAnd youâkeep your distance.â

Claire levered herself up between the pontoon and the dock. Her arms were shaking. She was shaking all over.

âAre you okay, baby?â Teresa asked her husband. âPlease, tell me youâre okayâ¦â

Vance groaned. âJust stick withâ¦the plan.â

Claireâs thoughts whirled. Teresaâs involvement came as a surprise, yet it shouldnât have. She loved her husband to excess; it was one of the first things Claire had noticed about her. Claire remembered thinking Teresa would freak out if she found out about Vanceâs affair with Ava, his partner at work.

Claire had no idea whether or not the affair was still going on. She knew she might get herself shot if she opened her mouthâbut she also might give Ross a chance to act.

âAsk him if Ava Snyderâs part of that plan,â Claire said.

Teresaâs face froze, and Claire knew she was on the right track. âHe and Ava are lovers,â Claire explained. âTheyâve been lovers for years. Iâm surprised you didnât figure it out by now.â

âLiar.â Teresa pointed the gun at Claireâs chest.

Claire felt as if her bones were about to melt with fear, but she kept talking. âHe took a ring from Mr. Bellamy, a priceless antique Tiffany ring. Heâs planning to give it to Ava.â She was speculating now, but sensed she was on the right track. âCheck his pocket and see for yourself. He played you for a fool, living in your fancy house, spending your moneyââ

Teresa squeezed off a shot. Claire staggered back, and Ross lunged for Teresa. He stopped when the gun pointed at Claire again. As the sound of the shot echoed off the quarry walls, Claire said, âRoss! Iâm all right.â

Vance wasnât, though. His wife had shot him somewhere vital, judging by the dark blood spreading across the dock. Teresa stayed eerily calm. âI always have a plan B. Now I just need to decide on a setup. Thatâs my specialty, remember?â

Claire looked at Ross, so deeply afraid, she couldnât think.

âCould be, the gallant boyfriend rushed in and executed his loverâs captor,â Teresa mused. âThatâs predictable, though. I love to keep people guessing. Now Iâm thinking Clarissa will be the shooter. Thereâs a peculiar poetic justice in having her murder her once-trusted foster fatherâ¦.â

There was a flash of sound and then a fleshy thud. Teresaâs face lit with an expression of pure startlement; then she pitched forward.

âI have a better idea,â said George Bellamy, lowering his bolt-action rifle. âHow about none of the above?â

âGranddad? Holy crap,â said Ross.

George looked pale but determined. âYouâd better see if thereâs anything you can do, son.â

Ross checked Vanceâs pulse. âGone,â he muttered, moving on to Teresa. âSheâs still with us, though,â he said. And he did his duty, keeping her alive until the medics came.

Â 

âI didnât mean to ruin your party, George,â said Claire. Clutching a thermal blanket around her, she leaned against Ross, unwilling to detach herself from him, even for a moment. The area swarmed with emergency vehicles as the medics and police took charge.

âGood heavens, you didnât ruin a thing,â he said. âIâm just thankful youâre all right.â

âWeâre all thankful,â added his brother, Charles.

She was still shaking as she thought about what sheâd nearly brought to this innocent, happy family. Yet no one had hesitated to protect her, a stranger with a false identity. The extraordinary goodness of their actions shook her to her core.

Ross held her shoulders, and his touch was the only thing that soothed her. âEverythingâs okay now,â he assured her. âThe police will need a statement after you get into some dry clothes.â

One of the police investigators was conferring with a colleague and gesturing at George Bellamy.

âCharles, I might find myself in need of a lawyer,â George said to his brother.

âThatâs funny. I was about to offer my services.â

âIn that case, weâre a perfect match.â

Charles offered his arm for George to lean on. The two old men walked away together, surrounded by the deep jewel-toned twilight reflecting off Willow Lake.

Ross tightened his arms around Claire, holding on as if heâd never let her go. âWelcome back, Clarissa Tancredi,â he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. âWelcome back.â

Epilogue

Avalon, New York
Indian Summer

Ross stared at the altimeter of the plane, watching it climb toward ten thousand feet. Duke Elder had taken him up with his three uncles, not for skydiving but a more somber purpose. Except they werenât exactly somber. Trevor and Louis were passing a bottle of RÃ©my Martin back and forth between them, chuckling as they traded boyhood memories. Gerard was taking pictures. The hills were ablaze with the changing colors of the sugar maples, pink and amber and orange.

Over the headsets, they could be heard chattering about Granddad. It was agreed all around that George Bellamy had not led a perfect life, but it had been a life well-lived, and that was all anyone expected of a man. And if there was such a thing as a âgoodâ death, then Granddad had had one. In the final days, Claire kept his pain to a minimum, and heâd spent time with everyone he loved, talking or playing some board game, sometimes just sitting together and saying nothing at all.

Granddad was proof of something Claire had once told himâthat the dying can teach you to live. In just one summer, heâd shown Ross the importance of opening himself to a whole new life. He also, Ross had to allow, had succeeded in accomplishing his final missionâbringing Ross and Claire together. She had come to Avalon to lose herself; Ross had come to find himself, and in the process theyâd found each other. Exactly as his grandfather had hoped for.

Sheâd kept the name Claire Turner, which she preferred. Clarissa Tancredi had endured things no child should ever have to face; Claire insisted on aiming for the future. Now every day with her was a gift. She had become a fixture in his dreams. He wanted to live with her in Avalon. He could picture them building a life that used to seem like an unreachable fantasy, but now lay within his grasp.

Granddad was gone, but his touch was indelible. Heâd left Ross the Tiffany ring in its box, along with a note: âYour move.â

Ross got the urn ready. The ceramic container had been made by Ivy, when she was about ten years old, for some unremembered purpose. But it was the right size and deemed appropriate for the occasion. The thing weighed a ton and was illustrated with fly-fishing lures and, in childish scrawl,

Â 

List of Ingredients:

clues

easy answers

facts of life

common sense

excuses

moot points

magic

Â 

Ross signaled to his uncles, then slid open the hatch. The wind screamed into the compartment. He made eye contact with the others. They watched in silence, each alone with his thoughts, all of them crying now. Ross carefully removed the lid, opened the plastic liner and tipped the urn so the ashes were sucked out in a thin stream, dispersing into nothingness. He recited the phrase his grandfather had written on a slip of paper the day theyâd gone parachutingâa line from Platoâs Republic: ââThe soul takes flight to the world that is invisible, and thereupon arriving she is sure of bliss, and forever dwells in paradise.ââ

Ross shut his eyes, remembering the fall through the sky with his grandfather, and all the other days of the summer, right up to the last. Shortly after the reunion, George had been playing a game of Parcheesi with Micah, Ross and Claire. Other members of the family had gathered nearby, enjoying the evening breeze. Someone was strumming a guitar, and the fireflies were coming out. Granddad had been ensconced on the lavish hanging bed that graced the front porch, declaring himself a sultan as he gleefully dominated his opponents in the game.

The last sound Ross heard from his grandfather was laughter.

Â 

Dear Reader,

The Lakeshore Chronicles have taken on a life of their own beyond the pages of the books, thanks to readers like you. Iâ€™m very grateful for the enthusiasm and support. Some of you have even created hand-drawn maps of Avalon and family trees for the Bellamy clan. I love hearing stories about your own towns and the friends and families in your lives. Itâ€™s what keeps me spinning fresh tales, day in and day out.

Thank you so much for reading The Summer Hideaway. I like to think old George Bellamy would approve of the way things turned out. This October, Lakeshore Christmas will be published for the first time in paperback. Many readers have written to ask about a longtime continuing character, Daisy Bellamy. Although she was conspicuously absent from the current book, rest assured that she will be the main character of the next installment. At the time of this writing, the title and publication dates have not been finalized for that novel.

To receive updates about this or any other book, you can subscribe to my reader newsletter at www.susanwiggs.com or write to my regular mail at P.O. Box 4469, Rollingbay, WA 98061-0469.

This year, Iâ€™m excited to bring you a gorgeous trade paperback edition of a reader favorite, The Ocean Between Us, coming from MIRA Books in May. This new edition will feature bonus material and updates, as well as a guide for reading groups. July, August and September will bring the return of the award-winning Chicago Fire Trilogyâ€”The Hostage, The Mistress and The Firebrand. Also in August, Iâ€™ll have a story in Summer Brides, a collection of novellas with two of my favorite writers, Susan Mallery and Sherryl Woods.

Wishing you happy reading as always,

Rollingbay, WA

March, 2010

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Deepest gratitude to my friends and fellow writersâ€” Anjali Banerjee, Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson.

Special thanks to the team of expertsâ€”Dr. Carol Wiley, Bob Mayer, Robert Dugoni and Andy Watsonâ€”for help with researching and brainstorming such disparate topics as helicopters in combat, airborne medical evacuation, brain tumors and legal matters. Any inaccuracies found herein are my own. To my friend Carol Kovacâ€”just talking to you frees the mind.

Thanks to Sherrie Holmes, Joelle Klist, Bree Ogden and Lindsey LeBret for keeping all my ducks in a row. And a very special thank-you to the Jacobi family for their support of P.A.W.S. and for providing inspiration for the fictional pets in this book.

Thanks to Margaret Oâ€™Neill Marbury and Adam Wilson of MIRA Books, Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for invaluable support, advice and input.

Thanks and love to my familyâ€”the reason for everything.

Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

Subscribe to our newsletter

Share your reading experience on:

Harlequin Books

Facebook

Twitter

Watch our reviews, author interviews and more on Harlequin TV

ISBN: 9781488707865

TITLE: THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

First Australian Publication 2014

Copyright © 2014 Susan Wiggs

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon®, Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office in other countries.

For questions and comments about the quality of this book please contact us at Customer_eCare@Harlequin.ca.

www.harlequinbooks.com.au