The Summer Hideaway

“And?”

“Apparently they dismissed me as a crackpot.”

“That was risky,” she said, “you pointing the finger at Vance Jordan. I’m the one who needs to blow the whistle on him, not you.” 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 selfexile. Coming to a place like this had only firmed her resolve. “It’s time, Mel. Past time. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done waiting.”

“Claire—Clarissa. He’s got too many friends all along the chain of command, and the ones who aren’t his friends are scared of him. Exposing yourself now won’t accomplish anything.”

There was a good chance he was right, but the thought of Jordan with another foster child made her stomach churn. “I’ll figure out something,” she said. “On my own.”

“You want to talk about risk—”

“That’s why I want you to stay out of it. Look, I’m doing this for myself, okay? I have to stop running.” There might have been a time when she’d accepted her life underground, but that time was over. She simply couldn’t 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 couldn’t stay anonymous forever.

“I won’t let you,” he snapped. “Just wait, okay?” he said. “I’ll figure out the next step.”

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 wouldn’t sit still and watch Vance Jordan become someone’s 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 knew—and 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.

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. Here—in this paradise of a place, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at it. And now—at 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 he’d 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 wouldn’t be? No one knew for certain what awaited him in the vast infinite, no matter what one’s 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, he’d told Claire. Then he’d pay a visit to his brother.

George was grateful for Claire. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble to find precisely the right person—not 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 he’d 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 wouldn’t judge him or show disapproval. And honestly, in the place where he was in his life—what was left of it—he didn’t much care.

How much was the truth worth to a dying man? He’d been wondering about that lately. Perhaps he would discuss it with Claire. She was easy to talk to, this quiet young woman… 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 them…George had a good feeling. They could really be something together, if they’d 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?

“Hello,” 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. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there. Too busy admiring the lake.”

“I don’t blame you. Would you like to have a seat?”

“Thanks. Nice morning,” he said. “Are you here on vacation?”

“My married grand-niece and her husband persuaded me to come. I happened to mention I’d 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.” She offered a charming smile. “I love discounts. It’s my favorite thing about being a senior citizen.”

George chuckled, liking her more by the minute. “You don’t say. We have something in common, then. I used to come here, too. It was a long time ago.” 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. “I’ve never been married. I suppose that makes me a professional spinster.”

“I’m a widower,” he said. “And I’ve never much cared for the term spinster. There’s something lonely and unattractive about it, and you hardly appear to be either.”

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

“I’d best find out your name, then.”

“It’s Millie. Millicent Darrow,” she said.

Recognition—remembrance—nudged at George. “Millie Darrow. I should have recognized you from our college days. You and your sister Beatrice went to Vassar.”

“Why, yes. I graduated in 1956.” She leaned forward and peered at him, hard. “George? George Bellamy.”

“It’s good to see you, Millie.”

She took off her sun hat and fanned herself. “This is extraordinary. What a surprise. What an incredible gift.”

She had no idea. She was the first person he’d seen in months who didn’t know George was sick. He liked that. He was glad for the hat covering his peach-fuzz hair. “You look wonderful, Millie,” he said.

“So do you. How is your brother Charles?”

It was too complicated to explain the situation, so George said simply, “He’s fine. Thank you for asking.”

“I always thought you were the handsome one.”

“Liar,” he said, laughing.

She replaced her hat. “It’s the truth, George Bellamy.”

“And I thought you were the sweet one,” he said.

“How long are you staying here?” she asked.

“As long as I can,” he said with an unbidden lurch of his heart. “As long as I possibly can.”

Chapter Five

Because Ross Bellamy’s 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 soldiers—a woman who had not yet turned twentyone, and a guy in his thirties who drank and talked the whole way, preoccupied with the taste of beer and a girlfriend named Rhonda.

“I don’t know why I’m so excited,” he confessed. “We did a lot of Skype and e-mail, so it’s not like we’ve been totally incommunicado. I guess it’s just the seeing-in-person thing, huh? There’s no substitute for it.”