The Summer Hideaway

“Certainly. I’ll have all your favorites for dinner.”

“Great, thanks.”

She paused. “Ross.”

“Yes?”

“Just refresh my memory,” she said. “What are your favorites?”

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

“Hey, anything that’s not served in a metal compartmentalized tray is fine with me,” 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 parents’ pawn shop. Early in life, she’d learned to be ashamed of her humble roots, and had made it her life’s mission—as she’d put it when Ross questioned her—to rise above it. She’d 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 College—not 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. She’ll 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 one’s 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 city—first 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 mother’s neighborhood, on the upper west side, was a calm oasis of residences with wrought-iron gates leading to fussy gardens.

Though Winifred had her widow’s 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 didn’t 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 only—to 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 grandfather’s number, predictably getting a pre-recorded 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. I’ll 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 hadn’t really settled down anywhere. He was ready now, though. More than ready.

He tried calling Natalie Sweet, whom he’d 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 didn’t 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 Trevor’s place in Southern California? His grandfather’s 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 Ross’s mother, to be fair, the moment he walked through the door and Salomé 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. “I’ve missed you, son.”

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.

“I’m so relieved to have you back, safe and sound,” she added.

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

“Thank you, Ross. You know I love caviar.”

“Sure. I want to hear all about Granddad. What’s going on?”

She reiterated the words that had brought him racing across the globe: glioblastoma multiforme. Grade four— which meant rapid progression. Refusing treatment. “He said he wants to make the most of the time he has left,” she explained, her voice tinged with indignation. “And 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 it’s complete and utter nonsense.”

Ross wasn’t sure what she was referring to as complete and utter nonsense. George’s diagnosis or his reaction to it? His quest to reconnect with his brother or the fact that there were other Bellamys in the world?

“Did you know anything about Granddad’s brother?” asked Ross. “Did Dad?”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Pierce 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.”

“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with that?”

“It’s 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 are…Why, I scarcely know where anyone is these days. It’s easy to lose track.”

“Uncle Gerard’s in Cape Town, Uncle Louis in Tokyo and Uncle Trevor’s in L.A. It’s not rocket science, keeping up with family members. Something else must have happened.”

“He’s being a foolish old man,” Winifred pronounced. “That’s what happened. I don’t know if his lack of judgment is caused by the cancer, or if he’s simply old and foolish. I hope he’ll listen to you, Ross. You’re the only one who can reason with him. He’s acting out of panic, going with a strange woman to a strange town when he should be here, with us,” 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 wasn’t all about the money.

Once a year, on the anniversary of Pierce’s death, Winifred would go to the war veterans’ 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.

“He’s a selfish, foolish old man to do this to his family,” she repeated.

“Oh, that’ll bring him rushing back,” Ross pointed out.

“I would never tell him that.”

“Sometimes you can sense someone’s opinion without having it expressed directly.” He paused. Then something made him ask, “Did 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?”

“Don’t be silly. The two are inseparable.” Then she burst into tears. “Of course I loved him. What on earth do you take me for?”

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

“You just got here,” said Winifred.

“Come with me,” he suggested.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I have too much on my schedule.”