Getting started with a new client was, for Claire, a little like dating, only more one-sided. And maybe there wasn’t 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 him—not 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.
He’d had a quiet day, resting and eating little, but he’d 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 he’d been insistent about the plan for the evening. He claimed he didn’t want to miss dinner service. Tonight, he was determined to dine in style.
“George,” she said, gently touching his shoulder. “George, wake up. Time to get ready for dinner.”
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.
“Still interested in dinner? If not, I can bring you a tray again—”
“No. I’m done acting like an invalid. All this fresh air and sunshine is making me feel better.”
She nodded. “It’s seven-fifteen. We have an eight o’clock table.”
“I’ll be ready.”
In the tooled-leather binder in Claire’s 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 wasn’t 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 was…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 forgot—the 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, she’d had a favorite story— Cinderella. There was something in every girl that longed for a dramatic transformation. It was a metaphor, of course, a reward. The power of Cinderella’s 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 hands—Who’s 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 simply…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 couldn’t stifle a gasp.
“Wow, look at you. You look like a million bucks.”
He turned in a slow circle, palms out, a smile on his face. “I feel like a million bucks.” He paused. “Maybe not quite a million.”
“An even million,” she contradicted him. “Let’s put it this way. If Richard Gere gets very, very lucky, he might end up looking like you one day.”
“Well, now. A movie star? That’s quite a compliment.”
“The suit looks amazing on you. Is it from the tailor shop you told me about—Henry Poole?”
“Indeed it is. You have a good eye.”
“It’s perfect on you.” 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. “A gift from my father,” George said when he saw her looking at the cuff links. “He gave matching pairs to me and my brother. I shall have to think about what to do with these,” he added. “I have six grandsons.”
“That many?”
“We Bellamys are a prolific lot.”
She led the way down to the golf cart, which they’d rented for getting around the resort. “Your chariot awaits. Would you like to drive?”
“Certainly.” He elected to leave his cane behind, for he was feeling spry.
They arrived at the main pavilion at precisely eight o’clock. 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 didn’t 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 people’s pictures.
Claire had not willingly had her picture taken since her junior year of high school. It was in an annual somewhere, “Clarissa Tancredi” 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 she’d 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 ladies’ room on the Jersey Turnpike. And that expression of hope would never, ever return.
The maître d’ seated them at a table by the French doors near the deck—prime real estate in a prime restaurant, she noted.
“I do believe this is the best table in the place,” she said. “How did we rate the royal treatment?”
“Must be your overwhelming beauty,” said George, then winked when he saw she wasn’t buying it. “Either that, or the fact that I gave the maître d’ a tip the size of Chicago.”
She raised her water goblet in his direction. “To you, Mr. George Bellamy, international man of mystery. Thank you for bringing me along on this journey.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Summer in a rustic cottage is not everyone’s cup of tea. I hope you don’t go batty with boredom.”
“Highly doubtful, George.” She noticed him glancing around the dining room. “Looking for someone?”
“I ran into an old friend from college,” he said. “I thought she might be here tonight.”
“That’s nice for you,” she said. “Is it a coincidence, or—”
“Total coincidence. I’d forgotten all about Millie until just this morning.”
“I hope I get to meet her.” 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 didn’t stave off the impulse. No wonder self-imposed isolation was so hard.
She studied the menu in bewilderment and delight. “I don’t know what half this stuff is. And I can’t actually pronounce it.”
“Shall I order for us both?”
“Yes, please. Just remember, I’m watching my weight.”
“I remember. How could I forget? You’re the first person in history to turn down a pastry from the Sky River Bakery.”
When the waiter came, George did the ordering—a salad that included something called frisée, garnished with fresh flowers. There was an entrée of local trout with sautéed 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 couldn’t 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.
“Is it what you were hoping for?” she asked.
“For the most part, yes. I was hoping it hadn’t changed beyond recognition, and it hasn’t. There was always this view of the lake. I think the stage was in the opposite corner.”
“Was there live music?” she asked.
“Every night,” he assured her. “There 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.”
“Did you have a favorite?”
“Sure. There was a magician named Marvel who sawed off his assistant’s 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,” he said. “Ever heard of Henny Youngman?”
“Sorry, no.”
“He was a comedian, a big deal in his day. The Everly Brothers played here. And the Andrews Sisters—they were regulars on the circuit.”
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 her—a sadness, a sense of futility. She’d never allowed herself to see falling in love as an option. She couldn’t. 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 wouldn’t 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 dessert—he had crème brûlée 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 she’d ever tasted before. “This is nectar,” she said, shutting her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she saw George watching her with an indulgent smile.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re really quite a lovely young woman,” he told her. “Ross is going to like you enormously.”
Ross again. The grandson. “I’m here for you, George. You know that.” She rested her chin in her hand and watched the couples on the dance floor.
He finished his glass of ice wine. “You’re bored with me already. I can tell.”
“Nonsense. I’m just getting to know you,” she said.
“It’s on my list, you know,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Dancing. I never learned to dance.”
“I’m surprised,” she admitted, turning to look at him. “You 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.”
“You’re 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 understand…”
“Cooties,” she suggested.
He chuckled. “Yes, there was that, early on. But now I’m sorry I never learned to dance, because I’d like to know what it feels like to be out on the dance floor in a beautiful place like this.”
“Now that,” she said, “is definitely something I can help you with. I’m actually an okay dancer.” 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, she’d learned a good number of dances, and some of the retro numbers were her favorites.
“Excellent,” he said. “When shall we start?”
She set down her napkin. “There’s no time like the present.”
He looked momentarily disconcerted. Then resolute. “Your point is well taken.” He got up and moved to her side of the table, offering his right hand with a flourish. “May I have this dance?”
“I’d be thrilled,” she said, taking his hand. “And I’m having a hard time believing you’ve never done this. You look like a pro, standing there.”
“Standing is the key word. I’ve watched a lot of Fred Astaire movies in my day. I couldn’t ever get past the asking, though.”
“We’re about to change that,” she said.
The small ensemble was playing “Stardust Memories,” which lent itself to a simple box step.
“The nice thing about dancing,” she said, “is that you really only need to know two things—how to hold a frame, and how to engage with your partner. Don’t worry about feet and legs. Those will come after.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said.
“Trust me. You have to trust me.”
“Fine. Tell me what to do. I’m all ears.”
“First, forget about everyone else in the room. Pretend it’s just the two of us. I swear, we’re not that interesting.”
“Done.”
“Now, hold up your hand, just like that, yes.” She slipped her own into his. “Your other hand needs to rest at my waist. Yes. You’re very good.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You feel polished and confident,” she said, “the way a true gentleman should. You smell good, too.”
“Nice of you to say.”
“I’m being honest, George. You smell wonderful. Now, about the dance frame. It’s not very technical. It’s based on common sense and consideration for your partner.”
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.
“Hey, you’re a natural,” 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.
“I don’t think we’ll win any trophies,” he said, “but I’m having fun. Makes me wish I’d taken this up before my sons’ weddings.”
She decided to voice the question that had been nagging at her since their arrival. “Where are they, George? Where is your family now?”
“That’s not the real question,” he said. “The real question is, why aren’t they here?”
“I suppose that is the question. And you needn’t answer it unless you want to.”
“They think I’m on a fool’s errand, coming to Camp Kioga.”
“And they’ve stayed away because…”
“Because they’re convinced I’ll be back in the city before they can even get their bags packed.”
This was exactly as she’d suspected. Most loved ones tried to cling to denial as long as possible. “Just don’t make this a battle of wills, George. Nobody wins that kind of fight.”
“Not to worry. I have thought about this journey long and hard, to make sure it’s something I’m pursuing for the right reasons, not just to be stubborn.”
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 he’d savored her enjoyment.
If you were my grandfather, she thought, wild horses couldn’t keep me from you.
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 she’d been to Avalon before.
“Several times, as a matter of fact,” she remarked, folding away the road map.
“Here? I never knew that.”
“My folks settled in Albany after they came back from overseas. This was one of my favorite train stops on the way upstate.” She indicated a place called the Apple Tree Inn, a converted mansion with a lighted front porch and a sign advertising fine dining. “A guy asked me to marry him right there, about ten years ago.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. It was Christmas Eve. I was mortified.”
“What, mortified it wasn’t me?”
“Very funny.”
“You never told me that,” said Ross.
“I don’t tell you everything. And honestly, it wasn’t…my finest moment. He was adorable, but we were too young. I wonder whatever became of Eddie.”
“Nothing,” Ross said. “His life was over the second you turned him down.”
She laughed. “I’m so glad you’re back. I don’t know what I did without you.”
“Sent me jokes in e-mail,” he reminded her. “Several a day.”
“Well, it’s nice having you back where I can make fun of you in person.”
They stopped at a service station for directions to Camp Kioga. “It’s a good thing I came along with you today,” Natalie said, squinting at the unlit wilderness that surrounded them after they left the town behind. “A really good thing. It’s pitch-dark out here. And deserted, too. I feel like we’re in one of those teen scream movies.”
“Except we’re not teenagers and there’s nothing to scream about.”
“Speak for yourself.” She shuddered. “How about you pull over and put up the top.”
“It’s still warm outside. Let’s leave it down.”
“There are probably slimy nocturnal creatures everywhere.”
“I’ll try not to run over any of them. And let’s hope nothing drops on your head.”
“Ross, I swear—”
“Quit being a baby.”
The lakeshore road took them northward. They passed a few farms and residences, and then…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.
“Okay, this is seriously creepy,” 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.
“Scaredy-cat,” said Ross. “Finally, here we are.”
The old-fashioned entranceway was constructed of two large timbers connected by an arch. Camp Kioga was spelled out in wrought-iron twig lettering. “Jeez, even the sign looks creepy,” Natalie remarked.
The remainder of the driveway was illuminated by path lights leading to a big lodge at the lakeside. “Now, this is more like it,” she declared, regarding the glowing windows with obvious relief. “It’s even prettier than the brochures promised.” 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 Granddad’s 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.
“He might be there,” Ross said.
Natalie touched his arm. “Go ahead,” she said, following the direction of his gaze. “I’ll get us a place to sleep for the night.”
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 “Stardust Memories,” and several couples danced to the languid melody. His gaze skipped past them; it was well-known in the family that Granddad didn’t dance. Then Ross heard a sound he hadn’t heard in far too long—the ringing tones of his grandfather’s 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 Ross’s 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 grandfather’s arms. Maybe Ross’s mother and aunt were right. Maybe the stranger was shameless, worming her way into Granddad’s life.
“Granddad,” 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 Ross’s pulse speed up in panic. Then George’s face lit with a blissful smile. In the dim, kindly light, he looked youthful, perfectly healthy and utterly delighted. “My boy,” he said, reaching out with his arms. “My boy. I knew you’d come.”
The woman moved aside. George hugged Ross close, right there on the dance floor. Ross could feel dozens of eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He was back. His grandfather’s relief was palpable, and Ross knew George was thinking of the son who had gone to war and never came home.
A soldier’s homecoming was meant to be a joyous occasion. Yet the joy in this moment was muted by a sense of sadness. In his grandfather’s 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.
“My boy,” Granddad said again. “My dear, sweet boy. Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” Ross said, wanting to hold this man close and never let him go. “Can we go have a seat?”
“Of course. I’m so pleased you came, son. I didn’t know when you’d arrive.”
“I got here as fast as I could. My mother says you hired some phony tart who’s going to fleece you bare.”
Granddad stepped aside. Ross had no idea the hired woman was still standing nearby, overhearing this. “Son, I’d like you to meet Claire Turner,” said Granddad.
“The phony tart,” she added helpfully.
“Great,” said Ross.
“Miss Turner, this is my grandson, Ross Bellamy.”
“Delighted,” 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 didn’t 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 obvious—she had a knockout figure.
“Pardon me,” Ross said. “I’m going to have a word with my grandfather.”
“Of course,” she said. “Why don’t you go to the bar where it’s quiet. I’ll settle things here.”
I’ll 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.
“This is not helping,” said Ross.
“I just don’t know what to say. I’m sorry you’re sick, Mr. Bellamy, and I feel so helpless.”
“You’ve helped enormously by coming here with Ross,” said George.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, and handed Ross a key. “The cabin number’s on the tag,” she said. “I’m heading over there now.”
“Charming creature, I’ve always thought,” said Granddad as she withdrew. “There was a time when I wondered if the two of you might marry.” He smiled at Ross’s expression. “It’s one of the few perks of being terminally ill. I get to speak my mind without getting in trouble for it.”
“Nat and I…we’re not like that.”
“I know. You have a wonderful future ahead of you, my boy. Just not with her.”
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 Rémy 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. “To my grandson, the war hero.”
“And to my grandfather, the exaggerator. I’m no hero.”
“You came home alive and well. In my eyes, that makes you a hero.”
Ross was quiet. He had accomplished what George’s son could not. He had come home in one piece. “Whenever I got in trouble over there,” he said, “I thought of you. And when I did that, the only option was to make it home.”
“And for that, I am profoundly grateful. I hope you’re planning to stick around, because…well, you know.” He took a sip of brandy, closing his eyes as he swallowed. “How are you?”
“I’m completely freaked,” Ross admitted.
“That was my initial reaction, as well. It’s one thing to grow old as I have, knowing I shan’t live forever. It’s another to discover my actual expiration date.”
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.
“So, about this illness…” 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.
“We can go over all the technicalities in the morning. I promise not to die tonight.” George advanced another pawn and regarded him with shining eyes. “Dear God, how I’ve missed you. I worried about you every moment.”
“I’m sorry for that. The work was hazardous but I’m glad I served. I know you were opposed to my going, but it was just something I had to do.”
“And I couldn’t be prouder. And now you’re back, and it means the world to me.”
The center of the chessboard was fairly crowded now, with flanks of pawns. The queen’s black bishop was hemmed in and useless.
Ross didn’t give a shit about his future at the moment. “Look, Granddad, I don’t care how sick you are. I want to know what the hell is going on. Where’s everyone else? Uncle Louis and Gerard and Trevor? Why aren’t they here with you?”
“Well, as you know, the elder two are overseas, but they’ll be in New York soon. Trevor and Alice flew in from L.A. when I ended my treatment at the Mayo Clinic. They’re staying at the apartment,” he said, referring to his residence in Manhattan. “I invited them to Camp Kioga with me, but they declined. They all think I’m on a fool’s errand, and they’re hoping you’ll be the one to make me see reason and escort me back to the city.”
“Yeah? So how am I doing?”
“Not so well, because I intend to stay here.” His face turned mild, reflective. “Ross, I had to make a choice. I’ve lived a full life. I’ve 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 ‘give me’ 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 you’d be here soon.” He offered a smile that made Ross want to cry. “Now you’re here. I’m sure the others will join us soon.”
“But why here? And what’s this about a brother?”
“Now that I’m 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 past…I can’t let them matter now. All my priorities have shifted. My bank balance? Doesn’t matter what it is, either. It doesn’t matter if I missed the latest episode of Grey’s 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.”
Ross wasn’t 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 doctor—a team of them—who could find a way to beat this disease.
He nodded his head toward the dining room. “And why her?”
George frowned at the game board. “She’s exactly what we need.”
Ross ignored the we. “But, Craigslist, Granddad? Seriously?”
“I 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.” George took one of Ross’s pawns with his bishop.
“On the line?”
“You know, the Internet.”
Ross’s mouth twitched. “Online, you mean.”
“Yes. 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 they’re always advertising. I wish you could’ve seen some of the candidates.” He chuckled. “Did you know there’s a variety of tattoo known as the ‘tramp stamp’?”
“Granddad—”
“Don’t worry, Claire doesn’t 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.”
“Yeah, about these attributes—did you check her references? Her qualifications?”
“Of course. I had to make certain she was exactly what I was looking for. I’m sure you’ll come to like her, too. At first glance, she seems a bit plain, but you’ll soon realize that’s not the case at all. She has a quiet sort of beauty. Doesn’t seem to want to play up her looks the way most women do.”
“To be honest, I don’t give a shit about her except where you’re concerned. Level with me, Granddad. How did you happen to decide on this girl?”
He took out a small notebook. “Well now, let’s see. I started with a list of qualifications—age 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.”
“I don’t get what you were thinking. This doesn’t sound even remotely like a notice for a nursing position.”
“How so?”
“I think when you specify age, gender and marital status, it’s more like a personals ad.”
“I 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.”
Ross grabbed the list. “Nursing skills a plus?” he read. “A plus? Like it’s optional or something?”
“It’s secondary to the other attributes,” Granddad said. “Not to get too graphic on you, but as this business progresses, my needs are not going to be terribly complicated.”
“You can’t know that.”
“She’s available, you know,” George pointed out.
Ross stared at him, incredulous. “Did I hear you right?”
“Indeed you did.”
“What the hell do I have to do with any of this?”
“A great deal. Now, you’re not going to like hearing this, but it has to be said. I’m all you have, son, and I’m not enough family for you.” He raised his hand to stave off the objections he clearly anticipated. “I know you, Ross. Your heart is big, the way your father’s was. You were made for the kind of life filled with family. And it’s not a weakness. It’s a gift. And introducing you to Claire—that’s a gift. Perhaps my final one to you.”
“I don’t need— Granddad, she’s the last woman I’d want to date.”
“Why? She’s lovely. Intelligent, soft-spoken—”
“Whoa. I’m here for you, okay? Can you just please remember that?”
“As you wish. I do want you and Claire to get along, though. She’s not going anywhere, so you’d best plan to make an effort.”
Ross took a moment to absorb what Granddad was saying. He needed a moment. It wasn’t every day he encountered someone who saw him so clearly. George had always possessed that ability, Ross reminded himself. He could see into Ross’s heart. It was one of the reasons they’d always been so close and why he trusted his grandfather so much. But this…
“Let me get this straight. You hired Claire based on the fact that you thought I’d be attracted to her.”
“Yes,” George admitted.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“That’s quite possible. I might be, yes. This disease is notoriously unpredictable.” He studied the board. “I’m still giving you a schooling at chess, though.”
“You’d better send her packing, because it’s not going to work.”
“On the contrary. I saw the way you looked at her. You’re intrigued.”
“And this comes as a surprise? Christ, you’ve seen her. Of course I’m intrigued.”
“Excellent. And the good news is, she’s going to be entirely smitten with you.”
“Did she say that?”
“Of course she didn’t say that. You just met.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Good question. She hides it well. She’s a complicated creature. Your favorite kind. You are wearing that confounded expression again, Ross.”
He let out a sigh, steepled his fingers together. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“I agree. I hope we’ll have time for plenty of talk this summer.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Ross told him. “It’s crazy, going from having every minute of the day spoken for by my Dustoff unit to having nothing to do.”
“Nothing but trying to figure out the whims of a dotty old man suffering from a diseased brain.”
“Not funny,” Ross pointed out.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Granddad’s smile was thoughtful. “You 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.”
“I’m here for you,” said Ross. “I’m here for whatever you need from me.”
“Now, that is music to my ears. Precisely what I was hoping to hear.” He nudged a pawn into position, putting Ross’s queen in dire straits. “Your move,” 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.
“Occasional intermittent blindness,” 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 he’d stepped out of her best fantasy—tall and fit, a chiseled face, soulful eyes. Dimples. “That’s likely why he dropped the glass. I’m afraid disorientation and lack of coordination are also common symptoms.”
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 she’d expected was…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 hadn’t been prepared. The guy was like some kind of action hero come to life, even in civilian clothes. When he’d approached her and George on the dance floor, she’d been caught off guard—and being caught off guard was a dangerous thing.
It wasn’t just that she hadn’t expected him—which she hadn’t, 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, she’d been attracted to men before; just because she lived a borrowed life didn’t mean she was immune to sexual chemistry. This was even more intense. It didn’t matter that the man clearly resented and distrusted her. It didn’t even matter that he’d come with his girlfriend. From the moment he’d drilled her with that “who-the-hell-are-you” glare, she’d been spellbound.
She focused on the issue at hand. “There’s nothing to be done about it,” she told Ross, “except to keep an eye on him and help him with his mobility.”
In the glow of the porch light, she could see Ross’s jaw tighten with anxiety. She stifled an urge to take his hand; she sensed he’d find no comfort in her touch. She felt for him, though. The broken glass was probably Ross’s first concrete evidence that George’s illness was no fiction, but something real and inevitable, an enemy he couldn’t fight.
“Is that your medical opinion?” Ross asked. “Or personal?”
“Medical,” she said. “I’ve spent hours familiarizing myself with his case.”
“His case. Yeah, I guess he’s just a case to you.”
“He’s 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 this—to spend or waste however he likes. For some people, everything is snatched away in an instant.” She stopped, wondering if she’d revealed too much of herself in that statement.
Ross stared at her. “What he needs is a damn team of doctors. I put my faith in surgeons and scalpels. That’s the way lives are saved.”
“On the battlefield, that’s true,” she said.
“He told you about me?”
“He told me you were a medevac pilot in the army.” Claire could feel the tension rolling off Ross, and she sensed he was suppressing a lot. It was not uncommon, but it wasn’t good for her patient. He couldn’t be fully present for his grandfather if he was bottling up real feelings. There were things that needed to be let out. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you.”
“You don’t want to imagine it. Nobody does.”
“You saved lives,” she said. “And every life you saved was connected to countless others. Your grandfather is extremely proud of that, rightfully so. I hope knowing what a difference you’ve made brings you peace.”
He shrugged. “Guys like me, we don’t keep score. We don’t know how many people we’ve saved or how many we lost. None of the crew ever knew—or wanted to know—what happened to patients after they were airlifted.”
“You never had a follow-up? Never wondered about someone?”
“There’ve been a few guys who figured out how to get in touch with me,” he admitted. “A couple of e-mails to say thanks.” He pushed the tips of his fingers together, and his eyes looked lost in memories. “I’m 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 back—it was a hell of a job.”
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.
“As for wondering about someone—hell, yeah,” he admitted. “I wonder about every single one of them. And then I leave it at that. Trying to follow up on everything makes you crazy.”
“Your grandfather calls you a hero.”
“Maybe I was just an adrenaline addict.”
“Did you always want to be a pilot?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Never quite knew what I wanted to be, so for a long time, I was an asshole.”
She kind of wanted it to be true, so she could stop feeling so drawn to him. “Your grandfather didn’t tell me that part.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t. I partied my way through college and a couple of jobs I didn’t much like. Enlisted almost on a whim, and it turned out to be the right thing for me.” He rubbed his jaw, looking weary. “Deployment wore me down, though, two years of it. I thought I’d come back to the States and work as a civilian in medevac. Everything’s on hold now.”
“I know it must be hard, coming home to this.”
He paced the length of the porch, stopping a few feet from her. “Listen, the last thing I need is for some hired New Age nurse to be doling out platitudes to me. I’ll tell you what’s hard. Coming home from a war to the news that my grandfather’s dying—that’s hard. Finding out he’s given up on getting better—that, too. Oh, and realizing this is all going to go down in a strange place, surrounded by strangers—that’s pretty damn hard.”
She watched the way his hands gripped the porch rail in a fury of tension. Though she couldn’t tell him the truth, she was painfully familiar with the aftermath of trauma. One day, she’d been a high school girl; the next she was a fugitive. Though it wasn’t 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 wasn’t because she recognized his rage for what it was—a shield against the terror of losing someone he loved. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have said that right off the bat. I’m so very sorry. George is too nice a person for this to be happening to him.”
“I guess we agree on one thing.” 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. “Damn, it’s quiet here. Kind of like night ops, only we’re not being shot at.”
She tried to picture him in uniform. She had issues with guys in uniform, but for some reason, she felt okay around Ross Bellamy. “Night ops?”
“Mandatory exercises,” he said. “You have to learn to do everything in the dark. That’s when the worst part of war happens.”
“And there’s a best part of war?”
“It’s known as boredom. In my line of work, there were two modes of operation—boredom or full-on adrenaline. Not much in between.”
She wondered about the memories he carried inside him. “This is a big adjustment for you. If you need to talk to someone about it—”
“What, you’re a shrink, too? Jeez, lady, you’re one-stop shopping.”
“I was going to say there’s a vet center in Middletown.”
“Shit, sorry. I know you’re trying to be helpful. I’m okay for now. During demobilization, they gave us info about PTSD. Last thing I want to do is have a meltdown when I’m supposed to be taking care of my grandfather.”
“Then we agree on two things,” she pointed out.
“No, we don’t. I’m here to help him get better, and you seem fine with letting him get sicker, out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m not ‘letting’ him do anything,” she said. “He’s here by choice, and the things that are happening to him can’t be helped or stopped.”
“You claim you’re some kind of nurse,” Ross said. “Isn’t it your job to help people?”
“I am a nurse, and yes, that is my job.”
“So where does the dancing come in? Is that part of my grandfather’s treatment, dancing in restaurants? What the hell was that about, Nurse Turner?”
“It was about taking care of my patient. He said he always wanted to dance.”
His shoulders sagged just the slightest bit. “I guess you’ve noticed—my grandfather is everything to me. He’s the best man I know. And what’s happening to him…” His voice broke off on a rough note. “We need to stop it, Claire. Please.”
It was the first time he’d addressed her by her first name, and it signaled a slight shift. She wanted to weep for him; she probably would later, in private. “There’s no stopping it,” she whispered. “The best way to help your grandfather is to give him as many good days as you can, for as long as you can.”
Ross shook his head. “It’s like he’s giving up on himself. What’s worse, he came here to see some guy who hasn’t given him the time of day in what, fifty, sixty years. He’s going to get his heart broken, and he doesn’t deserve that, either.”
Even through the gloom, she could see the brightness of tears in his eyes. “Please listen. There’s 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 he’s making.”
“So if he wishes to jump in the lake wearing cement boots we should let him because he wishes it?” Ross demanded.
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“For wanting my grandfather to seek treatment for an illness so he can get better? Come on, Claire. Help me out here.”
“Help you out?”
“I have to persuade him to come back to the city. I’m sure there are more doctors he can see, more courses of treatment to explore.”
Claire’s heart ached for him. She wished things were different, that she could agree with Ross. Instead she said, “Don’t you think he’d treat this if there was a possibility of a decent outcome? There’s not. I hate to be so blunt, but there’s not.”
He winced. “Look, all I’m asking is for him to keep an open mind. Or for God’s 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.”
Claire placed one hand in the other, quelling the urge to touch his arm, or the back of his hand. “He’s here with his doctor’s blessing, did he tell you that?”
“Then he needs to find a new doctor.”
“He’s been working with a whole team. Any one of them will be glad to go over the case with you. And what they’ll 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, they’d strip away any quality of life he might have. Your grandfather’s doctors will tell you there’s no further surgical or medical intervention for this. Not a single one will say that any life is better than death. I’m employed by your grandfather, and he’s made his choice. This can’t be about you, Ross. It has to be about George. Can you allow that? Please?”
He said nothing, but it was an angry silence.
“You don’t have to like me,” she said, struggling to keep the barriers in place. “I don’t need for you to like me. But the sooner you figure out a way to be okay with your grandfather’s wishes, the better it’ll be for him.”
“Right,” said Ross. “Got it.” 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, “Has he contacted the brother yet?”
The brother. She sensed Ross wasn’t too happy about that development and wondered how much of the background he knew. “Not yet,” she said. “I think, actually, he’s been waiting for you.”
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, “I’m going to turn in. If he needs anything at all, you come and get me.”
“Of course.”
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 guy’s 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 client’s grandson and he had shown up with a woman named Natalie—a girlfriend?
Claire knew she wouldn’t 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?