Over the next several days, the rest of George’s family arrived—his 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 wasn’t 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 Bellamy—Charles’s 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.
Trevor’s 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. “Don’t try to keep track of everyone,” Ross advised her, surveying the busy lobby. “Eventually you’ll figure out who’s who.”
“It’s wonderful to have a big family.”
“It can be a mixed blessing,” he said.
“I’ve always wondered what people mean by that—mixed blessings.”
“You’re about to find out.” 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 younger—but 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.
“Claire,” said Ross, “I’d like you to meet my mother, Winifred.”
Hence the lack of warmth, thought Claire. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“And my aunt Alice,” added Ross, presenting a woman who was slightly younger and plumper than Winifred, though equally fashionable and dour. “She’s Ivy’s mother.”
“We’re the ones who asked the local police to check on George,” said Winifred.
At least she didn’t pull any punches. “He’s lucky to have a caring family.”
“Yes, he is.” Winifred subjected Claire to a thorough study. “Help me understand. Why on earth would a young woman simply take off with an elderly man?”
“I appreciate your candor,” she said. And honestly, she did. It was so much worse to pretend. “The answer is, I’m a licensed private duty nurse, and George engaged my services.”
Winifred and Alice exchanged a glance, heavy with doubt. “If you truly wish to help, you’ll persuade him to return to the city,” said Alice. “That’s what he needs—people who want to do him some good.” The two women turned resolutely and headed for the dining room.
“Speaking of which,” Ross broke in, “I think that waiter is trying to find a taker for the last two cocktails.” He motioned them toward a guy with a tray, and steered Claire in the opposite direction. “That would be the mixed in mixed blessing.”
“I don’t take their suspicions personally. They’re worried about your grandfather.”
“They’re worried about his money.”
“It’s not so much about the money. It’s more about holding on to what they have.”
“You’re a nicer person than most,” he said.
“Thanks, but I can’t agree. Just stating a fact.”
“Christ, can you not take even the smallest compliment?” he said. “I just can’t figure you out, Claire.”
“Excuse me,” she said, flustered. “I need to check on George. I think they’re almost ready in the dining room. Do me a favor—bring him in when I signal.”
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 George’s list, she’d had a strong dose of small-town life—and 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 George’s favorites—including dessert from the Sky River Bakery, an extra microphone for the sound system and a karaoke setup.
Claire savored the expression on George’s 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.
“Thank you all for coming,” George said from his place at the head of the table. “You 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 don’t 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.”
He lifted his glass, which was filled with a bright concoction of Midori, lime and vodka. “Special thanks to whoever created the Bellamy Hammer. I’ve always wanted a cocktail named after me.”
“Hear, hear.” Glasses were lifted in a salute.
“And now I must ask you to bear with me,” said George. “It’s one of the world’s small mercies that I will be performing for one night only. This is something I’ve always wanted to do—sing to my family.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said one of the teenage grandsons.
“I’m afraid not, my boy. Now, help me to the stage.”
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 crooner’s 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 “L-O-V-E” 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.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his shoulders hunching. “I…wanted to be better for you.”
“Granddad, you’re fine,” said Ivy, hurrying up to the stage. “You’re perfect.” 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 grandfather’s moment. The set ended to appreciative applause, to laughter and, of course, tears.
You’re 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.
“I won’t inflict any more of my singing on you,” he said, seating the mic back in its stand. “I’ll just claim my youngest granddaughter for a last dance, and then call it a night.” 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. “He’s just so wonderful.”
“Dance with me. He’ll like that.”
She had a moment of hesitation, then gave in for George’s sake. Ross was a natural on the dance floor, exuding confidence. When it came to Ross’s 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 didn’t 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 coming—that one day she’d meet a man and lose her heart. She’d been so careful, though. How had this happened?
Reality intruded in the form of a vibrating pocket.
“Sorry.” Ross pulled back and took his mobile phone from his breast pocket. The display was lit with a message she probably wasn’t supposed to see, but he turned it in her direction. “OMG, U TOTALLY LUUURVE HER.”
“From my cousin Ivy,” he said easily.
Claire burned with embarrassment. “She’s a big tease.”
“Maybe. But sometimes she’s right about things.”
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 couldn’t 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 party—not for skeet, but for targets, at the camp’s 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 George’s life from hour to hour. Granddad slept more and more, just as the doctor had predicted. Yet he didn’t 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 they’d 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. He’d 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 team—the Hornets—which 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 club’s biggest success story was that their star pitcher, Bo Crutcher, had gone on to a successful career with the Yankees.
Ross’s friend, Natalie Sweet, came up from the city. A sports writer with a growing reputation, she was always up for a ball game. She didn’t pull any punches when she saw Ross. “You look totally different,” she said.
“Different how?” he asked.
“You seem… Okay, this is going to sound weird, under the circumstances. You seem comfortable here.”
“Believe me, nothing about this is comfortable. But I have to keep reminding myself of what’s important. My grandfather, and making sure every day is a good one.”
“Wow. That’s so…un-Ross-like. You’ve always been an action hero. Now you’re Mr. Mellow.”
“Claire’s a good influence on me.” The admission slipped out, surprising him as much as it did Natalie. “Hey, speaking of which. You were going to see what you could find out about her.”
Natalie hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I’ve been busy. And look, buddy. We’ve got a baseball game to watch.”
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 command—Play ball!
“Holy cow,” said Ross’s cousin Micah, shading his eyes, “that’s Granddad down there.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a mellow-voiced announcer, “we’ve got a VIP in the house to throw out the first pitch tonight.”
“Cool,” said Micah. “I betcha Granddad—”
“Just listen,” hissed his sister, Hazel.
“He’s back in Avalon for the first time since—wow—since 1955. Please welcome Mr. George Bellamy!” 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 “Charge” theme, brought a lump to Ross’s throat. He looked so frail, yet his smile was broad as he wound up and threw a pitch to the catcher.
“Okay, not totally humiliating,” said Micah.
“Granddad’s awesome,” said Hazel, and started to cry.
Applause accompanied George’s 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. “Thanks for that,” he said, knowing she had organized it.
“It was my pleasure,” she said, flushing a little.
They hadn’t spent much time alone together since the dancing. Ivy had been teasing him endlessly about having a crush on Granddad’s nurse, but Ross didn’t 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. He’d 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.
“Nonsense, my boy,” the old man had said. “There’s never a bad time to fall in love. Look at me and Millie.”
“You’re in love?”
“You find that so unlikely?”
“I find it…quick.”
“It’s the only way to be when you don’t have all the time in the world.”
“You’re going to break her heart.”
“I explained my situation to her. It was pleasant, at first, to have someone who didn’t know I was sick, but as we…as things progressed, I realized she deserved fair warning.” 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. “She told me to go ahead and break her heart. Said she’d rather be with me for a summer than not at all. She’s a remarkable woman, that Millie.”
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 members—their younger son Greg and his wife, Nina, Charles’s granddaughters, Jenny and Olivia, and their husbands and babies. Charles’s 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.
“What are you thinking?” asked Claire, watching him.
“All these new Bellamys—Granddad is just so eager for me to bond with them.”
“Of course he is.”
“A bond like that can’t be forced or hurried,” he said. “It’s the kind of thing that grows over time together, shared experiences.”
“He knows that,” Claire assured him. “But it has to start somewhere.”
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. “It was a good pitch, wasn’t it?”
“Outstanding,” said Ross. “You always had a good arm.”
“You’re being too generous.” He took his cane from Claire. “Another item accomplished.”
“Way to go, George.”
“Oh, I’m just warming up. There’s lots more to do. You don’t think I’ve forgotten about the skydiving, do you?”
A 150-mile-per-hour free fall with his grandfather strapped to him was well outside of Ross’s comfort zone.
Granddad joked that if the fall killed him, he wouldn’t 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. He’d been a paratrooper during his term of service and later got his pilot’s 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.
“A helmet, eh?” he’d observed wryly. “I’m not sure I get the point. If something goes wrong at ten thousand feet, I’m going to break more than my head.”
Claire caught Ross’s eye. “Then make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“I see she doesn’t hesitate to nag you,” George observed. “I like that in a woman.”
“You’re joking, right?” Ross asked.
“It’s a sign that she cares,” George replied.
“It’s a sign that she’s a nag,” Ross said.
“Or how about this?” Claire said in exasperation. “It’s a sign she gets annoyed when you talk about her as though she isn’t there.” She stepped forward and clasped George in a hug. “Have fun,” she said. “It’s going to be amazing.”
“I want to go.” Ross’s cousin Micah looked yearningly at the aircraft. Granddad took him over to check it out.
Winifred challenged Claire. “Did you put him up to this?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, I should think that’s obvious,” Winifred said.
“Mom.” Ross sent her a low-voiced warning.
She ignored it. “The sooner George is gone, the sooner she gets her hands on his fortune.”
“Excuse me,” Claire said, and she walked away.
“There’s something off about that girl,” his mother said. “I can’t put my finger on it. She’s hiding something.”
“Yeah, like the fact that you’re out of your gourd.” 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 Ross’s eye, leaned over and handed him a tiny, folded bit of paper. On it, he’d written down a line from Plato’s 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. “You sure?” he mouthed.
Granddad nodded and gave a thumbs-up. He mouthed the words, “Your move.” 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 wouldn’t screw up the ending.
Ross had made hundreds of jumps; he’d 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 loved—was a high he’d 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 “Go time.” 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 Granddad’s 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.