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“Nice, Greg,” she murmured, then dipped in her oar and glided away.
Three
After dinner that evening, Greg sat with his daughter Daisy, going over the hundreds of photos she’d taken for the inn’s new brochures, ads and Web site. He studied her as she concentrated on the images. Current mood, he assessed, was cooperative. With her face bathed in the pale glow from the computer screen, Daisy was fully absorbed by the task. She was so beautiful, his daughter, and at eighteen, so heartbreakingly young.
He wished he could talk to someone about what it was like, picking his way through the minefield that was his relationship with his troubled daughter. Since the divorce, he and Daisy had grown close, although it had been a struggle. Some days, the closeness felt more like a détente.
“How about these four?” she asked. “One for each season.”
She had talent, and it wasn’t just in his mind. Some of her work was on display in the bakery/café in town where she used to work, and people bought the framed, signed prints with gratifying regularity. Greg hoped like hell her gift—and her passion for it—would give her something to aim for in the future, something that would fulfill her and make use of her talents. She had a knack for picking the unexpected angle or perspective that turned something ordinary—a tree branch, a window seat, a dock—into something special. She preferred the fine detail over the wider view, showcasing nature’s splendor in a single perfect rhododendron blossom. A well-thumbed novel beside a claw-footed tub conveyed a sense of luxury, and panoramic shots of the whole resort showcased the grandeur of the place.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said to him.
“Your instincts are better than mine when it comes to things like this.”
She nodded and relabeled four of the shots. “So did you talk to Nina Romano about the inn?”
“Yeah, earlier today.”
“And?”
And he’d done a lousy job explaining himself to the woman. In fact, he didn’t know what Nina hated more—him, or the idea of working for him. The fact that he’d bought the Inn at Willow Lake was an affront to her. She acted as though he’d somehow stolen it away from her. “She’s thinking about my offer.” Right.
“Well, you’d better make sure she says yes,” Daisy admonished. “I don’t think we can make this work without her.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Come on, Dad. What do either of us know about running a hotel?”
He could have pointed out that he’d built a thriving landscape architecture business in Manhattan. And despite his education and expertise, despite the fact that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing when it came to hotels, he had learned that hard work and common sense went a long way. Yet he reminded himself why he was doing this. Making the firm a success had carried a cost he’d never anticipated. Lucrative didn’t always mean successful. He had been so consumed by work that, without his even noticing it, years passed and he woke up one day to find himself with two kids who were practically strangers and a marriage that was damaged beyond repair.
As his marriage ended, he had resolved to make a new beginning. He’d pulled his supremely unhappy kids out of their upper East side private prep school and moved upstate to Avalon. The Bellamys had long-standing ties to the community. Greg’s parents had operated Camp Kioga until their retirement ten years before. They’d held on to the property, and when his marriage raged out of control, the place had been his anchor.
Last summer, with his marriage in its death throes, he had made a desperate move, bringing the kids to Camp Kioga to help Olivia renovate the place for his parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. He thought he’d seen progress with Max and Daisy by summer’s end—his son was no longer obsessed with video games and his daughter had stopped smoking. But when they returned to the city, Daisy had started her senior year in a state of open rebellion and Max had adopted a who-the-hell-cares attitude, wearing it like body armor. Ultimately, when the time came to rebuild his life, he’d decided to do it here, in the riverside town he remembered from the summers of his boyhood.
It was too soon to tell whether or not this was the right move, but he was determined to change his life, engaging in work that revolved around his family. In his former life, he was all about building things for the world. Now he was determined to focus on building a world for his family.
“Your cousin Olivia didn’t know anything about running Camp Kioga, and look at her now,” he pointed out. A year ago, Greg’s grown niece had also made the move from Manhattan to the mountains. She’d been charged with renovating Camp Kioga, and the project had given her an entirely new direction and a future she’d never expected.
“But Olivia has Connor Davis helping her,” Daisy pointed out. “He’s a contractor. He fixes stuff up for a living.” She sighed romantically. “Besides, they’re, like, the most perfect couple ever.”
Greg made no comment. At summer’s end, Olivia and Connor were getting married at Camp Kioga, and the event had snowballed into the biggest Bellamy family affair since his parents’ anniversary the previous year. Relatives and friends would be coming from all over, many of them planning to stay at the Inn at Willow Lake. He wished Olivia and Connor well, of course, but being regarded as a perfect couple had its drawbacks—like trying to live up to an image that existed in other people’s minds. He and Sophie had been called the perfect couple, too, despite the rushed circumstances of their marriage.
He hoped Olivia would have better luck than he had.
Daisy shifted uncomfortably in her chair, folding her arms across her stomach. “So I wanted to ask you something, Dad.”
“Sure, anything.” But of course, inwardly, he braced himself, wondering, Now what?
“Classes start in a few weeks, and I thought …” Her voice trailed off and she got up, rubbing the small of her back. She turned, and the evening light from the window crisply outlined the incongruous curve of her belly.
And with that movement, Greg saw his daughter as though through a fragmented glass. The illusion that she was still his little girl fell to pieces. Even now that he’d had months to get used to the idea, the sight of her extremely pregnant silhouette still sometimes shocked him. She was a bundle of contradictions. The untimely ripeness of her form looked wrong with her still-soft, vaguely childlike features. She had painted her nails a vivid red-black and wore ripped jeans and a top that draped over the arc of her belly. She was a little girl, teenager and grown woman all in one, and she regarded him with a need and trust Greg wasn’t sure he deserved. She was his kid. And at thirty-eight, he hardly felt ready to be a grandfather.
Cut it out, he warned himself. He simply didn’t have a choice in the matter. Regrets and what-ifs were not an option, not at this point. “You thought what?” he prompted.
“Could you be my coach?” she asked. “For the childbirth classes, you know, and for the hospital.”
Her coach? The guy who stands by her in the delivery room? No, thought Greg, fighting a sick premonition. No way. Not in a million years would he be that guy, witnessing his child having a child of her own.
“My doctor said it should be somebody I trust and feel safe with.” She paused, bit her lip, and her expression was one he’d seen a thousand times through the years. “That’s you, right?” she said.
“But I’m … a guy,” he said lamely. A scared, freaking-out guy who didn’t trust himself to stay conscious in the delivery room or come through in an emergency. A guy who would rather have a root canal than see his daughter give birth. That seemed wrong on so many levels, he didn’t know where to begin.
“What about your mother?” he asked, his mouth working ahead of his brain, as usual.
Daisy’s expression froze, and although she would not appreciate knowing it, she looked just like Sophie. They both had that regal, withering ice-queen manner, able to belittle or intimidate with a razor-sharp glance.
“What about her?” Daisy asked. “The classes go on for six weeks. You think she’s going to put her life on hold and camp out in Avalon for six weeks?”
Sophie lived in The Hague, where she was a lawyer at the International Criminal Court. She came back to the States once a month to see the kids. After the divorce, Sophie had insisted that Daisy and Max live with her. Both kids, traumatized by the breakup of their family, had returned after just a couple of weeks, demanding to stay with Greg. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he was the preferred parent. It was just that the life he offered here in the States was a better fit for his two lost, hurting kids. So now Sophie had to make do with the visits, with phone calls and e-mail. The situation was sad and awkward, and Greg couldn’t tell if the kids had forgiven her or not. He figured his job was to stay neutral on the issue.
Daisy made a lofty gesture around the house. “Will Mom live with us? Yeah, she’d love that.”
“I own a hotel,” Greg pointed out. “We could put her in the Guinevere suite.” Like many of Avalon’s local establishments, the Inn at Willow Lake had an Arthurian theme with rooms named after characters from the old legend.
“Guinevere. Wasn’t she the one who cheated on her husband with his best friend?” Daisy asked archly.
“That was never proven. The French added it later.” Greg felt a strange and unjustified sense of solidarity with his ex. It was probably because of Daisy’s situation—unmarried and pregnant, with the monumental struggle of single motherhood ahead of her. Despite his differences with Sophie, he shared with her the sense that Daisy was going to need all the support and compassion they could offer. “I’m sure she’d be honored to be your coach.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Honey, of course I would. But I’m …” Damn. “It would be …” He paused, got up and paced the room, searching for the right word to describe attending your teenage daughter giving birth to your grandchild. “Weird,” he concluded. And that was putting it mildly.
“Listen, it’s just classes. You learn about the process and signs to watch for, and what to do when things start happening. And in the delivery room, everything is all draped, and you can just deal with me from the neck up. Maybe, um, hold my hand and talk to me, give me ice chips, stuff like that. It didn’t look like that big a deal in the video the doctor gave me to watch.”
“That’s assuming everything goes according to the video.”
“Okay, fine,” she said. “Whatever. A birth coach is optional, anyway.”
“Right, like I’m going to let you do this on your own.” Greg stuck his thumbs in his back pockets and stood at the window, looking out but seeing only memories of his own child being born. He hadn’t been there for Daisy’s birth, of course, thanks to the way Sophie had manipulated the situation. But he’d been present for Max. He remembered the long night, the glare of lights, the pain and the terror and the joy. God, it was yesterday.
Then he turned back to Daisy, his daughter—his heart. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” asked Max, coming in from the kitchen, trailing shoelaces and backpack straps in his wake. He was eating again. Of course he was. It had been a half hour since dinner. Max, who had the appetite of some hypermetabolic creature in a sci-fi flick, had taken to refueling a couple of times per hour. At the moment, he was eating a Pop-Tart, stone cold out of the wrapper.
“I’m going to be your sister’s birth coach,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
“I think you’re out of your freaking mind,” Max said with a shudder.
“Gosh, and I was going to invite you, too, Max,” Daisy said. “Having you there, holding my hand, would have meant so much to me.”
“It would mean you finally lost what’s left of your marbles. Geez.” He shuddered again.
Greg ground his teeth. Despite the fact that she was pregnant, she still bickered like a third grader with her brother. Although it took some restraint, Greg knew it was best not to intervene when the two of them went at it. The bickering usually played itself out and sometimes even seemed to relieve tension, oddly enough.
With an older brother and two older sisters, he understood the dynamics of siblings. The main thing was to stand back and let the fur fly. He found this surprisingly easy to do, zoning out while they picked at each other about everything from the way Max ate a Pop-Tart to their cousin Olivia’s upcoming wedding, in which Daisy was to be a bridesmaid, Max an usher.
“You know you’re going to have to take ballroom dancing lessons,” Daisy told her brother with a satisfied smirk.
“Better than birthing lessons,” he shot back. “You’ll be, like, the world’s largest bridesmaid.”
“And you’ll be, like, the world’s dorkiest uncle. Weird Uncle Max. I’m going to teach the baby to call you that.”
Greg figured if these kids could survive each other, they could survive anything. He left them to battle it out and went to his study to check e-mail. There was a message from Brooke with a noncommittal subject line—thanks for today …
He didn’t even need to click on it in order to guess the rest of the message: … let’s be sure we never do it again sometime. She probably wouldn’t be that blunt, but he’d belatedly figured out that Brooke Harlow’s interest in him was as a client, not a boyfriend. That was his conclusion after today, anyway. After the boating fiasco, she’d been all too eager to bug out with the lame-ass bank president in tow.
The encounter today with Nina had caused his confidence to falter. What the hell was he getting himself into? No. Greg was happy enough with the transaction. He did realize it could be a disaster—long hours, a challenge around every corner. Then again, it could be the second chance he needed for his family—an enterprise that kept him close to home, the kids engaged in family life, not avoiding it. He practically flinched as he remembered the end of his marriage, when he and Sophie had given up pretending for the sake of the children, who saw straight through them, anyway. Their unhappiness was like a disease that infected the whole family. They’d engaged in battles of bitter recriminations that usually ended in slammed doors, the four of them hiding from each other. Ultimately, Greg and Sophie attempted a trial separation. There was a sense of relief, sure, but the separation opened a whole new set of troubles.
Greg blamed himself for not seeing how troubled Daisy was by the divorce. If he had, maybe Daisy never would have gone to that weekend party on Long Island, and she never would’ve gotten pregnant. Well, not so soon, anyway.
He’d spent his entire marriage waiting for disaster and then reacting to it. He was determined to change now. Buying the inn felt right, and he was focused on making it happen.
The soft doorbell sound of an incoming e-mail distracted him. He glanced at the screen and then did a double-take when he saw who it was from—Nina Romano. The subject line read We need to talk.
Well, he thought. Well.
Nina looked at her best friend, Jenny, and then back at the computer screen. “I just hit Send. I can’t believe I just hit Send.”
“That’s the best way for him to get the message.”
“But I changed my mind.” Nina swiveled back to glare at the screen. She wished there was some way to dive through the digital ether and snatch back her message.
She and Jenny were in Nina’s office. It wasn’t properly an office but a small nook in her bedroom where the computer sat on a card table. Everything about the house was small, including the rent check she gave her Uncle Giulio every month. She’d lived in the modest, cluttered house since Sonnet was little, trying to balance school and work and motherhood. She was blessed with a supportive family, but ultimately wanted to go it alone. She thought again about the offer from Greg Bellamy. No way.
“All you said was that you wanted to talk further about the inn,” Jenny insisted. “It’s not like you made a lifetime commitment.”
Nina’s chest hurt and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out in a burst of air. “He’ll see it as a sign of weakness. He’ll think I’m wavering.”
“You are wavering,” Jenny pointed out. “And that’s a good thing. It shows you have an open mind about the situation.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this was happening while I was away.”
“I didn’t know. Even if I did, it would have been completely pointless to ruin your trip with Sonnet.”
She was right. It would’ve ruined the trip, her cherished mother-daughter time. “Sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t your job to keep me informed. He’s probably already looking for someone else. I bet he won’t even call.”
The phone on the desk rang, and both women jumped. Nina grabbed the handset and checked the caller ID screen. The name Bellamy, G winked back at her.
“Oh, God. It’s him.”
“So pick up,” Jenny suggested.
“No way. I’d rather die.”
“Then I’ll do it.” Jenny grabbed the phone.
Nina made a lunge for it, but missed.
Jenny clicked the talk button. “Romano residence. This is Jenny McKnight speaking. Oh, hey, Greg.”
Nina collapsed on the floor in a heap of helplessness.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Jenny said pleasantly. “Rourke, too,” she added.
Of course she was fine, thought Nina. She was married to the love of her life, and she had just found a publisher for the book she’d written, a memoir about growing up in a Polish-American bakery. Of course she was freaking fine.
She chatted pleasantly with Greg about his kids, who also happened to be her first cousins, though she hadn’t known them very long. Although Jenny was related to the Bellamys, the situation had come to light only in the past year. Jenny had grown up never knowing who her father was. Only last summer did she discover that there had been a tragic love affair between her mother, Mariska, and her father—Philip Bellamy—who happened to be Greg’s older brother. So that made Greg her uncle. They’d met just recently, but now, hearing Jenny chat so easily with him, Nina wondered if that blood tie actually counted for something.
“Yes, she’s here,” Jenny said.
The traitor. Nina nearly came out of her skin. With nonverbal Italian-American eloquence, she asked Jenny, Do you want to die today?
“But she can’t come to the phone right now. I’ll make sure she returns your call. That’s a promise.”
Jenny hung up the phone, seemingly unperturbed by Nina’s fury. “Good news,” she said. “He hasn’t found anyone else yet.”
“How do you know? Did he say anything?”
“Of course he didn’t say anything. It’s none of my business.”
“Then how do you know he hasn’t moved on to his next victim?”
“If you don’t believe me, call him yourself.” Jenny held out the phone.
Nina shrank from it. “I need a drink.”
“I can help with that.” Jenny led the way to the kitchen with the familiarity of a best friend. She went straight to the cupboard and found a bottle of sweet red wine. “This will be perfect with the biscotti I brought from the bakery,” she said. Although the Sky River Bakery had decidedly Polish roots, there were a number of Italian selections on the menu as well, including cantuccini biscotti that were admittedly better than anything a Romano woman had ever baked. Dunked in the sweet dark wine, they made Nina forget her troubles for approximately twenty-nine seconds.
“So what did he sound like?” she asked Jenny.
“You already spoke to him today, right?”
“No, I mean did he sound conciliatory? Pissed?”
“He sounded like a Bellamy—you know, Manhattan prep school, Ivy League college and all that.” Jenny emulated the accent perfectly, then laughed at herself. “Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m related to those people.” The lighthearted reference belied the ordeal Jenny had gone through as she discovered her ties to the Bellamy family.
“They haven’t changed who you are,” Nina reminded her, “and that’s a good thing. Remember how the two of us used to make fun of the summer people when we were growing up?” As girls, she and Jenny would observe the summer vacationers who escaped the city for the cool relief of Willow Lake. They used to discuss the ridiculousness of the girls’ tennis whites and straight, silky hair, and that the kids were looked after by servants. The one thing neither Nina nor Jenny ever acknowledged, however, was the fact that their ridicule was rooted in envy.
