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“Welcome to Camp Kioga,” he said as she opened George’s door. “My name’s Max. Can I give you a hand?”
“Thank you, young man,” George said. “Perhaps after we check in you can help with the bags.”
“Will do,” said Max. He appeared to do a double take, studying George for a moment. Then he held the door open for them.
Claire could feel tension in George as they stepped into a magnificent Adirondack-style lodge, constructed of tree-trunk timbers and river rock. It smelled faintly of wood smoke, thanks to a fireplace that was large enough to walk into.
The reception area, which was decorated with rustic furniture and primitive art, felt like another place in time, a place Claire had never been except in her imagination. The decor was subtle, with muted colors and light filtered through mica-shaded windowpanes and colored lampshades. A side room housed what appeared to be a well-stocked library, and there were stairs leading down to a game room.
Beyond the reception area lay an elegant dining room and a darkened bar. The dining room was being readied for dinner service, with white linen tablecloths and napkins. One wall was completely filled with wine bottles. French doors lined the far side of the room, offering access to a vast deck overlooking the lake.
She saw George’s fist tighten on the head of his cane. “Are you all right?”
“Very much so.”
A pleasantly efficient woman named Renée checked them in and gave them a quick orientation to the hundred acre resort. Each accommodation on the property had its own character and name—the Winter Lodge, the Springhouse, Saratoga Bunk, the Longhouse, and so forth. Claire and George would be sharing a well-appointed two-bedroom cottage named the Summer Hideaway, according to the illustrated property map. When she’d made the booking, Claire had requested a wheelchair-accessible accommodation, and this one turned out to be the most elaborate on the property. It had its own private dock and boathouse, and, according to the literature, was “the perfect place to escape and dream.”
The daily rate took Claire’s breath away, but George didn’t blink as he handed over his bank card.
Renée ran the card, then paused before handing it back. “Bellamy,” she said. “The resort’s owners are the Bellamys. Any relation?”
“Possibly,” said George, though he offered no further explanation.
“You might qualify for the friends and family discount, then,” she said.
“That won’t be necessary. Excuse me.” George made his way across the empty dining room and out to the deck.
Claire joined him there a few minutes later. She didn’t say anything. He stood there, bathed in the last of the sunlight, his hands braced on the railing as he gazed out at the lake. The water was placid, showing only the faintest of ripples in the wake of a pair of water birds paddling along. The light struck a bright ribbon of color across the water. In the distance lay a small island with a dock and gazebo, inked in black against the darkening sky.
As she watched George, she realized he wasn’t seeing the incredible scenery. He was looking out, but she sensed he was gazing inward, toward a lifetime of memories.
After a while, he let out a sigh. “Am I a foolish old man to come here, in search of my lost youth?” he asked.
“Probably.” She offered her arm. “But don’t let that stop you from enjoying it. George, it’s so beautiful. It’s a privilege to be here.” She had never seen a place like this before. She’d read about this sort of thing in books, maybe seen a glimpse in the movies. “This place is a dream,” she added.
“I suppose if I get to choose where I say goodbye to it all, I might as well choose this.”
She frowned. “Don’t you go all On Golden Pond on me. Come on, let’s go settle in."
The boy named Max escorted them with their bags to the Summer Hideaway, driving a gas-powered golf cart with obvious enjoyment. As they passed the various areas of the camp, George turned animated again, pointing out familiar sights. “There used to be an archery range here. And see that waterfall? We’d sit around the campfire, telling ghost stories about a couple who committed suicide off the hanging bridge above it. Never figured out whether or not there was any truth to the story. Oh, and there…I learned to play tennis right there on those courts,” he declared. “And I’m proud to say, I could hold my own against everyone. My first year here, anyway. When my brother and I teamed up for boys’ doubles, we were virtually unbeatable.”
Max parked in front of the lakeside residence and helped them with their luggage. George thanked him with a tip big enough to make the boy protest.
“Sir, it’s not necessary.”
“A tip never is,” George said. “We appreciate your help.”
Claire caught the boy’s eye and offered a shrug.
The cottage was a dream, far larger than most houses Claire had lived in. The furnishings were deceptively simple but supremely comfortable. The place had a rustic elegance that didn’t seem manufactured or contrived. It was bright and airy, and George’s room featured a picture window with a window seat.
“Do you need to rest?” Claire asked.
“I do far too much of that,” he said.
“How about you have a seat and I’ll help you unpack,” Claire suggested. She herself hadn’t brought much along. She was prepared to disappear at a moment’s notice. She always had an escape plan—a bag packed with a few basics—hair coloring and scissors, a wallet with ID, cash and credit cards, a new background and personal history. If something happened, she simply had to retrieve the bag from its hiding place and she would be gone.
At the moment, the bag was hidden under an electrical box near the parking lot of the resort. She hoped she would never have to use it, because she already knew she was going to love it here. She checked her phone and saw a missed call from “number unavailable,” another name for Mel Reno. She made a mental note to phone him later.
George had packed with neat efficiency, things from pricey clothiers like Brooks Brothers, Ted Lapidus, Henry Poole, Paul & Shark. There was a briefcase filled with papers and documents, and a box of books and photographs.
“Family pictures and old journals, that sort of thing,” George explained. “We can go through them later. I’ll want to enjoy my mementos in the living room, I imagine.”
Claire resisted an urge to ask him if he preferred pictures of his family over the real thing—or if they hadn’t given him a choice. She reminded herself to reserve judgment.
“When we checked in,” she said, “the woman asked you if you were any relation to the Bellamys. Is there anything more you want to tell me about that?”
He lowered himself to an overstuffed chair that was angled to take advantage of the view. “I have plenty to say about that. In due time.”
“It’s up to you.” She went to the desk and picked up a leather-bound volume embossed with the words Resort Guide. “It says here there are no phones in the unit.”
“I have a mobile phone,” he pointed out. “I’m not fond of using it, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
Claire steered clear of cell phones herself. Of necessity, she had one, a no-contract phone for which she’d paid cash. She bought the minutes card with cash, too. She had schooled herself to leave as light a footprint as possible wherever she went.
“No Internet, either,” she told George, “except in the main lodge.”
“I rarely use the confounded thing,” he said.
Claire used the Internet for its conveniences, when necessary. “Same here,” she said. “There are better ways to spend time than looking at things on the Internet. Like taking in a view like this.” She gestured at the sunset out the window. “Would you like to go sit on the porch for a bit?”
“A lovely idea.”
The cottage featured a railed porch furnished with white wicker chairs, a swing and an intriguing cot suspended from chains. She helped him to the swing, and he leaned back, surveying the calm water. Then he took out the cigars they’d bought and lit one up. Almost instantly, he erupted with a coughing fit, waving his hand in front of his face.
“George!” She took the burning cigar from him and stubbed it out. “Are you all right?”
“I am now. There’s one regret I don’t have.” He shook his head, sipped some water. “Smoking used to be so fashionable, back when.”
“I’m glad you weren’t a slave to fashion.”
George picked up his journal and paged through it. “My list is long. Is that unrealistic?” he asked.
“There aren’t any rules.”
He nodded. “We’ve accomplished one already.”
“You have?”
He drew a firm line through item number seventeen and handed it to her with a flourish.
She studied the entry for a few moments. “Visit the place where I first fell in love,” it read. She handed back the journal. “You did this?”
“Today.”
“The resort lodge, you mean?”
He looked a bit bashful. “Before that.”
She mentally retraced their journey. “I don’t under—Wait. George, do you mean…?”
He nodded again. “The Sky River Bakery.” He sighed, stared down at the item for a few more moments with a distant light in his eyes.
“Are you hungry, George? Would you like to go to dinner at the lodge?”
“I’m a bit tired, actually. I’m happy just resting here awhile.”
“Of course. I’ll get your meds.” Steroids and other palliative meds were keeping the symptoms at bay, but the effects were only temporary. The upside was, he stood a chance of enjoying a decent quality of life as opposed to endless days of chasing painful, time-consuming treatments that ultimately would fail.
When she came across the Viagra, she tried not to react, but something must’ve shown on her face. George didn’t seem sheepish at all, just matter-of-fact. “In case I get lucky. Is that a foolish hope?”
“As soon as you stop hoping to get lucky, it’s all over,” she said with a grin.
He gifted her with a burst of laughter. “Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.”
She brought him a Hudson’s Bay blanket of brightly dyed wool, and a few pillows. Propped against the pillows, he scowled at a page in his journal. Across the top, he’d written Charles.
“Your brother, right?” said Claire.
George nodded. “He’s the main reason I’ve come here.”
“I bet he’s going to be incredibly happy to see you, George.”
“Of that, I’m not so certain.”
“What do you mean, not certain?”
“Charles and I haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.”
Chapter Four
Claire woke up to silence. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the absence of honking horns and gnashing air brakes, the shouts and whistles of vendors and workmen. The void was filled with birdsong, the hum of insects and breezes ruffling the leaves and rippling across the water. The smells drifting in through the screened window—flowers and grass and the fresh scent of the lake—were utterly intoxicating.
She went to the window of her small loft bedroom and felt the irresistible pull of the outside. She had an urge to be a part of it—and it was the perfect time for a morning run. Hastily dressed in nylon shorts and an athletic bra and T-shirt, ankle socks and her favorite runners, she tiptoed downstairs. She tucked her monitor receiver into a pocket and drank a big glass of water. Then she stepped outside and headed for the trail, choosing the five-mile route marked Lakeside Loop.
In the city, she would be plugged into an iPod to cover up the babble of urban life. Here in the wilderness, she welcomed the sounds of nature and the feel of the fresh air on her skin, and she started her morning jog with a smile on her face. And of course, she had the requisite shot of pepper spray clipped to her waistband, but that was more out of habit than any real fear she’d encounter trouble on the lakeside trail.
The beauty of her surroundings seemed almost unreal, as though she had stepped into a dream.
This morning, she tried to clear her mind. It was exhausting, always trying to think ahead, plan the next move, anticipate disaster. She pushed aside the constant tension and sank into her enjoyment of the woodland trails of the resort. One couple jogged past, nodding at her, and there was a single person in a kayak out on the lake, out for a morning paddle.
Birds flickered in the trees, and she spotted the occasional deer or rabbit. Sunlight glimmered on the lake, and the willow trees at the shore gracefully dipped their fronds in the water. Such a beautiful world. Too beautiful, she thought with a familiar twinge of yearning. She wished she had someone to share this moment with. Yet the fact was, she had no one to bear witness to her life. Sometimes that realization was overwhelming.
Over time, she had taught herself to tolerate the self isolation. There really wasn’t any other choice.
The rhythm of her feet on the pavement alternated with the cadence of her breathing. She tried to imagine absorbing the beauty of the day through her pores, somehow keeping it with her. Maybe that was the magic of this place—that even after you left, you could take it with you. Maybe that was why George still thought about it even after half a century had passed.
We haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.
A lifetime, she thought. George and his brother had let a lifetime slip by. Last night, she’d suggested they call Charles Bellamy—he was listed in the local phone book. George had balked and looked tired. “When Ross comes,” he’d said.
Ross. The favored grandson. She hoped like hell the guy was on his way. For that matter, where was the rest of George’s family? According to George, his sons and daughters-in-law expected him to return to the city in a matter of days.
This morning, George had been out of sorts. He’d stayed close to the house, only venturing to the porch or dock to catch the sun’s early rays. There was no further talk of Charles Bellamy, and Claire didn’t bring it up. For the time being, George was in no shape to face the emotional turmoil of a reunion with his long-lost brother.
Her plan for the day was to let each hour unfold at a pace that seemed to suit her patient. In the resort’s eclectic library, she had read up on Camp Kioga, trying to fill in the blanks for herself. There was a multivolume scrapbook filled with photos of people and events connected to the resort. It had started out as a big agricultural parcel at the north end of the lake, deeded to the Gordon family to settle a debt. The camp itself had been founded by Angus Gordon in the 1920s. Kioga was, as far as anyone knew, a fake Mohawk word which Angus claimed meant tranquility.
The campground was later run by Angus’s son and then inherited by his granddaughter and her husband. The current owners’ names had leaped off the page at her: Jane and Charles Bellamy.
Exploring the woodland trails that wound through the area, Claire imagined the past here, and wondered if she would ever learn the reason for the brothers’ estrangement. A brother shared a person’s history and background the way no one else ever could. Yet something had torn George and Charles apart. Something had made George walk away and stay away for fifty-five years.
She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice someone approaching from an oblique angle behind her. At the last second, she spied a shadow—large male, baseball cap, arm outstretched—and reacted instantly, with all the force and decisiveness she’d learned in her self-defense training. In a fluid movement she turned, right leg kicking out at groin level, the heel of her left hand crunching upward into the assailant’s face. In less than a second, he was down, doubled over, and she was running for her life, her every nerve lit by adrenaline, the pepper spray in hand.
Claire gauged that she was about five minutes from the spot where her bag was hidden, going at top speed. As for George Bellamy, he would have no idea what became of her.
She felt bad about that. She hoped he’d find his brother, and she hoped the Bellamy family wouldn’t drag the old guy back to the city and force him to submit to brutal treatment.
The concern wasn’t enough to stop her.
A shout from her assailant, however, definitely was. “Tancredi,” he said, his voice a rasp of pain.
The single word—a name almost never uttered—froze her. It brought back everything she had left behind, including the person she’d been before she’d disappeared.
She allowed herself a quick look back.
Her assailant was on all fours, struggling to rise. Good. On all fours, he wouldn’t be drawing a weapon.
The baseball cap had fallen off him, revealing a mane of salt-and-pepper hair.
Oh, God. Mel. It was Melvin Reno, the only person Claire trusted with her secrets.
She instantly switched direction and ran to him, dropping to her knees by his side. “Are you insane?” she asked. “You huge idiot, you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me. I could have done you permanent damage.”
“Maybe you did.” He glowered at her through tears of pain.
“Sit,” she said, noting the shocky gray cast to his face. “Pull up your knees at a forty-five-degree angle and put your head between them.”
With a groan, he complied.
