The Summer Hideaway Read online

  “Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

  “Why would he do something like that?”

  “He’s worried about me. Wants me to settle down, have a family.”

  Now it was Claire’s turn to laugh. “With me? In that case, I’m sure he knows he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  “And why is that?”

  She countered with another question. “Why is this so important to him?”

  “He doesn’t want me to be alone.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “I want to make out.”

  Of course he did. He was a guy. “Ross.”

  “Just being honest.”

  She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her back against the car door. “You were the first person your grandfather told me about after he hired me.”

  “I suspect because I’ve given him the most to worry about.” He pinched the bridge of his nose; his voice was anguished as he said, “Christ, I wish I’d spent the past two years with him instead of in a war zone.”

  “He’d hate to hear you talking like that,” she pointed out.

  “That’s why I’m telling you, not him.”

  “You can tell me anything you want, Ross.” She had an urge to touch him, but instead tucked her hands between her knees.

  Ross stared straight ahead, though she sensed he wasn’t seeing the moonlit curves of the distant hills. “He’s the true North in my life. Always has been, but particularly since I lost my dad. I figured he’d quit worrying about me now that I’m out of the army, but now he’s decided to worry about my future.”

  “Because he cares about you so much,” she stated.

  He set his cup in the drink holder and grew thoughtful. “He’s right about one thing. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’m so damned ready to start a new chapter now that I’m back. Have a family of my own, make a life somewhere quiet and safe. After what I saw over there, I…it’s all that matters.”

  It felt achingly intimate, getting a glimpse of his dreams. She could listen to him all night. Yet at the same time, she wanted to ask him what would happen if he discovered he wasn’t able to have those things. Would he curl up and die? Or keep moving, avoiding attachments?

  Finally he relaxed and turned to her with a grin. “First things first—how about we work on getting a date. Does this count as a date?”

  She laughed, pretending she found his question amusing. “Yeah, sure.” Flustered, she checked her mobile phone and the monitor receiver, to make sure she hadn’t missed a message from George.

  “Everything okay?” asked Ross.

  “No news is good news,” she said.

  “How did you end up picking this sort of nursing, anyway? Ushering people out of this life? Is it something you grew up dreaming of?”

  “Very funny. Sure, every little girl dreams of growing up to help people die.”

  “Then what’s the appeal?”

  “Appeal isn’t exactly the word. It’s more like a…calling. That suits me. Work that matters, and work that needs to be done well, and with love. I can love my patients with all my heart,” she said. “I love them for as long as they have. And then I let them go and move on.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he said. “How can you stand it?”

  “I just do.” She paused, realizing her voice had turned rough with emotion. She did have a passion for her work, but she wasn’t used to discussing it with anyone. Ross was so dangerously easy to talk to. “This area is something I found when I was doing practical training. It was easy to be drawn to the really gratifying areas—taking care of babies, clinical work, the E.R.—patching people up and sending them back to their lives none the worse for the wear. I liked those specialties. They were easy to like. Then I looked deeper at the work and at myself, and I realized nursing is a very nuanced profession, with so many ways of helping people. I learned that helping doesn’t always mean curing. Sometimes it means doing whatever will help the patient to find comfort and closure. We talked a lot in our classes and evals about what constitutes a good death. It made for interesting discussions, but nobody really knows the answer.”

  “Congratulations, Miss Turner,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “You win the round for which one of us is the better bullshit artist.”

  She didn’t react other than to tilt her head to one side and regard him with a quizzical expression. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m going to make a prediction,” he said. “One of these days, you’ll show me who you truly are.”

  The way he said it gave her chills. No one had ever talked to her like this before, and she didn’t quite know what to make of him. “Are you accusing me of hiding something?”

  “It’s not an accusation. Just an observation. Feel free to prove me wrong anytime you want.”

  When Claire and Ross got home, Charles and Jane were just getting ready to leave. Claire thought George’s coloring was off, but maybe that was the wine. He was smiling and relaxed, so she said nothing.

  “It was wonderful,” Jane was saying to Ross. “Thank you for bringing us together.”

  Ross nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

  Claire felt an echo of the warm buzz of attraction that had swirled through her all evening. Ross Bellamy was like a heady, dangerous drug.

  “We have some big plans,” said Charles. “There’s going to be a family reunion.”

  “A fabulous one, right here at Camp Kioga,” Jane added, bubbling over with a sense of mission. “I’m going to arrange everything—George’s family and ours, all of us together here.”

  Claire shot a glance at Ross. His smile looked a bit strained. “Are you up for something like that, Granddad?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” said George. He seemed pleased but tired. “If anyone can put something together on short notice, Jane can.”

  “We left a family album here so you can look at it, Ross,” said Jane.

  “I’ll do that, thank you.”

  “Good night, George,” said Charles. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” He held the door for his wife, and they left, Jane chattering away, already planning.

  “It was a fine evening—harder in the anticipation than in the actual doing,” George said, his voice a bit wistful. “Charles and I were rivals in so many ways. It all seems quite foolish now.”

  “You sure you’re okay with a big family reunion?” Ross asked again. “You’re not just agreeing to make them happy?”

  “It’s precisely what I want,” George said. “A chance to meet their children and grandchildren. I always wondered about him. Them.” He frowned, rubbed his temples. “Help me to bed, will you, son?”

  Apprehension sharpened Ross’s features as he glanced at Claire. She tried to look reassuring as she said, “Good idea. I’ll get your meds, George.” She took her time, hearing their murmured conversation. She hoped they weren’t talking about her. Dear God, no.

  When she rejoined them, George was propped up in bed, paging through the photo album his brother had left for him. It was overstuffed with pictures in black and white, fading Kodachrome snapshots, Polaroids that had gone rusty at the edges and a number of printouts from modern digital cameras.

  George was focused on a shot of Charles in a military uniform, surrounded by his wife and four kids.

  “Granddad?” Ross said softly.

  George blew his nose. “I’m sorry I missed all these years of my brother’s life.” Then he waved a hand impatiently. “Enough regrets. I’m feeling tired. I’ll be better in the morning. Dim the light, would you? It’s too bright.”

  “Here you go.” Claire handed him a small cup of pills and a glass of water.

  He swallowed the pills, then made a shooing motion with his hands. “No more hovering. It’s early. Go back to your date.”

  “We weren’t on a date,” she said, not looking at Ross.

  “Then you’re idiots, both of you. Any fool can see you’re attracted to one another.
Even my brother noticed. Go away. Let an old man get some rest.”

  They left the room, and Claire went to the kitchen to get started on the dishes.

  “Leave that,” Ross said. “The catering staff will do it in the morning.”

  “Do you know how foreign that sounds—‘catering staff’?” She’d never even stayed in a place with room service.

  “It’s a Mohawk word for ‘get your sweet ass over here and hang out with me some more.’”

  Heat flared in her belly. “I think you’d better go.”

  “Whatever you say.” But instead of heading for the door, he crossed the room and gently trapped her against the counter.

  She put her hands on his arms, but she didn’t push him away. He felt so strong, so…safe. And then he kissed her, first with a tender touch of his lips and then pressing harder, tasting her with an intimacy that made her dizzy.

  After a moment, she managed to pull back. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Kissing you good-night,”

  “You can’t kiss me good-night.”

  “I just did. I feel like doing it again.”

  “Stop it, Ross. I mean it. There are so many ways this is wrong—”

  “Except that it feels exactly right.” He cradled her face between his hands. “Do you know how long it’s been since I kissed a woman?”

  “About twenty-four hours.”

  “But before that, it was more than two years. Damn, you feel good.”

  “You should go now.” But she discovered that she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay here all night, in his arms.

  “In a minute.” He bent to kiss her again. She told herself to step back, not to be an idiot…but her heart didn’t listen. Her need was overpowering—not just for the kisses and the intimacy, but for the connection. He’d said he wanted her to show him who she was, and for the first time in her life, she saw that as a possibility. It was only fair to warn him, however, what he was getting into.

  “Ross,” she whispered against his mouth, “there’s something you need to know about me.”

  “I want to know everything,” he said. “Your favorite song, your favorite color. What your breathing sounds like when you sleep, the color you painted your apartment, the books you like to read—”

  “I don’t mean things like that,” she said. Oh, she wished it were that simple. She wished she could tell him anything but the truth. She tried to imagine the words she would use. I saw a cop commit two murders, and he’d kill me if he ever found me.

  Way to ruin the mood, she thought.

  He kissed her some more, his lips gently nipping at the curve of her neck. “How about,” he said, “we do this for a while, and then you can tell me later.”

  “Good plan, but—”

  A thud sounded in George’s room.

  Ross sprang back as if she’d scalded him. “Granddad!”

  They jumped up and ran to George’s bedroom. George’s monitor was on the floor, presumably knocked there as he’d reached for it.

  “He’s having a seizure,” Claire said, rushing over to the bed. She checked his airway and turned him on his side.

  Ross snatched up the phone by the bed. “I’m calling 911.”

  “You can’t,” she said, the words rushing from her.

  “What?”

  She knew he was going to hate what she said next. He was probably going to hate her. But she had to level with him. “You can’t call 911 because your grandfather has a DNR order. Do not resuscitate.”

  Sixteen

  Ross called 911.

  He didn’t care what Claire was saying about some bullshit DNR order. His grandfather needed help. Maybe she had a piece of paper that said he wasn’t to be resuscitated, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be treated.

  Granddad was strapped to a backboard, his neck encased in a cervical collar, precautions to keep him stable during transport. He regained consciousness and said something, but an O2 mask muffled his voice. As his nurse, Claire rode in the ambulance. Ross followed in his car.

  At Benedictine Hospital, Granddad was whisked into the emergency department. By the time Ross parked and raced to the ward, Claire was already conferring with a doctor and a pair of nurses. Granddad lay surrounded by machines, wheeled trays, tubing, hovering residents and nurses.

  “This is Ross Bellamy,” Claire said. “He’s Mr. Bellamy’s grandson.”

  “And my grandfather’s not DNR,” he stated, refusing to look at Claire. “He’s full code, and that’s how he’s to be treated. So get to work.”

  Dr. Randolph, a young resident with a half-grown beard and tousled hair, stepped forward, holding the manila folder from Claire, filled with Granddad’s medical records. “Just so you know,” said the doctor, “full code means all possible lifesaving and support measures will be taken. Your grandfather’s having trouble breathing. There might be obstruction or collapse of the upper airway. That likely means intubation and placement on a ventilator. Other measures might include catheterization, defibrillation, transfusions, feeding by tube…”

  The list of horrors seemed to go on and on. Ross reminded himself these were lifesaving measures. He’d seen it in battle. The procedures were never kind, but at least the patient lived.

  A loud crash sounded, drawing everyone’s attention to Ross’s grandfather. Somehow, he’d worked a hand free of its Velcro strap and had knocked over a tray of instruments. Claire rushed to his side, waved away the tech who had been working the bag valve.

  “He seems to be breathing a little better,” said Dr. Randolph.

  Granddad coughed, waving his hand weakly. “For the love of God, Ross,” he said. “What part of ‘do not resuscitate’ do you not understand?”

  Though Granddad refused to be admitted to the hospital, he was kept for a few hours’ observation. The emergency department was bright with glaring lights, noisy and busy with crying kids, babbling drunks, people moaning with sickness or injury, staffers calling orders back and forth. Ross gritted his teeth through some gruesome flashbacks to the war, but he shoved them into a dark corner of his mind so he could focus on his grandfather. A knee-length blue curtain offered a thin illusion of privacy.

  “When you were off fighting,” Granddad told him, “I was in a war of my own, at the Mayo Clinic. You think I didn’t want to fight this disease? You think I didn’t want to beat it? I gave it all I had, Ross. They numbed my head, screwed a steel frame into my skull and zapped me with gamma rays. Pumped me full of chemo—”

  “You never told me, Granddad.”

  “And you never told me everything you saw in your war, either. Ross, the tumor keeps recurring. It won’t stop, not ever. I won’t go through that again. I won’t. Not even for you.”

  George drifted off to sleep. Ross left the curtain area in a hurry, feeling his emotions unspooling fast.

  Grief came to life like a spring thaw after deep winter. He had spent the past two years staying numb, lost in a bubble that separated him from everything. Now the bubble had burst; feelings he hadn’t experienced in years were flooding through him—the desperation and sadness of his grandfather’s illness, the sense of futility.

  Granddad. Memories suddenly flowed through him, powerful, a raft of feelings.

  Although he didn’t make a sound, Claire must have sensed the shift in him. She followed him to a quiet area by the water cooler. He was crying. When the hell had he started crying?

  “I told myself I’d be ready when the time came,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady. “I lost my dad and dealt with it,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his face. “I’ll deal with this, too.”

  “Of course you will. It’s the only way to honor your grandfather.”

  “Hell, I know that. But I’m not doing so hot.” He took a deep breath and it surprised him to realize he was still alive. Because he’d always thought something that hurt this much would kill him.

  “Yes, you are,” she said.


  “No. He’s seen his brother. I want to get him back to the city. Back to the doctor—”

  “What about what he wants? That’s what’s important here. You can break down. You can be afraid, but you have to keep the focus on George.”

  Ross knew what he was afraid of—being without his grandfather. Yet after tonight, he also knew dragging him back to treatment would mean pointless suffering. “Yeah,” he said after a while. “I know. But I don’t know what the hell I am going to do.”

  “Take things a day at a time. Maybe even an hour at a time. The best thing you can do for George is to be present in the moment. Have your meltdowns with me. I can take it. But if your grandfather senses you’re worried and stressed, he’ll be worried and stressed, too. When you’re with him, just let that go.”

  Let go. Ross pictured himself letting go. A soldier’s hand in the midst of an emergency. A fish caught at the water’s edge. Let go, he thought. Let go.

  Her simple words wrapped around his mind, rescuing him as surely as someone borne away on a medevac flight. Her gentle presence lifted him up, carried him away. The best way to love his grandfather now was to let go.

  Ross called his uncle Trevor and told him what had happened. Trevor insisted he bring Granddad to the city right away.

  “I think you’d better come here,” said Ross. “Everyone should come here, and soon.”

  They argued, because the rest of the family still clung to the hope that Granddad would get better. Ultimately Ross was in charge. Trevor agreed to come to Avalon. His brothers, Gerard and Louis, would not be far behind.

  Ross and Claire returned to the curtain area. His grandfather was still dozing, but when he woke up, they were going to take him back to Camp Kioga.

  “Can he hear us?” asked Ross.

  “Maybe.” She straightened a corner of the institutional-blue blanket that covered him.

  On the waist-high bed, Granddad looked lost somewhere, lost in a world of dreams. Ross looked around the area, gathering up his things. There wasn’t much to grab—Granddad’s bedroom slippers, his old cardigan with the patched elbows, left in a heap like yesterday’s laundry. When Ross picked it up, something drifted from the pocket—a photograph. An old black-and-white print with deckled edges. It showed a boy and a girl in the lake, treading water, laughing up at the camera.