The Summer Hideaway Read online

  At the conclusion of dinner, the musical ensemble struck up “Dance With Me Henry,” and the girls looked expectantly at the brothers. “My favorite,” said Millicent.

  “You’ll have to forgive my brother,” said Charles Bellamy to the sisters. “He refuses to dance.”

  The girls exchanged a glance. “Not even a tiny foxtrot? Georgie, say it isn’t so.” Beatrice tucked her lips into a pout.

  George, who couldn’t stand being called Georgie, offered his smoothest and most charming smile. “Think of it as a humanitarian gesture,” he said. “I don’t want to prey on some hapless girl and cause her irreparable physical harm.”

  The sisters laughed. “I assure you, we’re made of sturdier stuff than that. Good Yankee stock.”

  “What about the psychological damage of being paired with the worst dancer ever to blight the floor?” he inquired, arching an eyebrow at them. “Believe me, no one can overcome that.”

  “True,” Millicent agreed. “A reputation is more fragile than the physical body. A broken bone can heal. A ruined reputation stays ruined forever.”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” Charles looked incredulous. “You sound like an old biddy.”

  She glared at him. “Well!”

  “But you look like a young biddy,” he said soothingly.

  “That’s better.” She batted her eyes at him, then turned to George. “Didn’t you have to take dancing lessons at school? I thought it was considered one of the gentlemanly arts.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “It is. Perhaps that explains why I’m no gentleman.”

  They all laughed as if he’d made a great joke.

  “How did you get out of dancing lessons? Where were you when everyone was learning to dance?”

  In an iron lung, he thought. Fighting for my life.

  He could feel his brother watching him. Charles had never understood George’s reluctance to tell people about the polio. And George couldn’t understand why it was so hard to grasp. Why the devil would anyone want to advertise such a weakness?

  Unlike his older brother, Charles had led a charmed life. Everything came easily to him—grades and excellence at sports, ease in social situations, everything. He was the all-American golden boy, for sure. It was probably no wonder he couldn’t relate to a polio victim with a game leg.

  “We missed you at the bridge tournament this afternoon,” Millicent said to Charles. “Where were you?”

  “Around and about,” Charles said.

  George suspected Charles had managed to sneak off to spend time with Jane Gordon. Charles should know better. Then again, he’d always been one to follow his impulses, and damn the consequences.

  “Who won the tournament?” asked Charles.

  “George and Beatrice, of course,” she said.

  “My big brother always wins at everything,” Charles said with a rueful smile.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” George said, noticing Charles had managed to avoid actually saying where he’d been during the bridge game. “I tend to only try things I have a chance at winning.”

  “Ah, so that’s your secret,” said Millicent.

  “I just disclosed it, so it’s a secret no more.”

  “I shall have to think about this one,” Charles said. “The key to success is to only do things you can succeed at.”

  “It works for me,” said George. “Keeps frustration to a minimum, anyway.”

  The band struck up a lively version of “Moments to Remember,” and a raft of couples glided onto the dance floor. “Are you sure you won’t dance with me, Georgie?” Beatrice asked, making a new effort.

  “Trust me when I say I value your health and mobility too much to inflict myself on you.”

  “Tell you what,” Charles suggested, smooth as silk. “Let’s send George to grab another bottle of wine for the table. And I’ll dance with both of you at the same time. We’ll invent a new dance.”

  The girls were charmed by the prospect of two against one. As Charles stood up and offered each of them an arm, George shot his brother a look of relieved gratitude.

  “Don’t forget that wine,” Charles said. “Make it a good one. Make it two.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiff.” George rose from the table, thinking about every step he took. For years, he had dedicated himself to hiding the ravages of the disease. A London tailor made all his clothes, from dress suits to casual wear. Every pair of slacks, even his golf chinos, had been designed to conceal the mechanical brace he wore on his left leg. As he crossed the big, busy dining room, he knew he moved with confidence because he had practiced it.

  Since it was a Friday night at the lodge, the dining room was particularly busy. Friday was the day the men came up from the city to join their families at the summer retreat. Parkhurst Bellamy was no exception. Like the others, he had arrived at the cocktail hour and had been drinking steadily ever since. He and George’s mother were deep in conversation with the elder Darrows. They made a good-looking and self-satisfied foursome, the personification of the American success story.

  George discovered that if he blurred his eyes, everyone in the room looked the same. Pale and well-groomed, dressed in expensive clothing and smoking imported cigarettes dispensed from monogrammed cases.

  At the edge of the crowd stood someone who didn’t fit in. Her hair was too frizzy, her features too vivid, her expression too unguarded.

  Jane Gordon was working in the dining room that night. In a plain server’s frock and apron, she stood at the dessert table, cutting slices of layer cake or adding dollops of whipped cream to the banana creme pie.

  During a break in the action, he saw her slip out a side exit to the broad deck overlooking the lake. On impulse, he followed her. George rarely did things on impulse, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his missed chance in the bakery. Besides, his dinner companions were all on the dance floor.

  She didn’t notice him at first, as she stood at the rail of the deck with her back to the dining room. A string of paper lanterns illuminated the deck, deserted now with everyone inside dancing. She faced the lake, which lay in placid splendor, bathed in moonlight. It was a soft summer night, the temperature just right, the breeze as gentle as a baby’s breath.

  George stood in the shadows, wondering what to say to her. Maybe his initial attraction to her had merely been a fleeting nostalgia, he thought. But no; judging by the way his heart sped up, the feeling was still there.

  His stupid leg brace creaked. She turned quickly. “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, did you need something, sir?”

  She spoke in a funny upstate accent. Back when they were kids, he hadn’t really noticed that about her. “Hello, Jane,” he said, stepping into the light.

  She relaxed visibly at the sound of his voice. “George Bellamy. I saw you in the bakery earlier, but I didn’t get a chance to say hi.” A dazzling smile lit her face. “So…hi!”

  “Hi yourself. I, um, should have said something in the bakery, but you seemed busy. I didn’t want to distract you.”

  “I’ve been wondering about you all day, George.”

  Oh, boy, he thought. Maybe she’d felt the same magnetic attraction that had stricken him. “Jane—”

  “Look at you! You’re all better.”

  His heart sank as he realized what she was thinking. It had nothing to do with attraction. “Right,” he said. “All better.”

  “It’s kind of a miracle, huh? Last time we saw each other, you were in a wheelchair. Now you’re standing there, ready to take on the world. And here I am, shirking again.”

  “Is that what this is?” he asked, all too eager to change the subject. “Shirking? It’s very pleasant.”

  “Don’t report me, okay? Old Mrs. Romano, in the kitchen, is a drill sergeant. I hate getting in trouble and letting people down.”

  “I can’t imagine a girl like you doing that.”

  “Oh, believe me, I can be a lot of trouble.” She fanned herself with her apron. �
�I just needed to get some air. Cigarette smoke bothers me.”

  It bothered him, too, so much so that he was unable to smoke like most men his age. Yet another legacy of the polio—the intolerance of smoking, thanks to his weakened lungs.

  “Is your brother really dancing with two girls at once?” she asked, peering through the window.

  “What can I say?” George inquired. “He’s a man of many talents.”

  “How about you?” she asked. “Do you have talents of your own?”

  “I keep them hidden,” he said jokingly.

  “Why?”

  “Modesty. What about yourself?”

  “I’m good at a lot of things,” she said with a grin. “Like pie-cutting.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “Whipping cream,” she added. “I excel at whipping cream.”

  “Not every girl can say that.”

  She giggled. Her gaze strayed to the window. Another dance was starting and the Darrow girls appeared to be exhorting Charles to stay with them.

  “He’s popular,” Jane observed.

  “You noticed. Does that bother you?”

  “Not really,” she said easily. “I’m not the jealous type. Besides, I have nothing to worry about. He’s already half in love with me.”

  George was startled into laughter. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’m not being vain, just truthful. Charles is half in love with me.”

  George was stunned by her frankness, and her confidence. And completely, unjustifiably envious. “And the other half?”

  “Is waiting to see if the feeling is mutual.” The moonlight made a beautiful bas relief of her face, accentuating its bone structure. Suddenly she didn’t look like a local mongrel, but as refined as a princess.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  She touched her finger to her bottom lip. “Maybe I’m holding out for someone else.”

  He wondered if she was teasing—or if she was feeling the same electric attraction he was.

  George gave himself a stern talking-to. Taking up with this girl would lead to nothing but disaster and heartache. She was a working-class girl with a troubled mother and a father who was just getting by. She had no education beyond high school. Nothing but blazing good looks and an innate personal charm that would one day make some man extremely happy. Just not a man like George Bellamy.

  Besides that, Charles liked her, though the infatuation was bound to fade away by the time the leaves began to turn.

  “You’re wasting your time, holding out for someone else,” George told her.

  She moved close to him on the deck. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely, positively sure?”

  Time stood still. Even the night breeze seemed to quiet as if the world was holding its breath. The chorus of crickets fell silent. George had the crazy sensation that his life had contracted to this one moment. He couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to put his arms around her. Would she feel sturdy and firm, or soft and willowy? He wondered what her hair would smell like, how her lips would taste. He was teetering at the edge of a cliff in the dark, about to take the plunge even though he had no idea what lay beyond.

  And he didn’t even care. For this moment, nothing else mattered but the girl standing before him. Passion and need swirled around him like a fog, obliterating everything that used to matter—common sense, status and background, education and family expectations.

  George had never felt this way before. He’d wanted to feel this way about a girl. He’d certainly tried. Now he realized how different things were with Jane. This was no weak affinity contrived by his parents as they steered him toward an appropriate young lady. This was a raw and undeniable hunger he could not resist or combat in any way.

  He took one more step closer. Exerting a huge effort of will, he moved with excruciating slowness. If he just grabbed her and kissed her with the full force of his passion, it might scare her. He didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t want to do anything but make her happy.

  Now she stood just a heartbeat away. Her mouth was half-open, slack with anticipation. The air between them stirred as he whispered her name. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t think at all.

  “Do you remember what you promised me, last time we saw each other?” Jane asked.

  “It’s been ten years.”

  “I remember. You promised you’d dance with me.”

  “As I recall, you promised I’d dance with you,” he said.

  “Aha. So you do remember.”

  He remembered everything. Every single second—the way she used to challenge and laugh at him. The kittens in the barn. Swimming in Willow Lake. Finding the tracers in his legs. Their first—their only—childish kiss. Everything.

  “In that case,” Jane continued, “you owe me a dance.”

  He was no good at it but a skillful performance wasn’t the point. The moment he touched her, nothing else mattered. Nothing except his hand, snug against her trim waist. His other hand, holding hers. In that moment, he knew a happiness so complete, it made him laugh softly for no reason. Gazing down at Jane, he was lost in her, lost…

  “There you are,” Charles brayed from the doorway. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You out here stealing my girl?”

  With a jolt of horror, George came to his senses and stepped back. “Uh-huh, stealing your girl. Good one, Chaz.”

  He hadn’t met Jane’s eyes. Later he would always wonder. If he’d looked, what would he have seen in her expression? Regret? Longing, confusion, or resentment? The fact was, he knew almost nothing about this girl and had no right to wish he did.

  “I’d better get back to work,” Jane murmured, and slipped inside.

  Eighteen

  A bittersweet nostalgia tinged the days of summer that year. All the Bellamys knew it would probably be the last time they would spend together as a family at Camp Kioga. By this time next year, George would be a Yale graduate. He would embark on his Grand Tour, the prize at the end of college. It was a tradition for young men of breeding to spend six weeks after graduation touring the great capital cities and countryside of Europe.

  Privately George was glad to see the end of summer. It was painful seeing Jane Gordon every day, knowing she and Charles were secretly cultivating a love affair. He had to force himself to look the other way. Charles’s ardor would fade with the season.

  At last, summer’s end arrived and the torment was coming to a close. Each year, the resort hosted a series of closing activities, including athletic contests, parties and sailing events, and a farewell songfest on the shore, with everyone gathered around a campfire.

  The Bellamys went on a final sunset sail together. The wind was slow, but no one complained. Tonight, speed was not the point. The point was to absorb the splendor of the lake and surrounding wooded hills in order to keep a little piece of summer in their hearts to carry them through the winter.

  “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this, in an impossibly small town like Avalon,” said Charles. “I think I should like it quite a lot.”

  “Nonsense,” his father chided. “You’d be bored before the first frost.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. My sons are both going to be men of the world.”

  “Whatever you say, Father,” George intoned, just to keep the peace. Honestly, he did want that. New York, Paris, Shanghai, even the ruined capital of Tokyo was said to have rebuilt itself after the war into the most modern city on the globe. He wanted to see the sights and meet people, write about the great issues of the day.

  George’s mother dabbed away a tear. “We’ve had such marvelous times here,” she said.

  “Yeah, like that time I got polio, just marvelous,” said George.

  “Not funny,” said Charles. “People all over the place came down with polio.”

  Parkhurst Bellamy patted his wife’s shoulder. “There, there, pet. We’ll be back.”

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nbsp; “I suppose we might, but never like this. Never the four of us as a family. My three precious boys with me.”

  “It’ll be even better,” her husband assured her. “Someday soon, the boys will be married. They’ll have wives to bring and eventually, children of their own.”

  She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you hear that, my sons? You have a duty to your family.”

  They all laughed, though they knew she was only half joking.

  Finally the day had arrived to say goodbye to Camp Kioga. As they cleared their belongings out of the bungalow and did a final walk-through, George felt a little queasy. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling he would not be back, despite what his mother said about future generations here.

  Members of the camp staff were already swarming the cottages, getting them ready to close up for the season. He looked around for Jane, but didn’t see her. Maybe she and Charles were sharing a private farewell. George pulled his mind away from the notion. He had no business speculating. Summer was over.

  Their things were all loaded into the DeSoto, and Charles came loping up with his sloppy duffel bag, cramming it in the trunk. There was a suspicious ghost of lipstick on his cheek, in precisely the subtle coral shade favored by Jane Gordon. George had memorized the color, describing it in fine detail in his journal.

  Hell’s bells. He just remembered something. “I have to go back to the bungalow,” he said. “I left my journal there.”

  “Oh, George,” his mother said. “You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t attached.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He walked quickly, trying not to favor his bad leg. He couldn’t stand the idea of leaving behind his private notebook, in which he wrote his observations every night before bed. Some of the entries were merely prosaic, others profound; all of them were private. He’d left it in the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, along with his favorite pen.

  Workers had already started on the bungalow, bringing out armloads of linens. In the bedroom, he found Jane Gordon, and froze. In her hands, she held the Moleskine notebook.

  “I came back for that,” he said, his gut twisting with anxiety. He couldn’t tell whether or not she’d read any of it. Surely there hadn’t been time. The idea of Jane reading his private thoughts—far too many of which were about her—made him furious. At the same time, he was fighting a fierce urge to kiss her, long and hard. He could barely look at her as he ungraciously snatched the journal from her. “Goodbye, Jane,” he said tersely, and walked away.