The Summer Hideaway

“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?”