Читать книгу The Summer Hideaway - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 11

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.

“Breathe in through your nose,” she instructed. “Out through your mouth.”

“I think you broke my face.”

“Is your breathing okay?”

“Just peachy.”

“Then it’s probably not broken.”

“I guess that’s the advantage of being a nurse,” he said, his voice muffled. “You can kick a guy’s ass and then put it back together again.”

“I was doing exactly what I was trained to do. By you, I might add. Fight, run, ask questions later but don’t believe the answers, isn’t that what you always say?”

He nodded without raising his head.

“How bad is the pain?” she asked. “Subsiding any?”

“Depends,” he muttered. “What if I say no?”

“Then you might need to be checked out. An ultrasound can determine whether or not there’s a testicular fracture.”

“A fracture? A fracture?”

“If there is, you’ll need surgery. Mel, I’m so sorry.”

“In that case, the pain’s going away.”

She winced, watching him try to catch his breath. He was the one person who could connect the dots between the quiet, studious Clarissa Tancredi of the past and the present-day Claire Turner.

And she had just kicked him in the balls.

“Sorry about kicking you in the balls,” she said again.

“I’m not looking for sympathy,” he said. “If the target had been anyone but me, I would say I’m proud of you for knowing the moves.” He lifted his head and she studied his face—blunt features, kind eyes, a roughhewn handsomeness that had probably been more refined in his youth. It was a good face, approachable and trustworthy. There were few blessings in the life Claire had been given. But Mel Reno was one of them.

He slowly climbed to his feet and limped to the side of the trail at the water’s edge, taking a seat on the ground. “So anyway,” he said, “thanks for the warm welcome.”

“What were you thinking?” she said, annoyed. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Give me a minute.” He looped his arms around his drawn-up knees.

She studied him, relieved to note his coloring and respiration already seemed to be easing back to normal.

He took a deep breath and relaxed a little. “I called you yesterday. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I got busy, Mel. I’m sorry.”

He frowned. “That’s not like you.”

“Well, you didn’t have to come tearing upstate after me.” She always kept him informed as to her whereabouts. Otherwise, he worried.

“I kind of wanted to see this place. Damn, it’s nice here.”

“I woke up this morning thinking I landed in the middle of a…” She paused. He’d think she’d lost it if she mentioned the enchanted world. “Special place.” Far in the distance, a floatplane landed, skimming like a dragonfly across the surface of the lake.

“Coming from where I do,” he said, “I tend to forget there are places like this in the world.”

A retired federal marshal with a troubled past, he lived alone in a tattered but quiet neighborhood of Newark. He was on disability and had dedicated his life to looking after people like Claire—witnesses who were hiding or running from something too big to cope with on their own. He had been an expert in identity reassignment and redocumentation, and when she’d gone to him in desperation, he’d given her a comprehensive security suite. This included a name borrowed from a deceased person, a new personal history and legitimate documentation. All new paper on her was official—birth certificate, driver’s license, social security card. Thanks to Mel, she had been reborn and given a chance at a new life.

Although she’d known him for years, she didn’t really know him. He was absolutely committed to helping people caught in the shadow world of anonymity. It was probably what made him tick. She had once asked him why he bothered with people like her. He said he’d been in charge of protecting a family of witnesses, and they’d all been killed.

Claire had stopped asking after that. She didn’t want to know more. If she got too close to him, he’d be in danger from the same monster who had sent her into hiding.

“Are you staying at the resort?” she asked.

“Right. Do you know what this place charges per night?” He shook his head. “I got a day use pass.”

“So where are you staying?”

“There’s a conservation department campground not far from here. It’s called Woodland Valley.”

She frowned. “You’re camping?”

“I’m camping.”

“Like, in a tent, with a sleeping bag?”

“Yeah, like that.”

She tried to picture him in the tent staked out in the wilderness. “So, um, how is that working out for you?”

“I didn’t come all this way to get laughed at.”

She caught a note of apprehension in his tone. “What?”

“I got a bit of news. You’re not going to like it.”

She braced herself. “Just tell me.”

“The Jordans applied to be foster parents once again.”

Despite the heat of the day, she felt a curdled chill that took her breath away. Her throat went dry; she had to swallow several times before she could bring herself to speak. “For God’s sake, two murders and a third kid missing, all of which happened on their watch—that doesn’t stand in their way?” she demanded. “No way will Social Services approve them.”

Mel was quiet. Too quiet, for too long.

“Right?” she demanded.

He stared out at the water. “I talked to about a half dozen people at Social Services.”

“And?”

“Apparently they dismissed me as a crackpot.”

“That was risky,” she said, “you pointing the finger at Vance Jordan. I’m the one who needs to blow the whistle on him, not you.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized the decision was already made. It had been percolating for a long time, the need to end her selfexile. Coming to a place like this had only firmed her resolve. “It’s time, Mel. Past time. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done waiting.”

“Claire—Clarissa. He’s got too many friends all along the chain of command, and the ones who aren’t his friends are scared of him. Exposing yourself now won’t accomplish anything.”

There was a good chance he was right, but the thought of Jordan with another foster child made her stomach churn. “I’ll figure out something,” she said. “On my own.”

“You want to talk about risk—”

“That’s why I want you to stay out of it. Look, I’m doing this for myself, okay? I have to stop running.” There might have been a time when she’d accepted her life underground, but that time was over. She simply couldn’t keep it up. Instead of getting easier, being in hiding was getting harder. She was dying inside, unraveling with need. Her mother had been alone in the world, and sometimes Claire was convinced that was what had made her live so recklessly and die so young.

Claire sometimes heard of protected witnesses who came out of hiding and got themselves killed. People thought they were foolish, but she understood why they couldn’t stay anonymous forever.

“I won’t let you,” he snapped. “Just wait, okay?” he said. “I’ll figure out the next step.”

She merely nodded, pretending to agree with him. Then they parted ways in secret, like illicit lovers. That was the way all their meetings went. It was best not to be spotted together. She knew he was furious with her for insisting on risking herself in the Jordan case, but he must have known she wouldn’t sit still and watch Vance Jordan become someone’s foster father again. There was a ninety-day period before approval was granted or revoked. Ninety days to figure out how to come forward with what she knew—and to make someone believe her.

The prospect excited Claire as much as it frightened her. Mel had always insisted the chances of success were slim and the risk of exposure too great. But she kept thinking about how her life could change if Vance Jordan were arrested.

In her job helping people at the end of their lives, she had learned much about the importance of the way a person spent her time on earth. Running and hiding was not a life; it was just getting through the day.

George Bellamy was adrift. These spells came upon him in the gauzy numbness between waking and sleeping, courtesy of his disease. He was sometimes treated to an unprompted magic carpet ride through time and space, and at the end, he was amazed to find himself in the here and now. Here—in this paradise of a place, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at it. And now—at the last part of his life, which had not always been beautiful. It had never been boring, though.

Once he was gone, he imagined people would say he’d fought a brave battle with cancer or some such nonsense. In fact, he was not brave in the least; he was scared shitless. Who the devil wouldn’t be? No one knew for certain what awaited him in the vast infinite, no matter what one’s teachings were.

But still. Death was one of the Great Inevitables. George was working hard on accepting his fate, but a few things were holding him back, like the last uncut anchor ropes that kept a hot air balloon from soaring. If he wanted to fly free with boundless energy, he was going to have to find a way to untether himself.

Hence the visit to Avalon, to excavate a past that had always haunted him. Yet now that he was here, he felt himself balking. When Ross comes, he’d told Claire. Then he’d pay a visit to his brother.

George was grateful for Claire. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble to find precisely the right person—not just for him, but for Ross. Because Ross was one of those uncut tether ropes.

George wondered what Claire thought of this place, and of the glimpse into the past he’d given her. She was easy to talk to, this quiet young woman. Perhaps it was her gift, or perhaps it was something people in her profession were trained to do. Once she learned the rest of the story, she wouldn’t judge him or show disapproval. And honestly, in the place where he was in his life—what was left of it—he didn’t much care.

How much was the truth worth to a dying man? He’d been wondering about that lately. Perhaps he would discuss it with Claire. She was easy to talk to, this quiet young woman… He frowned, frustrated to find his thoughts looping back on themselves.

Claire Turner. Turner. George wondered what made her so guarded, so hard to know. He hoped she would open up for Ross. The two of them…George had a good feeling. They could really be something together, if they’d allow themselves that possibility.

He worried about Ross, of course, coming back from the war. George had no doubt his grandson had seen horrors beyond imagining. Ross would need to learn again that the world was a good place to be. Maybe Claire would be a part of that process. George certainly hoped so.

By the time he got himself up, he was feeling rather better. He shaved and dressed himself in chinos and a fresh golf shirt, and put on his favorite hat, the sporty one that covered his too-short hair. Then he went outside to see what the day was like. Moving slowly, with cane in hand, he went down a path that ran along the lakeshore. The air was so sweet it nearly took his breath away, and a searing grief streamed through him. How was it possible to leave all this?

“Hello,” someone said behind him.

Startled, he turned to see a woman seated on a bench by the path. She had white hair and wore a violet dress and sneakers with no socks. Just the sight of her made him smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there. Too busy admiring the lake.”

“I don’t blame you. Would you like to have a seat?”

“Thanks. Nice morning,” he said. “Are you here on vacation?”

“My married grand-niece and her husband persuaded me to come. I happened to mention I’d spent summers at Camp Kioga as a girl and young woman, so they insisted that I should visit once again. It turns out the resort, in its new incarnation, offers a fifty percent discount to anyone who used to attend Camp Kioga.” She offered a charming smile. “I love discounts. It’s my favorite thing about being a senior citizen.”

George chuckled, liking her more by the minute. “You don’t say. We have something in common, then. I used to come here, too. It was a long time ago.” Now he was thoroughly curious about this woman, who had nice brown eyes and a somewhat impish expression. He checked her hand. No wedding band.

He must not have been very discreet, because she smiled straight at him. “I’ve never been married. I suppose that makes me a professional spinster.”

“I’m a widower,” he said. “And I’ve never much cared for the term spinster. There’s something lonely and unattractive about it, and you hardly appear to be either.”

“Thank you. And for the record, I have never spun a single thing in my life, so the label is inaccurate, as well.”

“I’d best find out your name, then.”

“It’s Millie. Millicent Darrow,” she said.

Recognition—remembrance—nudged at George. “Millie Darrow. I should have recognized you from our college days. You and your sister Beatrice went to Vassar.”

“Why, yes. I graduated in 1956.” She leaned forward and peered at him, hard. “George? George Bellamy.”

“It’s good to see you, Millie.”

She took off her sun hat and fanned herself. “This is extraordinary. What a surprise. What an incredible gift.”

She had no idea. She was the first person he’d seen in months who didn’t know George was sick. He liked that. He was glad for the hat covering his peach-fuzz hair. “You look wonderful, Millie,” he said.

“So do you. How is your brother Charles?”

It was too complicated to explain the situation, so George said simply, “He’s fine. Thank you for asking.”

“I always thought you were the handsome one.”

“Liar,” he said, laughing.

She replaced her hat. “It’s the truth, George Bellamy.”

“And I thought you were the sweet one,” he said.

“How long are you staying here?” she asked.

“As long as I can,” he said with an unbidden lurch of his heart. “As long as I possibly can.”