The Summer Hideaway. Сьюзен Виггс

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      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.”

      Chapter Five

      Because Ross Bellamy’s discharge had been expedited by request, he was supposedly moved faster than normal through outprocessing and demobing. Still, the journey home seemed to take forever. After debriefing at Fort Shelby, Alabama, he was finally sent on his way. He felt out of place on the commercial airliner to Newark, unfamiliar with the culture after so many months in the service. There were a number of soldiers aboard, and they chattered madly the whole way, revved up by nerves and excitement as they prepared to reenter civilian life.

      Ross found himself seated in an exit row between two other soldiers—a woman who had not yet turned twentyone, and a guy in his thirties who drank and talked the whole way, preoccupied with the taste of beer and a girlfriend named Rhonda.

      “I don’t know why I’m so excited,” he confessed. “We did a lot of Skype and e-mail, so it’s not like we’ve been totally incommunicado. I guess it’s just the seeing-in-person thing, huh? There’s no substitute for it.”

      “Makes me glad,” said the female soldier. “You don’t want technology to take the place of everything, right?”

      Ross paged through an old copy of the New Jersey Star-Ledger. Gang murders, sports reports, community news. A headline about the state prosecutor’s office caught his eye; he scanned a story about corrupt state troopers. One of the prosecutors mentioned was Tyrone Kennedy. Father of Florence, the last friend Ross had made in Afghanistan.

      “How about you, Chief?” the other soldier asked Ross. “You got a family waiting for you at home? Wife and kids?”

      He shook his head, offered a slight smile. “Not at the moment.”

      “Interesting answer,” said the female soldier. “Is this something you’re putting on your agenda?”

      Ross chuckled. “Never thought of it in that way, but yeah. Maybe I am. Being in country so long makes you realize…having a family gives a guy something to hold on to.”

      “Sometimes the only thing,” said the woman. “Sometimes it’s СКАЧАТЬ