forest-fringed lake. She noticed a scrawled signature where the photographer had signed and numbered the print. “‘Daisy Bellamy,’” she read. “George? Any relation to you?”
“Possibly.” A tiny smile tightened his mouth, and she could see him forcibly shifting gears. “It’s a singular sensation,” he said, alternating bites of the pastry with sips ofhis full-cream cappuccino. “After decades of having to watch my cholesterol, “I’m not going to die of a heart ailment after all.” He sampled the maple bar. “I wish I’d known.”
She decided against pointing out his circular logic. One reason he’d enjoyed good health as long as he had was probably because he watched his diet.
“I could even take up smoking,” he said, blotting his mouth with a napkin. “Cigars and cigarettes won’t kill me. I could pursue it, guilt-free.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
“I’m working on it,” he said.
“On what?”
“On making myself happy. All my life, I told myself I’d be happy someday.”
“And now that day has arrived,” she said.
“It’s hard,” he said quietly.
“To be happy? Tell me about it.” She took his arm and moved toward the door before he could question her. “Come on, George. Let’s go buy you some cigars.”
They left town and headed northward along the lakeshore road. In the last part of the afternoon, the golden light deepened to amber, orange and fiery pink. Claire was silent, undone by the splendor of it. She wasn’t accustomed to being surrounded by so much riotous beauty, and it pierced her deeply, causing an unexpected welling of emotion.
Here I am, she thought. Here I am.
“This forest has grown so lush,” George remarked. “The area used to be all logged out. It’s good they replanted it. This is as it should be.”
She could feel his excitement spiraling upward as theyapproached Camp Kioga. It was their ultimate destination—the camp where he’d spent the summers of his boyhood. He eagerly pointed out landmarks as they passed them—mountains and rock formations and lookout points, a waterfall with a bridge suspended high above it.
The final approach took them deeper into the forest, where the foliage was so dense that for the first time Claire relaxed into a feeling of safety, false though it might have been. The resort came into view, its lodge and outbuildings nestled in the splendid wilderness at the northern end of the lake.
According to her hastily read brochure, the resort had recently been renovated and was run by a young couple, Olivia and Connor Davis. Yet the place retained its historic character in its timber and stone buildings, handmade signs, wild gardens, wooden docks where catboats and canoes bobbed at their moorage. The resort’s Web site, which she’d browsed the night before, explained that Camp Kioga had reached its pinnacle during the era of the Great Camps in the mid-twentieth century, when families from the city would take refuge from the summer heat.
The deep history and beauty of the place made her yearn for things she couldn’t have, like people who knew who she really was. What a gift it would be if she could stop running.
Gravel crunched under the tires of the van as they trolled along the circular driveway leading to the main lodge. Three flags flew over the landscaped garden in the center of the driveway—the U.S. flag and the flag of New York, and lower down, another one she didn’t recognize.
“It’s the Camp Kioga flag,” said George. “Nice to seethey didn’t change it.” It depicted a kitschy-looking teepee by the lake, against a background of blue hills.
She pulled up next to the timbered entryway and went to help George. There was no one around. It was early in the season and a weekday afternoon, and the place was virtually deserted.
After a few minutes, a young teenager in coveralls, who had been working in the garden, came over, peeling off his canvas work gloves.
“Welcome to Camp
“Possibly.” A tiny smile tightened his mouth, and she could see him forcibly shifting gears. “It’s a singular sensation,” he said, alternating bites of the pastry with sips ofhis full-cream cappuccino. “After decades of having to watch my cholesterol, “I’m not going to die of a heart ailment after all.” He sampled the maple bar. “I wish I’d known.”
She decided against pointing out his circular logic. One reason he’d enjoyed good health as long as he had was probably because he watched his diet.
“I could even take up smoking,” he said, blotting his mouth with a napkin. “Cigars and cigarettes won’t kill me. I could pursue it, guilt-free.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
“I’m working on it,” he said.
“On what?”
“On making myself happy. All my life, I told myself I’d be happy someday.”
“And now that day has arrived,” she said.
“It’s hard,” he said quietly.
“To be happy? Tell me about it.” She took his arm and moved toward the door before he could question her. “Come on, George. Let’s go buy you some cigars.”
They left town and headed northward along the lakeshore road. In the last part of the afternoon, the golden light deepened to amber, orange and fiery pink. Claire was silent, undone by the splendor of it. She wasn’t accustomed to being surrounded by so much riotous beauty, and it pierced her deeply, causing an unexpected welling of emotion.
Here I am, she thought. Here I am.
“This forest has grown so lush,” George remarked. “The area used to be all logged out. It’s good they replanted it. This is as it should be.”
She could feel his excitement spiraling upward as theyapproached Camp Kioga. It was their ultimate destination—the camp where he’d spent the summers of his boyhood. He eagerly pointed out landmarks as they passed them—mountains and rock formations and lookout points, a waterfall with a bridge suspended high above it.
The final approach took them deeper into the forest, where the foliage was so dense that for the first time Claire relaxed into a feeling of safety, false though it might have been. The resort came into view, its lodge and outbuildings nestled in the splendid wilderness at the northern end of the lake.
According to her hastily read brochure, the resort had recently been renovated and was run by a young couple, Olivia and Connor Davis. Yet the place retained its historic character in its timber and stone buildings, handmade signs, wild gardens, wooden docks where catboats and canoes bobbed at their moorage. The resort’s Web site, which she’d browsed the night before, explained that Camp Kioga had reached its pinnacle during the era of the Great Camps in the mid-twentieth century, when families from the city would take refuge from the summer heat.
The deep history and beauty of the place made her yearn for things she couldn’t have, like people who knew who she really was. What a gift it would be if she could stop running.
Gravel crunched under the tires of the van as they trolled along the circular driveway leading to the main lodge. Three flags flew over the landscaped garden in the center of the driveway—the U.S. flag and the flag of New York, and lower down, another one she didn’t recognize.
“It’s the Camp Kioga flag,” said George. “Nice to seethey didn’t change it.” It depicted a kitschy-looking teepee by the lake, against a background of blue hills.
She pulled up next to the timbered entryway and went to help George. There was no one around. It was early in the season and a weekday afternoon, and the place was virtually deserted.
After a few minutes, a young teenager in coveralls, who had been working in the garden, came over, peeling off his canvas work gloves.
“Welcome to Camp
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