The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs Page B

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 andnapkins. 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 thesunlight, 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