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?”
He drew a firm line through item number seventeen and handed it to her with a flourish.
She studied the entry for a few moments. “Visit the place where I first fell in love,” it read. She handed back the journal. “You did this?”
“Today.”
“The resort lodge, you mean?”
He looked a bit bashful. “Before that.”
She mentally retraced their journey. “I don’t under—Wait. George, do you mean…?”
He nodded again. “The Sky River Bakery.” He sighed, stared down at the item for a few more moments with a distant light in his eyes.
“Are you hungry, George? Would you like to go to dinner at the lodge?”
“I’m a bit tired, actually. I’m happy just resting here awhile.”
“Of course. I’ll get your meds.” Steroids and other palliative meds were keeping the symptoms at bay, but the effects were only temporary. The upside was, he stood a chance of enjoying a decent quality of life as opposed to endless days of chasing painful, time-consuming treatments that ultimately would fail.
When she came across the Viagra, she tried not to react, but something must’ve shown on her face. George didn’t seem sheepish at all, just matter-of-fact. “In case I get lucky. Is that a foolish hope?”
“As soon as you stop hoping to get lucky, it’s all over,” she said with a grin.
He gifted her with a burst of laughter. “Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.”
She brought him a Hudson’s Bay blanket of brightly dyed wool, and a few pillows. Propped against the pillows, he scowled at a page in his journal. Across the top, he’d written Charles.
“Your brother, right?” said Claire.
George nodded. “He’s the main reason I’ve come here.”
“I bet he’s going to be incredibly happy to see you, George.”
“Of that, I’m not so certain.”
“What do you mean, not certain?”
“Charles and I haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.”
Chapter Four
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
