Read Online The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online

areas of the camp, George turned animated again, pointing out familiar sights. “There used to be an archery range here. And see that waterfall? We’d sit around the campfire, telling ghost stories about a couple who committed suicide off the hanging bridge above it. Never figured out whether or not there was any truth to the story. Oh, and there…I learned to play tennis right there on thosecourts,” he declared. “And I’m proud to say, I could hold my own against everyone. My first year here, anyway. When my brother and I teamed up for boys’ doubles, we were virtually unbeatable.”
    Max parked in front of the lakeside residence and helped them with their luggage. George thanked him with a tip big enough to make the boy protest.
    “Sir, it’s not necessary.”
    “A tip never is,” George said. “We appreciate your help.”
    Claire caught the boy’s eye and offered a shrug.
    The cottage was a dream, far larger than most houses Claire had lived in. The furnishings were deceptively simple but supremely comfortable. The place had a rustic elegance that didn’t seem manufactured or contrived. It was bright and airy, and George’s room featured a picture window with a window seat.
    “Do you need to rest?” Claire asked.
    “I do far too much of that,” he said.
    “How about you have a seat and I’ll help you unpack,” Claire suggested. She herself hadn’t brought much along. She was prepared to disappear at a moment’s notice. She always had an escape plan—a bag packed with a few basics—hair coloring and scissors, a wallet with ID, cash and credit cards, a new background and personal history. If something happened, she simply had to retrieve the bag from its hiding place and she would be gone.
    At the moment, the bag was hidden under an electrical box near the parking lot of the resort. She hoped she would never have to use it, because she already knew she was going to love it here. She checked her phone and saw a missed call from “number unavailable,” another name for Mel Reno. She made a mental note to phone him later.
    George had packed with neat efficiency, things from pricey clothiers like Brooks Brothers, Ted Lapidus, Henry Poole, Paul & Shark. There was a briefcase filled with papers and documents, and a box of books and photographs.
    “Family pictures and old journals, that sort of thing,” George explained. “We can go through them later. I’ll want to enjoy my mementos in the living room, I 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 tospend 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