The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online Page B

place.
    “Well, George?” she asked. “What do you think? How does it look to you?”
    “The town has changed remarkably little since I was last here,” George said. “I wasn’t sure I’d recognize anything.” His hands tightened around the notebook heheld in his lap. “I think I want to die in Avalon. Yes, I believe this is where I want it to happen.”
    “When was the last time you visited?” she asked, deliberately ignoring his statement for the time being.
    “It was August twenty-fourth, 1955,” he said without hesitation. “I left on the 4:40 train. I never dreamed another fifty-five years would pass.”
    That long, thought Claire. What would bring him back to a place after so much time?
    “Would you mind pulling in here?” George asked. “I need to make a stop at this bakery. It was here when I last visited.”
    She berthed the van in a big parking spot marked with a disabled symbol. On good days, George could walk fairly well, and today seemed to be a good day. However, they were in a new place and she didn’t want to push their luck.
    The Sky River Bakery and Café had a hand-painted sign proclaiming its establishment in 1952. It was a beautiful spring day, and tables with umbrellas sprouted along the sidewalk in front of the place, shading groups of customers as they enjoyed icy drinks and decadent-looking sweets.
    She went around to the passenger side of the van to help him. The key to helping a patient, she’d learned from experience, was to take her cues from him. Respect and dignity were her watchwords.
    Though she had a wheelchair available, he opted for his cane, an unpretentious one with a rubber-tipped end. She helped him down and they stood together for a moment, looking around. His somewhat cocky persona slipped a little to reveal a face gone soft with uncertainty.
    “George?” she asked.
    “Do I look…all right?”
    She didn’t smile, but her heart melted a little. Everyone had their insecurities. “I was just thinking you look exceptionally good. In fact, it’s kind of nice to tell you the truth instead of having to pretend.”
    “You’d do that? You’d pretend I looked well, even if I didn’t?”
    “It’s all a matter of perspective. I’ve told people they look like a million bucks when in fact they look like death on a cracker.”
    “And they don’t see through that?”
    “People see what they want to see. In your case, there’s no need to lie. You’re quite handsome. The driving cap is a nice touch. Where did you learn to dress like this?”
    “My father, Parkhurst Bellamy. He was always quite clear on the way a gentleman should dress, for any occasion—even a bakery visit. He took my brother and me all the way to London for our first bespoke suits at Henry Poole, on Savile Row. I still get my clothing there.”
    “Bespoke?”
    “Made-to-measure and hand tailored.” He glanced at himself in a shop window. “Do me a favor. If I ever get to the stage where I look like death on a cracker, go ahead and lie to me.”
    “It’s a deal.” She hesitated. “So do you expect to see someone you know in the bakery?”
    He offered a rueful smile. “After all this time? Not likely. On the other hand, it never hurts to be prepared for the unlikely.” He squared his shoulders and gripped the head of the cane. “Shall we?” He gallantly held the shop door for her.
    The bakery smelled so good she practically swooned from the aroma of fresh baked bread, buttery pastries, cookies and fruit pies, and a specialty of the house known as the kolache , which appeared to be a rich, pillowy roll embedded with fruit jam or sweet cheese.
    A song by the Indigo Girls drifted from two small speakers. The shop had a funky eclectic decor, with black-and-white checkerboard floors and walls painted a sunny yellow. There was a cat clock with rolling eyes and a pendulum tail, and a hand-lettered menu board. Behind the counter on the wall was a framed dollar bill and various permits and