Page 37 of Endless Love

TWENTY

Ryan

Well, my fortune turned out to be true sooner than I expected. The next day was Willow’s grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and she asked me if I wanted to go up to the Catskills with her to celebrate the occasion. After our harrowing experience with Charlotte last night, getting out of the city and going on a relaxing ride felt like a good idea. So, I agreed.

It had been a long time since I’d been in the country. While my mother persistently invited me up to our family estate in Connecticut, I consistently declined. It held no fond memories for me. Just more of the same of what it was like to grow up with my parents. They were both never there. My mother played tennis and lunched with her socialite friends at the exclusive country club, showering herself with so much champagne that our driver had to take her home and carry her into her room where she passed out. And my father, well, he was pretty much absent too—playing golf with his cronies and screwing all the club waitresses. Mimi and I hung around, bored out of our minds. And totally neglected. The year they sent the two of us off to a posh summer camp in the Berkshires was one of the best ones of our lives. A relief. An escape.

The drive up was beautiful. The mid-October air was unseasonably warm, likely in the low-seventies; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the trees, with their topaz, citrine, and ruby leaves, shimmered in the sun like magnificent jewels. I kept the top of my Fiat down and played lots Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Thanks to her grandmother, who grew up in the era of these greats, some of whom had even stayed at Gettinger’s, the fabled grand hotel that she and her late husband owned, Willow knew all these classic songs. She sang along, her pitch perfect voice something else I found so attractive about her. She kept her hand on mine, which was on the gearshift, while I fantasized about it between my legs on another big stick. And grew hard.

I learned a lot about Willow’s family during the ride, especially when we stopped at a roadside diner for coffee. This was her maternal grandmother she was visiting; her other grandparents had passed away. Her name was Ida. Combining their savings and a few loans from friends and family, she and her late husband, Harold, built Gettinger’s Hotel from the ground up just after the second World War, and in no time, it became the place to go among wealthy New York Jews. The five-star resort was known for its elegant décor, luxury accommodations, fine Kosher cuisine, and its nightly entertainment, attracting every major star from Dean Martin to Jerry Lewis. Ida and Harold were legendary, beloved for their hospitality, generosity, and joie de vivre. They were also accomplished ballroom dancers, and while spending summers with them, Willow had developed her passion for dance. Sadly, ten years her senior, Harold passed away in his sleep when Ida was sixty, and soon after, she sold the hotel for a small fortune to a Club Med-like organization that turned the family-hotel into a swinging singles’ mecca. The once thriving hotel went downhill quickly and in 2001, it burned down, likely an insurance-motivated fire set by the bankrupt singles’ organization. It made Ida sad, but in a way she was glad it was over. She still resided in a guesthouse on the grounds.

Shortly after lunch, we reached our destination. We drove through a long tree-lined entrance, the ground thick with colorful fallen leaves. In no time, a sprawling gray-shingled residence with white wraparound terraces came into view. It finally dawned on me that Willow, like me, came from wealth.

“Bubula, you’re here!” A chic, petite woman with cropped silver hair and big owl-like black eyeglasses breezed out the front door as I parked the car in the circular driveway. I could already tell she had amazing energy and warmth and was in every way much younger than her years.

Willow jumped out of the car to give the woman a big hug. “Happy birthday, Nana!”

They broke their embrace, and Ida’s attention shifted to me. Her crinkly hazel eyes lit up, and she began to fan herself.

“Bubula, you brought me a hot young man for my birthday?”

I felt myself blush. Willow laughed. “Next time, Nana. This is my friend, Ryan.”

She studied me. “Wait, I know you! I saw you on Good Morning America a couple of weeks ago.”

Cringing with embarrassment, I let Willow’s grandmother continue.

She jutted a finger at me. “You’re Ryan Madewell, the writer! I loved your book.”

Willow’s eyes grew as round as saucers. It was her turn to be mortified. Or at least shocked. “Nana, you read Undying Love?”

Her grandmother dismissively waved her veined bony hand. I noticed the beautiful art deco diamond ring she still wore on her ring finger. It reminded me of the ring I’d given Allee.

“Of course! Such a beautiful love story!!”

“Thanks,” I said humbly.

Without further ado, she invited us inside. But not before long, Willow and I were back outside on a tour of the beautiful property while her grandmother fixed lunch.

Inhaling the clean country air, I took in my surroundings as Willow led me through the estate. It was almost out of a fairy-tale with acres and acres of land that bordered on a small lake. Willow told me that in the spring a symphony of bugs buzzing, water gurgling, birds chirping, and frogs croaking filled the air. Today, however, as we traversed the bucolic grounds, the crunch of gem-colored leaves sounded beneath our footsteps. The snap, crackle, and pop was invigorating.

“Where are we going?” I asked my beautiful guide, holding her hand. We were both wearing lightweight sweaters over jeans and boots.

“You’ll see soon.”

Close to the lake, a huge tree came into view. A majestic weeping willow all by itself that seemed to rule the grass like a queen. As we neared it, Willow broke into a jog, tugging at my hand.

Following her lead, I felt so connected to her. Almost inseparable. What was most amazing was that I didn’t feel Allee’s presence anywhere. Not hidden in the trunk of a tree, a blade of grass, or a leaf. It was just Willow and me.

When we got to the noble tree, Willow hugged it.

“This is where my father proposed to my mom,” she said, brushing her cheek against the bark. “My parents named me after this tree.”

“Wow!” I responded, at a loss for words.

“Look. Here’s their inscription.” She pointed to a carving in the middle of the thick tree trunk. It was a heart with a Cupid’s arrow etched through it. At either end was a name: Bel on the bottom and Mel on the top. Bel & Mel.

“That’s your mom’s name on the bottom?”

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