Branching Out (18 page)

She should be with him—they both knew that—but Shelby said she wasn't ready, that she needed time. In his understanding of her needs, he neglected his own. As she dealt with her grief over Charlie's death, safe in her childhood home, Ryan felt isolated and removed. He buried his grief in the cottage, shoveling the snow off the drive, making minor repairs, washing the floors again and again. And when he wasn't moving, he was here, at his computer. Delving back into his photography that had given him so much pleasure in the past. It was a beautiful distraction. But now, looking at the images that lit up his screen, he knew he had been fooling himself. These were not the type of photographs that he was used to taking—the ones that nearly leapt off the paper and told stories in single shots—these were linear images of nature that were as cold as January and devoid of human interest. These were images of the solitude he felt. He had been fooling himself.

Ryan pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. He needed some air. He grabbed his coat and winter gear, shoved his feet into a rugged pair of Sorels that sat beside the door, and then ventured into the cold outdoors. After securing the door behind him, Ryan walked down the shoveled path that led to his car and then, in a spontaneous decision, decided to leave the path and trudge through the deep snow around the back of the house.

How could he expect Shelby to face her fears if he couldn't do the same? It was time that he reconciled his feelings about Olen's accident and was truthful with Shelby about it if they were going to share an honest life together.

He needed to touch the ice. Feel the frozen lake beneath his feet. Look out on to Lake Superior as if he could look into Olen's face and apologize.

But then, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't do it. Physically, he was too afraid to take another step.

C
HAPTER
27

R
yan was waiting for Jackie when she arrived at Spill the Beans coffee shop on Main Street. It was nine o'clock on a bitterly cold morning and there were only two other patrons sitting at the counter near the window, reading the paper. He knew they'd be able to speak in private.

Ever since he learned of Shelby's desperate trip from the Chicago hospital, he knew she would be a media target. Ryan's parents knew it, too, and had acted swiftly to diffuse the situation as best they could while he drove to Fond du Lac to be with her. He feared that any mention of her as an unfit mother or emotionally distraught and careless would make it virtually impossible for him to ever convince Shelby that living in Chicago was right for her. She had been so patient, so resilient. He feared a reputation like that would be too much for her to overcome.

Fortunately, there hadn't been much news coming out of Chicago about Shelby and the baby—and thus far, no one had enough facts to put the story together. The hospitals weren't releasing information, and neither was his family. He didn't know what had happened to the cabdriver who was kind enough to take Shelby to the nearest hospital, but Ryan had a hunch his father had something to do with it.

There was only one other person who would ever consider sharing their story with the media. She had done it before. And right now, he needed to speak with her.

Jackie made eye contact with Ryan as she stood in the entrance of the café, stomping the snow off of her boots and unzipping her parka. She nodded in the direction of the barista. Jackie proceeded to place her coffee order, grabbing a raspberry scone while she waited, and then walked across the shop to join Ryan.

“Hey,” she said simply, placing her coffee mug and plate down on the table.

“Morning.”

The legs of the chair she grabbed scraped loudly against the wood flooring. “You aren't hungry?” she asked as she sat down, noticing his coffee cup, which was lukewarm and nearly empty.

“I ate breakfast earlier,” he said. “How's Shelby this morning?”

“Not sure. She was still in her room when I left.”

Neither one of them needed to say anything more. He imagined Jackie felt as inept at pulling Shelby through her grief as he did.

He reached into the inside pocket of his winter coat and withdrew a rolled-up glossy magazine. Ryan then flattened it out and pushed it across the table to Jackie.

“What's this?” she asked while chewing a mouthful of her breakfast pastry.

He tapped on the masthead.
Signature.
A national weekly magazine that had been interested in covering his life with Shelby since the beginning of their relationship.

Jackie swallowed hard and wiped the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her manicured hand.

“I assume you were expecting this to come out?” he asked.

She looked up at him and opened her mouth to speak but then thought better of it. Instead, she picked up the magazine and flipped through it until she reached the article that Ryan wanted her to read.

“You took the fall for her.” Ryan looked at Jackie and saw her expression turn from concern to warmth as easily as a cloud breaks in the sky to reveal the sun.

“I didn't do anything that you or anyone else wouldn't have done.”

“But it was you,” he said, astounded by this woman whose transformation was as baffling as it was beautiful. “Why?”

“It's simple,” she said. “I had to protect my daughter.”

“But after all of these years. After everything you put her through. I don't understand—”

“That's just it. I've put her through too much. It's time that I stood up for her,” Jackie said, taking hold of her coffee mug and turning it in her hand. “I'm not an idiot. I read magazines like
Signature;
I know how these stories come out. It would have been devastating to her. I mean, we can keep the news from her now, but she'd read it eventually. Or your future children would.”

I can only hope we'll have more children,
Ryan thought. Before releasing Shelby from the hospital, the doctors said that there was still a chance for a healthy pregnancy. As long as she took care of herself, rested, and recovered.

“But what gave you the idea to—”

“To lie?” Jackie said, finishing his sentence. “Because I knew it was so close to the truth—to what I used to be capable of doing in my past—that it would be believable. I would much rather have people continue to think of me as the bad mother than
ever
put that label on my child.”

“I'm afraid that's what she thinks of herself.”

Jackie took a sip of her coffee, considering what Ryan had said. “I think she misinterpreted fear. Fear of failure. Fear of history repeating itself. But in time, I believe she'll see herself in the same light that you do—that her entire family does. You just have to encourage her to open her eyes to see it for herself.”

Jackie closed the magazine and pushed it back across the table to Ryan.

“And this?” he said, picking up the publication and rolling it back into a tight scroll.

“She doesn't need to know.”

C
HAPTER
28

J
ust over a month had passed and Ryan felt as though he and Shelby had weathered the most difficult period of their grief. Now the waves of sorrow came less frequently and, when they did, he didn't feel as though he were drowning. He and Shelby were finding some normalcy in their days again. She was helping Ginny and Jackie with the house and farm, and she began journaling. Not just a few passages here and there, but writing regularly. Sometimes sitting in her room and writing for hours on end, lost in thought.

That's where Shelby was when Ryan, anxious for something to do, enticed Ginny to join him on a walk.

“I'm not sure what else I can do, Ginny,” he told her as they strolled leisurely down a snow-packed path that ran between rows of dormant apple trees.

Ginny looked upward at the sun, which was struggling to come out from behind an endless parade of slow-moving gray clouds. “It's going to take time,” she said. “You've been incredibly patient. Really. No couple should have to go through what you two are dealing with, and I love you for how supportive you've been to her. But you have to keep being patient.”

“But what else can I do? How do we pull her back from this?”

“We can't,” she said, stopping to turn toward him. “Look up at the sky. What do you see?”

“It's cloudy.”

“And?”

“It's February in Wisconsin. It's cold and gray.”

“Are the clouds going to stay here permanently?”

“No, of course not,” he said. They continued down the path as Ginny continued to make her point—a bit drawn out for Ryan's patience. He was tired of waiting. He needed solutions.

“You were saying . . . ?” she nudged, wanting to make a point.

“The clouds will move on, eventually.”

“Exactly.”

“Ginny, you know I adore you, but what are you trying to tell me?”

“Clouds are only temporary. Some float by quietly; others billow up angrily and thunder and strike. No matter how they affect any given day, they are constantly moving and changing. The only thing that you can count on is the sun. It will be there until the end of time. We may not be able to see it, particularly during times like this when the sadness that you and Shelby are feeling is like a long period of dark skies, but the sun is just beyond those clouds.”

He nodded, understanding what she was trying to say in her own unique way.

“The Shelby that you fell in love with—and the girl I raised—is still there. Her personality is going to shine again, Ryan. You can count on it, just as you can count on the sun. You just have to remain patient.”

“Let's hope you're right.”

“Of course I'm right,” she said with an air of seriousness, and then, with a laugh, added, “I'm
always
right.”

It felt good to be outside. It's one of the things he appreciated most about his wife's hometown—even when the land was frozen and the lake entombed in ice, the air still had the same healing qualities and freshness of the warmest days of summer and the crispness of autumn. It cleared his head and made him feel alive.

After a while, it was Ginny who spoke again.

“And you? How are you doing today?”

It was an interesting way to phrase the question, he thought, for each day was unique. It was a process for him, missing someone he'd never met and giving up a lifetime of dreams he had unwittingly mapped out for his son. Ryan couldn't look her in the eye. “Alone.”

“Yes,” Ginny said, nodding. She knew. “I think it's time that she gets out of the house.”

“I've tried. She won't go.”

“Well, maybe this time you don't ask. You just do,” she said. “And I know just where you should take her.”

Ginny proceeded to tell Ryan about an annual event that would be held the following evening, which was Valentine's Day. The “Cold Hands, Warm Heart” event was held annually in the old recreation center down by the marina, where residents gathered to hear the local choir lead a love song singalong, which had always amused her husband, Olen. People of all ages carried lanterns, candles, and flashlights as they walked, skied, or snowshoed along a snow-cleared path on the ice just offshore. The one-mile ice path would be marked with frozen luminarias that glowed with candlelight.

“There's a group of men in town who make them every year, using five-gallon pickle buckets,” Ginny explained. “They've been using the same old buckets for the past twenty years.”

“Let me guess. Olen was one of the guys?”

“Damn right he was,” she said with a laugh. “He lived for these types of things. Helped make the long winter a bit more interesting. That and sauna gatherings at the Browns' house, up on Fire Tower Hill. Those always ended with shots of Jameson, naked leaps into the snow, and something catching fire.”

Just when you think you know someone,
Ryan thought, smiling.

“Fire department had to come up to the house one year. My God, that was a year to remember.”

“I'm afraid to ask, but what caught fire?”

She put her hand on his back and said, “You'd never believe me if I told you.”

Ryan enjoyed her optimism as much as her storytelling. It felt good to laugh again, and he wished Shelby were there to enjoy it, too.

“After the walk, we gather at a community bonfire. There's a cauldron of hot chili, plenty of beverages, cocoa for the kids—and then they light off fireworks right off of the frozen lake. The display is nearly as big as the one on the Fourth of July,” Ginny said, clearly proud of her community and its traditions. “Shelby had always loved attending it with her grandfather and me. I have a feeling that, if you bring her down tomorrow night, she'll come around. It's worked for us in the past.”

 

Ryan and Shelby arrived at the Bayfield Lakeside Pavilion just in time for the ceremony to begin. He held Shelby's hand and led her to two open seats near the back, very close, he noticed, to a long table filled with home-baked cookies and dessert bars spread out on plastic trays, a pair of tall coffee dispensers, and a tower of Styrofoam cups. After two more families walked in with their children, a pair of volunteers shut the doors and dimmed the lights. He held Shelby's hand, hopeful that he would feel a reconnection.

The room quieted when a middle-aged man wearing a bright-red dress coat and pink bow tie stepped in front of the risers, which were positioned next to an upright piano at the front of the room. Ginny had mentioned that Hugh Greenberg served twice a year as the community choir leader and was also the purveyor of one of the town's bed-and-breakfasts—which explained the coupon for the “Cupid weekend special” at the Bow & Stern printed on the back of the program in Ryan's hand.

“Welcome, everyone. Here we are again, celebrating Valentine's with our neighbors and friends. A pretty good night, I'd say. If you'll remember, we had a dickens of a cold snap last year—what was the official temp that night, Olsen?” he asked a portly man in the front row.

“Nineteen below windchill!” the man shouted back for all to hear. A collective groan made its way through the room. When Ryan looked toward the sound of the voice, he noticed Ginny near the aisle with Jackie and Chad. They had arrived earlier to help position the luminarias on the lake.

“Well, we're blessed tonight with a downright
balmy
twenty-nine degrees!”

As the audience cheered, Ryan gave Shelby's hand a squeeze and detected a slight upturn at the side of her mouth. It was a start, he thought, as he noticed how beautiful she looked in something as simple as a heavy parka, jeans, and boots, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders.

The room was decorated with strands of overhead white holiday lights, Valentine hearts that spun slowly from the ends of fishing lines tied to the rafters, and a vase of red roses on the top of the choir's upright piano. The decorations had a quaint, childlike charm that was just right.

“And now, let's get things started with Elvis's ‘Can't Help Falling in Love,' with a solo by Julia Baker. Roger Peters will accompany on the piano.”

The space was infused with the warm scent of coffee, burning candles, and sugar cookies. Nearly a hundred people sat shoulder to shoulder in neat rows of folding chairs, some holding song lyrics photocopied on pink paper, singing along as the choir harmonized the Elvis love song. Looking around, Ryan doubted he had ever seen so many flannel shirts, knit hats, and Scandinavian sweaters in one place.

At the conclusion of the sixth song of the evening, a special trio was introduced. The pianist pushed away from the piano and went behind the risers to retrieve his accordion. Meanwhile, Boots, the grocer, left his spot in the bass section to join a third man who waited on one of two stools that were set before the microphone. As Boots made his way to the front, Ryan was surprised to see him carrying a set of bongo drums under one arm and a band saw in his other hand.

“And wasn't that a lovely rendition of ‘What's Love Got to Do with It'?” Hugh said to the crowd, with merriment that was reminiscent of Lawrence Welk. “And now, a quick announcement. Sally O'Dell just informed me that she's ready to make her last trek of the night across the ice to Madeline Island. If anyone is hoping to catch a ride in her van, now's the time.”

Ryan then watched with amusement as a thin, balding man with a down vest and red bowler hat made his way off the risers, gave a little wave, and scooted out the side door behind the piano.

“Looks like we lost one of our baritones to Sally,” the director joked. “And now, with our trio ready for their instrumental solos on the accordion, bongo, and saw, it looks like everyone is in place to begin our final song of the night—Ray Charles's ‘I Can't Stop Loving You.'” He gave three taps of his baton to the side of his music stand, waved his arms, and the choir began.

Just as the audience joined in to sing the chorus, Shelby's hand pulled away from Ryan's. She stood without a word and nudged her way down the row of seated people, and walked toward the back of the room. He was about to follow when everyone stood up, swaying arm in arm with neighbors while rounding out the song.

“Thank you, thank you, everyone,” came the director's voice through the corner-mounted speakers. “Another wonderful night—and a beautiful job by our talented community choir.” When the room burst into applause, the man who had been seated to Ryan's left extended his arm for a handshake. “Good to see you and your wife here. You two headed down to the ice?”

“We're planning on it,” he replied, looking over the heads of others to keep his eye on Shelby. She wasn't by the coffee table. Or the refreshments. In no time, people were zipping up their coats, pulling hats low over their ears, and helping children with their mittens. He could see the volunteers near the door, already handing out candles and lanterns as people began a procession down to the ice.

“Sorry, excuse me,” he said to the man beside him, pushing politely past. He rushed to the door, pulling on his hat and gloves, but a crowd had already formed and the doorway was blocked. He strained his neck, looking everywhere for Shelby as he moved with the crowd in a slow shuffle toward the door. He considered pushing his way back out of the throng and exiting at the door by the piano, in the front of the hall, but he realized it was blocked by choir members who were packing sound equipment and dismantling pieces of the choir risers.

Let's go!
his voice shouted within his head. Although he was in Shelby's hometown and he knew she would be safe, a part of him felt the same desperation from the moment in the hospital when he had discovered that she was missing. It had happened once. Could she possibly do it again?

When he finally made his way through the crowd and to the open doorway, a volunteer handed him a lantern with a lit candle within and directed him to follow the crowd down to the shore.

“Do you know Shelby Chambers?” he asked. When faced with the woman's puzzled face, he corrected, “I mean, Shelby Meyers?”

“Oh, Shelby—yes, of course. She must be down at the starting line by now,” the woman said with a smile, pointing down the street toward the frozen lake. “After the ice walk, just leave the lantern at the warming tent at the end of the night, before you leave.”

With the lantern in hand, Ryan wove quickly through people who were walking from the recreation center to the shoreline. He hurried past them, looking into their faces, searching for her in the moonlit evening.

When he arrived at the waterfront, he walked directly to the roaring bonfire and warming tent that had been set up for the chili cookout. He thought she might be waiting for him there. The fire illuminated the faces of men, women, and children as they strapped on their cross-country skis and mounted snowshoes on their boots. More skis were plunged into the deep snow around the fire, like a picket fence that had no rails. His eyes darted from person to person, searching in vain for his wife.

The appeal of the event was easy to see. There was the novelty of skiing at night, under star and moonlit skies, the way lit by iced luminarias that gleamed like jewels in the dark. Shortly after the skiers shushed off onto the illuminated path, the snowshoers were strapping on their equipment and the walkers were making their way to the shore. She was nowhere to be seen.

Then, just before he turned back to the pavilion, he caught sight of a flicker of light off in the distance—on the ice. It was moving away from town; its glimmer was fading.

He knew in an instant that it was Shelby.