Branching Out (8 page)

“What kind of name is Shelby? You from around here?”

“I grew up just north of here.”

“Porcupine Lake?”

She doesn't seem to know me,
Shelby thought, relieved. “Bayfield.”

“Ah, Bayfield,” Bernice said, leaning back in her chair. “Then you know Red Cliff.”

“Yes, of course.” Red Cliff was a Native American community located on the lakeshore just north of Bayfield.

The ice shifted in the bourbon and clinked against the glass as Bernice took her first long sip. Setting the glass down beside the chip bowl, she tried unsuccessfully to muffle a belch within the pouches of her sagging cheeks. She cracked a smile that offered no apology.

“I have a niece who works at the new casino up there. At least I think she does. Haven't seen her in a while. . . .” Bernice said. “That's her son over there, behind the bar. Nelson.”

Shelby nodded, looking in his direction.

“Everybody just
loves
Nelson,” Bernice added before taking another drink and nestling her fingers back into the chip bowl. “It's those brown eyes. Real trustworthy kid, that one.”

Shelby looked in the direction of the young man drying a beer glass with a striped bar towel. He must have noticed because, when he looked up and their eyes met, he smiled.

“Of course, my husband, Emmit, had blue eyes. Blue eyes that were so big and bright, it was almost like he had two little robin's eggs nestled in his head. A bit strange, really. But he was a keeper.”

Shelby lifted her beer to her lips, but then decided against it. A slight wave of nausea came over her. She set the bottle back down and pushed it aside. Perhaps it was the beer or smell of wet potato chips on Bernice's breath.
Long day,
she thought to herself, willing herself not to get sick during the trip. “It was nice to meet you, Bernice, but I have to get going.”

As Shelby pushed her chair back, Bernice asked, “Before you leave, would you like to talk about your children?”

“I'm sorry. I think you're mistaking me for someone else.” Shelby slipped the interview sheet back into her notebook and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I don't have any children.”

“Oh, there's no mistake,” Bernice said with assurance. “I have a keen sense about the strength of family trees, and I sense the foundation you're creating with your husband is strong. Being married to a man who lives in the public eye and puts you on a pedestal, it makes me wonder why you're sitting here having a drink with an old woman.”

Shelby wasn't sure if she heard Bernice correctly. There was something about her expression as she mentioned family trees—as if she knew, somehow, that Shelby had always considered her grandparents' apple orchard a metaphor for family. Her intuition told her to look past her experiences in Chicago—where photographers cross boundaries, and aspects of her private life are made public—and trust in the inherent good nature of people. For that's how she was raised.

Shelby set her things back on the table and sat down.

“So you say you're from Bayfield?” Bernice continued.

Shelby nodded, reaching for her beer bottle—not to drink, but to keep her hands occupied.

“Mmm,” Bernice said, and nodded. “But you don't live there now.”

“I'm married,” Shelby said simply. “We drove up from Illinois.”

“Yes. You're part of that film crew, aren't you?”

Shelby nodded again. “You're mistaken about children, you know. Not all women are meant to be parents.”

“That's true. That's very true,” Bernice said. “But you are.”

“I don't have a child.”

“Just because he isn't in your arms doesn't mean he isn't here.”

Shelby sighed.
This is crazy.

“Have you been down to the water yet?” Bernice asked, mercifully changing the subject.

“Not yet.”

“Hmm. That surprises me. You don't feel drawn to it?”

“Of course. Isn't everyone?”

Bernice said nothing.

“Actually, we're going out on a boat tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.” Bernice picked up her glass and swirled the ice around in it, listening as it bounced along the inside of the lowball glass like chimes clinking in a breeze. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Louisa May Alcott?” Bernice asked before raising the drink to her lips.

So many questions!
Shelby realized how Bernice had so cleverly changed the tables on her. She was the one who was in town to conduct the interviews, and yet she was the one providing all of the answers.
Louisa May Alcott?
Bernice waited patiently for an answer.

“Does she live here in town?” Shelby asked.

“Nope.”

It took a moment before recognition set in. Junior high school. The shelf in her childhood bedroom that was laden with books. “The author?” Shelby remembered reading Alcott's
Little Women
when she was thirteen or fourteen years old. It had been her grandmother's recommendation. In a flash of memory, Shelby pictured her younger self sitting on the couch beside her grandmother and reading aloud the March girls' story. They took turns reading, passing the book back and forth after every few pages or so. When her grandmother read, Shelby sat close beside her and listened to the story while watching a fire flicker and glow in the fireplace. Shelby missed that time when it was just the three of them, herself and her grandparents, and life was simpler.

“Yes, the author. She also wrote poetry.”

“I didn't know that,” Shelby wondered where this was all going. She glanced over her shoulder to the door. Still no sign of Ryan.

“‘As the tranquil evening moon looks on that restless sea, / So a mother's gentle face, / Little child, is watching thee,'” Bernice recited with gentle inflection, all the while looking into Shelby's eyes.

“That's lovely, but I'm not sure what that has to do with—” Shelby began before being interrupted by Bernice.

“Those words were written over a century ago, and yet they are perfect for you today. On this very day, in fact. They are perfect for
you.
”

“I don't understand.”

“You are drawn to the lake like a child to her mother. Your Mother Moon is always there for you. She shines down upon you and Lake Superior's waters. She takes care of those you love, while you live your life grieving. While you live your life afraid.”

“Excuse me?” Shelby chuckled and shook her hand as if to wave off the suggestion. “I'm not afraid.”

“And she will be there for you when your first child is born. When you need her, she'll be waiting for you at the lake. When you need answers, go to her,” Bernice said before easing her chair away from the table and standing up. She walked over to Shelby and, tipping her head slightly to the side and giving a knowing nod, set a gentle hand upon Shelby's shoulder. “Come on; you look like you've seen a ghost. Don't you go worrying or thinking I'm some crazy old soothsayer. I was just messin' with you, honey.”

Without saying another word, Bernice dropped her hand from Shelby's shoulder and swung it to the rhythm of her steps as she sauntered across the bar, called out, “Be good, Nelson!” to the bartender, and continued toward door.

Shelby was left alone in the corner with the sudsy remains of her Boombalatty, dumbfounded by her encounter with an oddly endearing woman, and the notion that a nineteenth-century poem about her “Mother Moon” could possibly reflect her life. Looking across the table, Shelby saw that Bernice had left a folded copy of the town's weekly beside her empty glass. The partial headline read: “Chambers to Visit . . .” So that was it, Shelby thought. Their stop in Tamarack had made the news and Bernice saw an opportunity to have a little fun with her.

Ryan entered the bar just as Bernice reached the door. Coming face-to-face with him, Bernice paused, then looked over her shoulder and gave Shelby a knowing nod.

C
HAPTER
10

S
everal days into their trip, Shelby, Ryan, Tina, and Cullie had established a rhythm. Grab coffee and a quick breakfast at a diner—every town on their route had one—and then head to the interview location that they had scouted out the evening before. Cullie and Tina would handle the equipment and Ryan would set the shot while Shelby went through her notes, making any last-minute changes before their interviewee arrived.

On this morning, they parked the van at Hamilton Beach and waited for Beth Dillard to arrive for her interview. No one seemed concerned that the lake view was completely hidden beneath a heavy shroud of morning fog. In fact, since they were early, Ryan disappeared into the fog as he walked down to the beach while the others remained in the van.

“I checked the footage last night and we have some pretty good stuff,” Cullie said before grabbing his foil-wrapped egg sandwich and taking a messy, yolk-and-mayo-dripping bite.

“Gross,” Tina grumbled, offering him a paper napkin. She sat slouched down low in front passenger seat with her long, slender legs stretched out and her bare feet propped up on the console. Tina held a paper cup of coffee in her hand and stared out at the fog that enveloped their van. Shelby had learned early on that Tina would be in this state of morning irritation until the caffeine kicked in and her personality warmed to tepid.

“My favorite interview so far was Wilmer, the fisherman from Tamarack. You'd never know it from looking at him, but
damn,
he was like a walking textbook on the lake,” Cullie said.

“He was,” Shelby replied as she sat in the back, pulling off pieces of her cranberry muffin and popping them into her mouth. There was something about the fog. She couldn't stop staring at it through the car window. She could imagine Bernice walking out of the mist, her hair braided down her back, reciting poetry about a mother moon who can “chase all your clouds away.” Shelby hadn't told Ryan about her encounter with Bernice. How could she, when she hardly understood it herself?

“I felt like I was right back in school. In fact, that guy should be a professor or something,” Cullie said with admiration.

“He's like . . . eighty years old,” Tina grumbled from the front seat.

“Well, he doesn't act like it,” Cullie replied. “All that knowledge about ecological changes in the lake. The impact on the fishing industry here in this area. Jesus. I had no idea.”

Helge Wilmer's accounts about the impact climate change was having on Lake Superior and the Great Lakes as a whole hadn't been a surprise to Shelby. She had been hearing about it for years from her grandfather and his fishing companions. But it was heartbreaking nonetheless. During Mr. Wilmer's interview, he explained how environmental changes were adding stress to the lakes by altering water temperature to levels that were more suitable for invasive species, drying the coastal wetlands that served as pollution filters, and increasing the occurrence of violent storms. It affected the fisheries and Mr. Wilmer's livelihood.

The fog continued to hover around the van without showing signs of rising. The vehicle seemed warm, too warm. The air felt stagnant and reeked of eggs and Cullie's “lucky” socks—which she found out the night before he only washes at the end of the video shoots as part of a strange superstition.

“Hey, Tina, would you mind calling Beth? Tell her that we're going to postpone the shoot for another hour or so, until the fog lifts? I'm sure she'll understand,” Shelby said as she opened the van door.

“Fine,” Tina huffed, making it clear that she did not want to initiate a conversation so early in the morning.

“Where ya headed?” Cullie asked. Nothing remained of his sandwich but a smear of yolk on his chin.

“A little fresh air—and I'll see if I can find Ryan,” Shelby said. “I'll just be a minute.”

Shelby couldn't see the shoreline through the fog, but she could hear the waves breaking on the sand. She walked toward the sound, enjoying the feel of the cool mist on her skin. It helped to clear her head.

She made her way across the narrow strip of beach to the water's edge. The only part of the expansive lake that was within view was the frothy wash of waves that rolled over the pebbled shoreline. Out on the water, she couldn't see much farther than a stone's throw distance before the fog shrouded the view. Looking over her shoulder, she couldn't see the van, and there were no signs of Ryan. She didn't call out his name, for she wanted some time alone.

She sat down on the beach and dragged her fingers through the fine grains of sand, making patterns and swirls around her crossed legs. She realized it was the first time she had been alone in weeks.

It wasn't long before the sun warmed the morning air enough to begin lifting the fog off of the water. Shelby picked up a handful of the sand and let the grains fall through the cracks between her fingers. A new idea was becoming clear. There was more to the Great Lakes story. She stood up from her spot on the beach and brushed the sand from her clothes as she started back toward the van, knowing how they would turn the project around in a way that would really honor her grandfather. Unlike so-called journalists like Jenna, Shelby knew she could do better. The written word, when based on truth, would always have the ability to make a positive impact.

C
HAPTER
11

S
everal weeks after finishing the video tour and returning home to Chicago, Ryan and Shelby's newlywed life felt more exciting and real now that their travels were over and they were settled in his apartment. In
their
apartment.

Ryan had been up early and was now reentering the dimly lit bedroom, expecting Shelby to be awake. “Good news, Shelby, we're all set! I just got off the phone with Cullie. He's logged all of the footage—from Tamarack to Grand Marais—and today we're all set to—”

“Stop,” she interrupted. “Stay over there. You don't want to kiss me this morning.” Shelby moaned, rolling onto her side and pulling the quilt up tighter beneath her chin. “I think I have the flu.”

“Is that so?” He walked to her side of the bed, carrying a glass of ginger ale. “Big day today. We need to head over to the studio, remember? That actor we hired is recording voice-overs today—voice-overs for the script that
you
wrote. I know you wouldn't want to miss it.”

“I mean it. I feel awful.” She turned away from him and rolled onto her other side. “Keep your distance.”

He set the ginger ale on her bedside table and sat down next to her on the bed. “I'll take my chances.”

She pulled a blanket over her head and groaned from beneath it. “Go. Away. Save yourself.”

He rubbed her back through the bedding. “You don't have the flu, Shel.”

She groaned.

“Or food poisoning,” he added.

“I'm pretty sure I'm contagious. Go on without me.”

He pulled down a corner of the blanket, just far enough that he could see her head pushed deep into her pillow. “You're pregnant.”

With that, her eyes opened wide, she threw the covers off of her body and darted into the bathroom. Ryan shook his head as he heard his wife suffering from nausea again, as she had for the past several mornings. He knew she would rebound within the hour, be tired throughout the day, and continue with her new aversion to poultry.

The pregnancy had been his mother's observation, not his own. Charlotte had stopped by a week ago, saying she was “in the area” when clearly she hadn't been. His mother had been making notes on their apartment and its slow transition from a bachelor pad into a family home. He wasn't in a rush and Shelby hadn't expressed interest, so Charlotte seemed to feel it was her responsibility to “help” by having a new rug delivered, or bringing over a vase that she came upon at her favorite Michigan Avenue boutique. If Ryan or Shelby gave her even the slightest encouragement, Charlotte would have her interior designer knocking at their door within hours.

“It's in her complexion as clear as day, William. I'm as certain that Shelby is pregnant as I am that the sun will come up again in the morning,” his mother had told him in the foyer after Shelby had said good-bye and gone into the bedroom to lie down.

“Pregnant?” Ryan whispered, completely taken aback.

“From the look on your face, I take it this wasn't planned?”

“Well, no. I mean we always . . . but no, not really.” He ran his hands through his hair and thought back on the past several weeks. Had he noticed the symptoms? Had she? Shelby never mentioned her period being late or anything else that would have been a clear sign. In fact, whenever he brought up the subject of their future family she scoffed at the idea. It surprised him that a woman with such natural abilities to care for others and connect with children wouldn't want to think about raising her own someday.

“Mmm-hmm,” Charlotte said knowingly. She set her purse down on the entryway table and proceeded directly to Ryan and Shelby's kitchen. With him walking behind her, a dazed yet delighted look on his face, Charlotte proceeded to rummage about the kitchen until she found two cans of ginger ale and a box of water crackers. “Bring this to her. Make sure she eats slowly before stepping foot out of her bed each morning. Believe me, it will help. Before long, the nausea will wear off and she'll feel back to her old self. When that time comes, be prepared to provide her with anything and everything she wants to nourish herself and the baby. When I was pregnant with you, I couldn't eat enough banana flapjacks.”

Ryan took the ginger ale and crackers but didn't move. “Banana flapjacks?”

“Come on, now,” his mother said, and swooshed him out of the kitchen with a wave of her arms. “I'll help myself out. You're going to be a father—now go take care of your family!”

 

Shelby padded slowly back from the bathroom, looking miserable.

“Feel better?” Ryan asked.

“I'm
not
pregnant.”

“But hasn't it been a while since you had you last . . .
you know
. . . ?”

“When did you become such an expert?” She swung back into bed and punched her pillow before setting down her head. “Sorry. Didn't mean to snap.”

“Well . . . is it possible?”

She groaned and stared blankly at the bedroom wall, seemingly doing the math in her head and putting the pieces together. Finally, she rolled over onto her back and looked up at Ryan, who was sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her. She suggested a possible date with a sigh.

“But that's, what—” he wondered aloud, counting out the weeks in his head.

“About nine weeks. Give or take,” she said before he reached the same conclusion.

“Shelby, that's wonderful!” He leaned down to kiss her full on the lips, unable to contain his excitement.

“Is it?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, and smiled, reflecting his happiness.

He set his hand tenderly on her abdomen. “A baby!” he said in wonder, cracking open a can of the ginger ale and extending it to Shelby.

“A baby,” she repeated quietly.

 

“A baby!” Ginny shrieked into the phone when Shelby called her later that day to share the news. “I can't believe it. So soon! I mean, not
too
soon, of course, but it's just that—my goodness, I'm going to be a grandmother!”

“Actually, Gran, technically you'd be—”

“Oh, hush. I'm much too young to be a
great
-grandmother, Shelby. Don't you dare teach that baby of yours to call me Great-Grandma. No, no. We'll definitely have to come up with something better than that. Oh, Shelby, isn't this wonderful!” her grandmother gushed.

“It is,” Shelby said, unable to deny her grandmother's joy.

“How far along are you? I have to put these dates in my calendar right away. Do you have a physician picked out yet? I'm sure Ryan's family can recommend the best care.”

“Slow down, Gran.” Shelby laughed. “This is all new for us. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to figure all of that out.”

Shelby had been speaking with her grandmother regularly since moving to Chicago and always looked forward to their calls. Although at times Ginny's stories were redundant, as time had a way of making her more forgetful, the routine and ease of their conversations helped Shelby get through some of the difficulties she had encountered while living in the city.

After their talk of the baby, Ginny carefully switched topics.

“I read the story that your friend Jenna wrote for
The Daily
—although, frankly, we can't really call her a friend now, can we?”

“No.” Shelby leaned her head against the plush back of the armchair and ran her fingers across the smooth fabric on its armrest. Shortly after their return from Switzerland, she and Ryan read the article Jenna had written for a regional magazine. Its coverage was limited, but through social media the story had traveled well beyond the Midwest. It had been a betrayal of trust unlike anything that Shelby had ever experienced. It made her mother's harsh words seem mild in comparison.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier? When you first read the article?”

“I didn't see the point of it, Gran. It would have only upset you. And Mom,” Shelby said. “Maybe I just hoped it would go away.”

“Little did Ryan Chambers know when he married Wisconsin native Shelby Meyers in an idyllic June wedding in the Bayfield countryside that he was entering into a family of wolves” was how Jenna had started her article. She went on to dismantle all of the qualities that made Shelby proud of her family—things that she had confided in Jenna during a time when she needed a friend to trust in her new surroundings.

Shelby had unknowingly given Jenna the story she had been waiting for when she asked for her help in tracking down Chad Covington.

“I have the mind to call up the editor of that filthy publication myself and give them something real to talk about!” Ginny said.

“No, I don't want to make it worse.”

“I don't know how you do it.”

I'm not doing it,
Shelby thought, but wouldn't admit it to her grandmother. The truth would only cause her more concern and worry about something that she had no control over. That was the last thing Shelby wanted.

“How is Mom taking this?” she asked.

“She's pretty tight-lipped about it all,” Ginny said, and then paused before continuing. “I've said it before, but I've honestly seen a noticeable change in her since she moved back to the farm. And as for Chad, he really isn't as bad as everyone's making him out to be. Truly, Shelby, he's become a big help around here.”

“I believe you.”