Family Trees (20 page)

C
HAPTER
24

C
onsidering the cold never stopped Shelby and her grandfather from venturing outdoors, it wasn't surprising to find the pair walking through the town park on a morning when the wind chill hovered just above zero.

As she and Olen trekked through the snow, dressed warmly in thermals, parkas, and wool, Shelby reflected on all that had transpired over the past several weeks since the
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article ran. It had caused a collective gasp throughout town—not only in response to the magazine's intrusion into Shelby and Ryan's private life, but also because photographs of their beloved town had been featured prominently in a national magazine. In their eyes, that was far more newsworthy than Shelby's love life.

Since Ryan hadn't been able to dissuade Avery Martin from running her story, Shelby knew he felt responsible for the media storm that followed. Everything that had once been personal was now exposed. Every place that had been private seemed to be on display. After Avery Martin's visit, a few journalists and photographers braved the trek north in January while others barraged Shelby's family with intrusive long-distance phone calls.

As someone who rarely used the Internet, Shelby was saved from reading the online reports. But the stories reached her nonetheless. Many well-intended friends and neighbors mailed news clippings along with handwritten notes of “Did you see this,” “Can they say these things,” and even, “Is this true?” The more the story spread, the more Ryan seemed to withdraw.

“This is a good spot,” Olen declared once they arrived at a snow-covered bench, the same spot where Ryan and Shelby had shared their first date back in August.

They brushed the snow away with their gloved hands before taking a seat. Olen leaned against the back of the bench with a heavy sigh and removed a black thermos from the canvas bag Ginny had packed for them earlier that morning.

Suddenly, her grandfather's eyes darted toward a cluster of white pines that edged the park grounds. “Hey, Shel—don't look now, but—”

“What?” Shelby looked in the direction he was facing.

“I think there's someone hiding behind those trees over there,” he whispered.

“Seriously?” she groaned, leaning forward to scan the trees with their snow-laden branches.

“Shh!” He flung out his arm and pushed her back. “Don't look!”

“What's gotten into you?”

“Over there. Three o'clock,” he said with a surreptitious tone.

“What . . .”

“Paparazzi!” Amused by his own antics, he broke out into a wide grin and a chuckle. “You're a bit of a celebrity these days. You can never be too careful. Better keep an eye out.”

“I'm glad someone thinks this is funny,” she said, sharing a smile with the gray-haired comedian seated beside her.

“I do, indeed.” With the thermos squeezed between his legs, he unscrewed the lid and watched steam swirl up and dissipate into the cold air. Olen inhaled the deep aroma of coffee while carefully pouring a mug for Shelby and handing it to her. She always appreciated the way he presweetened it with cream and sugar before leaving the house. “Nothing compares to sitting lakeside with a perfect cup of coffee in your hand, Shel. This is where I belong,” he said, looking out onto the snow-covered ice and bright sky.

Holding her cup with both hands, Shelby could feel the warmth of the coffee through the thick lining of her gloves. “I feel the same way.”

He screwed the lid back onto the thermos and returned it to the bag at his feet. “So tell me, how are you holdin' up?”

“Good question,” she said, pondering her answer while taking a sip. “Let's see . . . I feel that Ryan is pulling away. After he finished his project, he started to get agitated. You know how it is up here in the winter. Everything shuts down. I think he's bored and anxious to go home,” she said. “If that wasn't enough, I know the phone calls to the house were especially hard on Gran. And—oh yeah—my own mother sold yet another story about us to the media. Other than that, I'm terrific.”

“Hmm,” Olen considered while raising his cup to his lips and blowing away the steam. “Could be worse.”

She pulled her nubby wool cap down lower over her ears. “How? How could it possibly get worse?”

“Your mother could move back here and sign us all up for one of those god-awful reality shows.”

“You know what, Grandpa? At this point, as ludicrous as that sounds, I actually wouldn't put it past her!”

It felt good to laugh with her grandfather. Sitting in the deserted park brought back all the times spent together, just the two of them. Talking. Joking. Sometimes saying nothing at all. But always feeling a connection that ran deeper than the lake.

“I know this has been hard on both of you, but at least the coverage has been positive,” Olen said.

Shelby raised her eyebrows.

“Okay, mostly positive.” Olen reached back into the bag at his feet and pulled out a sandwich bag that contained several Oreo cookies. “It's not like you two are a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. You're not in the press because you've done anything wrong. You're just two kids falling in love.” He opened the bag and held it out to her.

“Tell that to Ryan. One more intrusion and he's going to snap.” She removed her glove long enough to grab an Oreo and pop the entire cookie into her mouth.

“How much press has there been since that first article in
Signature
?” Olen didn't bother removing his gloves while dipping into the bag of treats.

“I honestly couldn't say,” she mumbled with her hand over her mouth while she finished chewing. Olen joined her, opening his mouth wide and shoving in a whole Oreo. “You know me—I'm not much of a tabloid news expert.” Shelby felt a shiver run up her spine and, in an effort to restore feeling to her extremely cold backside, she fidgeted on the bench and shook out her legs. “Grandpa, are you getting cold?”

“Freezing,” he said, finishing off the last of his coffee.

“Let's head back.”

“Can't,” Olen said. “My ass is frozen to this bench.”

Shaking out the last drops of her coffee into the snow and rising to stand, her legs felt stiff and numb. “You and me both!” She took Olen's hand to help him up, then reached down to grab the canvas bag.

Olen rubbed his hands together and asked, “Are you still upset with John? I've seen him around town a few times. We miss seeing him up at the house.”

“Of course not. Nic thought he was a source for the
Signature
story, but after it came out and I saw that he wasn't quoted, I went to his house to talk. You know I love him. I mean, we've been friends forever. I should have known he'd never betray me, unlike my . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Like your mother did?” Olen removed the bag from her shoulder and insisted on carrying the load.

Shelby nodded as they followed their snow tracks back out of the park.

“I can't imagine what goes through her head,” Olen said. “All kidding aside, I don't understand how she manages to disappoint, time after time. I'm sorry, honey.”

“You have no reason to be.” Shelby took his arm, as she had done countless times in the past.

“I know it's been hard on you. And Ryan. He's keeping up a good face, but I think he feels responsible for all of this.”

She thought back to how troubled Ryan had been since that first article came out on Christmas morning, and how he had virtually said those exact words. And what made the situation even more difficult were the headlines that proclaimed Ryan had fallen in love, when in fact, neither of them had yet to say “I love you.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Olen asked.

“Just keep being you.” Shelby gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.

Just as they were about to step out of the park and onto the plowed street, they heard the roar of a high-powered engine blaring off of the frozen lake. The two turned to look, just as a red-and-white-striped wind sled zipped past the marina. They continued to watch the enclosed boat-hulled craft, propelled by two enormous fans in the stern, speed off toward Madeline Island.

“That's odd,” Shelby said. “I thought the ice road to Madeline was open. Is there still unstable ice out on the lake?”

“I don't think so. Maybe the sled was just in town for repairs. But it gives me an idea,” Olen said as he led Shelby to the truck. “Come on—I think I know just the thing to get Ryan's mind off this whole publicity mess.”

C
HAPTER
25

“S
ay, Ryan—Shel and I were down at the park this morning and it occurred to me that you've been holed up here for months, but you haven't been out on the ice yet,” Olen said, holding a bottle of cold beer in one hand while the other fished through a bowl of unshelled peanuts that sat on the knotty pine end table beside his recliner.

“Well, I took my camera out on the ice a few times already, if that's what you mean,” Ryan said from the couch, turning away from the television to face Olen during a commercial break from the NFL playoff game they'd been watching.

“Nah, I mean ice fishing.” Olen cracked a shell and popped the nut into his mouth. “So, whad'ya say—you game?”

“I'm in!”

“Good. It's just what you need. Get you away from all the hoopla.” Olen extended his snack bowl in Ryan's direction. “Peanut?”

Ryan shook his head, and Olen shrugged.

“We'll head out first thing tomorrow morning,” Olen said. “John lets me keep my old snowmobile parked down behind West Bay Outfitters. We can strap our gear on the sled and head out to a great spot I know. I checked the weather an hour ago and they say there's a storm heading our way, but it won't be here until late tomorrow night. So, if we're going to get some fishing in, tomorrow morning's our best shot. Quick and easy.” He leaned back in his chair, turning his head toward the kitchen, and called out, “Ladies? How would you two like a nice lake trout dinner tomorrow night?”

“Boots isn't selling trout this week,” came Ginny's reply.

“Who needs Boots? Ryan and I are going fishing!”

Ginny poked her head out of the kitchen doorway. “But there's a storm coming.”

“Not until late tomorrow night. We'll be back here enjoying our fish well before the first snow falls.”

“You better be right about that,” Ginny said before rejoining Shelby in the kitchen. Ryan could hear the hushed objections between the women, but couldn't make out the words.

“And, dear?” Olen called out sweetly. “When you get a chance, my lovely wife, could you please help me find my old coveralls for Ryan?”

An audible groan came from behind the doorway. Olen then gestured to Ryan.

“No offense, Ryan, but that fancy parka of yours won't cut it out on the ice,” Olen said. “You're going to need to wear some of my old duds—and I gotta warn ya, they're not pretty. We'll need to pick up a license for you, too.”

“You're the boss.” Ryan laughed.

A short while later, during half-time, Olen snatched another fistful of peanuts before the two took their beer and their boyish enthusiasm out to the barn. They gathered the gear they needed for their outing, including Olen's well-used ice auger, skimmer, reels, spoon lures, and bucktail jigs.

“Just one more thing.” Olen opened the freezer chest, reached in, and grabbed a plastic Cool Whip container that held frozen bait. “Between you and me, I don't know what's more fun. The prospect of fishing or seeing Ginny's face in the morning when she finds these dead smelt on her pristine kitchen counter. They can give off quite a stink.”

“I imagine she'll raise a bit of a stink herself,” Ryan said.

 

The ice gave Olen and Ryan a frigid welcome as they set out among twenty or so fisherman the following morning. A silver-white sundog, a reflection of light that shone off of the ice crystals in the atmosphere, made a luminous halo around the morning sun as it rose over the islands. As forecast, it was to be a bitterly cold, perfect day.

Ryan worked quickly and efficiently, helping Olen load the snowmobile trailer with all of their gear. His face radiated with exuberance, as he was eager to try a new outdoor sport with someone who knew the lake well. A group of ice-fishing enthusiasts had gathered on the shoreline, but no one seemed to have recognized Ryan, dressed in Olen's coveralls, thermal fishing gear, wool hat, and face mask. Or else they just didn't care. While Ryan knew he would stay warm, the stench of stale sweat and pungent fish oil that clung to the clothes would take some getting used to.

Climbing aboard their heavily loaded snowmobiles, pickups, and cars, some towing portable icehouses, the ragtag group of men and women took off in a roar of diesel engines. Ryan sat behind Olen as their sled joined the others in darting across the ice like a gypsy caravan.

They turned onto the ice road, a plowed path that ran across the bay from Bayfield to Madeline Island and was lined with small evergreen trees. Ryan noticed the signs that warned “At Your Own Risk,” written in vibrant red paint and placed strategically at the road's entrance, but it was too late to turn back. Olen's sled raced along with the others.

At various points along the ice road, snowmobiles veered off to find their fishing holes. “Not much longer now,” Olen shouted back to Ryan. And then he, too, turned off the road and headed left toward Basswood Island. The crisp outer layer of the frozen surface crackled under the sled's skis.

A thin haze of lake fog shrouded the surface, enhancing the thrill and enticing the men to venture out farther. Racing ahead, wisps of fog swirled upward and curled around them before falling back to place like a bedsheet that had been shaken out and then laid smoothly over a mattress.

As the sun continued to rise, the suspended ice crystals in the air lifted and added moisture to the clouds forming overhead. It was a beautiful setting that offered no indication that storm clouds were gathering strength and velocity only a few miles away. But Ryan wouldn't know that until it was too late.

Olen brought his snowmobile to a stop near the southern point of Basswood. As they walked on the ice, Ryan heard it moan and crack somewhere deep down, reminding him of the sound a large ship makes as it lists and heels in ocean swells. This particular spot was windblown and void of snow. Although it was immensely thick, the ice was also extraordinarily clear, a phenomenon unique to Lake Superior. Looking through the ice reminded Ryan of an aquarium exhibition in Chicago where a single pane of glass stood between him and a massive polar bear swimming on the other side. The sun was high enough at this time that the light shining down through the ice was able to illuminate what lay below. As a result, Ryan had the sensation of walking on water as he moved across the ice. Underfoot he observed a floating leaf, bubbles, ripples, and even a slow-moving fish that taunted them before they drilled their first fishing hole. He shuddered to think that nothing but this twenty-inch shell of ice separated him from one hundred and fifty-foot depths of arctic temperatures and certain death.

“Not too shabby,” Olen said several hours later, grinning as he surveyed their catch. “Some lake trout and a couple of herring. Not to mention the throwbacks. You earned your supper, Rookie.” He gave Ryan a hefty whack on the back for good measure.

The skies had been a tranquil gray all morning, but now, without warning, their color turned sinister. In the time it took the two men to pull in the lines and pack their gear, the intensity of the wind had grown and snow began to fall heavy and wet. They had no way of knowing that just around the point, a swath of ice was breaking apart and open water was churning. The waves were building quickly and surely, creating powerful movement beneath the ice. Section by section, the underwater force was shattering the serene, glass-like surface that Ryan had admired all morning.

Olen was about to start the snowmobile engine, with Ryan sitting behind him, when he pointed to some equipment lying on the ice some fifteen feet away. If there hadn't been a slight break in the snowfall just then, they wouldn't have seen it at all. They would have hopped on the sled and taken off ahead of the storm. Instead, Olen left Ryan by the snowmobile and went back to retrieve the rest of his gear.

Ryan took that opportunity to secure the cooler onto the back of the sled when he heard a tremendous crash—like the sound of shattering glass. He whipped around just in time to see the ice heave and surge, as if the lake were taking a deep breath before breaking free of its frozen restraints. He turned back to Olen and shouted, “Run—RUN!” He was breathing rapidly and could feel the pain of frigid air filling his lungs.

The icy floor, which they had trusted to be solid and safe, broke apart before Ryan's eyes. The lake opened up and waves splashed over a rapidly expanding area of fractured ice.

Ryan started up the snowmobile's engine and took off in Olen's direction, but it was too late. Everything was happening too fast. A crack tore through the ice and separated the men. Ryan stopped the sled abruptly and, without thinking, jumped off of it and leapt over the gap in the ice. Instead of reaching Olen, Ryan slipped away from him. Another break shattered the surface and caused a shift—the two men and the snowmobile, with all of their provisions, were now floating separately on ice floes that were no bigger than eight feet across.

Cracks like shotgun fire exploded in Ryan's ears as more sections of ice crumbled under the water's pressure. The ice moved and swayed, grinded and gnashed, creating more distance between the men, who bobbed helplessly on the floes.

The cold was now working its way through the layers of Ryan's clothing, numbing his extremities, and turning the wisps of hair from beneath his wool hat stiff and white with hoary frost. He knew Olen must be feeling just as cold. “Are you okay?” he called out.

“That was the stupidest move of my life!” Olen called back. “Whatever you do, don't tell Ginny. Once we get out of this mess, she'll have my hide.”

“I can't reach you—” Ryan stopped mid-sentence when he heard a scrape and splash to his right. He turned just in time to witness the lake claim her first victim. “Shit! We just lost the snowmobile.” His heart sank.

Realizing their situation was dire and he couldn't get to Olen, Ryan searched for an escape. There was simply too much water between his ice slab and the larger surface. Swimming across the gap wasn't an option. And then, to make matters worse, the waves picked up and knocked him down. The slab was wet and slippery. It was a merciless life raft.

Then, although consumed in an adrenaline rush to survive, his inner thoughts drifted and became reflective. Ryan took an inventory of his life. He didn't think about what he had achieved—but what he had yet to do. His mind filled with images that, until this moment, had seemed loose and disconnected. Clinging to a slab of ice, his ideas came together with absolute clarity. He thought of his parents. He considered the family business and what Shelby had said about using his opportunities to make a difference in the lives of others. He embraced his dream of becoming a father someday and could imagine the faces of his unborn children. And he thought of Shelby. Beautiful. Resilient. Warmhearted.

The vision in his mind of a future beyond that day's storm gave Ryan a rush that was entirely new. It was what he had been searching for all along. It's what had brought him to Bayfield. It was the very thing he'd explored through photography. It was why he'd fallen in love with Shelby. He now had a purpose. Ryan realized he wanted to put someone else's life above his—and now, he knew with absolute clarity, whose life it should be. Shelby's. The hope of sharing a life with her gave Ryan the strength to cling to the ice.

“Ryan? I'm having trouble seeing you!” came Olen's voice through the blanket of snow.

“I'm still here! Everything's going to be okay—I can still see you.” His stomach twisted in fear for Olen, whom Shelby loved as a father. Although he was a distance away and visibility was poor, Ryan could make out enough to see that Olen was lying facedown across his slab of ice. He appeared to have a strong hold, but looked terrified. The men continued to call out to each other for what seemed like an eternity, trying to remain calm. Trying to stay alive.

“It doesn't look good,” Olen shouted over the howling winds. “I don't know how much longer I can hang on!”

“We can do this!” Ryan shouted back. Looking out at the vast mass of churning ice, he refused to acknowledge how difficult it would be for anyone to reach them. “Someone will come for us!”

“Damn it!” Olen cursed in distress. “The ice is splitting again!”

“Can you move to your left? Is it stable?” Ryan tried to push up on his arms to get a better look at Olen.

“I'm fighting here, Ryan. I'll be damned if I'm going to let this lake take me after all these years,” Olen yelled back. “Oh God!”

Worried that Olen was starting to give up, Ryan shouted out words of encouragement.

“Watch over my family.” Olen's voice was still loud, but less angry and afraid. “They'll need you.” He called out hurried instructions for Ryan about insurance, accounts, money put aside for emergencies. Olen wasn't afraid for himself. He was concerned for his family.