Family Trees (4 page)

“You go ahead. Hank and I will clean up and then head down to the dock,” Luke replied while scrubbing a frying pan in the suds, leaning sideways to kiss his wife without getting her wet.

“And watch the game this afternoon,” Hank added, still comfortably seated at the table and nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee.

“What a surprise.” Nic reached over to brush a few crumbs off his beard. “Come on, you lug. Get up and make yourself useful. You can't expect Luke to do all of the work.”

“Nap later?” He winked and gave her bottom a pat. “You and me?”

“In your dreams, lover boy.” Nic pulled on his arm to coax him out of the chair. He surprised her by jumping up suddenly, taking her in his arms, and burrowing his face in her neck, delighting in her giddy shriek.

 

At the Madeline Island State Park, Abby, Nic, and Shelby parked the pair of mopeds near the trailhead entrance. Although it was nearly noon, there were surprisingly few cars at the park, which ensured the women would enjoy a quiet hike. They set out on a trek that snaked through a serene forest of aging red and white pine, aspen, and maple. The trail itself was well maintained and easy to navigate, aside from a scattering of rocks along the path and fallen trees that lay crumbling and covered in patches of green lichen. Splintered sunbeams shone through the tangled branches overhead, casting pinpoints of light onto the most diminutive plants that carpeted the forest floor—tufts of silver moss, the delicate fringe of blue-petaled wildflowers, and the tangerine pop of shy mushrooms.

Continuing farther down the trail, the forest scents blended with the cool lake breeze and became even more aromatic. Shelby could hear the rhythmic crash of waves sloshing against massive rocks that walled the shore. Sounding like a resting giant who breathed a powerful inhale and exhale of water, Lake Superior waited for them just beyond the forest's edge.

The women reached the point in the trail where the trees parted to reveal the lake's vast expanse of water. To their right, the trail meandered back into the trees. And to their left, it continued along the jagged shoreline, gradually descending to a mile-long strip of beach and calmer waters. Directly ahead of them, a split-rail fence discouraged visitors from climbing onto a broad ledge of tiered rock flats and narrow, deep crevices. The ledge ended with a steep drop to the water.

“Keep walking?” Abby gestured her hand toward the beach.

“Can I just meet you guys back here? I'd like to sit out on the rocks for a bit,” Shelby replied.

Abby glanced at Nic and then back at Shelby. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“Of course,” Shelby assured her friends. “You guys go ahead. I'll be here when you get back.”

Nic stood with her hands firmly on her hips, her head tilted slightly to the side as if she were trying to see through Shelby. “All right. But don't get too close. . . .”

“To the edge, I know.” She smiled. “No worries.”

As Abby and Nic proceeded down the trail, Shelby climbed over the fence and made her way onto the rocks. Wide clefts in the sandstone formed an uneven stairway to the edge. With careful footing, she walked out onto the rock ledge, stopping just short of the cliff's edge. She found a spot bathed in sunlight and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. It didn't take long before Shelby reached behind her and slid a folded envelope out of her back pocket. She carefully smoothed out the crease that divided the envelope in half and pressed it flat against her thigh.

In a world that communicated in real time with e-mails, instant messages, and texting, Shelby preferred the intimacy of a hand-written note. A phone call. And best yet, a face-to-face encounter. Nic chided her for being decidedly outdated and hard to reach, but Shelby wasn't ready to give in to cell phones and portable computers, when landline phones and the daily paper were still working just fine for her.

Unlike pixels that formed letters on a brightly lit computer screen, she had always appreciated hand-written script because it captured a piece of the writer's personality. Even as a child, she was comforted by the image of her mother taking a moment out of her day to sit down and write to her daughter. The slant of the
S
or the curl on the
Q
was distinctly her mother's. The words at the beginning and end of each letter meant so much more than the words in between. “Dear” and “love.” Of course she always wanted more. But it was all her mother was able—or willing—to give.

Looking at the envelope in her hand, Shelby noticed the return address still listed the same street in Alhambra, California. Thinking back on the past several letters she'd received, Shelby figured her mother must have been living in the same place for nearly two years. What an accomplishment.

She pried the envelope open with her finger, being careful to tear it evenly across the top, before reaching in and pulling out a folded sheet of college-lined paper with fringed edges that had been ripped from a spiral notebook. She took in a slow, deliberate breath upon seeing “Dear Shelby” written in her mother's hand.

“They're only words,” she exhaled into the wind that blew up over the edge of the rocks.
She's thousands of miles away. She doesn't know me well enough to hurt me. They're only words
.

Shelby looked up from the letter and stared blankly ahead. Her eyes welled with tears.
Damn her. Damn her letters
. She wadded the paper in her hands until she had squeezed her mother's insensitivity out of it. She had the urge to hurl it toward the water and watch it drop over the cliff. Closing her eyes tightly, she visualized it hitting a rock before being pulled under by a frigid, merciless wave. Her mother's letter would gloriously disappear as the paper dissolved into pulp.

She could feel the emotions buried deep within her rising to the surface. The familiar heartache of loving someone who didn't love in return. The agony of abandonment. Shelby pulled her legs closer to her chest and curled inward, pressing her eyes hard against her knees, trying in vain to stop the tears.

 

Laughter broke into her thoughts. A man's voice called, but Shelby was unable to make out his words. A different voice seemed to respond. She lifted her head from her knees, squinting into the sun toward the muffled conversation that skipped across the water. Moving closer, the boisterous sound bounced down the shore. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand and then raised her arm to shield her eyes from the glare off of the lake.

Eventually, she made out a red kayak nosing its way around the jagged point, followed by two others. The agile kayakers cut through the chop and were now making their way directly toward her perch on the rocks.

Turning her gaze from the men, she closed her eyes and let the sun's warmth bathe over her. She let the men's voices drown out her mother's words. With a healing sigh, Shelby willed the image of her mother away. It was replaced by a sweeter memory of walking through a fruit-laden orchard with her grandparents as a young girl. Walking between them, her tiny hands held tenderly in theirs, arms swinging, she knew at a young age that they were her safe haven.

Shelby was a child born out of a foolish night spent between her mother and a young man who spent a few carefree August days in Bayfield. There were last calls and first names. Skinny-dipping and breaking curfew. On a break from her school in California that summer, Jackie felt invincible. She would finish her degree and leave her small hometown for good.

Jackie's plans were thwarted a few months later. Pregnant and considering her options, Jackie chose independence over motherhood. Ginny and Olen chose their granddaughter, Shelby. Without hesitation and with full hearts, they adopted her into their home.

Shelby pushed away the thoughts of her mother and opened her eyes to find the men now paddling past her place on the rocks. She smiled, knowing they were likely unaware that she had overheard most of their conversation as they traveled down the shoreline. She could see “West Bay Outfitter” markings on the side of their kayaks. John's customers. It was a fit group of men, particularly the last one in the nautical caravan. Taking a closer look at his profile, she noticed something familiar about him.
It could be the guy from . . .
she thought, just as he turned to look at her, tilting his head to the side as if recognizing her, as well. He raised his paddle slightly to gesture hello. Without thinking, she raised her hand slightly to return his greeting. Holding the man's gaze wasn't uncomfortable or unwelcome. It was as if she knew him somehow.

And then, just as she felt a directional shift in the breeze, the moment was over.

He dipped his paddle back into the water and moved quickly through the glistening waters to catch up to his companions.

C
HAPTER
4

H
ours earlier, Ryan and his friends had packed up their campsite at a secluded spot on the island and then paddled their way through the South Channel. They navigated around a particularly jagged point that resembled the profile of a bear peeking its head out of the forest. Noticing a pair of hikers threading in and out of the trees that jutted out precariously close to the edge of the cliff, they knew they had reached the State Park. The men were careful not to float too close to the waves that crashed and then receded away from the cracks and cavernous holes in the sandstone.

Pete kept a steady, swift pace as he led the way. Brad followed next with Ryan lagging slightly behind, stopping on occasion to take photographs. “Take your time,” Brad shouted back to Ryan. Once he and Pete were in calmer water, they set down their paddles and waited for Ryan to catch up.

Ryan watched as the waves rolled into a low overhang in the cliff and sprayed out like a geyser through a crevice above. Just as he was about to reach back into the bulkhead to retrieve his camera, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. Looking farther down shore, his eyes settled on a young woman seated atop one of the rock formations. Her arm was raised and she appeared to be watching Brad and Pete. Intrigued, he dipped his paddle back into the water and moved closer. She turned her head away from his friends and looked out toward the horizon, her silhouette highlighted by the sun. Although he wasn't close enough to see the details of her face, he imagined her eyes were closed and she was enjoying the gentle wind coming off the lake.

Inspired by the serenity of the scene, Ryan secured his paddle atop his kayak and removed his camera from the waterproof pouch in the bulkhead behind him. He lifted his Nikon to his face, adjusted the zoom to a wide shot, gently turned the polarized lens just enough to brighten the colors of the lake and soften the light that was reflecting upward to the woman on the rocks.

He then manipulated the zoom to take a second photograph, this time a tighter shot that pulled the woman into sharper focus and turned the background outside the depth of field into a soft blur of green and blue light. As she came into view, intimately close in the eye of his lens, he saw a loose tangle of brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail. Full lips. Her eyes closed and her head tilted up toward the sun. With keen creative instinct, he knew it was a stunning shot. And then it hit him.

He slowly lowered his camera, held it against his chest, and sat motionless. The waves gently rocked him. He listened to the glugging sound of water as it lapped against the hollow shell of his kayak. He was certain she was the woman he saw the day before. A chance meeting twice in two days? He felt compelled to paddle closer to her. To say something.

“Ryan, we're losing you again!” Brad shouted over his shoulder, some distance away now.

Ryan replaced the lens cap and returned his camera to the bulkhead, then took a firm hold of his paddle, dipped it in the water, and pulled hard. With steady strokes, he eventually rejoined his friends out in deeper water.

It didn't take long before Ryan was close enough to see her clearly without the aid of a lens. She opened her eyes and watched as the men paddled across her view. The woman raised her hand to block the sun and smiled, seemingly amused.

He wanted to call out to her. To make a connection somehow. What was it about her? First, walking past him at the entrance of West Bay Outfitters with no recognition whatsoever. Then holding a child with more love than his mother had ever shown to him. And now, alone on the rocks, looking as though she belonged there.

She turned her focus on him and he locked eyes with her. Without thinking, Ryan lifted his paddle to gesture “hello.” The woman. The lake. The photographs. The combination was inspiring. An idea was coming together and he embraced the possibilities. Instead of joining his father at Chambers Media, to finally assume the role in his family's business that was always expected of him, was it time to pursue something he loved to do instead? Was he prepared to leave Chicago, even temporarily? Make a change. Take a risk. It was something he had only dreamed of doing, never knowing when or where or how. Until now.

Ryan was so lost in thought that he didn't notice his friends had paddled ahead again. He didn't feel the wind shift direction, or sense that the weather behind him was beginning to change. He didn't hear his friends calling out to him, eager to make their way back across the bay to Bayfield's mainland.

And he didn't notice when a crumpled letter, stained with scribbles of washed-out purple ink, floated toward his kayak like a child's paper boat and tapped against its bow.

In that moment, the only thing on his mind was a notion she had inspired. It was the spark he needed.

The idea simply . . .
clicked
.