Rock Harbor Search and Rescue (20 page)

“I’m on my way.”

Emily shoved her cell back into her pocket and stared down at Rachel. She didn’t know how to comfort her. After all, she’d
overheard Mr. Zinn and had been really grateful he wasn’t her dad. Maybe a change of subject would help. “Rachel, I know this probably isn’t the best time, but I’m just wondering . . .”

Rachel lifted her head and shone her flashlight at Emily’s feet. “Yeah?”

“Wh-why do you hate me so much?” She licked her dry lips. Olivia would be proud—being direct without sarcasm.

“I don’t
hate
you.”

“I know you think I planned to steal Mrs. Dancer’s necklace, but you’re wrong. You and Gretchen misheard me with the water running and the echoes in the bathroom. I said I planned to
sell
my copy of the necklace, not
swap
it. Gretchen’s already helped me figure that out.”

Rachel tilted her chin up. “I know what I heard.”

“I wouldn’t steal, Rachel. Really. I think you know me better than that. And we used to be friends.”

Rachel looked away. “Maybe. I mean . . . I guess you maybe could’ve said
sell
.”

Emily swallowed, grateful the darkness hid her blush. “You’ve been really mean to me for a while now. You look at me like I’m a nasty bug you need to squish or something.” She shook her head. “We were good friends before middle school. I don’t know what I did to make you hate me. Whatever it was, I don’t even know I did it.”

Rachel laughed. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

Why was she laughing? Emily bit her tongue. She’d tried to be sincere.

“Ever since you beat me in the fifth-grade spelling bee, my dad has compared me to you. Every single awards ceremony, you’d get at least one more award than I did. Every time I turned
around, I got to hear how smart you were. Why couldn’t I apply myself as much as Donovan O’Reilly’s little girl?” Rachel’s voice turned as cold as normal. “I get sick of hearing how perfect you are, day in and day out.”

“Come on. Rachel, you can’t be serious. You’re president of our class. You’re a JV cheerleader. You’re Miss Popular.” She waved a hand at her, then winced with the burning. “And look at you—you’re beautiful. Everyone thinks so.” Blond hair, blue eyes, and petite as opposed to uncontrollable dark curls, curves that made Emily blush, and an awkward height that often put her taller than some of the boys her age.

Rachel snorted. “Oh please—I would kill to look like you. You have that gorgeous curly hair, you’re tall, and you actually have curves. All of the guys think you’re pretty. And none of my activities are good enough for my father.” She stretched her legs out in front of her, shoving leaves across the ground, and mimicked her father’s grave tone. “Colleges don’t care who the cheerleaders or popular kids were, Rachel, but they all take notice of which students got the most scholarships. Who won the most academic awards. Who starred in the History Smackdown win.” She stood. “Dad doesn’t give me any credit. It’s never good enough. Not when he has
you
to compare me to. Just when I think I’ve done something to make him proud, you have to go out and one-up me. I think he wishes he had you for a daughter instead of me.”

Like that was her fault? Emily swallowed the bitter reply sitting on the tip of her tongue. She remembered how she’d felt when her dad had believed Rachel over her—it hurt. It must hurt even worse to feel that your dad would rather have a different daughter—even if it wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry. I never intend to one-up anyone. Really.” And she was. None of this was her fault, but she could understand how Rachel felt. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault either. “And I saw your dad before we came to look for you. He was a mess. He loves you, Rachel, and I know he’s proud of you. I want my dad to be proud of me too, you know—that’s part of why I study really hard. But I do it for me too.”

Rachel stared at her for a long moment.

Emily sighed. “Dads are supposed to push us, I guess. Your dad was really worried, Rachel. I know he loves you, just like my dad loves me. I was just trying to work hard for my dad the way you do for yours. I’ve never tried to make you look bad or show you up on purpose. And I’ve never understood why we stopped being friends. It really hurt my feelings.”

Rachel chewed her lip, then slowly nodded. “I guess you’re right. I’m sorry for being so mean. I’ve just been so angry, but it was wrong to take it out on you.” She shone her flashlight on Emily. “Oh my goodness. Your arm.” She rushed to Emily’s side, shining the light on the scratch.

It hadn’t stopped bleeding entirely but had slowed considerably. It sure hurt like everything, though.

“That looks pretty deep. You might even need stitches.” Rachel looked around. “Do you have anything to put on this?”

“Yeah.” She flashed the light around and spied the ready-kit backpack on the ground about three feet away. She nodded toward it. “That pack. Open up the center part. There should be a first aid kit in there. Do guys really think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah, they do,” Rachel said. “I think Brandon really likes you.”

Emily blushed.

Charley barked. Close.

Rachel jumped.

“It’s just my stepmom and her SAR dog.”

Rachel gave a nervous smile. “Thought it might be the Windigo, you know?” She chuckled. “Did you believe that story as a kid?”

Emily nodded. “Every last word. I was terrified.” And for a little while tonight, she’d thought maybe the Windigo had come for her at last. She shivered.

“It’s crazy, the legends from this county.”

Charley bounded up to Emily, jumping up on her and nearly knocking her off the stump. “Whoa, boy.”

Naomi rushed to Emily and gave her a hug. “Oh my. We’d better treat this before we head out.” She took the first aid kit from Rachel. “I called the sheriff. He’s let your father know we found you and that you’re all right. He’s very relieved.” She pulled presoaked Betadine towelettes from packages and squeezed them over Emily’s scratch.

Coldness seeped into her, followed immediately by stinging. “Ouch. Where’s Brandon?”

“Sorry.” Naomi reached for the antibacterial cream and oozed some over the wound, then covered it with a large bandage. “He went to lead the sheriff here. There. That’ll have to do until we get out of here.” She shoved the supplies back into the first aid kit, then jammed it all back into the pack and slung it on her back. “Are you girls ready?”

Rachel nodded. Emily stood slowly. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to walk?”

“I’m fine. My shoulder is killing me and my ankle’s a little sore, but I can walk on it.”

Naomi studied her for a minute, then nodded and started out. “Rachel, why don’t you tell me how you ended up out here in the first place?”

Emily smiled as she listened to Rachel explain she’d just come out to be alone and got turned around.

Thank you, God, for watching out for both of us. And for giving
Rachel and me a chance to talk
.

FIFTEEN

“Oh dear, don’t try to reach.” From her seat across the table, Grandma Heinonen pushed the basket of rolls from the center of the table toward Emily. “We don’t want you hurting yourself further.”

Emily smiled, biting back a retort. She hadn’t hurt herself on purpose, after all, but this was truly Grandma Heinonen’s domain—the Blue Bonnet Bed and Breakfast—and she didn’t want to be rude. The house itself was breathtaking: six thousand square feet, and every inch of it polished and shining. The kitchen was quirky, with chickens on the wallpaper border and china ones sitting on every shelf. Emily loved it all, but she most loved the story of the house.

Built by Captain Sarasin, the famous captain from Rock Harbor, so his wife could watch for his return, it was the last house on Houghton Street before it curved into Negaunee, the road out to the lighthouse Bree lived in. Emily could just picture the captain’s wife out there, walking along the narrow widow’s walk, staring out at Lake Superior, hoping to catch a glimpse
of her husband’s ship returning him to her. Sometimes those storms were big and scary. She wouldn’t want to be out there during a nor’easter.

“Don’t give any thought to what my mother said,” Uncle Greg whispered from his seat beside Emily as he reached for the basket. He must have seen the stunned looked on her face.

Uncle Greg put a big pat of butter on a roll and set it on her bread plate, then continued whispering. “Did you know someone told Mom she looked like England’s reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth, and ever since, she’s played up the resemblance as much as she can?”

Emily giggled behind her hand as she studied Grandma. Strands of silver highlighted her hair, mainly around her face. Dressed in a plaid-patterned dress with a soft skirt that swirled around just below her knees, she looked every inch the lady. Now that Uncle Greg mentioned it, yeah, Emily could see the resemblance to the pictures she’d seen of Queen Elizabeth.

Uncle Greg grinned. “Just ignore her. She doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s just the way she is.” He nodded at her arm. “Does it hurt much?”

“A little.” She glanced down at the crisscross rows. “The doctor said it’d probably leave a scar.” Great—a constant reminder of her klutziness.

“I happen to think scars are very attractive on pretty young ladies.” He smiled. “Proves you’ve had adventures.”

“Really?” Then why was he dating a perfect model?

“Yep. Adds character.”

“What adds character, Gregory?” Grandma finally turned from Dad and Naomi’s conversation about Mayor Kaleva’s reelection campaign.

“Life’s little imperfections, Mother. Battle scars of survival.”

Uncle Greg leaned closer to Emily. “I
am
a wild one like she said. But guess what, so is your dad.”

Dad? Wild? Emily couldn’t stop the snort.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

Emily shook her head and took a sip of water. She couldn’t picture Dad wild and crazy, and she had an overactive imagination, or so she’d been told.

“Back in high school, your dad was quite the charmer. Handsome. Star of the football team. Popular with the cheerleaders.”

She swallowed. Her mother had been one of those cheerleaders.

“There were many nights we celebrated team victories well past curfews.”

Dad . . . breaking curfew? Breaking any rule? She couldn’t even picture him outside home or the hardware store. Out celebrating? Definitely not.

Uncle Greg nodded. “Several times.” He shoved a bite into his mouth.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Nope. Truth.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“Emily, what’s Greg lying about to you?” Dad stared down at them. “He was never a scout, just so you know.”

Uncle Greg laughed. “You should know. You’re the one who got me kicked out.”

“I did no such thing.” Dad smiled, a genuine smile like Emily hadn’t seen in a long time.

Olivia’s words came back to haunt her. Were Dad and Naomi having trouble like the Websters had?

“You did too, but I thank you for it. Profusely.” He leaned next to Emily and spoke in a stage whisper, “I was never the scouting type. I’m not too good at improvising in a crisis situation.”

“I don’t know about that. You were always there to fix my problems.” Naomi smiled at her brother.

“And I always will be.” Uncle Greg smiled back. “That’s what families are for. To stick together.”

Emily noticed Dad’s smile fall a bit. Was Uncle Greg trying to say he was here for Naomi because a divorce loomed on the horizon? Emily’s throat tightened. She took another sip of water. This wasn’t what she needed right now. She caught Timmy’s confused look across the table. He didn’t need this either. Naomi was the best thing that had ever happened to them. To think that she wouldn’t be their stepmom anymore . . .

What was the scripture Pastor Lukkari talked about in this morning’s sermon? Corinthians. Something about . . .
love never
fails
. Yeah, that was it. Love never fails.

If love never failed, then why was there divorce? She didn’t understand.

“Who wants a piece of pie?” Grandma stood, smoothing down her dress. She made the best pies this side of the peninsula—and she knew it. The whole town said they were the best.

“I’ll help you.” Naomi stood as well and gathered plates.