Waterfront Weddings (37 page)

His sensitivity only made matters worse. Now tears and regret puddled with the debris from the past. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel well. If you’ll excuse me.”

She bolted from her chair and fled before either man could say anything and before Jaclyn arrived at the table. Alanna didn’t turn back, didn’t glance in the window, didn’t stop as she felt the past waiting to pounce.

A
lanna unlocked the door to the Painted Stone, her hands shaking and heart pounding. What was she thinking? The last thing she should do is spend one moment more than necessary with Jonathan Covington. When she abandoned the island, she’d left him behind, too.

What had Gerald meant when he threw out that comment about Jaclyn? It had been years. . . . Jonathan couldn’t have waited. It was only normal for someone as good-looking and kind as Jonathan to find a woman to spend his life with.

He couldn’t have waited. She knew that. Really.

But a father? She’d glanced, couldn’t stop herself. He didn’t wear a ring.

If he was a father, then she needed to stay away from him. Keep at least twenty feet between her and the first man to kiss her. The man who still made her pulse gyrate. She’d be crazy to spend one moment with him. . .especially alone at the pond. They shared too much history there. Summers roaming the woods. Stolen kisses on the dock.

“Come on.” She twisted the key to the side and pushed the door open. It ricocheted off the wall, and she left the keys hanging from the lock. She hurried to the counter and shoved her purse beneath it before slipping into the tiny bathroom to check her reflection. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. She tried to pat her hair back into submission, but her hands trembled.

That settled it. She was a fool.

“Anyone here?” A woman’s voice lured her back to the shop.

Alanna pasted on a smile and slipped from the bathroom. “Can I help you?”

The woman dangled keys in her hand. “You left these in the door.”

Alanna’s cheeks flushed hotter, and she stepped forward. “Thank you. I rushed in.”

“I’d say. Looked like a woman with the past on her heels.”

The woman had no idea. The past squeezed her from all sides. Alanna pulled her thoughts to the customer. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m all right.” The woman gave the keys to Alanna then turned to the artwork. “Has this studio been here long?”

“My parents opened it twenty years ago, the summer I turned nine.”

“Umm. What brought them to the island?” She cocked her head to the side as she studied one of Mother’s richly detailed landscapes.

“Mom always wanted to paint but claimed no time and no inspiration. We vacationed here one weekend, and that changed.”

“Any of these hers?”

“Only the best.” Alanna pointed to the large four-by-five painting the woman stood in front of. “This one was painted from the side of the fort. Knowing Mom, she didn’t take the road up—she would have hiked a back trail. She called it ‘getting in the mood.’ And a walk through the woods always worked. But that’s why you see the fort and then the roofs of the buildings around here leading to the lake. Most people would paint looking up at the fort, but not Mom.”

“She’s very talented.”

“Thank you.”

“You might think I’m just saying that, but”—the woman reached into her bag and pulled out a slim business card—“I teach art at U of M. Her color use reminds me of a student of mine. It’s quite distinctive.”

Alanna studied the card. Janine Ross, associate professor. In her coral capris and white shirt, she didn’t have the look of an artsy person. She wore no multicolored, dangling earrings or wildly swirled scarf. And with short blond hair missing any teal or purple highlights, Janine looked like a career woman enjoying a weekend escape.

“Not what you expected?”

Alanna chuckled. “I guess not.”

“I’ve spent a lifetime breaking expectations.” Janine moved to the next painting, giving it only a cursory glance before working her way along the room. “I like the bold use of color on the walls. They act as an additional mat.”

“That’s what Mom said, though you should have seen my father’s face when she handed out the gallons of paint.”

“Have you thought about printing note cards? Tourists would love them.”

“True.” Alanna moved to the counter to make a note. A customer didn’t need to know she hadn’t stood in the shop for eleven years. “I’m sure Mom’s considered it. . . .”

“Tell her to call me if she needs a printer. I know one who does excellent work.”

“Thank you.”

Janine stopped when she came back to the first painting. “Are you certain this is your mother’s work?”

“Yes.” Alanna approached the painting and pointed to the squiggled signature in the lower right-hand corner. “That’s her John Hancock.”

“The resemblance to my student’s work is uncanny. Huh.” She stared a moment more then made her way to the door. “What was his name? Trevor?” she muttered as she exited onto the bustling sidewalk.

Trevor? Why would the professor mention Trevor? As far as Alanna knew, her brother hadn’t taken any art classes, but really they’d drifted apart. It was possible. And with years watching Mom paint, it couldn’t be unusual that he’d picked up her love and technique.

Alanna watched her progress up the street for a minute then turned back to the painting. It was ridiculous to think that the painting could be anyone but Mom’s. Most artists approached Fort Mackinac from the front. The stairs were daunting enough from that perspective. Few people had the energy to work their way up the roads and then wind a path through the trees. It seemed too much work for an uncertain reward. Yet Alanna had helped Mom lug her easel, paints, and supplies through all kinds of narrow trails and switchbacks in the hunt for the perfect sunlight.

After Alanna entered high school and had to juggle its heavier course work, Trevor accompanied Mom on her painting hikes. He’d carried a sketchbook with him on those trips. Before she’d left for college, she’d snuck a few peeks at the pages. He had talent, but painting? Could he have taken classes from this professor after he followed Alanna to U of M?

Alanna studied the painting, this time breaking it into grids as she methodically examined it. Little things seemed off, but she hadn’t accompanied her mom in so long, maybe she didn’t know Mom’s style anymore. How would Trevor make such detailed paintings without returning to the island, something Alanna was certain he hadn’t done? Still, the woman’s words raised a niggling doubt. It was her mom’s signature, but was it her painting? It seemed an absurd thought. Why would Mom ask someone to create paintings for her to sign? Mom came alive when she held a paintbrush in her hand and studied a canvas.

The tinkle of the bell dancing against the door pulled her thoughts from the painting. A group of four women walked into the studio, their loud chatter bouncing off the floor and muting the smooth sounds of jazz. Alanna smiled at them then slid behind the counter, careful to stay out of their way as they wandered the room.

She doubted they would buy anything. And that’s what she needed. Customers who had the interests and pocketbooks to make purchases. Daddy’s medical bills wouldn’t get paid by lookers. Especially if the art they sold wasn’t by the artist claimed.

No amount of knickknacks and art by other Upper Peninsula artists could cover that kind of fraud.

Jonathan replaced the phone on the hook. Everything was lined up for Edward and Bonnie’s anniversary celebration. The owners of Haan’s 1830 would hold its rooms and suites for the family, and he had a couple of other B&Bs on notice that there could be overflow guests. The rest was up to Edward. If he got the word out in a timely fashion, this could become the wonderful event the man had envisioned.

It was after six, and Jonathan felt ready to escape to his cabin. Maybe he’d spend some time fishing at the pond. There wasn’t much to catch, but what was there always fried up nice for a quick meal.

And there was something about sitting in the middle of the woods by the pond that settled him at the end of a busy day. He could commune with God while he waited to see if anything bit on his bait. That led to peace in the midst of the chaos. With event planning, there was an abundance of that—almost too much.

He just had to fish and avoid Alanna and the complications she brought.

The thought tempted him to avoid the dock, but this long holiday weekend would fly by with a wedding and reception, so he’d better grab moments while he could. Jonathan locked up and hustled down the steps as he slipped his messenger bag over his neck then slid the bag to his back. At the side of the building, he unchained his mountain bike and straddled it. As soon as a gap appeared in the tourists on foot and bike, he pushed into the flow of traffic.

Where most tourists continued along Lake View Boulevard, he veered up Cadotte Avenue and then biked steadily up the hill. His legs pumped in a steady rhythm as he worked the bike around a few others. This was what made the island such an ideal place. You worked hard all day then released the day’s cares and stress on the bike ride home. He couldn’t think of too many other places that allowed the same release.

The yards evolved into thick woods, and still he biked. His cabin hid on a road that most visitors never discovered. So while the island’s population swelled from a few hundred to several thousand during the summers, he still lived on an isolated patch of God’s creation.

After fifteen minutes of steady pushing, he reached the turn to Scott’s Road and then the cutoff for his cabin and the Stones’ home. His house looked like it was constructed with a child’s Lincoln Logs compared to the Stones’ Victorian. His needed landscaping of some sort. Something to make it look like somebody who cared about the place lived there.

He snorted at the thought. Since when had things like flowers and grass mattered to him?

He parked his bike alongside the house and shook his head. Since a certain Stone had returned. He’d never bothered before because of the extra work it took to get anything onto Mackinac. It was difficult enough getting the groceries up from the dock or Doud’s, but plants? He’d never bothered.

That settled it. He needed to get it out of his head that Alanna Stone was anything special. She’d left without a glance back only to return without warning. He stomped into the small living area. He bumped into the lone chair at the tiny table on his way to the refrigerator and growled. He had to evict her from his thoughts before she resumed permanent residence.

The pond beckoned, but he couldn’t risk sitting on the dock. Not with his thoughts already filling with Alanna. Been down that road. Not willing to travel it again.

He fiddled with the cans in the pantry until he settled on clam chowder. That should banish any romantic notions if she deigned to wander by. Or maybe he should go by her house.

Stupid. He threw the can opener back in the drawer and dumped the soup in a bowl. While he waited for the microwave to work its magic, he stared out the window. Normally the view of the pond calmed him. Tonight all he could see was the past. Alanna and he laughing on the dock as they sat shoulder to shoulder. What had happened to that? To them?

The clop of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harnesses along with the creak of wood reached him through the open window. A taxi bringing Alanna home?

The microwave dinged, and he pulled the steaming bowl out, his attention focused on the road.

“Hot dog.” He whistled and placed the bowl on the table before hurrying to stick his burning fingers under the faucet’s cold water. Fifteen minutes later, he placed the empty bowl into the sink when someone knocked at the door. Jonathan stared out the window a moment then brushed a hand over his hair.

Sooner or later, they’d have to say hi. It’d be awkward if they didn’t.

“Get it over with,” he muttered as he squared his shoulders. “She’s only someone you used to know.”

Really well.

Which she destroyed when she threw him away along with the island she’d learned to hate.

A
lanna hadn’t felt this nervous since taking the bar exam. She tugged the hem of her shirt while she waited at Jonathan’s door. As the silence stretched, her ire grew. If he didn’t want to talk to her, fine. She wouldn’t beg.

She turned from the door at the memory of Grady Cadieux’s body being pulled from the frigid water. He’d looked so blue. So dead. The paramedics had labored over him, and she’d prayed he’d make it—especially when she saw Trevor’s face as he struggled from the water. Brendan Tomkin’s saunter looked forced, but no one else seemed to notice as everyone focused on a too-still Grady. The paramedics loaded him in the ambulance and zipped him to the clinic before boarding the ferry that transported him closer to a hospital, yet all their efforts failed, and he still died.

A stupid stunt by kids who liked to prove who was better than the other. And Trevor got pulled into their ridiculous cockfights. Then one kid died and another’s life was ruined by accusations, spoken and unspoken. Somehow Brendan slipped into the background and avoided attention. She’d never understood how he managed that. Guess it helped when your dad was the principal.