Waterfront Weddings (38 page)

To top off the memories, she’d left her keys at the Painted Stone. She fought the desire to disappear into the night and avoid Jonathan, but he had a spare key. She had no choice but to see him. . .after her embarrassing departure at lunch.

What a perfect example of the disaster her decision to return was.

Mom and Dad could have found someone else to run the studio. Then she’d be back in Grand Rapids in her wellordered and controlled life rather than standing on Jonathan’s porch.

The door opened, and she spun from the fence dividing the properties. Jonathan leaned against the door frame. Any concern that had been in his eyes at lunchtime was replaced with a studied distance.

“Alanna.” He moved from the doorway and took a step toward her. “You’re really back.”

She nodded, the motion jerky. “For the moment.”

“Your mom talk you into this?” There was something hard, almost cruel, in his voice.

“Mom said to see you if I needed help. Sorry to bother you. I’ll break a window.”

His shoulders slumped. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s surreal seeing you. After all this time.”

The words felt like an indictment. She didn’t need that. Not on top of the memories that flooded her on every corner of this island. “Good night, Jonathan.”

“Wait. Do you need the spare key?”

She nodded, wishing she could deny it. At this rate, he’d think she’d fallen apart. “I left mine downtown.”

He ran a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. “I’ve got a key in here.” He disappeared into the house, but she didn’t follow. A minute later, she heard what sounded like a junk drawer being dumped on a table. “Found it.” Footsteps hurried toward her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She stared at him, the weight of the past pressing against her.

His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

“Well, good night.”

“Night, Lanna.” Before she turned away, he’d opened the phone and said hello to Jaclyn. Her stomach lurched at the idea his girlfriend had interrupted their conversation.

She climbed the fence and like a fool hoped he’d follow anyway. Cut the conversation short and come after her. Instead, muffled conversation followed her as she hurried home. She should be grateful for the thick stand of trees that stood between them. That hid him. Then she might be able to forget the divide. One she’d allowed with her loathing of this place. Trevor didn’t deserve the lies and tarring he received after Grady’s death. The blame could have been placed on anyone. But the island’s residents had thrust it squarely on his thin shoulders.

The muffled conversation ended, and she sighed. Why, now that it was impossible to have Jonathan, did she wonder what they could have had together?

When she entered her parents’ home a minute later, she stood in the entryway taking in the living room. She’d return the key later. For now she wanted to relax. It didn’t look as if her mom had redecorated any space but Alanna’s room. If anything, she had added layers of paintings to the living room. Every square inch of wall was covered with landscapes in brilliant colors.

The paintings looked. . .right. The way she remembered. Her mother had a distinctive flair for putting colors together in a rich, eye-catching manner. The style was that of an Impressionist master, but the colors danced with life and vibrancy. She approached the paintings over the fireplace. They were stacked three deep on the mantel. And the closer she came, the more she knew they were her mother’s work.

With that realization came an inkling. Maybe the art professor wasn’t crazy to think someone else painted those at the studio. At least a few of them. She pulled a painting down and laid it on the couch. She repeated the process until artwork covered the couch and floor. Dusk filled the room, and Alanna flipped on one of the Tiffany floor lamps. The light splayed through the stained-glass shade, casting rosecolored shadows on the walls. No matter how she studied the paintings, she couldn’t find the nebulous something she looked for.

There had to be some clue that indicated her mother and no one else painted them, but Alanna couldn’t identify it. Then as she scanned them again, Alanna noticed the red geraniums painted into the art. A potted plant sat next to most of the front doors. Hadn’t that been the flower Mom had used at her wedding reception to bring joy to each table?

Her cell rang, a Matthew West song about not wanting to waste life. She fished the phone from her pocket and opened it. “Hello.”

“Hey, girl.” Samantha Rice’s bubbly voice brought a smile to Alanna’s face. “Whatcha doing?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“That good?”

“Better.” Alanna didn’t want to stir up all over again the crush of emotions she’d experienced in coming home.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Let’s just say I’m settling in.”

“Not too well, I hope. This apartment is empty and dull without you.” Sam’s pout made Alanna laugh, something she hadn’t done in too long.

“It’s not like I’ve been around that much.”

“Sure, the trial kept you busy, but you at least slept here most of the time.” Sam made an oooing sound, like a ghost. “It’s creepy here alone. You’ve never heard so many creaks and groans in one place.”

“You could come here.” Alanna clapped a hand over her mouth. Returning home must bother her more than she realized.

Sam snorted. “That would require me to have some idea of where you are. Tell me, and I’ll get the time off.”

She opened her mouth but couldn’t do it. She needed the separation between her worlds. “Never mind.”

“That’s what I figured. Well, glad to know you arrived wherever it is you went. Let me know if you need anything other than forwarding your mail to your mom and feeding your cat.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for. Even if you’re being overly secretive. I’m ready to believe you’re a secret agent or something equally crazy!”

As Alanna hung up, she wondered why she couldn’t just tell Sam the truth. Most people associated Mackinac Island with a relaxing getaway. Sam would probably think it was the perfect place to recover. Could it feel like a retreat? Maybe it should. The events that caused Alanna to run happened eleven years ago. Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

The next morning, Alanna awoke to light streaming through the eyelet curtains. Her room had transformed from Pepto-Bismol pink to white and pristine. She stretched then burrowed back under the covers. How long would it take her to get down to the Painted Stone? Taking the taxi yesterday was an expense she couldn’t afford every day.

A cool breeze fluttered the curtains. Maybe her old bike still rested in the storage shed. If so, she’d ride it down. Otherwise she’d need to find one. The island was too big to walk everywhere.

Alanna got ready then grabbed the storage shed key from the junk drawer and walked out the back door to the storage building. It sat a few yards to the side of the house, surrounded by lilac trees. The paint peeled on the creamcolored building. She worked the key into the padlock then slid the door to the side. The early morning light penetrated the shadows in the small building. Cobwebs hung in strands from the rafters, making Alanna wonder when her parents had last used the building. Without a horse, she couldn’t imagine either of them walking into town every day. The walking in wouldn’t be a problem since it was primarily downhill, but returning was a doozy.

Back in a corner, she found her old bike with the large basket on the front. She pulled it out and tested the tires. She’d need to find a pump, because those flat inner tubes weren’t taking her anywhere. After digging, she found a bicycle pump buried in a corner and got the tires filled. She hopped on and took it for a spin around the yard. The wide tires bounced across the lawn. She’d make it to the studio, no problem. She ran back inside, grabbed her purse, and headed down the road.

As she pedaled to town, the bite in the morning air made her wish she’d grabbed an extra jacket and gloves. By noon the sun would burn off the clouds and warm the air, but late May mornings held on to the cold, with the temperature hanging in the forties. She shivered as she chained the bike behind the Painted Stone and unlocked the door. The downtown area held the calm of a waking town. The tourists remained ensconced in their warm rooms, leaving quiet in their absence.

Alanna took advantage of the stillness to dust the paintings. The work of four or five artists dotted the walls. Everything from modern slashes of paint to her mother’s Impressionist leanings.

Alanna considered rearranging the paintings to bring some order to the mismatched styles, but first she’d check the storage room. See if any paintings waited to replace any she sold. Somehow she had to get buying customers in the store while finding an employee.

The bell dinged over the door, and she exited the storage room with a smile. Her steps faltered when she saw who entered. “Mr. Hoffmeister?”

A short, balding man pivoted on his heel. His shoulders were slightly stooped from a lifetime of pushing fudge along marble tabletops. Gray curls ringed his head like a crown. The rich smell of chocolate flavored with mint clung to him. He appraised her with intelligent, chocolate-colored eyes, a cautious smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “Alanna Stone. I’d heard rumors you were back.”

“The grapevine in action.”

“This is a small place.”

Alanna bit back a sharp retort. “Yes, sir.”

“You here to help your parents?”

“For a bit.”

He nodded. “Is that it?”

Alanna straightened the pens lined up on the counter, avoiding the old man’s searching gaze. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave as soon as I can find someone else to work here.”

“No one wants to run you off. I’ve missed seeing you around.”

“Unlike. . .”

“No one ran you off then, Ms. Stone. You did that on your own.”

It hadn’t felt that way. “Everyone assumed we did it.”

“No one ordered Grady to jump into the water.”

“How do you know?”

“You young fools were down the hill from my house. Besides, Ginger filled me in.”

Alanna’s mind spun with the possibilities. As an eighteenyear-old, she’d never stopped to think who might have seen the party. They’d all assumed they were too sneaky to have adults notice. “You could see?”

“Of course. And with Ginger there, I kept an eye on things. How do you think the paramedics got there so fast? It would take a deaf and blind fool not to notice the bonfire.”

The bell jangled as the door opened again. A couple walked in wearing the resort casual clothes indicative of guests at the Grand Hotel.

The woman, looking like a flamingo in her head-totoe pink ensemble, approached the wall of Stone originals. “Honey, look at these colors. Can’t you see this one over the fireplace?”

“Sure, darling.” The man nodded with the bored air of someone who didn’t know an original from a paint-bynumber kit and would rather hit the links on the hotel’s golf course.

If he was that indifferent, Alanna could taste the sale. She glanced at Mr. Hoffmeister and then at the couple.

He waved her off. “Stop by some night. I’ll get you some of your favorite fudge, and we can catch up. Maybe Ginger can come over and you can reconnect. She needs more friends.” He raised his fingers to his head in a salute. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you.” She watched him leave then turned to the couple. Slight unease she couldn’t shake tightened her shoulder blades. Ginger had dated Grady, been certain they would have a fairy tale come to life. Then Grady died, and she changed, altering the close friendship Alanna and Ginger had shared throughout school.

Alanna shook free of the thought. Maybe tonight she’d stop by Mr. Hoffmeister’s shop. Eat fudge and hear him out.

“Ma’am, I think we’ll take this one.” The woman smiled broadly while her husband tugged at his back pocket.

Right now she’d sold a painting. A surge of hope pulsed through her.

J
onathan hurried across the street and into the breach. Well, that’s what it felt like as he rushed to reach the foundation meeting. Having a four-color, glossy presentation for each member of the foundation’s board of directors wouldn’t do him a lick of good if he arrived late. He wished his printer had fed the paper without jamming on every other page.

If Jaclyn hadn’t called as the printer jammed on the last brochure, he still might have arrived on time. But she’d cried through another crisis, and he’d listened because he couldn’t cut her off.

The squat white building with a bright red door and black shutters on each side of the windows sat next to the community building. He sidestepped a tourist and opened the door. He eased his shoulders down and hoped his face didn’t reflect evidence he’d run across the business section to arrive late.

“Good morning, Laura.”

The midforties brunette looked up from her computer monitor at her desk. “There you are. Mr. Tomkin’s about to go into his late-is-unacceptable dance.”

Jonathan sighed. “Guess it’s good I arrived.”

“You betcha. Go on back.” Her fingers clicked against the keyboard as she spoke.

He followed the pine hallway to the conference room. The door stood open to reveal a battered oak table surrounded by eight chairs. A whiteboard on the wall had a dozen bullet points with various arrows connecting the ideas.

“Jonathan Covington.” Mr. Tomkin leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest.

“I told you he’d get here.” Bette Standeford, an older woman with blond highlights trying to cover her gray, leaned back in her chair. She’d been a regular on the island longer than he could remember, making it her year-round residence a couple of years earlier. A few months ago she’d sent her niece his way to plan her wedding. It was good to have her here and on his side. “We’re eager to hear your ideas.”

Jonathan strode into the room with his chin up and messenger bag at the ready. He might sit on the foundation’s board, but the foundation had made it clear he wouldn’t get the work without providing a proposal that wowed them. “Thanks for inviting me to share some ideas with you.”