Branching Out (2 page)

Jackie jerked her arm out of Ginny's grasp. “I'm not sure I know what you mean, Mother.”

“Have you seen yourself? Your skin is blotchy, your hair is a mess, and . . .” Ginny leaned in for a better inspection. “Would you mind telling me how you managed to get lipstick on your
ear?
” She licked her thumb and reached up to clean the lipstick smudge as if she were removing smeared chocolate from a child's face. Jackie brushed away Ginny's hand and rubbed the makeup off herself.

“Where is he?” Shelby asked the obvious. She was a fool to think that today, for once in Shelby's life, Jackie would behave like a mother. Although Jackie didn't have the time or interest in raising Shelby, Ginny and Olen assumed parental roles without hesitation and with full hearts.

“The music's playing out on the lawn—isn't that our cue?” Jackie said, bypassing Ginny and Shelby as she took steps toward the open barn doors. But she wasn't fast enough. Shelby heard a something move within the horse stall. Like a rat venturing out of its hole in the wall, a strange man emerged from the stall. Shelby didn't recognize him, and judging from the look on Ginny's face, she hadn't, either. He had a ruddy complexion, a short crop of hair around a bald crown, and a spotty beard that covered the soft contour of his jawline. He was dressed in a summer suit and a spring green tie, which would have been fitting for the wedding if it weren't for the inch of shirt material that stuck out of his half-zipped trousers like a chick peeking out of its nest.

“You're incredible,” Shelby said, shaking her head at her mother, who had stopped and turned when she heard the man's footsteps. Shelby couldn't decide who had more audacity, the stranger who walked straight up to them with a smile and an outstretched hand or Jackie for bringing him in the first place.

Before anyone said a word, Nic raced in through the open doors and didn't stop until she reached the group.

“So,” Nic said, catching her breath. “I see you found your mom.”

“Hello, Mrs. Meyers, good to see you again,” the man said to Ginny, who refused to shake his extended hand and instead stared at him with skepticism.

“Again?” Ginny asked.

“Again?!” Nic echoed.

Shelby gave her friend a subtle nudge and Nic dropped her hands from Shelby's and Ginny's shoulders.

“Mother, you remember Chad . . .” Jackie said.

“Covington,” he said, finishing her introduction. “Chad Covington. We met years ago. I went to Ashland High School?”

“He was a year ahead of me,” Jackie added.

“I don't remember,” Ginny replied flatly.

“Actually, we used to call him Stubbie,” Jackie said. “Don't you remember? He played football for Ashland and he and his friends used to hang out with my group once in a while?”

Ginny shook her head while Shelby looked on.

“Chad's the one who helped Dad fix the flat on his truck that one summer, down at the marina, the year he had a broken arm,” Jackie continued. “I'm sure you remember that.”

Chad turned his ruddy face toward Shelby, bared his smoke-stained teeth in a debonair smile, and said simply, “Good to finally meet you, Shelby. I'm your father.”

“Holy crap . . .” Nic's typically booming voice, coming from just behind Shelby's ear, was barely a whisper.

“Jacqueline!” Ginny gasped, raising her hand to cover her mouth.

Shelby's heart pounded against the confining bodice of her wedding dress. It wasn't just the way her mother was going to humiliate her, again, and on her wedding day. It was knowing that, with Jackie as an inept role model—Shelby felt the guilt of not being honest with Ryan during their discussions about their future. About starting a family. Nothing her mother could do to harm her would ever create as much pain for Shelby as the fear that, one day, she might bring similar emotional pain to her own child. While Ryan became elated at the thought of raising a family with Shelby, she was reserved and apprehensive.

I should have been honest with him. My God, why wasn't I honest with him?
Shelby closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and listened for sounds that could calm her mind. The creak of the barn door as it gently swung inward when caught by a light breeze. The flutter of wings in a nest tucked in the rafters overhead.
Maybe I'll feel differently once we're married. Maybe I will be a good mother. I won't be like her. I'm different.

Shelby opened her eyes and looked squarely into the cool blue eyes of her mother's conquest and said, “Mr. Covington, if you're my mother's guest, you are welcome to stay. But as for this absurd—and, let's be honest, incredibly insensitive—suggestion that we are somehow related I will have you know that the only father figure in my life was my grandparent and no one will ever replace him, let alone some man who thinks it appropriate to have sex with my mother in some dark corner of this barn just moments before I walk down the aisle.”

“Shelby!” Jackie burst out, setting her hand firmly on Chad's coat sleeve and turning to speak to him. “Chad, I'm so sorry, I don't know what's gotten into . . .”

“And as for you, Mother,” Shelby said, turning her attention to Jackie, “please find a mirror, put yourself together, and take a seat in the yard. Gran and I are about to walk down the aisle, with or without you. Don't bother with the processional.”

With that, she turned and walked away with her grandmother at her side, clutching her chest and shaking her head in exasperation, and Nic trailing behind awkwardly in her uncomfortable shoes.

The only sound in the barn was that of the women's footsteps, the distant lure of violins playing on the lawn, and the faint
swish
of Shelby's dress as she walked purposefully toward the open doorway.

C
HAPTER
2

T
he sun was low in the sky when William Ryan Chambers Jr. took his place at the altar, beneath an arbor of flowering branches and twisted vines. The early-evening light cast a golden glow upon the grounds and the white blooms that flocked the apple trees. A sparkle of light glinted from the top of the barn and caught Ryan's eye. He looked up to the cupola to see the copper weather vane that he had admired the first time he visited the Meyerses' property. Shaped in the image of a horse galloping into the wind, it caught the day's final rays of light on its ribboned tail.

Ryan set his hand upon his breast pocket. Feeling the shape of his bride's wedding ring through his tailored summer suit, he thought back to the proposal. He didn't plan anything elaborate. It wasn't her style. It was to be a quiet day away from the city crowds, out on the water where he knew she would feel at peace. Lake Michigan wasn't Superior, but it was the next best thing.

On a hazy morning in late August, they set out from the Chicago Yacht Club on Ryan's sailboat, the
Horizon,
for a weekend trip along Michigan's northwest shore.

The first time Shelby sailed with him on the
Horizon,
she had immediately recognized the Darfur as the same model he had chartered out of Bayfield when the two of them sailed to Devil's Island on Lake Superior. So much had happened between them since that October weekend when he returned to Bayfield and their lives connected. He had checked the forecast before they left port, pleased that the weather was ideal for an easy sail across the bay and up along the Michigan shoreline. After anchoring in Sutton's Bay inlet harbor, he would propose over dinner on the boat and a bottle of wine.

But that didn't happen.

They weren't more than ninety minutes outside of the harbor when the wind disappeared and the
Horizon
went from a steady clip down to a lazy drift. The needle on the speed gauge barely moved. Ryan frantically worked to tighten the jib, reset the mainsail, change tack, trying anything he could to catch the wind. But it was useless. The boat would sit still in the water until the wind picked up again.

He had been so focused on reaching their destination that he had failed to notice how happy Shelby was, reclining on the cushioned bench in the cockpit with her legs sprawled out before her and her head tipped back to catch the sun.

“Isn't it perfect?” She sighed.

No! It's all wrong!
he had thought to himself. “No, I wanted to reach Sutton's Bay today, but at this rate, we'll be lucky to make it make it across the bay before dusk, let alone all the way up to the harbor.”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Listen.”

All he could hear was the listless ruffle of a windless sail, hanging slack against the mast, and the gentle lapping of water against the hull. While she lolled in the sunlight, he moved about the boat, trying to catch the meager wind in their sails.

“I'll just have to start up the motor,” he finally said, dejected and casting his frustration at the sails.

“Ryan, stop. Come here.” She extended her hand to him, encouraging him to sit down beside her. He let out a sigh, dropped the slack line in his hand, and moved across the cockpit to join her.

“Listen,” she said.

“I can't hear anything.”

“Exactly.” She look up at him. “It's gone.”

He placed his hand over hers and asked, “What's gone?”

“
Everything.
The street noises, the taxi horns, all of the people talking on their phones. Talking and talking. Out here, it's just the two of us.”

He knew that the past year had been difficult for her—not only leaving home and finishing her studies, but facing a degree of public scrutiny that went along with his family's life. And yet, she never complained. Not a single word. When he saw her face, out on Lake Michigan that morning, it hit him. This was the face of the woman he had fallen in love with in Bayfield. In the few short months she had been in Chicago, Shelby had developed lines above her brow, and a tightening in her jaw whenever she was confronted in the city. Out on the water, the physical signs of stress were gone. This was the Shelby he knew best.

“I love you, Shelby.” He raised his hand to his chest, feeling the ring that was hidden deep within his inner jacket pocket. Several months earlier, when she surprised him at his debut photography exhibit,
Family Trees—A Bayfield Story
in Chicago's River North district, Shelby took his breath away. It was incredible to find her there, standing before a large framed portrait of herself sitting on the Madeline Island cliffs over Lake Superior. Until that moment, he doubted he would ever see her again. But there she was. When they left the exhibit on that warm July evening, he held her hand, knowing he'd never want to let it go.

“I love you, too.” After a moment, when he didn't respond, Shelby sat up. “Ryan, what is it?” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know how you do it,” he began. “You're taking risks and adjusting to so many changes. School. Moving. Staying connected with your family, and business on the orchard.”

“And yet, somehow I'm still finding time to sneak out onto the lake with you.”

“That's best thing about your coming to Chicago,” Ryan said, and meant it. “But seriously, you did all of that for yourself while being thrown into the public eye.”

Shelby groaned and leaned back, her face lifted to the sun. “I don't want to think about that right now. Let's just enjoy floating out here, alone, without any distractions or anywhere to go.”

When she first arrived in Chicago and began to attend functions with Ryan, the media seemed to adored her. They called her fresh. A natural beauty. She wasn't as enamored with them as they were of her, however, and it wasn't long before Shelby was being photographed entering a room with her eyes cast down, her head turned, or her body positioned out of view behind Ryan's broader frame.

Often, whenever she went out—to get coffee, running to class, or meeting up with a friend—they were there, trying to stir a reaction out of her. The more aggressive they became, and the more negative the coverage, the more Shelby retreated into herself.

She declined interviews and rarely acknowledged photographers who called out her name from the street as she rushed toward a car, out of a restaurant, or into Ryan's apartment.

The process was heartbreaking to witness and made Ryan want to lash out at the paparazzi and protect her, but he knew better.

“You're only going to make it worse,” his mother, Charlotte, would say. “Don't worry. It's bound to blow over. She'll either find her way, or the media will lose interest. You know it's all very cyclical, Ryan. These stories don't last forever. Soon they'll be on to someone else and you two will be free to live in peace.”

His father had other words. “Seriously, Ryan, you have to talk to her. Ask her to give those vultures at least a
hint
of a smile now and again. Get them off of her tail. The PR people at the office are having a hell of a time trying to clean up the publicity messes you two are stirring up. I never would have said this to you before, but perhaps you two should take a little time. Head back to Bayfield. Let things cool down.”

Before long, the press grew tired of the one-sided relationship and the novelty of the rural Wisconsinite wore off. They began to call her aloof. Shallow. And a particular favorite was comparing Shelby's demeanor to her beloved Lake Superior: icy cold.

On the boat, Ryan felt a breeze lift off of Lake Michigan and blow across the cockpit. The sails gave a gentle rustle and the halyard sounded like a bell as it clanged against the mast. “Shel, do you remember the night you came to see me at the gallery opening?”

“Of course I do,” she said with lazy contentment. “My God, I was so nervous. And out of place. All of those people, and your work—it was amazing to see it displayed throughout the gallery. I'll never forget it.”

“You were so beautiful that night.”

“I'm not so sure,” she recalled. “I was a wreck. I could barely walk in those shoes.”

He smiled at the memory; he considered her careful footing in high heels endearing.

“Do you remember what I said to you?”

“Tell me again.”

“I said that if you'd let me, I'd spend the rest of my life loving you.”

“I remember.”

“It's truer now than ever before.”

“I love you, too,” she said, then paused. “Are you sure everything is all right? You seem a little, I don't know—distracted.”

“No.”
Nervous. Anxious. Heart exploding with anticipation. Hands trembling. Exhilarated by the prospect that you could answer yes to a question they haven't discussed.
He took in a deep breath to steady his nerves and then went down on one knee. “Shelby?”

When she opened her eyes and sat up again, the look of surprise came over her face the moment she realized his distraction.

“I mean it. I know you're still settling in here, and so much is changing right now, but here's the thing . . . I don't believe in chance meetings or destiny, and I've never believed in love at first sight. But I also know what I felt the first time I saw you on the lake. And I remember how much when I thought I'd never see you again. I know how it feels to fall in love, and be in love, because of you.”

“Ryan, I—”

“Please, before you say anything . . .” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a delicate ring that he knew was perfect the moment he saw it during a private appointment with a Michigan Avenue jeweler. Elegant and lovely, without being ostentatious, it was a brilliant cushion diamond encircled by a double row of bead-set diamonds that continued around the band. While the ring felt small in his hands, it held the weight of his future.

“I want to spend my life cheering you on when you succeed, and comforting you when you fall. I want to be there for everything. The good. The bad. I want to dream with you. Live, laugh, and cry with you,” he said, holding out the ring, which sparkled as brightly as the sun's gleam off the water. “If you'll let me, I want to be at your side to experience it all with you.”

She knelt down to the cockpit floor to face Ryan and hold his free hand as he asked, “Shelby Julia Meyers . . . will you marry me?”

Showing more interest in Ryan than the ring, Shelby kissed his lips between each word in her reply, saying with tenderness, “Nothing. Would. Make me. Happier.”

 

Members of the string quartet sat in a cluster of teak lawn chairs; the viola player dressed neatly in a seersucker suit, while the cellist and two brunette violinists wore dresses in complementing shades of linen. They lifted their bows, the cellist gave a nod, and the foursome began to play the wedding party's processional. The piece was “Just like Heaven,” by The Cure, a selection Ryan and Shelby had chosen as a harmless act of rebellion against Charlotte's formality. Ryan laughed to himself, knowing that Shelby was in earshot of the music and must be smiling, too, as she awaited her walk down the aisle.

Ryan glanced over at his parents, who sat together in the front row of garden chairs, clearly unaware of the song choice. His father, William Chambers Sr., was the president and CEO of Chambers Media, a media conglomerate headquartered in Chicago. He sat with a straight back and legs crossed, dressed impeccably in a worsted wool summer suit. And Ryan's mother looked elegant in a belted, powder-blue dress and pearls. “It's haute couture,” she had said with pride when he first saw her at the wedding, though the significance was lost on Ryan. Outwardly, they were the picture of proud parents. Ryan knew, however, that they had their doubts. Even today, as he and Shelby were prepared to make their vows.

No one would have suspected how far Ryan and Shelby had come in improving—although not yet solidifying—their relationships with their respective families. It had taken Ryan's parents time to accept his relationship with Shelby, and to relinquish their hope that he would someday marry into an equally prominent family. But Shelby's charm quickly melted their resolve as she found her way into the guarded place in their hearts. Ryan noticed his mother reach over to take his father's hand, and the moment their hands clasped, the chiseled intensity of his father's face softened. His father smiled and patted the top of her hand, then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

As the quartet played on, Ryan looked at the others gathered on the lawn. His friend Pete Whitfield sat with his wife, Meredith. Brad Thorson stood beside him as the best man, while his wife, Holly, smiled at them from the fifth row with their young daughter fidgeting in her lap. Ryan's sister, Martha, had traveled from South Carolina with her husband, Joe, and their two young children. Shelby's closest friends sat together with Nic's husband, Hank. And, although Ryan wasn't overjoyed to see him sitting near the back, Shelby's childhood friend John Karlsson was also there.

Ryan and the wedding guests looked up in their seats when they heard voices coming from the barn and saw the swag of sheer curtain beside the open doorway flutter. Instead of the wedding party emerging, Jackie and a man Ryan didn't recognize scurried out of the barn. The heels of Jackie's shoes appeared to be digging into the ground, causing her run across the lawn in a dramatic manner that resembled a panicked pink flamingo racing across the beach. Jackie stopped suddenly and grabbed on to her companion's shoulder for balance while kicking off her offending shoes. When the musicians noticed the commotion, their bows slid to a stop on their strings with as much grace as cars screeching to a halt on an icy road.