Branching Out (4 page)

C
HAPTER
5

“E
yes still closed?” Ryan asked while pulling the car off of the moonlit main road and turning onto an unmarked, narrow dirt road that wound through a thick grove of trees.

“Still closed,” Shelby said, grinning underneath the hands that she held over her eyes. “We're on gravel now, aren't we?”

“We are,” he said. “Just a bit farther.”

He continued to drive carefully through the woods. The overhead canopy of trees blocked out the moon and left only the car's headlights to cast light across the road. The car traveled slowly over the gravel, bumping on occasion as it rolled over ruts and ridges in the road, until it reached their destination. Once the car came to a stop, Ryan put it in Park and removed the keys from the ignition. He was glad to see a warm amber light coming from the living room windows of the cottage that stood before them. Earlier in the evening, his instructions to Nic and Hank had been simple. Ryan was grateful that they had agreed to break away from the wedding reception just early enough to help pull this off. Looking over at Shelby, who was still covering her eyes, he was sure she never noticed when he gave them a nod across the room while he was holding her on the dance floor.

“We've stopped,” she said, turning toward him. “The suspense is killing me, you know.”

“Go ahead, Shel. You can open your eyes.” He watched as Shelby dropped her hands to her lap. Her eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the new surroundings.

“The cottage?” she asked, leaning forward to get a better look out the windshield. She turned to him, a smile lighting up her face. “You rented the cottage again? For tonight? It's perfect.”

He exited the car and walked around to the passenger side, opened her door, and offered his hand to help her out.

“Huh—I'm not quite sure how to maneuver out of the car in this dress,” she admitted, nodding toward the cumbersome folds of her wedding gown. “Maybe if you grab this part of the skirt . . . ?”

“I can do better than that,” he replied, reaching into the car to gather her in his arms and easily lift her out of the vehicle. As he carried his bride down the stone-lined footpath, her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and the billowy fabric of her dress floated about them. “Let's take a look around. It's been a while.”

“The lights are on. Is someone here?” she asked, looking into the windows of the lakeside cottage that he had rented during his time in Bayfield, the year they had first fallen in love.

“I'm not sure.” He set her down gently at the front door. “Go ahead inside,” he said, grinning.

“Wait! I think I left the key in the car.”

“Try opening it. You might not need the key—maybe it's unlocked.”

Shelby reached out and turned the doorknob tentatively and upon hearing the
click
of the latch gave him a curious glance.

She was about to take a step tentatively into the cottage when Ryan reached for her again, saying, “Hold on—let's do this right.”

Before she could say a word, he swooped her up once more in an armful of lace and tulle and carried her gallantly over the threshold.

 

The room was quiet, aside from the snapping crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustle of Shelby's dress as she walked through the cottage's modest living room. Her gown reflected the firelight and made her look even lovelier. Ryan shut the door behind him, turned the lock, and stood in the entryway, watching as she moved about the room. He couldn't have pulled it off without the help of Ginny and some of their friends.

It was a warm atmosphere, infused with the subtle perfume of flowers and the homey scent of wood fire and candles burning in hurricane flutes. She took it all in and was left speechless. The same variety of flowers from her bridal bouquet were arranged in antique vases and placed throughout the cottage. There were also photographs of the two of them, along with their family and close friends, hanging on the wall.

Ryan enjoyed watching as she discovered the special touches made just for her, knowing that she didn't fully comprehend the cottage's transformation since the last time they were on the property.

As Shelby ran her hands over the new furniture, appreciating the curved lines and the array of plush pillows in varying shades of blue, Ryan walked over to the stereo in the living room. He selected an album, slid a vinyl record out of its cover, and set it on the turntable. The melodic strumming of a guitar filled the room.

“When did you take an interest in old records?” she asked, amused by his choice in music.

“Ginny's idea,” he admitted. “She said it would add a touch of nostalgia to this place.”

“I should have guessed. My grandparents have a pretty impressive record collection at home. I love Van Morrison—is this album one of theirs?”

“She gave us a few, but this is one I picked up in Chicago.” He never fully appreciated Morrison's lyrics about a woman being as sweet as Tupelo honey until he saw the way the firelight shone upon his lovely bride.

Shelby retrieved a silver frame from the mantel and looked over at Ryan. “Is this Gran's, too?” He crossed the room to join her. In her hands, she held a simple silver frame. Stretched taut behind the glass was a cross-stitching of a flowering tree.

“She's a talented lady,” he said, setting his hand lightly upon Shelby's shoulder. He looked down at the handcrafted art, which Ginny had shown him just the day before. She had carefully hand-stitched leaves and blossoms on the tree and placed a crimson heart in the center of the tree trunk. On one of the branches, Ginny had included a pair of tiny birds. With painstakingly careful stitching, Ginny had also carefully entwined the names of their immediate family members among the lower branches and leaves. Charlotte. William. Martha. Jacqueline. Ginny. Olen. As well as Ryan's grandparents, Norman, Elizabeth, Charles, and Claire. Near the top, Ginny had stitched in Ryan's and Shelby's names. Ryan had noticed there was room at the very top of the tree to add in the names of Ginny's future grandchildren. She had confided in him that she was eager to see the family grow.

“‘Branching Out,'” Shelby said softly, running her finger over Ginny's words stitched beneath the tree. “I absolutely love it. How did she—how did you two . . . ?”

“Ginny and I were talking about how much you love your family's land and what it took for you to leave it,” Ryan explained as he began to run his fingers gently up and down her back, admiring the way her bare shoulders glowed in the firelight. “I hope you don't mind, but I told her what you said—about the orchard reminding you of a community, with so many different family trees. She wanted you to have your own family tree, wherever you decided to live.”

“It's perfect,” she said, replacing the frame on the mantel and then turning into his embrace. “Someone did a lot of work here.”

“It took a bit of work,” he admitted. “And a lot of help.”

“Gran did this, too?”

“She did, among others,” he said. “Turns out, she's a great coconspirator. And contractor.”

“Contractor?” Shelby said with a surprised laugh.

“Just wait until you see this place in the daylight,” he said. “We made a few improvements to the property, as well.”

“A few improvements,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, I just can't believe this—if I could create a place of my very own, I don't think I would have been able to make it as perfect as this one.”

He drew her closer. “That's good to hear, considering . . .” Ryan reached up his hand and tenderly brushed aside a tendril of hair that had fallen from her updo and kissed the soft curve of her neck.

“Considering what?” she said under her breath, closing her eyes as his hand traveled slowly down the nape of her neck until it reached the delicate buttons that ran down the arch of her back like a string of pearls. He moved his other hand from her waist, to her back, and, one by one, he slowly unbuttoned her bridal gown. He felt the softness of her cheek pressed against his and felt the quickening of her breath.

“This is yours, Shelby,” he whispered in her ear, his hands traveling farther down her back with the release of each satin button. The warmth of her skin being released from the binds of her wedding gown caused him to feel even more impatient. And yet, he took his time. Moving slowly, deliberately. Heightening the anticipation. He wanted this to be a night they would both remember.

“I fell in love with you here—and as soon as you agreed to marry me, I knew I had to find a way to buy this cottage and prepare it just for you.”

“For us.”

“But mainly for you. You're giving up so much to be with me—to enter my life and everything that comes with being in the Chambers family.” He felt her kiss that soft spot on his neck, just below his ears, and the sensual distraction caused him to falter.

“I want you to have a place to come home to whenever you need it. When you need a break. It won't always be easy, being a bit more in the public eye,” he continued. Her kisses moved across his jaw. “A vacation. Time with your grandmother.” Shelby raised her hand to his face and, with gentle pressure, pulled him to her waiting lips.

“I don't know what to say,” she said with a catch in her breath.

He felt his control disappearing.

“If you ever need time away from Chicago,” he said, his lips a breath away from hers. She was sensual. Intoxicating. Her fingers now moving down the front of his shirt, doing a far better job than he had at undoing buttons. “Whenever you need to get away, I hope you'll come here. It's yours,” he repeated.

“
Ours,
” she said, looking from his eyes to his lips. She ran a hand beneath his unbuttoned shirt and caressed his chest. He felt a rush of passion and was about to give in to her but took in a calming breath instead. Ryan wouldn't rush their wedding night. He steadied his breathing and concentrated solely on her. He kissed her deeply, passionately, and then stepped back.

“Slowly,” he whispered.

He moved to stand behind her, set his hands on the smooth skin of her bare shoulders, and let them travel down the open space on her back that was exposed beneath an unbuttoned bodice. With confidence and steady hands, he took his time unbuttoning the last of the tiny buttons and then gently eased the dress away from her body and let it fall into a cloud at her feet. He removed his own shirt and settled in behind her, feeling the warmth of her soft skin against his.

Later, he would take her hand and they would explore the rest of the cottage. She would find a bottle of champagne chilling in the kitchen and her favorite chocolates set beside a bouquet on the dining table. The next day, in the morning light, she would discover her favorite books had been lined up neatly in a bookcase along with an old childhood diary, the one with a red leather cover and pages with faded gold gilded edges. And later, when she was ready to get dressed, she would open the bedroom closet to discover a special memory box with trinkets from her youth and a cherished red Badger cap from her alma mater in Madison. Finally, within the drawer of her bedside table, Shelby would find an envelope containing two first-class tickets to Zurich, Switzerland.

But for now, the only thing on Ryan's mind was his bride. He would love her as their wedding night rolled into the early morning hours and the beginning of their married life together.

C
HAPTER
6

S
helby should have been sleeping peacefully beside her husband the morning after the wedding, but she was awake before the sun rose. Images from the day before had been racing through her head. Rather than the happy remembrances of an extraordinary day, her thoughts kept flashing back to Jackie and her uninvited guest. And the fact that he had the nerve to call himself Shelby's father.

She looked across the bed to her slumbering husband and, not wanting to wake him, peeled back the bedcovers and quietly walked out of the room. She winced when the door latch clicked loudly behind her, but still Ryan did not wake. She padded her way across the kitchen, where she found her purse on the counter, retrieved her cell phone, and pulled up Jenna's number.

Shelby walked to the kitchen window as the phone rang and she looked out toward the Lake Superior view, which was just beginning to waken in the light of dusk. After numerous rings, Shelby was about to hang up when her friend answered.

“Shelby?”

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, you could say that. God, what time is it?” came Jenna's groggy voice through the phone. “What are you doing, calling me this morning? You're supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

“Sorry. We're driving to the airport in a few hours and I wanted to catch you before we leave.”

“Perfect. Call me back in a few hours then.”

“No, wait—just give me a minute,” Shelby said quickly. “I need to ask a favor.”

“All right, but hey—where's Ryan? I didn't think you'd come out from that bedroom for days. . . .”

Shelby looked over her shoulder from where she stood and, seeing the bedroom door was still closed, felt safe to continue talking quietly. “He's sleeping.”

“I'll bet he is,” Jenna said. She muttered something inaudible and then whispered, “So, what's going on?”

“Hey . . .” Shelby could hear something in the background.

“What?”

“What's that noise?” Shelby asked. “Are you alone?”

Jenna muffled a laugh.

“You're not, are you?” Shelby asked, shaking her head to herself in the darkened kitchen. “You're unbelievable. You've only been in town for what, less than forty-eight hours?” She thought back to the night before, trying to guess who the “lucky” guy could be.

“You know what they say about weddings . . .” Jenna teased.

“Who is it?”

“You don't want to know.”

“You're right; I don't. I need to ask you a favor,” Shelby said. She thought for a moment before changing her mind. “Wait, yes, I do—who is it?”

“Hold on,” Jenna said. Shelby could hear more muffled sounds and then she heard a door squeak open and then close. “Okay. I closed the door so we can talk.”

“So?” Shelby asked.

“You won't get mad?”

“Why would I get mad?”

“John.”

There was a stretch of awkward silence on Shelby's end of the line. “Are you really?”

“Yes.”

“
My
John?” Shelby laid her hand firmly on the window ledge, trying to grasp what Jenna was telling her.

“Yours?”

Is he mine? No, of course not,
she thought, moving to take a seat at the kitchen table. John Karlsson was Shelby's childhood friend. He loved her and she had had the chance to be with him. She simply didn't have the same feelings for him and in her college years had chosen Jeff over him. And then, years later, she had left John in their hometown in order to be with Ryan. John had always been her constant, her trusted friend, her sure thing. She never really imagined him being with another woman.
What kind of friend am I, who never really knew anything about any of the women he dated?
And why did she feel a sick ache in her stomach now, as if she had just been hit in the stomach, at the thought of him having sex with her Chicago friend? Was it a sense of disrespect? Betrayal? Or was it a pang of jealousy?

My God, how can I possibly feel jealous after spending the most romantic night of my life?
“Of course he's not mine, in that sense; I'm just surprised that you two . . . found each other,” Shelby said, regretting that she had asked in the first place. “I didn't even see you two talking last night.”

“You were pretty busy yourself, Mrs. Chambers,” Jenna said. “Besides, I'm just messin' with you. This guy's name is Jake.”

“Wait, you aren't with John?” Shelby leaned back in her chair, relieved. “Then . . . who's Jake?”

“The bartender.”

“Seriously?” Shelby burst out a bit louder than planned. Then she dropped her voice back down to a hush. “The bartender.”

“Shaken. Not stirred.”

Shelby held her hand over her mouth to hold back a laugh so as not to wake Ryan.

“So, I don't think you called me at this hour to talk about the hunky bartender who's sprawled out naked in the next room. Did you?”

 

Shelby met Jenna shortly after moving to Chicago. She had taken a leap of faith when relocating from northern Wisconsin to the city, but it wasn't as much of a risk as Ryan had taken when he moved to Bayfield the previous year, which was based on little more than an inspired whim. After everything they had gone through together, it was her turn to take a chance on love.

But inwardly, she knew it was more than that. Her childhood home had become more than a comfort to her—it was her safe haven. It was the one place where she didn't have to take chances. Where life could be easy and predictable. Her move to Chicago was as much about Ryan as it was about breaking free from her hometown ties, because the longer she stayed in one place, the less confident she was in pursuing her dreams.

Ryan had offered to help her financially, but she was determined that if she was going to break away from her hometown, she would do it in her own way—with money saved from working at Meyers Orchard, her grandmother's blessing, and grandfather's gumption.

One of the first things she did in Chicago was find a way to finish her bachelor's degree. It was something she had put on hold for several years after her boyfriend, Jeff, died in a drowning accident during the summer before their senior year at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. After being readmitted through the university's distant learning program, she gained access to the John Crerar Library at the University of Chicago, which turned out to be a convenient and private place to study and research, not to mention, it was a short walk away from her first apartment.

What the modest property lacked in size and amenities it made up for in its proximity to U Chicago, a neighborhood that offered small-town charm. The apartment had a pair of French doors that made Shelby feel as if she were living in a Paris flat instead of a one-bedroom studio. The doors opened up to a balcony with ornate cast-iron railings. It offered just enough space for a potted geranium and a single patio chair and was the perfect place to enjoy a cup of coffee and an obstructed view of Washington Park.

It wasn't an easy transition returning to school after an extended break, but it gave Shelby purpose as she adjusted to the changes in her life—as well as a distraction from the attention she was garnering from the press solely because of her relationship with Ryan.

The university was well into its fall semester when Shelby first met Jenna Taylor. It was a blustery day in late November and Shelby was studying over lunch at Pudge's Sandwich Shop, a family-owned business that was less than two blocks from her apartment. Sitting at a window-side counter near to the entrance, Shelby looked up from her work when the wind picked up outside and a sudden onslaught of sleet pelted the window.

The front door flung open and startled several patrons seated nearby. Shelby bristled against the offensive cold air and pulled her heavy cardigan tighter across her chest. She glanced at the entryway just as a young woman burst through the door, shaking wet clumps of snow off of her bluntly cut black hair.

“Damn it!” Jenna cursed when she looked down at her suede boots that were spotted with watermarks and sidewalk salt. Shelby turned back to her half-eaten BLT sandwich and the task of editing her essay for Professor Neilson's environmental journalism class.

Shelby was distracted again when Jenna dropped her bag next to Shelby's open book, the weight of which caused Shelby's plate to bounce up from the counter and rattle back down. Slightly annoyed that Jenna couldn't have chosen one of the many other open tables and chairs instead of the spot directly next to her, Shelby shrugged over her work and tried to ignore the interruption.

“Is that any good?” Jenna asked as she uncinched the belt on her trench coat.

“Excuse me?”

“Your sandwich,” she said, nodding toward Shelby's plate. “I'm famished—do you recommend the BLT?”

“Sure. It's my favorite.”

“Perfect—watch my stuff, will you?”

“What?”

Instead of responding, Jenna cast off her coat onto the barstool beside Shelby and headed off to order a bacon-lettuce-tomato from among the twenty or sandwiches listed on an overhead chalkboard.

Shelby shifted in her seat so she was angled toward the door, with her back to Jenna's chosen seat. It was the subtle, universal message that said:
I would prefer to keep to myself, thank you very much.
She picked up her pen and refocused on her work.

When Jenna returned, she peered over Shelby's shoulder to see what she was working on. “You go to U Chicago?”

“No.” Shelby turned just enough to be heard. “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm on a deadline.”

“So why are you here instead of the library or somewhere private? Why come to a place where people can talk to you?”

Shelby let her pen drop onto her notebook. “Excuse me?”

“People who study in public places—coffee shops, sandwich joints, and so on—are doing it under the guise of working, but really they're bored out of their mind and want to get their stuff done but also enjoy being out. Whether it's people watching, eavesdropping on other conversations, getting out of work or school. If you really wanted to finish your essay in a timely manner, you definitely picked the wrong place to work.”

“I don't know where you get the idea that—”

“Hi. I'm Jenna,” she said, without extending her hand, as if it were a statement that would be the gateway to opening Shelby up for further conversation. “Jenna Taylor.”

“Hi.”

“And you are?”

“
Really
trying to get this work done.”

“Do you need a refill on your iced tea?” Jenna asked.

Without responding, Shelby picked up her pen and tried once more to refocus on her assignment.

“Looks like my sandwich is ready, so I can easily get'cha a refill while I'm up there.” Jenna leaned into Shelby slightly as she reached across to grab her glass, which was nearly empty aside from a tea-stained lemon wedge and some half-melted ice cubes.

Then Jenna was gone again, leaving behind her bags, her coat, and the trace of jasmine-scented perfume.

Shelby considered packing up her belongings and leaving. But there wasn't enough time to trek all the way back to her apartment to finish her work before her one o'clock class. And she didn't have time to go to the library to work after class because it was Friday—the kind of wonderful Friday that feels like a blessing after a particularly demanding week—and she had promised to meet Ryan at his apartment. He was cooking, which she loved. Puttanesca. She'd be bringing the wine and small box of cherry-topped rum babas that she purchased earlier that morning at Amelia's Italian Pastry Shop, just down the street from her apartment.

A refilled glass of iced tea appeared before her as Jenna set down her plate and a Coke. “So, what are you writing about?”

“Environmentalism.”

“Specifically . . . ?”

“
Specifically
, a story about prescription drugs that are contaminating Lake Michigan.”

“The sewage outfalls coming out of Milwaukee?”

“Um, yes.”

“Yeah, I covered that a year ago. New research suggests that the lake is not diluting the compounds as most scientists expected. The ability of the drugs to travel and remain at relatively high concentrations means that fish and other aquatic life are exposed, so there could be some serious near-shore impacts, according to my source. In addition, Milwaukee draws its drinking water from Lake Michigan, although no pharmaceuticals have been detected in the city's water. The researchers reported that fourteen of the chemicals ‘were found to be of medium or high ecological risk' and that the concentrations ‘indicate a significant threat to the health of the Great Lakes.' Nevertheless, it is not clear what, if any, effects the drugs are having on fish and other creatures in Lake Michigan. Have you checked with the university?”

Shelby stared at this strange, intrusive woman in utter disbelief. “No, I haven't.”

“And this is for what publication?”

“It's not. I'm a student.”

“Ah. Journalism class.”

“Something like that.

“I don't want to put a damper on that research paper of yours, but are you sure journalism is the way you want to go? Not public relations or marketing? Maybe teaching?” Jenna asked. “With every Tom, Dick, and Harry publishing their own so-called ‘news' with blogs and Twitter feeds, and paper publications falling by the wayside to online news with shared sourcing and downsizing . . . it's not the career it used to be.”