Branching Out (5 page)

“I'm not sure I agree.”

“People will do just about anything to write that breakthrough article, you know—it can get pretty desperate out there.”

“So, I'm going to get back to it,” Shelby said before shifting in her seat, setting her elbow on the counter and leaning into it, trying to create a wall between them and return to her work.

“I would have gone to U Chicago myself, except that I couldn't afford it,” Jenna continued on, as if the conversation were two-sided. “I went to a small liberal arts school instead. I'm a reporter now, though. Have you heard of
The Daily
?”

Without another word to Jenna, Shelby hopped down off of the stool and gathered her belongings, preferring to trudge through the inclement weather to finish at the university library than to spend one more minute sitting next to an intrusive reporter.

“Hey, wait,” Jenna said, setting her hand on Shelby's elbow.

Shelby jerked her arm away from the reporter's grasp and took a step back. “Excuse me! I don't know what your intentions are, but we are done.”

“This isn't what you think,” Jenna said.

Shelby offered no response, quickly closing her book bag and reaching for her coat.

“Have you wondered if photos of you are showing up online?”

“Walking across campus. Riding your bike through Washington Park? Leaving Ryan's apartment early in the morning?”

“You really have some nerve, you know that?” Shelby spat at Jenna, despising the hostility in her voice, but fed up with the brazen tactics photographers had used to get photographs of her lately. She was sure Jenna was another wolf in the pack.

“The photographers are getting tip-offs,” Jenna said without urgency, as if she knew Shelby would be interested enough to sit back down. “Tips from Chambers Media.”

Shelby stopped zipping her coat and looked at Jenna directly. “What did you say?”

“It's true. Someone inside of your boyfriend's family business is passing along information about your schedule, your routine—your dating life.” Jenna took a hearty bite of her sandwich. She stopped chewing long enough to add, “And I think it's bullshit.”

As Jenna took a second bite, Shelby set her things back down, slid out of her coat, and returned to her seat. “I'm listening.”

As the sleet continued to cover the road and sidewalk outside of Pudge's with a layer of slush, and cold droplets clung to the window and trailed down in a slow slide, the women talked. Jenna didn't waste any more time in getting to the truth. She had been working in Chambers Media's public relations department in an entry level position until recently, when she took a job as an entry level reporter for
The Daily,
an alternative Chicago weekly that mainly covered the arts and music scene.

“Truth is, I'm a grunt. Low woman on the proverbial totem pole. A peon in an ever-changing business. My articles get buried. In fact, my byline is barely noticeable between the weekly ad for discounted guitars at High Rock and the community service announcements on hearing aid recalls.”

Shelby smiled, despite feeling betrayed—allegedly—by a few employees at Chambers Media.

 

Back in her honeymoon cottage in Bayfield, Shelby pulled her chair away from the dining table and moved to the kitchen window, watching as the first rays of morning shone upon the lake.

“So, what's going on, Shelby?” Jenna asked over the phone. “Why the urgency?”

Shelby placed her hand on the windowpane, transfixed by the lake she had known all of her life.
It feels so good to be home,
she thought.

“I need a favor,” Shelby said, her voice distant.

“Anything—shoot.”

“How long will you be in town?”

“Checkout's at noon, so I thought I'd grab something for lunch and then head back to Chicago. Unless . . .”

“Unless?”

“You know, unless something else—or
someone else
—piques my interest.”

“Fine. Keep that to yourself.” Shelby took a deep breath. “This is about my mother, and that . . . that guy she was with. Chad Covington.”

“Oh my God, Shelby. I've been dying to talk to you about that! What the hell? Is he really your father?”

“Absolutely not,” Shelby said firmly, catching herself from raising her voice and waking Ryan. “At least I don't think so. He can't be.”

“What's his story?”

“I have no idea. Any chance you could do some digging for me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“There can't be any truth to his story,” Shelby said. She glanced toward the bedroom, hearing the sounds of her husband rousing. “I want to nip it in the bud.”

“I'm on it.”

“And Jenna? You have to be discreet. The last thing Ryan and his family need right now is another distraction.”

“This could be that big news break I need—”

“Don't even think about it. This isn't an opportunity. It's personal.”

C
HAPTER
7

A
fter a long day of travel from Wisconsin to Switzerland, Ryan and Shelby boarded the Matterhorn Gotthard Bahn train in the Swiss town of Visp. They were now seated together in a private compartment with the armrest between them folded up and Ryan had his arm wrapped snugly around her shoulders. They looked out of their window and marveled at the scenery while the burgundy-red train wound its way up and through the country's deepest cleft valley toward the idyllic village of Zermatt.

At some points along the narrow-gauge and cog railway, the train rounded harrowing curves and hugged the mountainside as it passed closely beneath craggy overhangs. The couple could look down the steep terrain and see the Vispa River running far below; and above them, they admired the steep peaks of the Täschhorn, Dom, and Weisshorn mountains.

Shelby turned away from the window just long enough to kiss Ryan fully on the lips. “Incredible! I've never seen anything so beautiful.”

Ryan enjoyed her childlike wonder as she continued to peer out on to the landscape. She held one hand pressed flat against the windowpane while the other reached back to hold his, squeezing it whenever they skirted another bend or the mountain face dropped off in a steep pitch toward the river.

“We're almost there,” Ryan told her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze in return. He looked over Shelby's shoulder and watched as beams of the setting sun shone through the valley and cast the mountain slopes in a brilliant array of rose-colored light and shadows.

“I don't know,” Shelby said, more to herself than to him. “I think we've already arrived.”

Their honeymoon destination had been a well-kept secret. It was a place Ryan had visited once during college, and he had immediately fallen for its charm. He knew it would be the perfect honeymoon. Or, as the Swiss woman who had helped him make the arrangements had called it, a romantic
lune de miel
. Tucked away in the protective valley of a colossal mountain peak, the private town was absent of automobiles, city lights, and crowds. Over the past several months, he had been anxiously anticipating Shelby's reaction to walking along Zermatt's cobblestone streets, where the only sounds came from pedestrian chatter, church bells, and the occasional passing of an electric taxi or horse-drawn carriage. He knew she would love breathing in the fresh mountain air as they strolled past boutiques, chocolatiers, and enticing bakeries that were nestled all along the Bahnhofstrasse, the narrow street that ran through the center of town.

Ryan shifted in his seat so he could share her view of the river running through the gorge below and the few chalet-style homes that were set off from the railway, each with colorful flower boxes that adorned lace-curtained windows.

While their wedding day had been something he would never forget, he was inwardly relieved to finally be away from Bayfield. Ryan knew how much Shelby was compromising by marrying into his family in order for them to be together. She was willing to leave her hometown to build a life with him in Chicago. Inwardly, he knew he was falling short by comparison. How could he ever admit to her that on their wedding day he felt the presence of her grandfather more than ever before? And rather than giving Ryan a sense of comfort, the feeling of Olen's presence had raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, still watching the scenery pass by.

“The wedding,” he said, tucking a wisp of fallen hair behind her ear.

“It was perfect, wasn't it?”

Nothing is ever entirely perfect,
he thought to himself, wondering how long he should wait before he told her the truth. His fingers gently caressed the skin on her cheek, over her ear, and down to the nape of her neck.

“Except for my mother, that is,” Shelby said, suddenly sitting up straight. “I keep trying to forget about her and that man—God, what do I call him? Her friend? Boyfriend . . . ?”

“I guess we should just call him Chad, until we know for sure.”

“Chad,” she repeated. “Right. I still can't believe they pulled that stunt on our wedding day. I mean, where did he come from? Who is he? I keep replaying it all in my head. It doesn't make sense.”

“Come on, Shel, let's not let it spoil our trip. We'll have plenty of time to sort it out when we get back home.”

As much as he wanted to cast thoughts out of his mind that if Shelby ever discovered his actions on that day with Olen—as a winter storm raged around the two men and ultimately took Olen's life—were far worse than any of Jackie's wrongdoings. It was devastating enough that, if Shelby had known the truth, Ryan was certain she wouldn't be with him now.

“That's one of the things I love about you—you're always so sure that things will work out in the end,” she said.

Ryan held Shelby close while her words hung in the air and the train continued its rhythmic trek up the mountain rails.

 

“We're all settled!” Ryan called from the front door of their private alpine chalet, letting the iron latch on the door click solidly behind him. “The porter just brought up our luggage and I know you're tired, so I went ahead and ordered dinner and wine to be delivered.”

When she didn't reply, he assumed she was freshening up after their long travel day, so he picked up one of her travel bags and carried it to her. He made his way through the open living room, with its vibrant red Persian rugs and oversized leather furniture. Above him was a vaulted, exposed-beam ceiling that showcased a broad, A-frame portrait window with a sweeping view of the Matterhorn. He couldn't help but notice how, set against the backdrop of a lavender evening sky, the mountain's snowcapped peak resembled a crooked witch's hat.

“Shelby?” he called out again, quieter this time. Ryan proceeded to walk past the fire, which flickered and snapped quietly in a stone hearth, and continued down a wood-paneled corridor that led to the master bedroom.

“In here . . .” came her voice from the behind the partially opened bedroom door. “I picked up something for you in that little shop by the train station.”

He gave the door a gentle push and it swung open slowly. Then, seeing his bride, he dropped the bag to the floor.

Inside the room, there was a tall, four-post bed covered with a white down comforter that looked pillow soft. Upon it, Shelby lay on her side with her head set upon her hand and propped up on one elbow, wearing nothing at all. A flat gold box, tied with a white satin bow, balancing atop the smooth arc of her bare hip. The long ends of the ribbon draped over her hip and drew his eyes across the length of her body.

Ryan took a step toward her, as if he had no control over his movements. He was drawn to her.

“It's been such a long day,” she said, taking her time while twirling the length of the ribbon around her finger and then letting it fall back down again. “I thought you might be in the mood for something sweet.”

“How thoughtful,” he said, smiling as he entered the room.

“I've heard that Swiss chocolate is the best in the world.”

“It is.” Once he reached the bed, he set his hands atop the comforter and looked at every sensual curve on his wife's body. He reached his hand out and set it on her calf, keeping his eyes intent on hers as his touch slowly traveled up her leg, toward the gold box. “But there's something I have to ask.”

She let out her breath as he slowly untied the satin ribbon, let it fall softly across her waist, and opened the gift. He removed the gilded wrapper from within the chocolate box, picked one of the confections, and brought it to his mouth. He bit into it, tasting the dark chocolate melt against his tongue, before easing himself closer to her.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Exactly when did you manage to lose all of your clothes, Mrs. Chambers?”

“The better question is, why are yours still on?”

His hand continued to caress her skin before he climbed onto the bed beside her, eased her back, and then kissed her down the length of her body. The sway of her back, the soft indent of her navel—each part of her body more irresistible than the next. He became lost in the sensual feel and taste of her, which lingered in his mouth with the sweetness of chocolate.

He paused just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, and that's when she stopped him. Shelby sat up and, with a firm but loving hand, eased him down onto the bed. It was her time to take control.