Family Trees (11 page)

Shelby was blocks away from the inn now, walking heavy-footed with her head down, wondering how she could have been so trusting. How she had put down her guard. And for what? There was no real reason for her to be concerned. No harm was done. In fact, she should be amused. Imagine her—a farm girl from Northern Wisconsin—traipsing about with someone like Will Chambers.

But then again, Shelby thought,
Why not me?
Her mother's words raced to the forefront of her thoughts—
silly girl, homebound, directionless,
and
afraid.
Words that sent Shelby back to questioning, once more, whether she was worthy of ever having something wonderful.

When Shelby finally stopped walking, she realized where she had been unconsciously heading all along. She was on Broad Street and Washington at the foot of the stairs that led up to the Bayfield Carnegie Library, a handsome brick and brownstone building that had held the community's books, maps, directories, marine data, and history since 1903.

She needed answers.

Shelby climbed the stairs to the library's entrance. She straightened her posture, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and grabbed the brass doorknob. Giving it a pull, she looked into the historic library and was relieved to see no one in the lobby except for the librarian.

“Hey, Claire, how's it going?” Shelby called out as she entered.

If Pippi Longstocking were a middle-aged woman, she would look like Claire Dollins. The town librarian had unruly red hair that she wore pulled back into a lopsided bun, a peppering of freckles across her full cheeks, one large front tooth that stuck out from the rest in an otherwise lovely smile, and a mischievous laugh that rang out loud and often—and usually at the most inappropriate times.

“No complaints,” Claire answered cheerfully, delighted to see Shelby. “Better than you, it appears. You look a bit . . . discombobulated. Everything all right?”

“Not the best day, but I'll be okay.”

Claire removed the purple and green polka-dotted glasses from her nose and closed the book she was reading.

“Really. It's nothing,” Shelby assured her with a forced smile. “Gran and I have a difference of opinions about something and I thought I'd come here to do a little research on the topic.”

“Need to prove you're right?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that all?” Claire tapped a pencil against the desktop while keeping a keen eye on Shelby.

“Yep.”

“I have a pretty good sense about these things, so I can tell you that I doubt that's the full story.” Claire's face took on a dour scowl, and then suddenly brightened into a toothy grin. “I'm joking! I'm joking. Now, what can I help you find?”

“Is your Wi-Fi up?” Shelby tried to sound casual, even though she felt unsettled about the information she would uncover. She could have used the family's outdated home computer, instead of coming to the library, but that would have meant facing her grandparents and dealing with a painstakingly slow Internet service. She wanted to sort this out quickly and privately.

“Sure,” Claire said, scurrying out from behind the desk. “Don't tell anyone, but I was actually using the computer to look up recipes on the Food Network site a bit ago. I just love that Bobby Flay. My brother and his wife, Candice, are coming up for a visit tomorrow night from Hayward and I thought I'd make one of Bobby's ‘ultimate rib' dinners. But then I remembered that Candice is always complaining about things being too spicy. Too spicy! I can't even sprinkle a little garlic salt on the chicken without her going on and on about her ‘delicate palate.' So I don't think ribs will do. Nope. I'll have to stick with something basic. Something flavorless. Something with cream of mushroom soup and a side of white bread. I can't picture Bobby on TV pulling out a loaf of white bread just for Candice, can you?”

“I'm sure whatever you make will be delicious, Claire,” Shelby answered, following the librarian to the only computer in the building. Today, she welcomed Claire's knack for dominating a conversation.

“You are a doll,” Claire replied. “Now, do you need help with your search, or are you good?”

Shelby took a seat in front of the computer. “I'm good, thanks.”

“If you need me, just holler.” Claire patted Shelby's shoulder before heading back to her desk. She didn't get more than a few steps away when she turned back, adding, “Our printer has been jamming lately. It's kinda hit or miss. I need to call Al about that—I'm sure he could fix it. That man knows how to fix everything in this town, don'tchya know.”

“Okay, Claire. The printer. Got it,” Shelby answered vaguely, for she was already distracted by a screen that showed pages of hits for the search: WILLIAM CHAMBERS JR. “Unbelievable,” she mumbled. Shelby slumped down in her chair and clicked onto the first entry, “William R. Chambers—(NNS) National News Source,” and read what followed:

Perfect,
thought Shelby.
He gets crowned “most eligible bachelor” while I'm crowned “village idiot.”
No wonder she had let her guard down so easily. Dating women was obviously one of his specialties.
They should have added “recreational adventurer and philanderer” to his bio.
Although she was tempted to shut down the computer and storm out of the library, she couldn't seem to pull herself away from the screen. She wanted to know more about the spider whose web she had fallen into.

What did Ryan say he did for a living? The only thing she remembered was that he had been evasive whenever she brought up the subject. She knew they both had a stake in their family businesses. Unlike her, however, Ryan considered it a burden. He mentioned communications. Shelby assumed it was something small or midsized. Certainly not an industry leader. Why hadn't she pressed him further? Chambers Media—they were involved in virtually
everything
!

“Finding what you need?” Claire called out from the stacks.

“Yes, thanks!” Shelby replied over her shoulder. “Everything's right here, in black and white.”

Emotions hit her like a fast-moving storm on the lake. Anger, self-doubt, admiration, curiosity, dismay. Once again she found herself deeply questioning why this man would be interested in spending time with someone like her. No matter how she looked at it, even when giving herself the benefit of the doubt, it didn't add up.

“How's it going?” Claire suddenly appeared directly behind Shelby, placing a hand on her shoulder and leaning in toward the computer screen.

“God, Claire!” Shelby burst out as she smacked her hands on the desktop. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“William Chambers? Huh,” Claire said, oblivious to Shelby's surprise. “He's sexier in person, don'tchya think?”

“Is he?” Shelby looked from Claire to the computer and cringed upon realizing that she had clicked on a photo of Ryan walking across a city street. He looked casual yet polished, even in jeans. A gray wool scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck and tucked into a luxurious black leather jacket.
So out of my league,
she thought.

“Did you see him when he was here?” Claire asked.

“Nope,” Shelby quietly lied, running her fingers through her hair.

“So why are you looking him up?”

“Oh, you know, I read it in the
Herald
the other day.” Shelby kept her inflection blasé. “I was curious to see if there was any more news about it.”

“I saw that article, too. They say he pretty much kept to himself.” Claire had no qualms about reaching over Shelby to grab the mouse and scroll through more photographs of Ryan.

“So I heard.” Shelby leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, trying to avoid being hit in the nose by Claire's elbow as she took control of the computer.

“I only saw him once, down at the South Point Marina. I think he was checking out sailboat charters.” Claire clicked her tongue when she came across a photo of Ryan looking incredible with a surfboard under his arm on some exotic beach.

Shelby's mind flashed back to that first night with Ryan and how she had tried to keep from looking at him as he sat shirtless beside her on the rocks. “Did you talk to him?” she asked Claire.

“No, but I did overhear him ask about charter dates for this fall, so who knows, maybe he'll be back.” Claire stepped away from the desk and grinned like the Cheshire Cat, obviously quite pleased with herself for being able to pass along a tasty bit of gossip to a new set of ears.

“I don't know,” Shelby said. “Out of all the places in the world, I can't imagine he'd want a repeat vacation in this town.” She took hold of the mouse and moved the cursor to the corner of the screen and clicked to close the page. And just like that, Ryan vanished. Shelby let out a long sigh, and when she was ready, pushed herself away from the computer desk and stood to leave.

“I kinda hoped he would,” Claire said, somewhat deflated.

“I'm sorry, Claire. As I said, rough day. You're probably right about him.” Shelby slid her chair back under the desk. “I'll see you 'round.”

Claire's smile returned. “You bet.” She then leaned over to straighten a stack of resource books that sat beside the computer. “See ya.”

Shelby walked swiftly past the front desk, out the ornate doorway, and into the fresh air. It was incredible to her that a simple news article hanging on the wall of the Lupine Hus Inn had the power to change her perception of someone she was undeniably drawn to, but barely knew.

What did he say before leaving the barn that last night?
“You've made me feel more grounded than anyone I've ever met,”
she recalled.
“I can't give you any promises tonight, and I know you're not asking for them—but I can tell you something that I know for sure. This isn't how our story ends.”
The words had held romantic promise that evening. But today, they seemed empty, like scripted lines from a play. Lines that Ryan had probably recited many times before as he charmed his way in and out of women's lives.

She knew there was someone who would help her to feel better. The one person who had always been there for her—whether she felt the pain of her mother's abandonment, or overwhelmed by the stress of helping keep the farm profitable, or grief-stricken over losing Jeff to the lake. Shelby needed to hear his voice. To feel the comfort of his embrace.

Her feet knew the way—continue down Main Street all the way to the shore. She'd find her old friend John at his shop by the marina.

C
HAPTER
12

D
ressed sharply in charcoal trousers, a black pullover sweater, and a black leather jacket, Ryan walked out of his apartment building on North Lake Shore Drive before most Chicagoans' alarm clocks went off. He wrapped a wool scarf around his neck, flung a pack over his shoulder, and hopped onto his hybrid bike. After a couple of blocks, Ryan wished he'd worn gloves as well because even though the early morning light looked warm—the way it bounced off the skyscraper glass, street puddles, and car chrome—the late September wind and an unexpected cold front gave him a chill. By the time he pulled onto the sidewalk in front of Chambers Media's corporate office, the city streetlights had extinguished like candles on a cake.

The 1920s limestone building on the corner of Michigan and Van Buren had been refurbished on the outside and, aside from its pumpkin orange window casings and a singular
CM
cast in brushed nickel and positioned above the entryway, its architectural integrity remained intact.

Ryan rolled his bike through the entrance, then hoisted it under his arm and carried it across the freshly waxed lobby. While the Chambers Media office was historic on the outside, it was state of the art within. The design played with the old and the new—dim orange lights that backlit original crown molding, brightly textured modern art hanging above chocolate brown Chesterfield sofas, and a wall of television screens encased in the building's signature brushed nickel.

“Morning, Will,” said the uniformed security guard sitting at the front desk, awaiting the end of his shift.

“How's it going, Mike?” Ryan said in greeting, as he had on so many early mornings in the past.

“Oh, you know. Quiet night. Just the way I like it,” Mike answered easily with just a hint of a childhood Tennessee drawl. He leaned back in his chair and gave his arms a good stretch.

“Didn't your daughter have a big softball game while I was gone?” Ryan asked, setting down his bike and leaning it against the front desk.

“Sure did. Man, I was proud of her.” Mike beamed. “That little girl is the smallest kid on the team but she is
fast
. Whenever she hits the ball, which isn't often—
boom!
She tears across the bases like a jackrabbit. Now, if she could figure out how to catch the ball, well . . . that would be something to see.”

Ryan knew it was a challenge for Mike and his wife to work separate shifts, but they were managing. He also knew that as soon as Mike checked out, he would rush home to join his family—Ryan imagined him eating cereal at the counter and helping his wife load school backpacks and lunchboxes. He envied the lifestyle.

“How 'bout you? I haven't seen you in weeks, ever since I switched shifts with McMillian during his leave. Did you know they had a boy?” asked Mike.

“That's great news. His first.”

“Yeah. He's back now. Anyway—good trip?”

An image of Shelby and the northern lights came to mind. “It was. I went up north with some friends,” Ryan answered without elaborating. “But hey, I don't want to keep you.” He readjusted his shoulder pack and lifted his bike.

“Have a good one,” Mike said, giving a quick glance at the security door, waiting for his replacement to arrive for the next shift.

“You, too.” Ryan gave Mike a nod and then carried his bike to the elevator bay.

While taking the elevator down to the basement level to store his bike, his thoughts returned to Shelby. He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Sharing breakfast with Olen and Ginny. Gearing up for a busy harvest day. Checking on the weather. He thought to call her the night before, to get her assurance that everything he was about to undertake would turn out well. But he didn't call. He had left Bayfield six weeks earlier without telling her anything about his life in Chicago, his determination to change his life, or his plans to leave CM. And it wasn't something he felt he could bring up casually—unexpectedly—over the phone. He'd tell her in person.

First things first. His father. If history was to repeat itself, Ryan expected William Sr. to shoot him down flat. He had been dreading their meeting, but now that it was at hand, Ryan felt strangely empowered by the prospect of breaking away. If Bayfield and its people hadn't inspired him, how long would he have stayed in this building, following in his father's footsteps, solely out of familial obligation? A year? Five? A lifetime?

Ryan never belonged at CM. He was like a dolphin in a shark tank and his father knew it. “Rise above it, son,” William Sr. would say. “Chambers Media is in your blood.”

From Ryan's perspective, the only trait that had passed from father to son was an interest in film. In fact, his fondest childhood memories were those of watching movies at home with his sister and parents. They would discuss plot and characterization, special effects, and the role music played in heightening the audience's emotions. Lighting. Storytelling. Mounting tensions. Cliff-hangers and comedic relief.

But that was where the similarities ended. Professionally, William Sr. had a passion for moving images, while Ryan preferred stills. The Chambers family had climbed to the upper echelon of the entertainment business because of their innate ability to spot talent, develop quality programming, and produce successful film projects. They also knew how to use public relations to their advantage, even at the cost of their family's privacy.

Ryan had a different gift. He could tell a story in a single photograph. Keep it honest. Capture joy. Engage. Be real. It mirrored the way he tried to live his life.

 

“I'm leaving, Dad.”

“What are you taking about, Will?” Ryan's father asked without particular interest while leafing through an orderly stack of paperwork on his otherwise spotless mahogany desk. Although Ryan stood a few inches taller than his father, he felt small. William Sr. had a presence about him that dwarfed everyone he encountered. A man of money, exquisite taste, and influence, his father was a powerful force. He had high cheekbones and a solid jawline, piercing green eyes that looked out from beneath a dark brow, and raven black hair combed back with a dapper sheen. And even when he was home on a quiet Sunday morning, the man was always impeccably dressed.

“Do you have an appointment uptown today?” his father continued without much interest.

“No,” Ryan replied, jamming his left hand into his pocket while the other firmly held an envelope addressed to William Chambers Sr., CEO.

“Excuse me?” His father raised his eyes to look over the tortoiseshell bifocals that were poised on the tip of his nose.

“I'm going back to Bayfield,” Ryan replied, echoing his father's emotionless tone. “I'll be taking some time to concentrate on my photography.”

“What does that mean exactly, going back to Bayfield?” William Sr. asked, taking off his glasses and setting them atop the paperwork. “Don't tell me you're off on yet another vacation? Jesus, Will, you just returned from—”

“It's not a vacation,” Ryan interrupted, taking confident steps toward his father's desk. “Dad, I'm here to respectfully decline the promotion. I know there are others on the executive team who are more qualified for the job than me.”

“Is this a joke?” William Sr. laughed condescendingly. He sat up straight in his high-backed leather chair and placed his hands atop the desk, fingers clasped so tightly together they resembled a tightly wound knot.

Ryan continued to outline his plans. “I intend to pursue my photography for a few months—maybe longer. I was inspired by the town and the Apostle Islands area, where—”

“God, you're a fool!” William Sr. hissed through clenched teeth. “Throwing away your education, opportunities, and status, for what? A hobby? You have responsibilities here. As you are
keenly
aware, the board has approved my recommendation to promote you to senior VP of operations. Everything has been finalized. And now, in the eleventh hour you prance in here with your fucking Pollyanna whims to take photographs . . . indefinitely?”

“I haven't signed the new employment contract and you haven't formally announced the organizational change. Hell, you want me to eventually lead operations, but everyone knows Maria Colton is far more qualified to manage that function. I'd be nothing more than a figurehead for CM.”

“That's not true. You're needed here and you damn well know it. This . . . this
fantasy
of yours to be an artist needs to stop once and for all.”

“It's not a fantasy.”

William Sr. laughed with contempt, his flawlessly veneered teeth exposed behind tightly pressed lips.

“There's a difference between a fantasy and a dream,” Ryan continued. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You! This!” Ryan opened his arms to gesture widely at the expansive office with its mahogany and leather furniture, imported rugs, wet bar, closet full of spare designer suits, and an eclectic art collection that included the works of Chihuly, Warhol, and Leibovitz. “You did it, Dad. You're living the dream. But this is
your
dream, not mine.”

“It's
ours
. This belongs to all of us. Why haven't you ever been able to see that?” Ryan's father slammed his hands on the desk with startling force. “Yes! It was always our plan for you to take ownership of CM. And you're about to throw it all away because of some artistic nonsense!” Like a mounting storm cloud, William Sr. rose from his chair and his powerful presence seemed to darken the room. He turned to the picture windows behind his desk to face a coveted view of Lake Michigan, and stood solidly with his right hand fisted into the left, grinding against his palm like a baseball player conditioning his mitt.

“I never asked for this,” Ryan explained, looking at his father's well-tailored form, now bathed in morning light that streamed in through the window. “I've been trying to tell you that for years, but you don't listen. I won't settle for a life that was mapped out by my family. I need to do what's right for me.”

Ryan took a few deep breaths before continuing. “I didn't expect you to understand. Or to support me . . . so here,” he said, dropping the envelope onto the desk. Upon hearing the soft
pat
of the letter landing, Ryan's father turned around. “It's my resignation,” Ryan explained. “I'll be leaving Chicago by the end of the week. Everything's been arranged.”

“Just like that. Leave your responsibilities, your apartment, the commitments . . . everything,” William Sr. spat, his eyes on the crisp white envelope. “Just so you can take pictures of a goddamned lake.”

Ryan nodded. As much as he tried to stifle his emotion, he felt tension in his shoulders and neck and a dull pain beginning to radiate behind his temples. “It's more than that, and you know it.” He jammed his hands back into his pockets, this time to dry the perspiration from his palms.

“Believe me, I know exactly what this is,” Ryan's father said, slow and stern. Ryan continued to stand tall, even though the child inside of him wanted to cower and disappear. “You're running away again, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here and support this behavior!”

“With all due respect, Dad, you didn't support me when I was younger, so I'd hardly expect you to do it now,” Ryan said solidly.

“Is that right? Listen, Ryan, I may not have been there for every school event and soccer game, but I supported you,” his father said. Unexpectedly, and suddenly, the tone in his voice softened. “I worked hard. I built this business to make sure my family was well taken care of—you had the best schools, the best travel experiences, the best opportunities. I believed—I still believe—that I am a supportive father to you and your sister. I did everything in my power to provide you with a good life.”

Perhaps Ryan should have given his father more credit. When the outside world was shut out, and it was just the four of them without any distractions, his family had shared some good times. There simply weren't enough of those moments to amount to a happy childhood for him or his sister.

“And here I was, proud to see you finally step into a role you were born to assume,” Ryan's father continued. And then, in a blink, the softer side of his father's personality disappeared and Ryan was back on guard. “But it turns out that you're not ready to be a man, are you? You're still following childish pursuits rather than an ambitious career path,” William Sr. growled, having perfected the ability to shout without raising the volume of his voice. “You want to quit?” He grabbed the envelope and a red felt-tip pen, pulling the cap off hastily with his teeth. Using broad strokes, he scrawled
APPROVED
across the unopened letter. He spat out the cap and glared at his son. “Now get out.”

Ryan turned and headed for the door.

“William!”

Ryan reached for the door handle and stopped short when he heard his father call out to him in anger, but he didn't look back.

“I hope you know what you're doing, because God knows I'm not going to watch you make a mockery of this company and our family.”

Without another word, Ryan left his father's office to the
clang
of his father's polished shoe kicking a copper waste bin, followed by the gentle
click
of the door closing behind him. Ryan let out a heavy sigh. Avoiding the looks of others who worked on the executive floor, he took long strides toward the elevator. He knew that whatever he did, he would never live up to his father's expectations—whether in Chicago, Bayfield, or any other city in the world.