Family Trees (5 page)

C
HAPTER
5

J
ohn Karlsson from West Bay Outfitters had been right about the weather. As he had predicted, the early evening winds had picked up significantly, just as Ryan, Brad, and Pete were pulling their kayaks out of the water back in Bayfield. A summer storm followed closely behind the winds, breaking just as the men arrived at their rental cottage. Though the dwelling's windows rattled through the night, and thunder clapped loudly through the thin walls, it wasn't enough to keep the men from falling into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning, the sun peeked over Lake Superior's horizon and cast golden light between the trunks of pine and poplar trees along the shore and onto the cottage that sat nestled in tall grass and wild field daisies. Residual drops of rain water clung to its peeling white paint, dripping, glistening. A screen door squeaked open and then banged shut as Ryan stepped barefoot onto a lichen-covered porch. Dressed in a fitted black tee and khaki hiking shorts, he found a resting spot on the creaking front steps that led to a grassy path to the water. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and leaned forward, a mug of hot black coffee held in his hands.

Though the temperature was expected to warm to the low nineties that day, there was just enough chill in the morning air to be refreshing. Looking out onto the water, Ryan marveled at the lake's ability to wash away his stress. The flashing lights. Impatient horns. Angry commuters. Rumbling subways. Screeching tires. Ruthless paparazzi. Life in Chicago seemed a million miles away from this small clearing on the shore. And that was just far enough to allow Ryan to breathe easy.

Ryan had found the cottage online and, after seeing a single photograph of the place, he knew the seventy-year-old rental property would be private and perfect. He rented it under the assumed name of Charlie Bucket, which was the alias he used most often. Ever since he was a child, he had been captivated by the story of Willy Wonka and young Charlie, the boy who had plucked a golden ticket out of a foil-wrapped chocolate bar and saved his family from poverty. Ryan never envied Charlie's good fortune at the end of the book. It was the
beginning
of Charlie's story that he loved most. How wonderful it would be, Ryan thought, to be tucked away in a tiny room, covered protectively in warm blankets, surrounded by parents and grandparents who loved him unconditionally.

“Like hell you will!” The imagined rage of his father's voice exploded into Ryan's thoughts like a thunderclap. Ryan put down his coffee and ran his fingers through his hair, as if by doing so he could drive out the image of his father. William Chambers, CEO, the one man who would certainly take issue with his decision to decline his newly created position with Chambers Media. It was a job that had been offered out of nepotism rather than merit, to work for the family business that had thrust him unwillingly into the public eye.

Ryan would have to sort out his plans carefully before confronting his father. Shut down the Chicago apartment. Pack up his photography equipment, clothes, and a few incidentals. He would happily leave the meaningless luxuries behind. If he moved to a place like Bayfield, he could escape his public life. He could escape the familiar, uneasy sensation of being watched. He could separate himself from the scrutiny of being William and Charlotte Chambers's only son and heir apparent to Chambers Media. His sister, Martha, had managed to move away and start a family of her own in South Carolina. He still didn't understand why she was praised for making a life of her own, while the ties of duty were bound so tightly around his wrists.

It was time he deviated from the family plan that had been laid out before him. This time, he would follow his own dreams. But first, there was the matter of the woman from the rocks. It seemed crazy, even to him, to think that this new plan of his was somehow connected to her. A complete stranger. He felt compelled to find her again before he returned home.

Hearing the sound of his friends beginning to shuffle about the kitchen, rummaging for coffee cups and whatever they could pull together that resembled breakfast, Ryan picked up his mug, stood, and called through the screen door, “I'm heading into town. You guys need anything?”

“Food,” they grunted in unison. Ryan shook his head and smiled to himself. Some things never changed. The outdoors, beer, and food. It didn't take much to tame the lions.

 

After a short drive from the cottage into town, Ryan rounded the corner onto Main Street, which ran uphill from the marina and ferry landing. The street was flanked by turn-of-the-century brick and wood-paneled buildings that once served as a union bank and trade businesses and now housed small businesses such as a small wine shop, gift stores, and boutiques. His jet-black Mercedes turned the heads of two middle-aged men who were walking dutifully behind their window-shopping wives.
Note to self,
Ryan thought,
swap out the Mercedes for something less conspicuous on the next trip
. There weren't many people out at that hour. He drove past a tourist with a camera slung over her shoulder, a couple pushing a stroller, and a pair of teenagers walking with their arms around one another's waists.

Ryan pulled his car to the side of the road and parked in front of the local grocery store. Unbuckling his seat belt, he noticed that he was under the observation of an elderly couple seated on the sidewalk bench, quietly sharing a breakfast pastry. They licked icing off their fingers and held Styrofoam cups of coffee gingerly between their legs.

As he stepped out of his car, Ryan saw the shapely, tanned legs of a woman carrying a stack of white pastry boxes that obstructed her face. She made her way to the grocery store entrance and, with the boxes teetering in her arms, tried to push the door open with her foot.

“Hey, hey! Hold up!” He rushed over to offer assistance. “Let me get that for you.”

“Thanks!” came the woman's voice from beneath the sweet-smelling boxes. “I don't know what I was thinking!”

“Here, let me take a couple of these for you.” He lifted several boxes from her load. When her face was revealed, his breath caught in his chest. What were the chances? He pressed against the door to hold it open for her.

“Thanks!” she said with relief, easing her way past him. She wore a loose pair of cuffed jean shorts, which appeared softened from wear and were cinched at the waist with a woven belt. Her complexion looked smooth and radiant against the crisp white of her T-shirt.

“Say, didn't we . . .” he began, looking for a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

“Hmm?” She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes with a puff.

“I mean—where to?” he asked, following her into the store. It was a simple grocery store that seemed to offer just enough of everything. A small, but well-stocked dairy case. Dry goods. Meat cooler. A bank of freezer doors. A single cashier station. And, throughout the store, the enticing aroma of fresh bread baking. Yeasty, toasty, and tempting enough to lure customers right off the street.

“Just over there.” She pointed with her chin. “On the bakery counter.”

“Whatever you have in here smells incredible!” Ryan said. “Strawberry?”

“Yes, you have a good nose,” she replied, leading him hastily toward the back of the store. “A couple of blueberry, too.”

“Did you bake them?”
How did he find her so easily?
he wondered. Nothing worthwhile was ever that easy.

“Did I bake them?” She paused, gently biting her lower lip. “I did. Yes.” She set the boxes down gently and peered over the counter that separated the bakery kitchen from the rest of the store. “Thanks again for your help.” She appeared distracted, now looking past Ryan and over his shoulder.

“Ryan,” he added, placing his boxes next to hers.

She barely glanced back at Ryan. “Excuse me?”

“My name. It's Ryan.”

“Well, Ryan. Have a nice stay in Bayfield.” She looked at him with eyes that creased with smile lines. “And thanks for coming to my rescue.” Aside from her nose—rosy from the sun and slightly peeling—there was softness to her skin.

“How do you know I'm visiting?” God, he thought, how long had it been since someone saw him for
him,
rather than for the man they recognized from the media?

She was behind the counter now, still looking for whoever was to receive the pies and standing beside a cooling rack filled with trays of sourdough and Scandinavian specialty breads. She turned, taking a few steps backward, and answered, “I guess you just have the look.” And with that, she disappeared into the warm kitchen.

Ryan ran his hand through his thick tangle of hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He stood there, feeling rather foolish. Should he wait for her? And if he did, what else could he possibly say? That his father built the family business into a thriving media conglomerate that now handled some of the most successful film and television projects in the country? That his family was based out of Chicago, but also had homes in California and New York? That his parents lived an extravagant lifestyle and socialized regularly with high-profile people?

“Excuse me, are you waiting?” asked a young woman who walked up beside him, a sleeping infant harnessed to her chest. She held one hand gently upon her baby's head, and carried a gallon of milk in the other.

“No, not at all,” Ryan answered, stepping aside so she could move up front and set her milk upon the counter. “Do you need help?”

With tired, drooping eyes, she looked for someone else's assistance. “I'm good, thanks,” she answered. “Just picking up some wine bread.”

“Heather!” The cashier waved to her from the end of the aisle. “I have your order up front.” The young mother walked away, leaving Ryan alone with his thoughts once more.

Here, in this small town, he wasn't interested in talking about how, for reasons he would never understand, people seemed fixated on his life. And how his face recently appeared in a national magazine under the ridiculous moniker of one of “America's Most Eligible Bachelors.” He couldn't tell someone he had just met how he wished the spotlight would dim so he could step out of the public eye.

And most of all, he couldn't confess that the sight of her on Madeline Island had inspired him to alter the trajectory of his life.

“You making deliveries for Ginny now?” A tall, angular, white-haired man with a full beard and eyes the color of faded denim suddenly appeared next to Ryan. He began reading the flavors hand-written on the side of each box.

“Is that her name?”

“Rhubarb. You've got to try her rhubarb.” The man tapped his finger against one of the boxes.

“I'll be sure to do that, thanks,” Ryan said. “So, the woman who made this delivery—her name is Ginny?”

“Yep, Ginny comes in a couple of times a week with the pies. Usually picks up a few things for herself, too. You say she's driving today?” The man looked around.

“I'm not sure. I just helped her in,” Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders and crossing his arms.

“Good Lord, she's somethin' else. I thought she was supposed to be takin' it easy.”

“Why?”

“Pneumonia, poor thing. Damn near landed her in the hospital. I'm surprised she's already working again,” the older man replied.

“Pneumonia? I'm surprised. I mean, I only just met her, but she looked healthy.”

“Well, good. She's a strong woman. Good Norwegian stock. So I guess I'm not surprised she's back at it.” He paused, putting his hands on his hips. “Huh. Guess I thought her husband would make the delivery.”

“Husband?”
Of course she's married,
Ryan thought, surprised by his disappointment.

“Yep. Olen. Great couple, those two. Just great. Hard workers, too.” The man chatted away freely. “Too bad about their daughter, though. Kind of a rotten egg, if you ask me.”

A rotten egg? What kind of man is this who would say something like that about a young child?
Just as Ryan was about to speak in defense of a child he didn't know and a woman he had just met, she returned.

“Well, hey there, Shelby.” The man wrapped his wiry arm around Shelby's narrow shoulders and gave a squeeze.

“Shelby?” Ryan was surprised to hear the sound of his own voice, feeling relief and confusion in a singular moment. She raised an eyebrow in Ryan's direction, as if to ask why he was still there. He wasn't sure himself, so he offered her a slight nod and grinned sheepishly. If only there was something he could do to appear useful.

“Hey, Boots, I was looking for you,” she said to the other man. “Sorry for bringing these in late. Forgive me?”

“Don't mention it. Don't you know I keep a couple back in the freezer as backup?” Boots said. “But more importantly, shouldn't Ginny still be resting?”

“She is—Gran's at home. And she's feeling much better. Practically back to her old self. In fact, she was already frying doughnuts when I left the house.”

“Huh. A bit of a misunderstanding then,” Boots said, looking Ryan in the eye and then turning his attention back to Shelby. “Your friend here was asking some questions about you, and here I thought he was talking about your grandmother.”

“My friend?”

“Ryan,” Ryan said, offering his name to her again and feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

“Right.” She pulled herself away from Boots's embrace and introduced the two men. “Actually, we just met. Ryan—Boots. Boots—this is Ryan.”

Now Boots was the one who appeared baffled, as he looked back and forth from Ryan to Shelby. “Well, it's really none of my business. Tell your grandmother ol' Boots says hello, would'ja?” Without another word, Boots took some of the boxes to the kitchen. In the same instant, Shelby left Ryan to make her way out of the store.