Читать книгу Alegra's Homecoming - Mary Anne Wilson - Страница 11

Eighteen years later

“I am Alegra,” the woman said softly to herself.

She stood at the railing of the lumbering car ferry as it broke free of the docking area to make the trip across Puget Sound to Shelter Island. She stared at the distant dark blur of the island that was all but lost in the mists of the late-November day. “I am Alegra,” she said again.

The cold dampness brushed her skin, and she pulled her cashmere jacket more tightly around her. Tucking her chin into the faux fur collar, she never took her eyes off her destination. The island certainly didn’t look welcoming. She was the only one at the rail, the other passengers opting to stay in the warmth of their vehicles, but then again, they weren’t coming back here after ten years. They were mostly commuters who were just going home. She wasn’t.

She heard the muffled chimes of her cell phone and reached into her jacket pocket for it. Flipping it open, she glanced at the caller ID, then said into the mouthpiece, “Hey, Roz, what’s wrong now?”

Her assistant, Roz Quinlan, said brightly, “Calm down. All’s clear on the Alegra’s Closet front, or as clear as it can be at this time of year.”

The upcoming holidays increased the sales of their product—women’s intimate apparel—at their stores and through the mail. Nothing was simple with her business this time of year, but it kept going. So if Roz’s call wasn’t a business problem, what was it? She had no family, and her friends were all involved in the company. “Did you call just to hear my voice?” she asked.

“Not even close. It’s Beach Boy Ken.”

Alegra grimaced. Roz didn’t like Ken Barstow, the junior partner in the law firm Alegra’s Closet Inc. used, and although she was polite to him, when she spoke about him to Alegra, Ken became “Beach Boy Ken.” When Roz first met him, saw his tall, blond, tanned good looks and pronounced ingratiating manner, she’d decided he was “plastic and phony.”

“What about Ken?” Alegra asked.

“He’s been calling and leaving messages on your cell, he told me, and you haven’t picked up or returned his calls.”

Alegra had dated Ken Barstow off and on for almost a year, but whatever he’d thought might come from it was fading fast. She was too busy with her company to have time for a serious relationship, which in fact was the way it had been since she’d left Shelter Island. College had taken up four years of her life, design school a few more years, then there were the years spent getting her business up and running.

And, she hated to admit it, but Roz was partially right about Ken. He wasn’t plastic and phony, but he was on the fast track and doing everything he had to do to further his ambition. Sort of the way she was, she conceded to no one but herself. And she’d been pulling back ever since. “Tell him I’m swamped and I’ll contact him as soon as I can.”

“You got it,” Roz replied, then added, “So where are you now?”

“On the ferry,” Alegra said as the outline of the island became clearer, and she could see the ribbon of beach below the towering bluffs, a pale strip between the dark water and the darker land. Now she could even see lights from houses twinkling to life in the coming dusk. And there, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was the old lighthouse. She felt a knot grip her stomach at the sight.

“Well, good luck to you,” Roz said, which only made the discomfort in Alegra’s middle worse.

Roz had been with Alegra since the day her lingerie designs first went into production. She’d been there when the first Alegra’s Closet had opened in New York, and stuck with Alegra all through the struggles to get going and expand. Roz was as close as a sister in some ways, but even she didn’t know everything about Alegra’s past, just a general impression that it wasn’t great and that she was going back to her childhood home to settle a problem before she headed back to San Francisco.

Alegra cleared her throat before she murmured, “Thanks,” and flipped the phone shut.

She narrowed her eyes on the lighthouse, standing like a dark sentinel on the northern end of the island. Suddenly the past two weeks of checking on stores in California, Oregon and now Washington, seemed like another life. All the years she’d been gone were merely a blink in time.

She found herself gripping the railing with both hands, so tightly that her fingers whitened. She was back to the day, after her high school graduation, she’d packed a bag and finally had made her escape. She’d walked the two miles to the ferry landing in the pale light of a June morning, taken the ferry away from the island and found a new life. Now the old life was rushing up to meet her.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself of the reason she was coming here: the need to put Al Peterson to rest. But now that she was getting closer and closer to the island, her eyes started to burn, then her lashes became damp. “Damn it,” she muttered and swiped at her tears. She never cried. She wouldn’t cry. And, as her stomach began to churn, she vowed she wouldn’t throw up, either.

She closed her eyes as she pressed her hand to her middle. She breathed deeply a few times and the urge to be sick subsided, though she still felt a bit nauseated.

“You shouldn’t stand out here on the deck when it’s this rough and this cold,” a masculine voice said by her right side.

Her eyes flew open and she turned to see the man who had spoken to her. The first thing she noticed were his eyes, a deep, true blue. He was tall, over six feet, dressed in what she used to call “island traditional.” That meant a flannel shirt, jeans, the more faded the better, and heavy boots. His dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, didn’t look styled at all. He wore it straight back from his angular face, longer than was fashionable, and now it was ruffled in the breeze off the water. The shadow of a new beard roughened a strong jaw, and grudgingly she had to admit that he was attractive enough to catch any woman’s attention. That sexy outdoorsman look…

“Excuse me?” she asked when she realized she’d been staring.

He leaned on the rail with his right arm and narrowed those blues eyes on her. “Are you seasick?”

That did away with having to explain why she’d started to cry. “A bit,” she confessed.

He shook his head. “That’s a shame. But it takes a while to get your sea legs.”

Her only response was a small smile. She turned back to the view of the island. The ferry was about halfway there now, and she was able to see the outline of the huge pines on the ridges and the stark rocks in the bluffs.

“At least the trip’s short,” he said.

It felt like an eternity since she’d driven her rental car onto the deck of the ferry to begin the journey back. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.

She thought he’d leave, that if she didn’t say any more, he’d drift off and leave her alone. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward with both arms on the rail and stared down into the dark water. “Twenty-two minutes,” he said.

She frowned in confusion. “What?”

“The trip, it takes twenty-two minutes, if the weather’s good and the water’s smooth. If the weather’s like this, and the water’s choppy, it can take half an hour.”

She shifted to look at him. “And you know this because you’re a regular on this run?”

He cast her a slanted look. “A regular? I was, way back. I’ve only taken the trip a few times lately, though.” He turned toward her and tucked the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his worn jeans. “But some things never change.”

“You’re from the island?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I’ve only been back there a few months, but I guess once an islander, always an islander.”

“If you say so,” she murmured as her stomach churned anew.

“And you’re here for the Bounty Festival?”

You’re going there for revenge? She remembered Roz saying in disbelief when she’d told her the reason she was coming back: she was going to show the people who’d pitied little Al Peterson and made her life miserable that the little girl was gone, that she was now Alegra Reynolds—she’d taken her grandmother’s surname—successful designer and businesswoman.

She’d denied Roz’s accusation

Roz had studied her and finally said, “Honey, success is the best revenge.” But unless they knew who Alegra Reynolds was, they’d never realize how far Al Peterson had come.

“So are you here for the festival?” he repeated.

“Isn’t everyone?” she asked.

“Well, not always,” he responded. “Some come over to visit friends and relatives.”

“I have no friends or any family on the island,” she said, and hoped her tone sounded normal.

“A true tourist?”

She shrugged and the fur on her collar brushed her chin. “Just curious,” she murmured.

Her phone rang and she opened it to see Roz’s number on the readout again. She hit the “ignore” button, just as another spasm of nausea clutched at her stomach. She hugged her arms around her middle and bent forward to try to minimize the discomfort. “Damn it,” she said.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Simple words. Yet they echoed in her mind, bouncing off the past, and pulling a day from eighteen years ago right into the present. She made herself look up. He still held her shoulder, and his head was cocked to one side, those blue eyes intently surveying her. The festival, Sean taunting her, humiliating her, then Mr. Lawrence standing between her and Sean, holding both of them back, his hand on her shoulder, him leaning over, looking at her intently, asking, “Are you okay?”

Just like this stranger, but he was leaner and darker than Mr. Lawrence had been back then, maybe younger. Around forty or so, and Mr. Lawrence had been…well, to a child, old, maybe fifty. But the tone of the voice and those blue eyes, along with the strong hand on her shoulder, confused her. If she narrowed her eyes, blurred her vision, it could have been Mr. Lawrence talking to her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then straightened up. Thankfully he let go of her. She grabbed the rail with her left hand and exhaled. “I’m fine. It’s just so rough. The water and the wind and the cold.”

“This is actually pretty nice for this time of year,” he said, and she knew it was true. “I’ve always thought it was crazy to have the festival in November. But it was November when Bartholomew Grace got back here safely from his pillaging and plundering, and celebrated. So who’s going to go against the tradition set up by one of the most feared pirates who ever sailed the seven seas?” The man grinned at Alegra, obviously enjoying his little explanation. “His ghost would rise up and make us all walk the plank if we dared to mess with his plans.”

Pirates and ghosts, her wishing she could have gone on a pirate ship and gotten rich, then come back and made anyone who called her Al Peterson walk the plank. The past was alive around her, and her mind raced. Mr. Lawrence had a son. The boy had been in high school or maybe he’d just graduated and gone off to college around the time of Alegra’s run-in with Sean. She couldn’t remember much about the Lawrence kid, since he was so far ahead of her in school, but she thought his name had been Joe.

“The old guy loved the celebration as much as he loved the pirating, from all accounts. It was a debauchery, to all intents and purposes. Now it’s a week full of art shows, crafts, wine tasting, sailing on the sound, parties and a parade, all topped off by a charity ball on the final evening. Not quite the definition of debauchery.” He went on as if reciting directly from a book. “A debauchery is a wild gathering involving excessive drinking and promiscuity. From what I’ve seen over the years, the label ‘festival’ is definitely more fitting. A festival is an occasion for feasting or celebration.”

She smiled weakly. “Is your middle name ‘dictionary’?”

“No, my middle name is Preston. Joseph Preston Lawrence.”

JOE LAWRENCE watched the blond woman as he told her his name. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he stated all three names to her, but it certainly wasn’t to see those finely etched cheeks blush or those deep amber eyes widen. She recognized his name? That shouldn’t have surprised him, although being on the island for six months and being out of the limelight had certainly lessened the chances of anyone knowing him, other than the islanders he saw day in and day out. And none of them were too impressed by Joey Lawrence.

Her tongue touched her pale pink lips, before she simply said, “Oh.”

“And you’re…?”

She stared at him, as if he was suddenly speaking a foreign language, then she swallowed and softly cleared her throat. “Alegra Reynolds.”

Joe had spotted her at the booth where the ferry tickets were bought before they’d boarded for the trip to the island. She’d stood out in the sea of commuters getting on the ferry’s last run before it shut down for the night. Her clothes had certainly made her conspicuous: the thigh-length jacket with what he’d guess was politically correct faux fur at the collar and cuffs, to the pencil-legged jeans, and the narrow high-heeled boots.

He’d watched her get her ticket, then climb into the car, a sleek black sedan, in front of his old truck. He’d guessed she was in her late twenties, with shoulder-length hair the color of rich cream, and a profile that hinted at a delicate beauty he wouldn’t have minded seeing full face. But she was in the car with its tinted windows, and out of sight by the time the ferry started loading.

He’d been behind her on the deck, letting the truck idle to keep the heater going, and watched her exit her car. No islander would leave the comfort of his or her vehicle to stand at the rail and stare out at the dark waters of the sound. He’d watched her until she disappeared, then decided to go belowdecks to the small concession for some hot coffee.

He’d been up since four that morning, taking the earliest ferry to Seattle, and he was starting to feel the effects of a long day in the city. But before he’d reached the stairs that led belowdecks, he’d passed the woman and heard her mutter, “Damn it all,” in a choked voice. He’d turned and she was there, looking decidedly green around the gills. He hadn’t thought twice about going closer and asking her if she was okay.

Now he was standing facing her, seeing she was as beautiful as he’d thought she was. Alegra Reynolds. The name rang a bell, but before he could get a handle on where he’d heard it, her cell phone rang again.

After reading the LED screen, she answered it. As he turned to look past them at the dock coming closer and closer, he heard her say, “What now, Roz?” Then a long silence before he heard, “Do it. Let me know when the tax attorney gets back to you.” As he glanced back at her, he saw her end the call, but still keep the phone in her hand. “Business,” she said.

“I assumed as much. ‘Tax attorney’ doesn’t usually come up in everyday conversations with friends and family.”

She smiled softly, another expression that was so damned endearing it made his breath catch. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “You lived here before and then came back?”

He nodded. “Right.”

“You commute to work now?”

Despite her blush when he’d told her his name, she apparently didn’t have a clue who Joseph Lawrence was. “No, I work on the island. I’m a writer for the newspaper, the Beacon—it’s a small weekly for the island. We cover big stories like announcing the best peach preserves and counting the times the local drunk is locked up.”

A spasm crossed her face and he was certain she was going to be sick, but she only exhaled. “You’re a reporter for the paper?” she asked.

He nodded. “A reporter and the owner.”

He could tell that surprised her. “Really?”

“That’s what it says on the flag, owner and editor, at least it has for the past six months. The previous owner, Clive Orr, retired to Florida to sun and fun.”

“Smart man,” she murmured as the wind picked up, bringing cutting cold with it.

When her phone rang again, he heard himself asking, “Does it ever stop?”

She took the device out, saw the LED and hit a button that shut off the ring. “When I turn it off.” She kept it in one hand, and tried futilely to get her hair under control and behind her ears. “It’s business. You know how that is.”

He had a flashback to his other life, before he came home to Shelter Island. Back then cell phones had been his lifelines. Heck, he’d had three. One for business. One for personal calls. And one with a number he only gave a select few. He’d had an earpiece he never took out of his ear while he was awake. Now he still had a cell phone, but seldom turned it on, and truthfully wasn’t at all sure where it was right now. “It can eat up your life, can’t it?” he said.

She took him off guard when she asked, “Why did you leave the island?”

He shrugged. “You know, the old I’m-going-to-conquer-the-world attitude?”

“And you didn’t?”

“I got close, then came back here,” he said, not about to go into details of the twenty years he’d lived away from the island, or why he’d come back here six months ago with his three-year-old son, Alex, to make a life for the two of them where his own had begun.

The ferry slowed even more, and an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Sorry, folks, we’ve got a bit of a problem docking, and it’ll take a few minutes.”

“Riding the ferry can be an adventure,” he said as the big vessel lurched to a complete stop.

Alegra grabbed the railing to brace herself. “This could be a huge story for your paper,” she said.

“I guess so,” he said, aware of more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. It hit a nerve. “Not like gang shootings or bodies in the Hudson, though.”

That made her smile. “Yeah, not exactly the big, bad city.”

“Alegra Reynolds. You’re from New York.”

It was a statement, not a question, and he could tell it surprised her. “Yes, but how—?”

“The boutique. The one near downtown Manhattan. All black and silver, with headless mannequins in the windows?” He’d gone past that upscale store when he’d walked to work instead of taking a cab. He’d glanced at it more then once, and wondered how anyone could call those tiny pieces of silk and lace clothing. “You’re that Alegra.”

She looked pleased that he knew of her. “You got it right, but how could you?”

“In my other life, I worked at one of the big New York dailies, and our offices were about two blocks south of where your store is. I went past it a lot.”

Her smile slipped, and her mouth formed a perfect O before she finally said, “J. P. Lawrence? You’re that Lawrence?”

He nodded. “Used to be.”

“But now you’re here?” She waved vaguely to the island nearby.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“But you…” She bit her lip, looking as if he’d said he was from Pluto but chose to live on Mars. She looked stunned. “You were the editor, weren’t you?”

The ferry lurched forward again and the voice came over the speaker. “We’ll be docking in five minutes. Please be ready to disembark.”

“We need to go to our cars.”

It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “What are you doing here running a weekly newspaper?”

So many had asked him that, and so many had gotten his stock answer. “I’m here for my son, to let him grow up where I did.” But a part of him wanted to tell her something that was more truthful than the first statement. “I told you I went off to conquer the world, but what I didn’t say was, it wasn’t worth it.”

She stared at him, then a frown grew. “Oh,” she said. “I understand.”

“What do you understand?”

“Nothing, I’m sure it’s personal. Things happen, and—”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t a drunk or druggie and lost it all. No.” He stood straighter. “I didn’t have a breakdown or punch the publisher in the face.”

She held up both hands, palms out to him, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

He looked at her hands, the long, slender fingers, and realized something. She wasn’t holding her phone any longer. He didn’t remember her putting it in her pocket, either, though maybe she had. “Your phone?” he asked.

She felt in her pocket, then looked back at him. “Oh, no!”

Alegra must have dropped it when the ferry lurched. They both dropped to a crouch to search.