Читать книгу Alegra's Homecoming - Mary Wilson Anne - Страница 12

The dream was simple, nothing convoluted or strange, the way some of Alegra’s dreams could be. It was just Joe on the ferry watching her as she held her phone. He was coming closer, touching her hand with his, taking the phone, then saying she had to let it go and tossing it over the railing. In the dream she heard the splash when it hit the water, not like the reality that had played out hours earlier.

The dream started to repeat, and this time when he reached for the phone, she refused to give it to him. He shook his head, those blue eyes almost sad. She didn’t want his pity. He reached out again, but not for the phone. For her. Then she was in his arms, and his heat was everywhere….

Alegra woke to a room of hazy shadows and rolled onto her side. She was surprised that the illuminated hands of the clock showed nine-fifteen. Her “late” mornings normally were when she slept until seven instead of six. And she hardly ever remembered her dreams. But when she shifted onto her back and closed her eyes, the dream from last night was there. Joe grabbing her phone and tossing it, then her being pulled into his arms. Both dreams left her feeling oddly unsettled.

With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up. She couldn’t see any sign of sunlight in the long sliver of space between the drapes. Typical island weather—foggy. She headed to the bathroom, with its clawfoot tub and shower stall. She stayed under the hot stream of water for a long time before she got out and dressed simply in a long white shirt and charcoal-gray corduroy slacks. She combed her hair straight back off of her face and into a simple ponytail, and hesitated as she caught her image in the mirror over the pedestal sink.

She thought of her old yearbook picture. There was no desperation in her eyes now, just determination.

After logging on to her laptop and finding a slew of e-mails—mostly about a faulty supplier for the Houston stores—she got down to work trying to figure out what to do. By the time she had the problem settled, it was almost noon. She’d meant it when she said she planned to do some art shopping. A business associate had told her about Angelo’s gallery, said it had the best work on the island. Well, now was as good a time as any.

She tucked in her shirt, slipped on her brown leather bomber jacket, then grabbed her car keys, her wallet and new cell phone. She pushed them into her pockets, left the cottage and stopped on the veranda to glance at the view from the bluffs. If it had been clear, the view would be stunning, but right now it was blocked by the remnants of the fog that hung over the dark waters far below.

She went down the steps onto the crushed shell walkway that led toward the main house and parking lot. Despite the drab day, the old Victorian looked lovely, all cream and forest-green, with elaborate gingerbread trim on its multiple spires and in the corners of the supports for the wraparound porch. She got to her car, hit the remote and as the car locks clicked open, someone called out to her in an almost painfully cheery voice. “Ms. Reynolds!”

She turned to see at the side entry of the house a young woman of maybe eighteen, dressed in a ridiculously frilly apron over plain old jeans and a blue shirt. Martha, Melanie? Alegra couldn’t remember how the girl had introduced herself when she’d checked in yesterday. “Good morning,” she called back, keeping the car door open.

“I was just wondering if we can plan on you joining us for tea at four o’clock.”

An English tea in the main house with the other guests balancing fine china and conversation didn’t appeal to her at all. “No, I don’t think so.”

“How about dinner?”

She had to eat. “Okay, but I’ll take it in my cottage.”

“Just let us know what time, then.” The girl sounded disappointed. “Have a lovely day.”

The girl would have gone back inside if Alegra hadn’t called out to her. “Can you tell me where Angelo’s art gallery is?”

“Sure.” She motioned to the exit of the parking area. “Turn right, go down about a block or so, and it’s on the other side of the street. It’s the only two-story building on that block. There’re a couple more galleries a ways past it, The Place and Jenny’s Treasures. Also, they’ll be setting up an art show near the gazebo in the park next door.”

“Thanks,” Alegra called back, and with a wave climbed in her car. She drove out onto the main street, but didn’t follow the girl’s directions. She knew where Angelo’s was as soon as the girl had said it was a two-story building. But she also knew that she was procrastinating. She had more important things to do on the island. Important, but difficult. She’d find the gallery after she was finished.

She turned back toward the way she’d come from the ferry, then about halfway to the dock, she turned onto a road that went into the heart of the island. She hadn’t been on this road for ten years, but the deep gloom that shrouded it was very familiar.

She passed a scattering of orchards and old bungalows, then spotted her turn. She slowed to a crawl and for a moment thought of just turning around and going back to the gallery to look at paintings and do this later. But instead, she braced herself and turned onto a narrow lane choked by trees and overgrown brush trees.

She went up a small hill and knew the exact moment when she crossed the boundary into the land where she’d been born and lived for eighteen years. She saw the house right away, despite the untended vegetation that pressed all around it. The faded blue walls were chalky and weather-stained. The windows were blank, but unbroken, and the porch sagged precariously.

She pulled the car to a stop and just sat there staring at the house. Why had she dreaded this so much? There was no repeat of the ridiculous tears from the day before. This place meant nothing to her. It was just an old, neglected place that, now that she’d seen it, she could mark off her list and put up for sale, as she should have done years ago, after her father had died. She’d forget about it the way she would this island, forever. She pulled away and didn’t look back, just the way she hadn’t looked back when she’d walked away from the house after graduation with eleven dollars in her pocket.

By the time she drove back into town, her mind was on art. She’d taken up collecting a few years ago when she’d spotted a canvas in an art gallery in New York. It was just a simple work by an unknown artist, depicting a road that wound through a rocky countryside, going off into a horizon splashed with the rich colors of sunset. It drew her in, and she’d bought it on impulse.

Since then, she’d picked up a few paintings here and there with similar themes, roads or paths heading into the distance to an unknown goal. She never analyzed why she felt a connection to those scenes, but in every city she visited, she sought out more of the same. Sometimes she found something, most times she didn’t. But she was going to do the same thing on the island. It would be one spot of pleasure in this ordeal.

She drove slowly along the main street, which was a lot busier than the day before. She passed the Snug Harbor B&B and spotted Angelo’s gallery on the other side of the street another block down. She pulled into what appeared to be the only available parking spot and climbed out of the car.

Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Hey, Roz, what’s going on?”

She turned to head up the two steps to the wooden walkway. Just as Roz started to tell her about a distribution meeting that had been called for the next day, someone ran into her left side. She would have gone right off the edge of the walkway if a hand hadn’t grabbed her by her upper arm.

A voice was saying, “Oh, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” The voice was familiar. As familiar as the deep blue eyes she met when she turned toward the voice. Joe.

Seeing him right by her, holding her, startled her as much as the collision moments earlier had, and she found herself acting without thinking, jerking back and free of his touch. “You almost knocked me into next week!” she said.

Joe let her go, but didn’t move back. Instead, he hunkered down, then quickly straightened up. He had her phone, was offering it to her. She stared at it, knowing she must have dropped it when they collided, then she heard Roz yelling through the earpiece, “Alegra? Alegra! What’s going on?”

She took it quickly from Joe and pressed it against her ear. “Roz, I’m sorry, I dropped the phone. I’ll have to call you back.” She flipped it shut, then turned the phone over in her hand. It had a scuff mark, but other than that, looked okay.

“You didn’t kill it,” Joe said.

“That’s all I’d need.” She pushed it into her jacket pocket. “It took me ages to download all my information into it.”

His eyes flicked over her, then back to her face. “I bet it did.”

Was that sarcasm? She felt a touch of heat in her face. “I’m fully connected now.”

That brought a crooked smile to his lips. “I take it that’s a good thing?”

It occurred to her that he, for some reason, had come back here whipped and beaten, and because of that, resented anyone he saw as successful. The man was handsome and sexy, but he was an islander and obviously a loser. It was a combination that should have killed any attraction she felt for him. But it didn’t. “Whatever.”

He frowned. “You know, that’s truly annoying.”

“Excuse me?” She frowned right back at him.

“The word whatever. It’s annoying. It shows indifference to something, maybe even scorn. It’s a lousy word that gets used far too much. People should just say, ‘I don’t give a damn.’”

The heat in her face now wasn’t entirely a product of being irritated by his penchant for defining words, good or bad. It was because she was anything but indifferent to this man. Instead of arguing, she said with exaggerated pronunciation, “Whatever.”

To her surprise he chuckled roughly and held his hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay, I give up.”

“Good decision,” she said.

He cocked his head to one side and considered her for a long moment. “Were you coming here to see me and give me a good human-interest piece for the paper? I can see it now. ‘Alegra Reynolds of Alegra’s Closet fame, visits our island for—’?”

She cut that off with a fast, “No,” as she realized she’d parked right in front of the Beacon. He must have been coming out of his office. But as the single word hung between them, she had second thoughts. She’d planned to avoid all the islanders until the time was right to tell everyone who she’d been and who she was now; she hadn’t wanted anyone to stumble over her past identity until she was ready. But maybe there was a better way.

Joe, no matter what he’d been in the past, ran the only newspaper in town. What if she let him see Alegra Reynolds, what she accomplished, where she was going, the things that would provide background to the story that would surely be front page news? For when she went to the ball on the last night of the festival, when she finally stood up in front of the islanders and handed them a check to go into a fund for town improvements, an amount that would stun most of the people there, it would be a big story. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for one person to know what she’d accomplished in the years since she’d left the island.

He’d seen her hesitation and continued, “Nothing too intrusive. Just a ‘Guess who’s at the festival’ sort of story.”

“Sure, why not?” she asked.

“Great. If you have time later on, maybe we can—”

“I was on my way to Angelo’s art gallery. I had to park here—it’s packed by the gallery.”

“Parking’s pretty tight with the festival starting tomorrow. That’s why Angelo has a parking area behind his building.”

“Good to know for future reference,” she said, and had an idea how to start passing information to Joe. “Since you’re a local, is there any secret about approaching Angelo if I want to buy something?”

“You mean, to get a deal?” he asked with a crooked smile.

She nodded. “It never hurts to save money.”

“One thing to keep in mind is, Angelo Paloma is very protective of the artists he shows. He likes haggling and selling the product. The only suggestion I’d have is, don’t accept the first price he gives you.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nodded. “I’ve got a bit of time on my hands at the moment. Why don’t I go with you and introduce you to Angelo and we can get started on the story?”

If she’d learned one thing in business it was that if you wanted something, you never acted too eager, whether it was buying a painting or getting your facts to the right person. “I don’t want to take you away from big stories you have to cover.”

“That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“You said you run this newspaper, and there have to be stories that need your attention.”

“Not at the moment, at least, not beyond the preparation for the festival. A good story about Alegra Reynolds visiting the island, maybe thinking of expanding here, now that’s important.”

He was so far off the mark for why she was here that it wasn’t even funny. “That isn’t going to happen.” Opening a store of hers in this place was as unlikely as a five-headed alien kidnapping the mayor of the town. “This island isn’t ready for an Alegra’s Closet.”

“How do you know that?” he drawled. “We’re more progressive than you might think.”

“No hammer and chisel, not anymore, from what I’ve heard.”

“See? Exactly my point. We grow with the times, and if that growth means an Alegra’s Closet right here on the main street, well, so be it.”

“Hey, boss,” a voice said as the door to the offices of the newspaper opened.

Alegra looked past Joe at another man, and while she hadn’t seen him since he’d been at their house drinking with her father, she recognized Boyd Posey right away. He’d been skinny, pinched and balding back then, and now he was skinny, pinched and completely bald. He’d worked at the Beacon all those years ago, and he obviously was still working there.

Joe turned to him, but the man was looking past his boss at Alegra. His eyes narrowed and for a second she was certain he remembered her as well as she remembered him. But she knew how misplaced that paranoia was when he spoke again. “Oh, sorry, Joe. I didn’t see you were talking to a beautiful woman.” He never looked away from Alegra when he went on, this time talking to her. “Ma’am, I’m Boyd Posey, assistant editor at the Beacon.”

“I’m Alegra Reynolds.”

His mouth formed a silent O. She had seen the reaction many times before. Recognition—but not because he recognized her as Al Peterson, but rather, he knew her as the woman whose “empire was built on lace and underwiring,” as a gentleman with the same expression had once told her. “Alegra Reynolds of Alegra’s Closet fame? Well, isn’t that something,” he drawled with a slightly lascivious glint in his pale eyes. “My wife’s got your catalogs.” He laughed. “Not that she can wear the stuff, but she can dream.”

Joe cut in. “What was it you needed, Boyd?”

Boyd let his gaze linger on Alegra for a long moment before he turned back to Joe. “You didn’t say if you’re coming back.”

“I don’t know. I’ll check in later.”

Boyd met Alegra’s eyes again. “Do you model your clothes?”

She didn’t remember liking or disliking Boyd in the past. He’d been a drinking buddy of her father’s and he hardly even noticed her. But now she was edging toward not liking him. Forcing a “business as usual” expression that she had mastered over the years, she shook her head. “I just design and sell my stock.”

“Too bad,” Boyd murmured, then went back inside.

She felt Joe by her side, and heard him say on a sigh, “Should I apologize for Boyd?”

“Don’t bother. It goes with the territory,” she said, looking down the street to the building she knew housed the gallery. “Everyone has a reaction to what I do, and sometimes it’s less than complimentary.”

“Believe it or not, Boyd was complimenting you.”

“Whatever,” she said as she turned back to him.

He smiled at that. “A good use of that word for a change.”

That was when he touched her arm. “Come on. Angelo is waiting to dazzle you with his inventory of brilliant art.”

She wanted Joe to go with her, but that didn’t mean she wanted contact with him. She moved away from his touch as she took off toward the gallery. He fell into step beside her.

The bottom level of the gallery was framed by brick and the upper level by silvered wood siding. The roof showed spots of green moss, and it was pitched high in the middle over the entry.

The building had been a feed store when she’d lived here, with rough wooden floors and huge beams overhead that had held winches to lift hay bales in and out of the lofts. The place looked very much as it had back then, except there were deep windows now where the loading doors had once been, and a new entrance had been fashioned between them with carved double doors. Joe took a step ahead of her, grasped the heavy-hasp latch and pushed the door back for her.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I can promise you that Angelo won’t give you any grief over your choice of careers.”

She stepped inside. Glancing around, she saw that all remnants of the feed store were gone, except for what was retained for decorative impact. The subtle scent of woodsy incense hung in the air. The space still soared through both stories, but now it was a grand area to display paintings and sculpture. The floors were highly polished hardwood, and stairs, fashioned of wood and iron, swept up in the middle to a second display space upstairs. Soft harp music drifted around them, and the peace in the place was palpable.

A disembodied voice with a very British clip to it cut through that softness, coming from somewhere near the rear of the building. “Greetings! Please, help yourself to tea or coffee from the table by the windows, and I’ll be right there.”

“Angelo? It’s me, Joe,” Joe called.

“I’m talking to London. Give me a minute.”

“You got it.” Joe motioned to an oval table that held tea things, along with some shortbread cookies. “Like anything?” he asked.

“Oh, no, thanks,” she said, and looked at the nearest grouping of paintings.

“Then why don’t we just browse until Angelo’s free. Anything in particular that might strike your fancy?”

She couldn’t explain to him what she was looking for, because she didn’t know until she saw it. “I’ll just look around,” she said.

“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind, and you can tell me about the art you already have.”

What would she tell him? I collect roads that go nowhere? She didn’t think so, but she spoke softly, “Okay,” and went into a large alcove formed by three floating walls butted up against each other in the shape of a U. When she saw an elegantly simple gold plaque on a slim stand by the three prints, she stopped and stared at it.

Works by Sean Payne—Local Artist.

Her past hit her with such force the room started to swim. She took a deep breath, and the room settled, but the pain in her middle didn’t ease. Sean, skinny and mean and taunting her. She had to struggle not to rush out of the gallery.