Alegra's Homecoming

“That’s quite a load to bear,” he murmured, and for a crazy moment she wondered if that was pity she saw in his eyes. Though why this man should look at her with pity made no sense.

“It’s business. That’s not always fun and games.”

“Why did you come for the festival if you have such pressing business matters?” he asked.

He’d find out soon enough on the last night at the masquerade ball on what was left of the Bartholomew Grace estate. Maybe he’d cover it for his little newspaper. It would all be over for her then, and she could leave the island behind once and for all. “I can mix business and pleasure, despite the old taboos about it.”

“Good for you,” he said, but he didn’t sound congratulatory at all.

She suddenly felt their conversation had taken a turn into something combative. “Are you the welcoming committee, cross-examining people who come for the festival?”

She thought her words hit their mark, but the next moment, he was almost smiling at her. “Now there’s a job that could be interesting, interrogating lovely ladies on the ferry.”

She wasn’t ready to laugh with him, and her phone having gone to a watery grave only added to the tension of returning to Shelter Island. “Now there’s an employment opportunity that would beat the heck out of doing stories on peach picking or drunks.”

She hated the sarcasm in her tone, but couldn’t help it. This man was starting to annoy her.

“I’ll pass,” he said, and now she felt a chill between them. “And good luck finding a cell phone store.”

“Thanks,” she said. The silence that fell between them was beyond awkward. Before she turned and went back to her rental car, she found herself saying, “As far as doing business goes, I was told that you had fax machines, Internet connections and phone lines on the island.”

“Thanks for filling me in. Now we can put away the hammer and chisel and the slabs of stone we use to write our stories for the paper.”

She flushed, and then the bell sounded to let the passengers know they had to get back in their vehicles to disembark. She started to walk off.

“Can I ask you something before we climb in our vehicles and ride off into the night?” he asked.

She felt herself bracing. “What?”

“It came across the wires just a week ago about you coming to the West Coast because you were merging with a competitor.”

She never would have guessed that a story like that would end up in the offices of a small weekly paper. “We’re buying them out, not merging. They’ll become one of our Alegra’s Closet stores.”

His next question was unexpected. “Are you here to open a new store on the island?”

She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of his question, but simply shook her head. “No, definitely not. I have other things to do, not the least of which is looking for some art at the local galleries.”

He studied her for a moment, then said, “Nice meeting you.”

“Sure,” she said as she heard car engines starting, sending a low roar into the cold air over the sound of the idling engine of the ferry. She called out, “Goodbye,” and headed for her car.

“Goodbye,” she heard him yell after her.

She got into her rental, and as she settled, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She saw Joe open the door to a beat-up pickup truck parked right behind her. He caught her eye in the reflection, lifted a hand in a wave and climbed into the truck. J. P. Lawrence, now known as Joe Lawrence. “How the mighty have fallen,” she said to herself. She wasn’t sure she bought the reason he’d given—that he was here for his son. Why would anyone want their kid to grow up on Shelter Island?

JOE DROVE HIS OLD TRUCK off the ferry and onto the gravel of the landing right behind Alegra’s sleek black sedan. When he’d come back to the island with Alex, he’d bought the truck from his father, instead of having his car from New York shipped out. The pickup didn’t look like much, but everything worked. Besides, the Jaguar would have been totally impractical for use on the island.

As he watched Alegra inch out of the parking area behind the other cars, he thought about what he’d heard about her founding a string of high-end boutiques that sold intimate apparel on the East Coast, then setting up franchises across the country. It was a fast rise for any business, and seemed only set to grow more.

He followed her car past a small cluster of service buildings, then up the steep driveway to the highway that ran around the perimeter of the island. Most of the cars crested the rise and funneled north, and as they did, one by one, they turned off, heading for their respective homes.

He didn’t turn and neither did Alegra. He thought about the cell phone falling overboard and her horrified reaction. He would have laughed if she hadn’t looked so stricken. Those amber eyes had been filled with anger, frustration—and a touch of sadness.

He hadn’t expected that, not when she seemed to be so successful. But then again, he knew someone could have great business success, but be totally lacking in a life beyond that. He had been a prime example of that in his other life. He shrugged that off as they entered the town, passing under the banner hung high above the road proclaiming Ahoy And Welcome To Any And All Who Enter. The Gothic lettering had a skull and crossbones on either side.

With the festival so close, the main street of Shelter Bay was fully festooned with wood and brass everywhere, street signs all displaying a Jolly Roger overlaying a silhouette of the island, and pirates aplenty in windows and on signs. The park at the center of town, laid out on a piece of land that jutted out toward the sound, had its huge pavilion decorated to look like a huge crow’s nest on a galleon. The lush grassy area, rimmed by wind-twisted trees and bushes, was being filled with booths and food areas, in preparation for the mainlanders who would descend on the island in two days. A life-sized brass sculpture of old Bartholomew Grace, complete with raised sword and a patch over one eye, which had been donated by members of the Grace family still on the island, stood at the entry to the park.

The sedan in front of him slowed just after the park, and the right turn signal came on. Alegra Reynolds was going to the most expensive and exclusive bed-and-breakfast on the island, the Snug Harbor Cottages. A fully restored, three-story Victorian was the original building, and it fronted a series of luxurious cottages built out on the bluffs. Immaculate rose gardens separated the cottages, and strategically placed trees and shrubs added to the sense of privacy in each.

Joe had intended to keep going, but instead he pulled into the lot behind her, slipping into the parking spot next to hers. She got out when he did, and he could see that she’d confined her hair in a clip at the base of her neck sometime during the drive. The style served to emphasize her elegant features and huge amber eyes.

“Hey, there,” he called. “I just remembered something.” She waited for him by the door to her car. “There’s a store farther down the street on the right as you go north. It’s called Farrow Place. It’s a secondhand store, mostly, a consignment sort of arrangement. Earl Money owns it, and he’s the original diversifier around here.” Joe held up a hand when he saw her frown. “I know, I know, that’s not a word, but it describes Earl’s business bent. A bit of everything. I remembered that I heard someone mention that Earl was going to be selling cell phones and pagers.”

“Really? That’s great,” she said with obvious relief. “I’ll check it out as soon as I can. I thought I was going to have to go back to Seattle to get a replacement.”

Doubting it would go over with her, he said, “If he can’t help you, maybe you could consider being phoneless while you’re here. It could be liberating for you.”

She grimaced. “You make it sound as if the phone is a millstone around my neck.”

“Isn’t it?”

She exhaled. “No, it’s a terrific convenience, and a necessary one.”

“Sure,” he said. No point arguing. “Good luck with your phone hunt.” He went around to get in the truck, with a quick glance at Alegra as she strode confidently toward the wraparound porch of the Victorian. He must have imagined any vulnerability in the woman on the ferry. She knew who she was. She was in control. She’d have a phone in an hour, one way or the other, and her world would be right again. Snap. Problem gone. He pulled out of the exit and headed farther north.

Just half a block later, he turned left and slipped into the last parking slot in front of the wood-fronted building that housed the Beacon. He’d only been gone since early morning, off to Seattle to look for a new press for the paper, though he’d soon decided against it. He’d let Boyd Posey, his right-hand man who knew the old press inside and out, take over and find its replacement. He didn’t want to waste time in Seattle.

As he got out of the truck and took the two steps up to the wooden walkway, then opened the half-glass door to the newspaper office, he thought about his attachment to Shelter Island.

When he’d left after graduation, he hadn’t looked back. He hadn’t thought he’d ever come back for more than just a yearly visit or so to see his folks. He’d been out to conquer the world, as he’d told Alegra, and he probably had by some people’s standards. Not his. His world was here, on the island, with his son and his son’s grandparents, a world to be lived in, not conquered.

His parents hadn’t asked too many questions when he came back. He was glad. He was home. That was it.

The Beacon hadn’t changed much since he’d been a kid. The furniture was old, dark and heavy, and the reception desk ran side to side, making a barrier between the entry and the back offices. Stacks of the current issue of the paper sat on the counter, fronted by a brass plaque that held an imprint of their banner—The Beacon, The Island’s Voice. Boxes of handouts from local businesses aimed at the tourists here for the festival were placed on the other end. Photos on the walls dated from years ago to the present, and headlines of their biggest stories were highlighted on a special board near the door. He liked the way the place looked, liked its smell of age.

He glanced at the man sitting behind the reception desk, and it was obvious Boyd was so intent on what he was doing on the computer he hadn’t heard Joe come in. Sixty years old and bald-headed, Boyd was thin to the point of emaciation, with hawklike features and skin so pale you’d doubt it had ever seen the sun.

“Boyd?” Joe said. Boyd jumped at the sound of his name and closed the lid on the laptop before he turned to look up at Joe, who knew he’d been playing a game. Boyd had been with the Beacon for almost thirty years, as much a fixture as anything else in the office, and Joe didn’t care what he did on his downtime, as long as he could depend on him to get the paper out.

“I thought you’d be gone more than a day,” Boyd said. “Does your quick return mean we have a new press?”

“Nope. It just means I’m back early.”

Boyd crossed his arms on his narrow chest and motioned with his head to the back of the space. “I knew they cost an arm and a leg, so I can understand if we have to nurse that beast along awhile more.”

“That’s not it,” Joe said. “I decided that you know a lot more than I do about what we need and so you should be the one to do the buying. Why don’t you go over during the festival and see what you can find?”

The man’s jaw dropped open. “Me, go and get us a new press?” He got to his feet, and for the first time in a long time, Joe saw color in his cheeks. “I get to pick it out?”