Family Trees (13 page)

Shelby had the feeling that they were being watched. Sure enough, when she glanced at the teenagers, they were now standing in front of their house and looking intently at Ryan. Recognizing him.

Ryan must have noticed, too. “Can we go somewhere private?” he asked quietly. He leaned his shoulder against hers and gave a gentle nudge. She nudged back. When Ryan kissed the top of her head, she pulled away and stepped back onto the sidewalk
. You're not getting off that easily, Chambers.

With an endearing look on his face that made it difficult for her to refuse, he whispered quietly enough that the gawking teens couldn't hear, “So, how 'bout it? Join me for dinner?”

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” she whispered back.

 

Ryan had asked Shelby to follow his car without saying where they were headed. She was having second thoughts long before they arrived at the South Point Marina just outside of town. She took a moment to sit in her parked truck, wondering why they were there. Why he had returned. And what compelled her to agree to this when she was still wearing work clothes and a lovely layer of festival dirt?
This is such a mistake
.

She watched as he stepped out of his car and grabbed something from the backseat.

Ryan then walked toward her truck.

He was carrying a small duffel bag that looked vaguely familiar.

And now he was standing just outside her door, motioning for her to roll down the window.

“Everything okay?” he asked through the closed driver's side window.

“Never better,” she replied, rolling down the window.

“I hope you don't mind, but I brought some things for you—so you could clean up a bit. Only if you want them, that is.” Shelby opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off before she had the chance. “I know what you're thinking, so let me explain,” he said. “I arrived yesterday and headed straight to your place. I should have called first, but honestly, I didn't know what you'd say. So I decided to surprise you instead and take my chances. Ginny told me I could find you at the festival today.”

“You went to the house? I can't believe that—”

“Can I finish?” he interrupted.

Hearing the insistence in his voice, Shelby leaned back against her headrest to listen.

“When I asked her permission to take you out tonight, she said—”

“What?” Shelby blurted, bolting upright. “You asked for her permission? What about
my
permission?”

“She said you might be a bit irritated with me—something about my reputation.”

“Well, that's just great,” Shelby muttered under her breath, crossing her arms and leaning back again.

“She said if I could get you to agree to dinner, which she admitted was a long shot, she was sure you'd want to freshen up. That's why she pulled together this bag for you. It was her idea.” He extended the bag through the open window. “There's a ladies' room just inside those front doors,” he suggested, pointing toward the marina's clubhouse. It was a modest, one-level building painted white and blue and surrounded by evergreens. It had remained virtually unchanged until three years ago, when the owners added a public dining room and deck that faced the marina and pleased its members.

She took the bag and set it on her lap to collect her thoughts. Shelby had confided in her grandmother. Ginny knew that she felt betrayed and humiliated by Ryan. In packing the bag, was Ginny trying to send Shelby a message to give him a second chance? She rubbed her thumb back and forth against the strap of her bag. Eventually she asked, “Where are we having dinner?”

Ryan's face brightened with relief. He told her that he had chartered a forty-foot sailboat called the
Spindrift
and had packed a dinner to share on board.

“When did you have time to charter a boat?” She recalled her encounter with Claire Dollins at the library and her story about Ryan meeting with someone at this marina.

“A while ago,” Ryan said without expounding. He opened the door for her and helped her out of the truck.

“You must not be staying long.”

“Why do you say that?” He slammed her car door shut.

“Most boats are already out of the water.” She slung the bag over one shoulder. “I'm sure the
Spindrift
will be hauled out within a week or two. That doesn't give you much time.”

“It's all the time I need.” And then, with a mischievous, dimpled grin, he added, “For now.”

C
HAPTER
14

“F
eeling better?” Ryan asked Shelby as she approached the sailboat. He reached out to grab her duffel bag, tossed it into the open cockpit, and then took her hand to help her aboard.

“I have to admit, it felt good to get rid of those clothes.” As Shelby took a seat on one of the padded benches, Ryan couldn't help but notice the rosy glow in her cheeks and how good she looked in a turtleneck sweater, hooded jacket, and faded jeans that skimmed her curves to perfection. “Too bad my hair still smells like grilled sausage.”

Ryan leaned toward her and took some of her hair gently in his hand, inhaling deeply. “Hmm. Apple brats. Delicious,” he teased. “You could always go for a swim.”

“Right. Have you felt this water?”

“Do you remember our first date? When I dove in for that boy?”

“Of course, but your heroism aside, I'd hardly call that a date.”

“I suppose not. Good thing, too. That water is cold enough to raise a man's voice by two octaves!” Ryan said while climbing down the short wooden ladder that led into the boat's cabin. He pulled out a cork from the wine bottle in his hand with a satisfying
pop
and called up to her. “I was joking, of course. Then again, aren't you used to the cold, having grown up here?”

“You never really get used to this lake,” she called back. “You learn to respect it.”

When Ryan climbed out of the cabin a moment later, he was holding the bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“Thirsty?”

“That depends. Are we staying put or sailing?”

“I'll take that as a yes, because I'd rather share a bottle of wine with you than navigate this boat in the dark,” he replied. He filled their glasses and offered one to Shelby before returning below deck to prepare their meal.

“Will you sleep here tonight?” she called down.

“That's the plan,” he replied from the narrow galley amid the clatter of clinking plates and banging drawers.

“Wouldn't a room in town be more comfortable? And warmer?”

“Are you offering?”

“No.”

“Heads-up!” He surprised her by tossing up a plaid wool blanket. When he rejoined her in the cockpit, Ryan was carrying a tray filled with crackers, smoked lake trout, cheese, olives, and, of course, a sliced apple that he had purchased from her earlier in the day. “Help yourself,” he encouraged before turning on a camping lantern on the opposite bench and sitting down. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, he could feel the temperature drop.

Shelby wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders and tucked her legs beneath her, then she reached for a few apple slices and her wineglass. “This is oddly familiar,” she teased. “Isn't this pretty much the same thing you made that other night—when we had a picnic on the beach?”

“I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid.” He chuckled, recalling the night they shared beneath the northern lights. “But I can put this kind of meal together in a snap.”

He gave his glass a gentle swirl, lifted it to his nose, and took in the wine's bouquet. Tobacco, vanilla, and berry. It felt right being back on the lake, away from CM, and in the company of someone quirky, unpredictable, and incredibly alluring. Now, if only Shelby could enjoy his company again.

“What do you think?” he asked, gesturing toward her wineglass.

“It's perfect.”

“It's a tempranillo.”

“It's red.”

“You know? That's one of the things I like about you,” he said. “You see things exactly for what they are.”
Including me.
He raised his glass and clinked it lightly against hers.

She looked around the small, deserted marina, taking another sip of wine, before asking Ryan why he chose to charter a boat in October.

“I've been looking at boats for a while now. I'd like to buy one in the spring. So I decided to test out this Dufour for a few days before it gets too cold.” Ryan cut off a wedge of cheese and grabbed a handful of crackers. “Do you sail?”

“I'm more of a passenger. But I used to spend a lot of time on the lake with a close friend of mine. I know just enough to be a pretty good second mate,” she said. “Is this the kind of boat you want to buy?”

“I might. I have a Beneteau in Chicago. I take it out on Lake Michigan as often as I can. There's a guy at the marina who has a boat similar to this. I've been out with him a number of times, but I've never sailed one on my own.” Ryan leaned forward to cut another slice of white cheddar. “They're designed to handle long distances, but they're also comfortable and easy to handle. And I love their look. I'm excited to take this one out tomorrow.”

“Have you ever sailed on Lake Superior?”

He shook his head while cutting into the sausage.

“All I can say is, make sure your radio and instruments are in working order, have a life jacket and a current chart, and keep a keen eye on the skies,” she warned.

“Thanks, Gilligan,” he teased, noticing how she was pulling the blanket tighter around her legs. “Are you warm enough? Or would you rather go inside?”

“No, no. This is fine,” she said, reaching for the discs of sliced sausage. “I'm suddenly famished. Thanks for putting all of this together.”

There was a lot of small talk and she still seemed reserved. He wanted to tell her everything—his plans for the photography project, the cottage he would be renting for the next several months, the conversation he'd had with his father, leaving CM. His interest in her. All of it. But he couldn't yet find the words. So instead, he popped olives into his mouth, one by one, and discreetly spit the pits over the boat's railing and into the water.

“Classy,” she observed, before doing the same thing herself.

“Just trying to make a good impression.”

There were glimmers of the connection they shared in August. The light humor. The teasing. But something was missing. At the festival and now on the boat, her smiles were either forced or quickly withdrawn. There was an uneasy tension between them and she seemed to be using the blanket as a shield—a barrier to keep him a safe distance away. He hadn't come all this way for nothing. It was time to be direct.

“You're angry,” he said simply.

She showed more interest in slicing a wedge of cheese than replying.

“There's more to this than withholding my background, isn't there?” He waited until she returned his look. “I should have called.”

She held his gaze and casually replied, “I never expected a call.” She raised a buttery piece of Brie to her lips and took a bite.

“What is it then?” he asked, trying to read her expression.

“I just don't get it,” she said, her voice slow and steady. “I'm just sitting here wondering why you'd want to come back to Bayfield. There must be a million other places that would be more interesting for someone of your . . . status.”

“I was trying to explain this to you earlier,” he said. “It's simple—I came back because of you.”

She raised her wineglass and took not a sip, but a gulp. And then another. After a moment, she set down the glass and simply asked, “Why?”

“Why not?” he asked, puzzled.

“Here's the thing,” she began. “We had a good time. A really good time. But we live two completely different lives. All of this—you showing up at Applefest, this beautiful boat, the wine . . . none of this is normal for me. This isn't my life.”

“If I could just—” he started, but Shelby was quick to cut him off.

“Don't you see? I know who you are now. That changes everything,” she insisted. “You lead an exciting life—a public life. And here I am, schlepping apples out of a run-down booth. Sorry. It just doesn't add up. Look around, Ryan. This town isn't glamorous. And neither am I.”

“Actually—” Ryan began to say in his defense.

“And to answer your earlier question—yes. I
am
angry that you deceived me,” she said, her voice growing in agitation and stabbing her fork into a chunk of trout. “I was crazy enough to think that after a few short days I could trust you. And then I read about you in the paper and realized you had been lying to me all along!”

Ryan knew there was no stopping her at this point. And from the look of the pulverized trout, he thought it best to let her continue without getting too close to the end of her fork.

“I was probably one of the few people around here who didn't recognize you. Ha! Can you imagine? In fact, I didn't know much about you at all until I looked you up on the Internet,” she continued, shaking her head in disbelief—her fork now on to an undeserving piece of cheddar. “Jesus—there are hundreds of photos and pages about you, did you know that? Of course you know that. And do you know how many times my name comes up in a search?”

“I don't think it's important how many—” he began to say, his voice quiet. In August, she had mentioned her general lack of interest in social media and only used the Internet when necessary. He suspected there must be mentions of her on the local news sites, or the Meyers Orchard Web page. It had never been important to her. It wasn't important to him.

She dropped her fork and turned toward the lake. When she spoke again, the tone in her voice was replaced with the quiet that comes from self-doubt. “There's hardly any mention of me at all.”

Less than forty-eight hours ago, when Ryan had returned to Bayfield unannounced, he did so without considering her reaction. All of his actions leading up to now had been selfish. He assumed it would all work out. He thought it would be easy. He was wrong not to put her needs ahead of his own. Ryan thought carefully when choosing his words. “I'm sorry,” he said humbly, shifting on the seat to move closer to her.

She put her hand out to block him, so he sat still.

“I'm not the guy you read about. If someone happens to recognize me, whether it's here or anywhere else, nine times out of ten I'll be a disappointment. I'm not bright enough. Tall enough. Interesting enough,” Ryan confessed. “So there's a lot of freedom when I'm not recognized. It's the difference between being the guy someone thinks I am, and being just me.”

He noticed that her hands, once clenched in her lap, were now beginning to uncurl. And the tense lines between her eyebrows appeared to relax. Encouraged that she was listening, he continued. “You weren't like that. In fact, when we met, not only did you not know who I was . . . you didn't
want
to know.”

“That's not true, I . . .” she said, turning toward him.

“Shelby. You turned me down flat.”

She started to say something, but tightened her lips together instead and shifted her body so she could pull the blanket up over her shoulders.

“You
still
are,” he said, gesturing with his hand at the distance between them on the seat. Ryan took a sip of wine and looked past her to see the breakers and the marina entrance with its red and green nautical lights. The lake was dark except for a dimming sliver of crimson that remained of the sunset. The halyards clanged against the
Spindrift
's mast as the boat swayed back and forth with each languid wave. “I didn't come here to take a break from my daily living,” he said with sincerity. “I was taking a break from my life. I need this.”

“What do you need?” she asked.

“A new way of life. I need open spaces.” Ryan paused. “New connections.” His eyes found hers. “We were just starting to get to know one another, and I didn't want it to end. I knew that before I left this summer. It was a mistake to keep it to myself before now.”

A shiver ran up his spine. He shuddered against the chill and tucked his hands beneath his arms. It was getting too cold to stay out much longer and he knew the conversation would soon end. He hoped it would end well, but sensed she might get up and leave at any moment.

“I wasn't completely honest with you, either,” she said, breaking his thoughts. “I don't know how to tell you this, but . . . I can't bake.”

“What?” he asked as he braced himself against another brush of cold air.

“It's true. I can't bake. Back at the store, the day we met, I told you that I baked those pies, but I lied.” She made a poor attempt at keeping a straight face. “Usually, when I'm introduced to new people, they recognize me immediately and are only interested in meeting the person whose pictures hang all over our store. They only see the girl from the orchard, rather than the real me.”

Relieved, he said sympathetically, “I can only imagine how difficult that must be for you. How do you retain any sense of normalcy?”

“Fooling around with the tourists usually helps. Particularly the photographers,” she answered playfully. “They're easy.”

Despite the warmth of her forgiveness, another chill rippled through his body.

“You're shaking.”

“I'm fine.”

“I can share,” she offered, lifting up one end of the blanket that covered her.

“As long as we're being completely honest, I've been freezing for the last half hour and I thought you'd never ask,” Ryan said with chattering teeth. He moved closer and pulled the blanket across his body and over his shoulder, settling in next to her. He was keenly aware of her warm body as she leaned against him.

“So, you never told me—how long are you staying?” she asked.

Ryan tilted his head so that his lips were a touch away from her ear. “That depends,” he said softly.