Family Trees (25 page)

Jackie grasped her chest in feigned dismay. “Excuse me?”

“Today, of all days, you need to be on our side.”

“Be on your side?” Jackie laughed. “Shelby, darling, I'm
always
on your side.”

“That's bullshit!” Shelby burst out, surprising everyone, herself most of all.

“Girls!” Ginny snapped. “Remind yourselves why we're here.”

“I'm sorry, Gran, but I can't take it anymore!”

Ginny's voice softened quickly, saying, “Don't forget the diary, dear—”

“Please don't bring that up now, Gran. She snooped through my things and read my personal thoughts—yes, the notes were nice,” she admitted, glancing at her mother to gauge her reaction before continuing. “But let's be real. She comes home and you and I end up walking on pins and needles. Just like we always do. ‘Let's not upset Jackie.' ‘You know how Jackie gets when she's angry.' ‘She's only in town for a short while, so we need to make the most of our time with her.' It's crazy. She doesn't deserve it!”

“Really?” Ginny closed her eyes. “Do we have to do this now?”

“Go on, Shelby,” Jackie challenged with narrowed eyes. “I'm interested. Tell me what a terrible mother I am. Let's hear
again
how difficult it is to have me around. This is enlightening.”

“Why do you care what I think? You left me!” Shelby lashed out in an angry voice that she barely recognized as her own. “Let's get real, shall we,
Mother?
I know why you want to move back. You failed in California. You failed in your relationships. And you failed with me!” Shelby heard her words, but felt disconnected from them, as if she were watching everything unravel from a distance. “You wanna know what I think? You think you can get all cozy with Gran again so you can convince her to sell the farm and make a quick profit for yourself. Selling our home and tearing apart what's left of our family? That would be icing on the cake for you!”

“You're something else, you know that, Shelby?” Jackie said, turning to Ginny. “This is how you raised her, Mother? To be so accusatory?”

Ginny shook her head, clutching the poem tightly in her hands. “No . . .” she murmured.

“Gran taught me to be strong,” Shelby declared.

“Strong?! Then why do you follow your grandparents around like a puppy dog? Why are you so afraid to live your life? You're not fooling me, little girl—I grew up in the same house you did. The only difference? I had the strength to leave. Do you hear me? You're locked in and you don't even know it. I'm doing you a favor!”

“Enough!” Ginny cried out, reaching for the flower bouquet that lay beside her and then shaking it high in the air like a white flag, white petals falling to her feet. “We are here to honor my husband and you
will
be respectful, do you hear me?”

“Be real, Mother,” said Jackie, folding her arms across her chest.

“You want me to be real? How's this for real, Jackie,” Ginny scolded. “Leaving Bayfield the way you did was not an act of strength. I love you, but you were a coward. I never thought I could be more disappointed in you than the day you left Shelby.”

“Gran, please.” Shelby's guilt for having started this argument was sinking in. If only she had remained quiet.

“But you proved me wrong, didn't you,” Ginny continued. “Years of neglect—disappointment after disappointment—abandoning your child over and over again? That kind of heartache has been absolutely devastating to Shelby. And to our entire family.”

The clamor of angry voices muffled in Shelby's ears. She couldn't listen to it any longer. She turned away from Ginny and Jackie and cast her eyes on the glistening water around them and imagined how wonderful it would feel to disappear . . . to dive into the lake and wash it all away. . . .

 

“You want to see devastation?” Jackie jumped and swung her arm squarely into the bait bucket with a
whack
, sending it careening into the air. The gray, ashen contents dispersed into the air in a cloud and sprinkled down over the lake water, while the orange bucket hit the surface with a splash. It bobbed for a moment before taking in water. The container, like the roots that held their family together, was barely hanging on.

 

You were loved, so you can go.

 

 

 

You were loved, so you can go.

 

 

“Shelby! What's gotten into you?” Ginny asked, taking hold of Shelby's arm and giving her a shake. “Shelby!”

“She's really lost it this time,” Jackie added. “Who stares off into space and then starts laughing in the middle of an argument?”

Shelby looked at the orange bucket, which was still sitting on the ledge of the boat with all of its contents intact. Her cheeks felt wet, but rather than lake water, she had been cleansed by her own tears. She had escaped into a daydream and reemerged with a renewed sense of purpose.

“I'd like to know what you think is so funny,” Jackie continued.

“Gran, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me.” Shelby took her grandmother's hand. “I don't think it matters if we give Grandpa a perfect send-off, or if we make mistakes.”

Jackie shook her head. “What in the heck is she talking about now?”

“You know, Mom. I changed my mind,” Shelby said, fixing her eyes on her mother. “I honestly don't care anymore if you're on my side or not. What's important is that you support Gran.”

“What?”

“I'm done waiting for the day for you to be a parent. I gave up on that a long time ago.”

Jackie raised her arms in exasperation and looked in Ginny's direction. “Mother, are you listening to this?”

“Quiet, Jackie.” Ginny put her other hand up to Jackie, and then to Shelby she asked, “You were saying?”

“I know this seems crazy, but I have a feeling we're going to be okay. And I think it's time for us to move on,” Shelby said.

Ginny eyes glistened with emotion. Shelby knew her grandmother understood every word that was left unspoken. After giving her flushed cheeks a pat with both hands and clearing her throat, Ginny said in jest, “So, what'll we do about this one?” She raised her eyebrows and pointed her chin toward Jackie.

“If you really want to stay on the farm, you'll have to trade in those fancy shoes of yours for a pair of work boots,” Shelby told Jackie. “And you'll need to help work the orchard, and support Gran. If you mistreat her, or try to sell the family business, you're out—even if I have to drag you off the property myself.”

Jackie threw her arms out to her sides. “Can she do that?” she asked Ginny.

“She can—and she will.” Ginny beamed.

Shelby expected a comeback from her mother. But instead, there was only silence. Jackie looked at her hands, which lay clenched together in her lap. Finally, she said, “You have no idea what it's like.”

“What?” Shelby asked carefully.

“To realize your life has been nothing but one long string of lousy decisions.” She looked up at her daughter and, with a shaky voice, said the words that Shelby recently read in hidden notes within her diary, but never thought she'd hear aloud. “My parents. My career. Men. I should have done it all better,” she said simply. “And you're right, Shelby. Out of everything I've done, the worst has been failing you.”

“Jackie,” Ginny uttered gently.

With a trembling lower lip, Jackie continued, “And the thing is, coming back here, I realize the only thing I did right was to let Mom and Dad raise you. They helped you to become the woman that I failed to be.”

Shelby inhaled through her nose, filling her chest with the cleansing lake air. She then let out a long, deliberate exhale through her mouth. Processing the moment. Feeling strong and renewed. Shelby approached her mother and sat down beside her. “Tell us the truth. Why did you come back?”

Jackie's tired, drawn face looked up at her daughter. “It was time for me to come home,” she cried, wringing her hands nervously. “I need to make it right.”

“It will take time.”

“Yes.”

“If you're willing to talk, I am, too.” When Shelby placed her arm over her mother's hunched shoulders, Jackie dabbed at her eyes and let out a trembling sigh of relief. “But first, we need to say good-bye.”

And to that, Ginny whispered a heartfelt “Amen,” cleared her voice, and finished the Frost poem.

C
HAPTER
33

A
quiet rumble could be heard in the distance as an evening thundercloud moved farther away from Chicago's River North gallery district. As the summer rain continued to patter in the street and on the rooftops, art lovers and friends mingled about a white-walled gallery with exhibit brochures and cocktails in hand. A melody of voices, clinking glasses, and shuffling feet played backup to saxophone jazz that piped in through overhead speakers. At the front of the gallery, heavy raindrops clung to the darkened windows and caught the gleam of a corner streetlight as they crept slowly downward. Late arrivals hurried in through the front door, shaking out their wet umbrellas and wiping their feet at the entrance.

Ryan stood near the windows, speaking with two couples about a photograph of a woman's petite work boots, well worn and tied with red lace, bracing against a massive anchor and a heavy coil of rusting chain links on a ferry deck. “I've never met anyone like her,” he said with a laugh, remembering the lively morning he had spent with Nic taking photos on the
Island Queen
. Looking at the larger-than-life print on the wall, he hoped people would second-guess which was stronger—the pile of iron or the gal in the boots.

Twelve hours earlier, while standing at the kitchen counter in his apartment with a cup of coffee and a copy of the morning
Times,
Ryan was relieved to read Josh Stone's preview of the show,
Family Trees—A Bayfield Story.
Ryan had expected Stone to be leery of his artistic ability, and the reviewer didn't disappoint. In fact, Stone made his initial doubts clear in his opening paragraph. “Most children born into the spotlight can make a living out of riding upon their parents' coattails, but offer little in the way of authentic talent,” Stone wrote. “Will Chambers unabashedly proved this reviewer wrong.”

Stone went on to compare Ryan's work to that of Craig Blacklock, renowned photographer and lifelong supporter of Lake Superior. “Whereas Blacklock captures the patterns, colors, and textures that are found in nature, Chambers drops the natural world into the background and pulls the people who dwell in it into close focus. By paying careful attention to both the scene and the subject, his work beautifully portrays an area of the Upper Midwest that few people have explored,” the article read. “Chambers's portraits are filled with such a surprising depth of character that the viewer feels pulled into a story, as told beautifully in a single frame.”

While the review had been a relief for Ryan, seeing people's reactions at the show opening that evening was far more rewarding. Ryan continued to move about the room, speaking easily with clutches of people who stood in front of the large-scale photographs displayed throughout the space. He found his friends, Brad and Pete and their wives, admiring a close-up of Gloria's weathered hands weaving a wreath out of ground moss, her fingers berry-stained and etched in dirt-filled creases.

The surgeon who lived in the apartment beneath Ryan's was standing before his piece,
Remember,
with her partner. The women held hands while admiring the photograph of Jeff's nephew, Benjamin, whom he had met on several occasions with Shelby. With the lake as a backdrop, the photograph showed the child holding on to the end of his father's shirt with one hand, and a small red sailboat in the other.

“William, you remember our attorney, Al Jackson,” said one of his parents' friends as she threaded her arm around his and led him to the picture of Ginny and Olen driving through an apple grove in a vintage John Deere. While Ryan chatted amicably about the collection, he pointed out a series of orchard photographs that influenced the show's theme.

After wrapping up his conversation with Mr. Jackson, Ryan glanced to his left to see his mother, dressed impeccably in a tailored summer suit, holding her hand delicately over her abdomen as she considered the photograph of Rachelle and the wisp of steam that swirled out of her coffee mug and around her pregnant belly like a protective spirit.

Looking about the room, Ryan realized that the night was about more than branching out on his own. Or about the art. There was tremendous satisfaction for having taken the advice Shelby gave him during one of their talks in the orchard. He had found a way to embrace his life experiences and, in his own way, attempt to make a difference.

But the evening wasn't all about him. It was also about another man whom Shelby loved. The proceeds from the exhibit would go toward a newly formed Olen G. Meyers memorial fund to benefit conservation efforts throughout the Apostle Islands. He had asked for Ginny's approval before moving forward with the idea, and, to his relief, she gave him her blessing. Persuading her to accept a separate financial gift, one to put away in case anything ever happened to her, Shelby, or the farm, wasn't as easy.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention any of this to Shelby,” he had said to Ginny over the phone. “You have my word,” she said with understanding and gratitude. As he hung up the phone that day, he was relieved to know he had found a way to honor his promise to Olen.

“Great turnout tonight, William,” said CM's ruddy-faced programming vice president, who gave Ryan a congratulatory slap on the back. “I like the arrangement you and your father cooked up. It'll be terrific for our community affairs outreach.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, Jerry.”

“So you'll be producing a new series on small-town communities that flank our Great Lakes, is that it?”

“Yes, and the proceeds from that programming will go directly into conservation,” Ryan said, looking around the room for someone who would be interested in speaking business with the guy. “I thought it would be a great way for CM to give back.”

“But did I read the memo correctly—that we're contributing one hundred percent of the—” Jerry began.

“Hang on, Jerry—hold that thought,” Ryan interrupted, reaching out to grab hold of the Italian linen suit that brushed past them. “Dad! Just the person I was looking for.” When William Sr. turned and saw Ryan, his face lit up in a smile.
I'll be damned. He actually looks proud,
Ryan thought to himself.

“Will—terrific evening,” his father said, raising his glass of chardonnay with a nod. “There are a lot of red dots out there. Your pieces seem to be selling quickly.”

“I appreciate it, Dad. Thanks,” Ryan said, guiding him into the conversation. “Say, I thought you'd like to talk to Jerry for a minute. He has questions about how we structured the financing of our new conservation series.”

“Jerry!” his father said, giving the man a welcoming slap on the back.

Pleased to leave the business aspects of his plan to his father, Ryan moved on to speak with others.

“How on earth did you capture this shot of the ice breaking along the shore? It looks so dangerous—and cold!” said a middle-aged woman with a sleek black bob and a boozy slur in her speech. At least twenty years his senior, the woman practically purred. “How do you stay warm on shoots like that?” she gushed while boldly running the long nail of her manicured finger down the side of his arm.

“Lots of layers, I suppose—I'm glad you like it,” he said politely before excusing himself and heading directly for the bar. Just as Ryan reached for a glass of wine, however, someone approached him from behind and grasped his shoulder. It was Lance Middleton, the gallery's lanky publicist with facial features that were as sharp as his spiked white hair.

“What a night, man! What a night!” Lance said as he adjusted his fashionable black-rimmed eyeglasses. “But listen, before you grab a drink, there's someone I need you to meet.”

“Can it wait? I could use one of these.”

“Later—now, come on, follow me. A buyer has been admiring
Inspired.
” Lance was referring to Ryan's favorite piece in the show. The one tucked away in the back corner of the gallery. The one he hoped would never sell. “She arrived a short while ago and isn't staying long. Before she commits to the piece, she told me she wants to meet the artist. So it's time to turn on that Chambers charm.”

Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets and reluctantly followed Lance back through the crowded space. After reveling in the high of a successful debut, this impending sale made him feel a bit crestfallen.
Let's get this over with quickly,
he thought, putting on a professional face.
It's just a print. I'll always have the original.

“Who is the buyer?” Ryan asked Lance as they meandered through the crowd.

“A Ms. Bucket,” Lance answered, ushering Ryan past a series of photographs of the Meyers orchard. Trees. Apples. Leaves. The images had a dizzying effect as Ryan continued to make his way to the back corner.

“Did you say Bucket?” Ryan asked. His mind raced back to one evening spent in the Bayfield cottage with Shelby. It was a bitterly cold night, a perfect evening to sit on the couch and read by the fire. He had his feet up on the coffee table, while she stretched out on the length of the couch and rested her head on his lap. She had looked up from her book and smiled when Ryan explained how he occasionally used the name Charlie Bucket as an alias, a reference to the young boy in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.

“That's right,” Lance said, stopping just before they reached a slender woman standing before
Inspired,
an expansive piece that took up most of the wall space. She wore a dress that was as pale and blue as the water in the photograph. With his hand covering his mouth, Lance leaned over and whispered, “I believe her first name is Carly.”

Ryan paid little attention to Lance as he noticed how the woman's brunette hair fell gently over her shoulders. She began to fidget with her dress and then stumbled slightly when her ankle turned in her high-heel sandals.
She's no Cinderella,
he thought, grinning.

“Wait, no—her name's Charley. Ms. Charley Bucket,” Lance corrected in a hushed voice. “I'll introduce you.”

Ryan shook his head and lifted his hand slightly. “It's okay,” he said. “I'll introduce myself.” He took a cautious step closer, feeling an anxious twinge in his stomach.
Shelby,
he thought in utter disbelief.
Of course it had to be her
. He needed to breathe. Keep calm. He rubbed his hands together, shaking out his nerves, and looked over Shelby's shoulder at the framed piece of art.

He had taken the photograph along Madeline Island's shoreline nearly a year ago. In it, Shelby was sitting on a rock that jetted out over the lake. As she looked toward the horizon that day, lost in thought, she was unaware that Ryan was sitting in a red kayak, floating in the water just offshore. The moment the photograph was taken, Ryan had felt inspired to move to Bayfield—and the course of his life was irrevocably changed.

Ryan exhaled slowly and then took the last few steps until he was standing beside her, facing the photograph. “Charley Bucket,” he said lightheartedly, loving the way she had played with Lance by using his favorite alias.

“Ryan.” When she turned to him, he remembered just how much he missed the warmth of her brown eyes. The two of them stood together, in the quiet corner of the gallery, neither one knowing quite what to say. He sensed they were both feeling the intensity of their reunion. Ryan had always thought she was beautiful, even in faded jeans and work boots, but tonight—the sight of her in the dress, her hair done, wearing a hint of lipstick, and the delicate silver and turquoise necklace from her grandfather hanging delicately around her neck—she took his breath away.

“You did it,” Shelby said, breaking the silence between them and nervously rubbing her thumb back and forth over the exhibit brochure in her hand. “When I walked through the gallery, I felt like I was home again—the farm, the people, the lake. I'm speechless.” It took everything in him not to reach out and touch her. She lifted the brochure and pointed to her grandfather's name. “And then I saw this . . .”

He cleared his throat, looked down at the paper in her hand, and simply said, “He meant a lot to me.” A thousand expressions of adoration raced through his head, and yet Ryan held back his words.

“It's incredible.” He heard the sadness in her voice. “He would have been honored,” Shelby said as she reached her hand toward his, and with apparent second thoughts, pulled it back again.

God, what I wouldn't give to have her back.
Ryan's heart raced and his arms ached to hold her. He remembered how he felt on the night of their first kiss as they lay on the sand dunes outside of town, under the glow of the northern lights. He longed to kiss her again, but she was the one who had said good-bye. He swallowed hard. He didn't know why she had come. And so, in his uncertainty, all he could do was ask for the truth.

“It's so good to see you here. You have no idea,” he said. “But I'll admit I'm not only surprised. I'm confused. What brought you here?”

She took a hesitant step closer to him, reached again for his hand, and this time easily wove her fingers through his. Beneath her touch, his nerves melted away like snow in the spring. “It's pretty simple, really. Bayfield no longer feels like home . . . without you in it.”

And now I'm home,
he thought, wrapping his arm around the familiar curve of her waist.

“I love you, Ryan,” she said.

He could feel the warmth of her body through the silky fabric of her dress.

“Tell me again.”

She happily obliged as he gently eased her closer. He whispered her name, closing his eyes as he brushed a kiss upon her cheek. When she lifted her head toward his, Ryan kissed her lips and felt his heartache fade away.