by Helen Brenna
“No.” Noah shook his head. Just the thought of an isolated winter on this island sent an uneasy chill up his spine.
Marty paced the length of the porch. “I know what it feels like to want off this island. I couldn’t wait to head off to college. Now I can’t wait to move back here, raise a family, run my own business. People change, Noah.”
“Not this people.”
“So there’s no way you’re staying?”
“No.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Hell, Marty, how should I know?” Now it was Noah’s turn to pace, albeit with a bit of a limp.
“Then I get back to the original question. What the hell are you doing?”
“Obviously, I don’t know.”
“Well, do everyone a favor and figure it out before hearts get broken all over again.” Marty went back to the steps.
A surge of protectiveness toward Sophie welled inside Noah. “What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wanting to tear down Rousseau forest land to build a brand-new hotel, pools and a golf course?” Noah couldn’t believe he cared one way or the other. “Talk about breaking hearts. How can you do that to Sophie?”
“You don’t live on this island anymore, so you don’t understand the situation.”
“You’re threatening to destroy tradition, history. That’s pretty simple.”
“This island is dying, Noah, and all the residents refuse to see it. Since you don’t live here anymore and never plan to live here again, maybe you should stay out of it.” Marty pounded down the porch steps. “In the meantime, there are a couple of kids at the inn dying to beat you in table tennis.”
“You still want me to come down?”
“I’m not going to figure this one out for Sophie. Unlike the rest of this island. She’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.” Once in the yard, he turned. “Do you want to play Ping-Pong or not?”
Noah’s initial reaction was not. All those people, the activity, the conversation, the looks. Kids staring at him, he didn’t mind. They were curious. What bothered him most was the way adults often studied him, noticing his gait and then their gazes shifting away. These days, insulating himself felt more comfortable. He didn’t have to watch everyone else getting on with his or her life while his stagnated.
“Noah, man, you’re not a hermit.” Marty’s voice broke through Noah’s thoughts. “It’s not your way.”
No. It wasn’t.
“Maybe you’re not up for the competition,” Marty challenged with a sudden gleam in his eye. “Maybe you’ve gotten soft.”
Noah laughed. “All right, Little Mart. You’re on.”
SOPHIE TOOK HER MIND OFF last night’s town council meeting, not to mention what had happened between her and Noah, and locked herself in her office Wednesday morning to catch up on some work. It felt good to push everything out of her mind and focus, if only for a few hours. After lunch, she rejoined the wedding party outside and was surprised to find Marty playing against Noah in the deciding match of a table tennis tournament.
“Game point.” Marty chuckled. It was his serve. “Get ready to lose, Noah.”
“Go, Uncle Marty!” Sophie’s nieces and nephews cheered for their uncle.
“Noah! Noah! Noah!” Lauren chanted.
“You’re dead meat, Noah,” Kurt yelled. “You can do it, Uncle Marty!”
Sophie glanced up at her son. There was something decidedly less than good-natured in his support of Marty. What was that all about?
While it was disconcerting having Noah in such close proximity to Lauren and Kurt, it was good to see Noah laughing and interacting with Marty and Brittany’s wedding guests. His skin had color back and he was already gaining some weight. He grinned and Sophie saw a glimmer of a new Noah, an all grown-up and mature, full-fledged man. A man who could take care of himself. Not long now and he’d be leaving to get on with his life. Good. That was good.
“Here we go!” Marty served, and Noah returned. They volleyed back and forth. Marty slammed a fast one and Noah returned a little too hard. The ball missed the table by no more than a quarter of an inch. “Yes!” Marty raised his arms in victory as the crowd that had gathered clapped and cheered. “Finally, I beat you at something.”
“Good game, Uncle Marty.” Kurt tapped his fist against Marty’s in midair.
“You did your best,” Lauren said, patting Noah on the back.
“Maybe I let him win.” A grin on his face, Noah set down his paddle.
“Yeah, right.” Kurt rolled his eyes and turned to walk away.
“Hey,” Sophie whispered to him, setting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged her off and walked away.
When she turned back around the crowd had dispersed, leaving only Sophie, Lauren and Noah.
“Glad to see you made it down here,” she said.
“Marty came up to the house and challenged me to a game. What could I do? Besides, I needed a break from painting.”
“They’re setting up teams for a boccie ball tournament,” Lauren said. “Will you be on my team, Noah?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“Oh, come on!” She dragged him across the lawn toward the sign-up table Jan was manning.
“Noah, do you remember Jan?” Sophie asked.
Jan looked up briefly, scowled and then went back to her paperwork.
“Sure, I remember. Your husband runs the equipment rental place, right?”
When Jan only nodded, Sophie said, “Yep, that’s Ron.”
“Noah’s going to sign up on my boccie ball team,” Lauren announced.
“Wait a minute,” Noah interrupted.
“All the teams are full,” Jan said.
“I thought I needed three more people,” Lauren complained.
“We had to shuffle things around to make the teams more even.”
Sophie cocked her head at Jan. Something about that excuse smelled fishy, but the less time Noah spent around Lauren, the better.
“Since when?” Lauren asked.
“Since you were watching the Ping-Pong tournament.”
“What—”
“It’s okay,” Noah said, patting Lauren’s shoulder. “I need to get some more work done, anyway.”
“Oh, all right,” Lauren said, disappointed.
They walked away from Jan’s sign-up table and were heading toward the beach when one of Lauren’s cousins yelled, “Lauren! It’s your turn for karaoke.”
“Coming!” She ran toward the inn. “See you guys later.”
That left Sophie alone with Noah. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good. I slept…really well last night,” he said, then quickly changed the subject. “Went into town first thing and picked up some groceries. I actually rented a bike.”
“How did pedaling go?”
“I did okay.” By this time they’d wandered to the water’s edge. Noah picked up a rock and skipped it over the surface of the water. “This place isn’t as friendly as I remembered.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Little things here and there. Old man Newman was at the grocery store along with his son. He barely looked up from the shelf he was stocking. His son was downright rude.”
“Mike Newman rude?”
“Feels like a conspiracy to me.” Noah grinned. “I think they want me off this island. Probably more than you do.” He kicked the toe of his tennis shoe into the sand. “Can’t blame them, I guess. I’ve never disguised the fact that I hated living here. Not to mention I pretty much put my dad through hell when I was a teenager. Then there’s always you—”
“Sophie!” The shout came from behind them. Josie was coming toward them. “We need your help. Brittany’s having a bit of a meltdown.”
“About what?”
“She wants the tables aligned in a
certain way for the groom’s dinner, and it won’t work in the main dining hall.”
“Sorry.” Sophie looked at Noah. “I should go.”
“Can I come with you? I’d love to see the inn.”
“I don’t think now’s a good time.” Josie frowned. “Brittany’s fairly upset.”
“Come on.” Sophie pulled Noah with her toward the inn. “I’ll find out what Brittany needs and I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. Go ahead. Walk around.” She left him standing in the lobby and followed Josie into the main reception hall.
Brittany was standing in the middle of the room, her arms gesturing this way and that. For the groom’s dinner, the tables were to be dressed casually with lime-green tablecloths and napkins and bouquets of red roses. For the wedding reception, the colors were to be reversed, cherry-red tablecloths and lime-green candles and plants.
Sophie braced herself for the panicky tirade of a frazzled bride. “Brittany, how’s it going?”
She turned, surprising Sophie with a smile. “Oh, Sophie! Everything’s perfect. I can’t wait for Friday night. I can’t wait for the wedding! Josie and Jan are the best.” She squeezed Sarah around the shoulders. “And Sarah planned everything out perfectly. The band we’d booked cancelled, so she found us a better group for the same money. She suggested we…”
Brittany went on and on. When she finally took a breath, Sophie smiled. “You’re doing fine then. Let me know if you need me.”
“Oh, we will.” Brittany nodded.
Sophie glared at Josie and walked away.
NOAH TOOK IN THE LOBBY of the Mirabelle Island Inn. He hadn’t been in here for close to twenty years, and as far as he could remember everything looked exactly the same, yet somehow new and fresh. How in the world had Sophie managed that?
The receptionist, a young, college-aged woman Noah didn’t recognize, came through a door behind the desk. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m waiting for Sophie.”
“Does she know you’re here?”
He nodded.
“If you want, you could wait in her office.” She pointed to her left. Obviously this young woman hadn’t been clued in to the islanders’ master plan. “Down that hall.”
Where Mr. Rousseau’s office had been. He thanked the receptionist as he walked past her and found Sophie’s office door wide-open. He went to her desk and turned, wanting to see what she stared at, day in and day out.
She had a view of Lake Superior out the window, picturesque for sure. What on this island wasn’t? But it was the wall full of framed photos directly opposite the desk that caught his eye. Some were black-and-white, some color, all enlargements, most of Kurt and Lauren.
Those kids had such life in their eyes, their smiles. Whether they were little and swinging at a playground, or older at birthday parties, he could almost hear their toddler-aged giggles and their teenaged smart-alecky comments.
Sophie took beautiful pictures. At least he was guessing it was Sophie. Isaac hadn’t been the type to have taken the time and effort to put together this display. Noah studied a couple more photos and spotted Isaac. Damn. The last time Noah had seen his brother, Isaac had been in his early twenties. Noah stepped closer and studied his brother’s face. There he was all grown-up. A man, a husband, a father. Jealousy hit Noah like a bitterly cold wave crashing against the lighthouse rocks.
Isaac, the good son. The straight-A student. The achiever. The man who had enjoyed walking in his father’s footsteps. The son who had stayed. The man Sophie had loved enough to marry.
“You had it all, Isaac,” Noah said into the stillness.
How could Noah possibly feel jealous of a dead man? Disgusted with himself, he turned away to find the door to an adjacent sitting area was ajar. That room had been Mr. Rousseau’s private space. Sophie’s dad would disappear for short moments here and there, or sometimes a few hours at a time. No one had been allowed through that door.
Noah and Sophie had peeked through the window from the outside a couple of times to find nothing more exciting than her dad taking a nap on a large, cozy couch. He’d kept a TV and small refrigerator in the room, as well. As Noah crossed the room for a quick glance inside, he couldn’t help wondering if Sophie had claimed the space for herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE KNOB WAS LOCKED, BUT THE door hadn’t been pulled completely closed. Curious now, Noah nudged the door open wider to find as feminine a sitting room as he’d ever seen. There was a red, ultra-suede couch with fluffy, floral pillows, a stained-glass floor lamp, filmy fabric draped across the window, candles on nearly every flat surface and a bottle of wine and a single glass sitting on top of a bookcase. There was still a TV, but there was also a stereo with stacks of CDs piled nearby. Photos covered every square inch of the far wall.
These photos were very different in tone from the family prints in her office. Some were black and whites, some colors, some sepia tints with only hints of color. Every picture was of the island, most were off-season shots, bright leaves on the trees, snow on the ground, irises popping up and trees beginning to change color.
He recognized almost every location, and while at first glance these might have seemed like cheerful tourist shots the longer he absorbed them the less jolly they seemed. There was a melancholy feel about them, something about the composition of each photo that left him feeling as if something was missing or out of kilter.
Early spring along the shore showed trees leafing out and new grass sprouting, but waves crashed onto the beach and chunks of ice floated off in the horizon. She’d taken amazing photos of storms rolling in off the lake. He could feel the cold, the wind in his face. Winter in town. Snow falling. The docks were empty, no boats, no tourists, no bikes, no one walking. On the black and whites, the happy tones of Main Street were noticeably absent. In the autumn shots with barren tree branches you could almost hear the leaves crackling as they blew over the forest floor.
The ones with the locals in them were the most poignant. He could smell Mrs. Miller’s molasses cookies as she slid the pan out of an industrial-sized oven, sense her concentration and almost feel the arthritis in the knuckles of her hands displayed so prominently in the photos. As Lynn and Arlo Duffy walked along the sidewalk, he could almost hear their old bones creaking with every step.
Every shot held an emotion so clear to him it was as if he’d taken the photos himself. These were images of loneliness, despair and heartache. He closed his eyes and bent his head. Put up a damned good front, didn’t she? For Lauren and Kurt. For the town. For herself, too? That was the biggie. Did she understand her own pain?
He turned around and found the wall at his back covered with more photos. Only these were different, older, and taken by…him! The breath whooshed from his chest, nearly knocking him down.
Oh, God. Sophie.
There she was, eighteen years old, innocent and beautiful, lying on a bed. At their motel. Or at least what he’d come to think of as their motel. In Bayfield, where they’d spent their three last days together. A white sheet clung to her obviously naked body and barely covered her breasts. He remembered looking at her through that old 35 millimeter, just looking, absorbing, branding the image of her on his heart.
She was so innocent, yet so incredibly sexy. They hadn’t been able to get enough of each other. He’d spent most of three days with a hard-on for her that couldn’t be soothed. He’d wanted her every possible way, every waking moment. They’d even fallen asleep joined together.
He tore his gaze away and looked at the next one and the next. There were more than a dozen of Sophie and him at the motel in varying degrees of dress and undress. His favorites were of her alone. Looking at him. Her eyes held the purest emotions one could imagine. And he’d caught it on film way back then. Sometimes understanding, other times clearly angry with him. Always with the love she felt for him wide-open, right on the surface.
He’d never forgotten these pictures. They’d been framed in his mind fro
m the moment the shutter had clicked. He’d left his camera on purpose, knowing he’d never find the courage to develop the film.
Sophie had not only developed them, she’d framed them. Either these photos meant something to her, in which case, this had been a risky venture for a wife and mother, or Isaac had known about them and, other than nostalgic value, they meant nothing to Sophie.
“Noah? You in here?” Sophie. In her office.
Quickly, he spun around. It had been accidental, but he felt, nonetheless, as if he’d violated her privacy.
“There you are,” she said, coming to the door. “I thought you’d gotten lost—” She stopped just inside the room.
He glanced into her face. For the first time in fifteen years, it dawned on him that he, a man who had taken pride in always telling the truth, may have been lying to himself. No matter what he tried to convince himself of over the years, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped loving this woman.
“The pictures…” she said in a whisper.
“Did Isaac know about these?”
“No.”
What did that mean? He saw his own jumbled-up emotions mirrored in her eyes and without thinking tapped the door closed and cupped her face in his hands. “Those were the best three days of my life.”
“Mine, too,” she murmured, her eyes closing and her head falling back.
All he wanted was to touch her, to feel her again, just once. One kiss. He lowered his lips to hers, softly, wanting to recapture the innocence they’d shared. With that one featherlight touch, his tenuous restraint snapped. Urgent need took hold, tightening in his gut. Not since Sophie had he felt this wild and uncontrolled passion.
Strengthening his hold on her, he pressed his lips to her mouth, her face, her neck, remembering, wishing he could step back in time and do everything all over again. What would he change? What could he change?
Then she moaned, a reckless whisper of a sound, and he no longer cared about anything except Sophie in this moment. Common sense disappeared along with thought and reason and innocence. Her hands were all over him, his all over her. He wanted her and she wanted him, no matter the consequence.