by Helen Brenna
That’s it. He might not know what to do about Kurt and Lauren, or Sophie for that matter, but one thing was certain. He wasn’t going to sink back into that self-pity hole Sophie had helped draw him out of in the nick of time. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.
After doing some mirror therapy, he summoned every ounce of courage he could muster and opened the box with his new leg. Tentatively, he picked it up. It was light, surprisingly so. He ran his fingers over the silicone sleeve, pressed the foot onto the floor and watched it move with the shifting weight. It sure looked like an improvement, but was he ready? There was only one way to find out.
He took off his old prosthetic and without giving it another thought, rolled the brand-new silicone sleeve over his stump. Now all he had to do was stand. Walk.
He was sick of feeling sorry for himself. Sick of hiding out. Sick of excuses. Do it.
He stood and tested his weight. He bent his knee and marveled at how light this new leg felt. He walked across the room and almost sighed at the absence of pain. That old leg had felt like a log with a brick attached to the end of it. This foot, made of arched carbon fiber, flexed and moved with every step, more like a real foot.
He couldn’t believe that it had taken him so long to do this, but now there was no going back. Resolutely, he went upstairs and was about to pack his old leg away out of sight and out of mind in his bedroom closet when the Beretta handgun on the bedside table caught his eye. That was something else he no longer needed.
He tossed it into the box and hid the whole lot in the far back of the top shelf in his closet. He’d deal with the gun later, but for now, it was out of the way. That done, he felt lighter than he had since the explosion.
Time to test his new foot. He grabbed his camera and walked out of the house, stopping at the bottom of the hill and snapping off several dozen shots of the tree-lined road. He couldn’t have planned it better when Arlo Duffy pulled onto the road with his horse-drawn carriage.
“Good morning, Arlo. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Ayep. Got that right.” Arlo nodded as he passed, but seemed more reserved with Noah than he might’ve been with another islander, or tourist for that matter.
On reaching the outskirts of town, Noah peered through the drugstore windows to find Bob Henderson with his wife, Marsha, sitting at the front cash registers. A modern day Ma and Pa Kettle if there ever was one—him, skinny and drawn, and her in a checkered dress with her hair piled on top of her head. Noah snapped off a few pictures of the couple talking and laughing with each other.
Farther down the street, Ron Setterberg, with his weathered face and hands, stood on a ladder outside the equipment-rental building painting the trim on the second-floor windows. It seemed an appropriate picture of Ron, being that in Noah’s every memory of the man he was holding some kind of tool.
“Hey there, Ron,” Noah said.
Ron glanced behind him. “Noah.”
“Mind if I snap a couple pictures?”
“What for?” Ron asked, looking rather suspicious. The man likely shared his wife Jan’s opinions about Noah.
“Just goofing around. Do you mind?”
“Naw. Go ahead.”
Noah walked another block and found Charlotte Day, a quintessential spinster if there was such a thing these days, unlocking the front door to the library. He snapped a few shots. Man, could he put together a photo layout with the characters on this island.
He wandered aimlessly around town, taking in favorite old haunts and finding a few surprises, things he wouldn’t have been interested in as a kid, but as an adult could appreciate. Like Mrs. Gilbert’s bed-and-breakfast inn. With a yard surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence and filled with every imaginable color of flower, her cotton-candy-pink Victorian was right out of a dream.
After a couple hours, his stomach grumbled loudly. The Bayside Café, a bright blue one-story building with a cedar shake roof and white shutters glistening in the late-morning sun, was down the block. He remembered them as having had the best cheeseburgers on the island.
He opened the door, and a bell, secured overhead, chimed his entrance. There were two men at the counter, neither of whom he recognized, and a couple in a booth by the windows. As he took the nearest seat at the counter, Delores Kowalski came out of the kitchen. Other than a little salt mixed in with her short pepper hair, she’d barely changed. “Well, if it isn’t Noah Bennett.”
“Morning, Delores.” He righted his blue-and-white coffee mug. She’d always liked Noah. Might’ve had to do with the fact that he was the only kid who ever tipped her.
“Let me see if I can remember after all these years.” She poured steaming black coffee into the cup. “Cheeseburger. Onions, mustard, no ketchup. Fries. Strawberry shake.”
“That’s pretty good.” He chuckled. “Today, though, I thought I’d give breakfast a shot.”
“Sounds good. What’ll it be?”
All that fresh air had spurred his appetite. “Two eggs, hash browns, a short stack.” He nodded at one of the other men’s plates down the counter. “And an order of those famous sausage patties.” He could pick at whatever tickled his taste buds, and, these days, he could count on it staying down.
The doorbell chimed behind him and the blue vinyl stool next to him swiveled as Lauren sat down. “Hey.”
Once again, he was taken aback by the color of her eyes. Was she his daughter? A baby was one thing, but this…this teenager…this fully formed being…Could she be a part of him? He couldn’t seem to make sense of it. “Hey, Lauren. What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” she said. “You?”
“Breakfast.” He’d no sooner said the word than Delores delivered the plates of food she’d likely made herself.
“Want some?”
“Maybe.” Lauren’s face scrunched with indecision. “I’ll take one of those pancakes. If you really don’t want it.”
He forked one, plopped it over his eggs and slid the other pancake toward her. “Take it and one of these.” He dropped a sausage patty onto the plate. “There’s no way I’ll eat four of them. You want some juice or milk?”
“Sure.”
He motioned for Delores while Lauren slathered butter and blueberry syrup over her pancake and gulped it down in about four bites, no easy feat given the golden cake spanned the diameter of a full-sized plate.
“You’re looking pretty hungry to me.” He tossed her another sausage.
“Don’t tell Josie I said this, but Delores makes the best pancakes on the island.”
He laughed, and they talked about her favorite meals at each one of the island restaurants. The lighthearted company and conversation seemed to help the food settle comfortably in his stomach. Ten minutes later, he nearly licked his plates clean, it’d all tasted so wonderful, and his stomach wasn’t the slightest bit queasy.
“More coffee?” Delores dropped the check off.
“No, thank you. Would you mind if I take some pictures out front?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Can I come with you?” Lauren asked.
“Sure.” He paid the bill and followed Lauren outside into the warm, bright sunshine.
“What are you taking pictures for?” she asked as they crossed the street.
“Just passing time.”
“I read most of your book.”
“Which one?”
“About Sarajevo.”
“The sad one.” The one that had jump-started his career.
“We had to do a report in school on a recent war,” she explained.
He’d written a series of articles on the Bosnian war that had been picked up by international news networks. Later, he’d combined everything in a book, comprehensively detailing his experience. After years of freelancing in vain, his career had finally taken off. He’d become the go-to reporter on war throughout the world. The depressing thing was he was never lacking for material.
“That’s a pretty heavy topic fo
r someone your age.”
“Mom had to explain some of it to me.” She paused. “Did you see all those people die?”
“Some of them.” Some had been friends. His stomach flipped. Maybe that last sausage wasn’t sitting as well as he’d thought. “What did you think of the pictures of the countryside?” he asked, changing topics.
“It looked beautiful.”
It was. Before the fighting. “Did you have a favorite photo?” he asked, keeping her attention off the war and his stomach from tossing breakfast.
She seemed to think about it. “The bridge. I guess.”
“Which one? Mostar? Visĕgrad?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What do you think of Delores’s restaurant?” He tilted his head and considered how to frame it.
“I think it’s boring.”
Was she his daughter? Did he have a right to find out? More importantly, should he exercise that right?
“Everything on this island is boring,” she added.
“You think?” There was a time and place for boring, a sentiment Noah had never before appreciated. He snapped off a picture or two. “What’s your favorite building on the island?”
“The Duffys’ old barn on the other side of the stables.”
“Good one!” He slung his camera pack over his shoulder. “I’ll race you.” It was about time he discovered what this new foot could do.
They’d no sooner taken a step than a voice yelled from behind them. “Lauren!” It was Kurt.
“Come on,” Lauren called back. “We’re racing to the stables. Ready, set, go!” Lauren took off without giving Kurt a chance to prepare.
“That’s not fair!” Kurt yelled. He took off after her anyway. No doubt he’d cry foul if she beat him.
Noah gave them a good run for their money, but he was no match for sibling rivalry. Out of breath, he slowed up a short distance from them.
“What are you doing hanging out with him, anyway?” he heard Kurt whisper to his sister.
“He’s our uncle, and he’s nice,” Lauren said.
“Whatever.” Kurt glared at Noah as he approached them. “I didn’t think you could run with a fake leg.”
Lauren swatted his arm.
“Yeah, it’s a little awkward.” Noah sensed Kurt’s protectiveness toward Lauren and Sophie and couldn’t blame him. What would Kurt think if he found out Noah was his real father? How would that news affect Lauren? Not knowing a damned thing about kids, other than having been one himself, he didn’t have a clue.
That was his first step. He had to get to know Lauren and Kurt. Maybe then he’d have his answer.
THE FIRST THING NOAH DID was to buy a camera for Lauren. For a somewhat suspicious Kurt, he installed a TV and gaming system in the living room of his grandmother’s house. They also kayaked, hiked and fished. Noah lapped up as much time as the kids were willing and able to give him, and he counted himself lucky that they—Lauren more so than Kurt—seemed almost as interested in getting to know their uncle as he was in getting to know them. Over the next several weeks, he taught Lauren some rudimentary techniques on framing and lighting, and Kurt, gradually losing some of his guardedness, updated Noah on the most recent video games.
One afternoon, when Sophie was sure to be busy with staff meetings, Noah hung out in the Rousseau apartment and looked through every photo album in the place, lingering on the ones when Kurt and Lauren had been little. There were videos, too. He took some tapes back to his house and watched them, Christmases and birthdays, sporting events and school musicals, watching the kids grow and change and become who they were today.
There were lots of scenes with Isaac and the kids. Seeing his brother again and listening to his voice was difficult, but watching his brother interacting with the kids and Sophie gave him the perspective he needed. Though Sophie and Isaac often seemed more like brother and sister to each other than husband and wife, the four had gotten along well. Noah was glad he hadn’t been around to witness firsthand the happy family.
The most recent video had been taken less than a month or two before Isaac had died. He was packing camping gear and Sophie was taping the three loading gear into the car. His brother looked into the camera and grinned. There he was, the Isaac from Noah’s memories. His older brother, his comrade in crime, his opposite in so many ways.
“Thank you, Isaac,” Noah whispered. “For taking care of Sophie and the kids.”
TOO MANY TOURISTS. NO SPACE. No room to breathe. Same running paths. Same food. Same stores. Sophie glanced around her office. Same four walls. She understood how Noah must have felt all those years ago, how he was likely feeling right now.
A full month had passed since Marty’s wedding and, although her kids had been spending a lot of time with Noah, Sophie had barely spoken with him. After the lighthouse, after explaining to Noah how everything had started between her and Isaac and he’d asked her point-blank whether or not she’d loved his brother, she knew she had to keep her distance. She’d been a hair’s breadth from explaining that what she’d felt for Isaac had been only a shadow of what she felt for Noah.
I loved you then, you idiot! I love you now! She’d wanted to scream it at him. She’d wanted to push him to the ground and show him just how much. It was killing her, not being close to him, but she had to give him time to get to know Lauren and Kurt.
Although a part of her felt extremely protective of her children, she trusted Noah to do what was right for Lauren and Kurt. The more she thought about it, the more she accepted that any kind of relationship with Noah would benefit them. He was their uncle, Isaac’s brother, the closest connection they could have to their father.
“Sophie?” Jan’s voice sent a ripple through the stream of Sophie’s disconnected thoughts.
“Huh?” She spun her chair away from the window and back toward her office desk. “I’m sorry. I’m…”
Jan looked worried and Sophie hated being the cause of concern.
“I’m just tired.”
“We’ve got a problem with one of our bookings.” Jan sighed. “The Fultons insist they reserved the Champlain suite again when they were here last year, but that room’s occupied and won’t be vacant again until tomorrow.”
“Is the Marquette suite open?” she asked, weary of the same problems cropping up, year after year.
“Yes.”
“Set them up there for the night at no charge, and make sure they know it’s our best available room.”
“Will do and Josie wanted you to approve the Bastille Day menu.” Jan put a list of traditional French foodstuffs on her desk.
For as long as Sophie could remember, Mirabelle Island marked France’s national holiday with a parade, a wine and beer fest, a small art fair and, of course, fireworks. Before she looked at Josie’s suggestions, Sophie knew what she would find. Crêpes, quiche Lorraine, vichyssoise, French onion soup, salade niçoise, coq au vin, and so on and so on. They were the same recipes that had been passed down from Sophie’s great-grandmother.
“Tell Josie I want her to do something different this year.” Sophie handed the menu back to Jan.
“Different?” Jan looked at her as if she had sprouted hair from her ears.
“Yes. As in French with a twist. She’s been wanting to do that for years. Tell her I said go for it.”
“You’re sure.”
“Positive.” At least the food she could change.
As Jan left her office, Sophie looked out her window to see Lauren walking slowly across the lawn with a tourist boy about her age and was surprised her daughter wasn’t with Noah and Kurt. Lauren and the boy were talking, laughing, flirting.
Oh, God. Sophie swallowed, remembering all too well those summer months when an influx of families would flock to Mirabelle. Families with kids, both young and old. Cute boys from big cities. Coming on and going off the island. All summer long. A constant flow of possible romantic entanglements.
She’d looked, she’d talked, heck, she�
�d flirted a time or two, but she’d never really been interested. None of those boys with all their experience and big-city flash had held the promise of a candle to what she’d felt for Noah.
Lauren? She was an entirely different story. Knowing from experience there were plenty of places on this island a boy and girl could go to be alone, Sophie knew she was going to have to keep a closer watch on her daughter.
Suddenly, the boy shook his head and laughed. Lauren’s brows drew together. She crossed her arms over her chest and said something to the boy. He shrugged and walked away as Lauren marched in the other direction toward the woods. That didn’t look good.
Let the kid figure it out for herself, or butt in? That always seemed to be the tightrope the parent of a teenager walked. There’d been a lot going on these past weeks and she and Lauren hadn’t had a good heart-to-heart in a long while. The decision made, Sophie went outside and found Lauren sitting high in a tree about twenty feet in from the clearing. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Come down, would you?”
“No.”
“Lauren, honey, come on. It’s hurting my neck looking up at you.”
“Then don’t look.”
That’s it. Sophie reached and grabbed the lowest branch. She swung her foot over the top and pulled herself up. It’d been a long time since she’d climbed a tree, but, as it turned out, trees were something a person never forgot how to scale. Without too much trouble, she was in the canopy, sitting on a branch opposite Lauren.
“Okay,” she said. “After what I went through to get up here, you have to tell me.”