by Helen Brenna
“Only that the bees tend to gravitate toward the flowers.” And soda cans. And kids with sticky fingers. The little twerp had all but sent out invitations.
“Well, shouldn’t you spray, or something?” the woman yelled.
“Mom!”
“Mom!”
That time, the two distinct voices registered loud and clear. Sophie spun around to find Kurt and Lauren running toward her from the direction of the marina. They nearly knocked her to the ground as they slid to a stop.
“Grandpa…had…heart attack!” The words spilling from Lauren’s mouth were interrupted by choking sobs.
“A helicopter just took him to the hospital!” Kurt added in a rush.
“Slow down,” Sophie said, not sure she’d heard correctly. “Start over.”
Jan came racing out of the inn. “Sophie!” she yelled. “Jim had a heart attack out on his boat. He’s being airlifted to the Ashland hospital.”
“Quick!” Lauren said.
“We have to go there. Now!” Kurt grabbed her arm and tugged.
“Okay, okay.”
“I already called a water taxi. He’ll meet you in the marina,” Jan said, holding out her purse, a small black wallet with an attached shoulder strap.
“What about Noah?” Sophie called over her shoulder as the kids tugged her toward town.
“He was with Jim on the boat and went along in the helicopter. Josie’s already left for the mainland.”
“Hey!” the guest with the stung kid shouted. “What about me?”
Sophie nearly turned back again to give the woman a piece of her mind. Selfish little—
“I’ll handle this,” Jan said. “You go!”
In the short time it took to run to the marina, Sophie’s insecurities about leaving the island raced to the forefront. She followed the kids along the docks to the taxi station. Their boat was waiting, and the moment the driver saw them he started his engine. “All aboard.” The man helped Lauren and Kurt climb into his boat. When he held out his hand for Sophie, she faltered.
“Come on, Mom,” Lauren said.
“Hurry,” Kurt added.
Sophie swallowed. You can do this. Jim needs us. Pretend it’s like any other trip. You need to be there for Noah.
She reached out and climbed into the boat. Her stomach flipped and flopped the entire ride to the mainland. When they stepped on shore, strangers were walking this way and that, but being on the mainland wasn’t so bad. Except for the cars. They were zipping by on the road.
“Mom, come on!” The kids were running down the pier.
Sophie paid the water taxi and ran after the kids toward the garage where she stored her vehicle, a ten-year-old economy car with only fifteen thousand miles logged on the odometer. After unlocking the storage garage, she put the key in the ignition, keeping her fingers crossed that the couple she paid to service the car had upheld their end of the bargain. The engine turned over without a problem and in no time they were on the road.
She only used the car, at the most, once a year, so there was usually a bit of relearning involved once she got behind the wheel, and knowing Jim was in the E.R. didn’t help matters. She felt like a frantic teenager, jerking her way out of the parking lot, and like an incompetent grandmother, cruising the highway.
For the first ten minutes, about how long it took her to get the vehicle moving the posted speed of fifty-five miles an hour, other drivers passed her with either honks or glares, sometimes both. It was always a strange sensation being off the island. Strange people, strange buildings, strange happenings. As if she were on another planet. Planet Not-Mirabelle. Jim’s heart attack magnified everything.
By the time she drove into the hospital parking lot about an hour later, she was a mass of nerves. This was where they’d brought Isaac, where she’d first seen his lifeless body. She’d been able to—barely—maintain her calm for the kids’ sake the entire drive. The moment she turned the corner to the waiting room and saw Josie sitting in a chair holding a balled-up tissue in her hand and Noah looking out the window, she burst into tears. His head came up and his eyes watered, and she sobbed all the more.
He turned and held out his arms. Relief cooled the anxiety that had been building inside her since she’d set out from Mirabelle. She practically fell into him. His clothes were cold and damp.
“He’s not going to die, Soph.” He squeezed her tight, resting his head on top of hers. “At least not today. He’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“He and I have too much left to say to each other.” He relaxed his hold and Sophie felt Kurt and Lauren being drawn by Noah into a group hug. Lauren sniffled and Kurt’s fingers dug into Sophie’s back. “I’m telling you guys,” Noah whispered, “he’s going to be okay.”
“You’re wet,” she whispered.
“We were on the boat. Dad fell into the lake when his heart attack hit.”
“You got him back onto the boat?” Sophie stared at him. “By yourself?”
“Guess all that time I’ve spent with the military was good for something.”
Sophie turned to Josie and hugged her tightly. While they sat and waited together, Sophie grabbed Noah’s hand and wouldn’t let go. Some time later, a doctor came out of surgery to explain that they’d performed a triple bypass on Jim, that the heart attack had been relatively minor and there’d been no permanent damage. Jim would be in the hospital for a week, give or take, and would have to rest for at least another month.
“Noah,” the doctor said. “If it wasn’t for you, your dad wouldn’t be alive right now. Whatever training you’ve had, it came in handy today.”
As Sophie felt tears spill onto her cheeks, Noah held his emotions in check; only his red-rimmed eyes gave him away. Josie sobbed and Noah tried to calm her down.
“When I think of all the times,” she said through her tears, “he’s been out on that boat alone—”
“It’s okay, Josie.” Noah hugged her. “He’s going to be all right.”
Soon after the doctor left, a nurse came to let them know Jim was in intensive care and they could see him. “Family only,” she cautioned when all five of them stood.
Noah grabbed Josie’s hand and tugged her along. “We are family. All of us.”
Lauren grabbed Noah’s other hand and Kurt’s worried features softened. All five of them walked into the room together. The equipment hummed and beeped, and Jim had tubes coming out of him every which way but Sunday.
When Lauren took his hand, he opened his eyes. “Hey there, Miss Mirabelle,” he whispered. “Where’s Kurt?”
“Here, Grandpa.” He moved up the other side of the bed and loosely took Jim’s other hand.
Noah pushed Josie a little closer. Jim smiled weakly up at her. “Guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer,” he mumbled.
“I guess so,” Josie whispered.
“How do you feel?” Noah asked.
“Like shit.” He glanced at Sophie. “Excuse my French, Mom.”
The kids chuckled nervously.
“I hope they have a lot of opportunities to hear worse from you.” Sophie smiled.
“Noah?” Jim searched for Noah’s hand. “You saved my life, son.”
Noah gripped his dad’s fingers and squeezed. “Guess that means I’m stuck with you, too.”
MONITORS BEEPED AND EQUIPMENT buzzed in the hospital room. Noah sat in a chair with his good foot resting on the rollout cot he’d slept in the previous three nights and his laptop propped open on his lap. He was getting some writing done, but it wasn’t amounting to much.
Over the top of the screen he studied his dad’s face. The past several days hanging in the hospital and keeping an eye on his dad had brought back a host of bad memories for Noah of his own internment not all that long ago. Constant pain and frustration. Surgeries and physical therapy. Pills, shots and blood being drawn. The smells of antiseptic mixed with flowers and cafeteria food. Hard beds and lumpy pillows. The air temperature in
a hospital room seemed to forever be either too cold or too hot. No wonder Noah’s nightmares had come back.
Still, Noah had barely left his dad’s side. Josie had come every day to give Noah a few hours off here and there, but he refused to leave his dad for more than the time it took to eat a meal in the cafeteria. He remembered all too well what it was like waking up alone in a sterile room with nothing more for company than a TV mounted on the wall.
His dad stirred, moving his head back and forth. “Noah?”
Noah set his computer on the table, stood and moved to the side of the bed. “I’m here, Dad.” He squeezed his hand.
“What day is it?” he asked, trying to swallow.
“Wednesday.” Noah grabbed a cup of water and positioned the straw near his dad’s mouth.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. “When am I gettin’ outta here?”
“Not until this weekend.”
“Dammit,” he murmured, his eyelids fluttering from open to closed and back again. “Guess I’ll be missing tomorrow night’s council meeting.”
“They’ll manage without you.”
Although his dad cracked open his eyes, he was clearly still very tired and groggy from pain meds. “They’re voting on whether or not Marty should get bids.”
Noah was trying very hard not to care.
“I need you to…go for me,” his dad said, closing his eyes again. “A Bennett…” he said, his words barely audible, “should be there.” The last word had barely left his mouth before his fingers went completely lax.
“Dad?”
No response. He’d fallen back to sleep. Noah was adjusting the blanket over his dad’s bare feet when his laptop dinged with incoming mail.
He glanced at the screen and noticed e-mail messages with a Pick Up The Phone subject heading from Liz, his editor, flying left and right into his mailbox. She’d called no less than ten times in the past week and he’d ignored her messages. He might have a few more paragraphs written in his book, but that level of progress was more pathetic than hopeful, so there didn’t seem any point in talking with her. Now, it appeared, he didn’t have a choice.
He stalked into the waiting area and called her on his cell. “All right. All right. Stop, already.”
“So that’s how I get your attention,” Liz said, triumphantly.
“What do you want?” He paced outside the door.
“I want to know how you’re doing.”
“You mean you want to know how the book is doing.” The answering silence caused regret to slice through him. After the way she’d gone out of her way to visit him in the hospital, Liz hadn’t deserved that. “I’m sorry.” He set off down the hall, passing other open doors, nurse’s carts and food trays.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Part of why I’m calling is about the book. It’s my job.”
“I know.” He took a left and headed into another wing of the small hospital. It felt good to stretch his legs. “My dad had a heart attack.”
Her heavy sigh was audible. “When it rains, it pours. Is he expected to recover?”
“Fully.”
“What about you? Are you eating?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“I’ve been staying with him at the hospital. I’m doing okay.”
“Then the book will come.” She sighed again. “Word came out yesterday that our competitor bought an Iraqi book and slated it for publication the same month as yours. I’m getting pressure to move up your pub date.”
“Liz, I can’t—”
“I know. We’ll get down to the wire on this one, but we’ll get it done, Noah. Okay? I’m not giving up on you.”
“I hear ya.”
“Do me a favor and answer my calls?”
“Yeah, all right.”
She hung up.
He stretched out his neck and let his shoulders relax on the way back to the room. After confirming his dad was still sound asleep, Noah sat back in the chair and deleted Liz’s rapid-fire e-mails.
A Bennett should be there.
Noah didn’t want to get involved in tomorrow night’s council meeting. He shouldn’t have an opinion one way or another. But he did. Mirabelle needed a shot in the arm, and while Marty’s new hotel didn’t fit the bill, Noah didn’t have an alternative.
Lacking the motivation for anything more productive, he grabbed his laptop and flipped through the pictures he’d taken of Mirabelle these past weeks. They were the usual tourist-type shots, including the view of Mirabelle Island Inn from the marina, the quaint chapel on the hill. The carriages, the horses. Although he’d framed all of them well, getting the most out of the colors and lighting, the photos with the people in them captured and held his attention.
One by one, he scrolled through the photos, selecting several and lining them up on his desktop. The silhouette of Sophie, Lauren and Kurt on the shore against the backdrop of a glorious sunset. Mrs. Gilbert with a floppy sun hat, tending to her gardens in front of her pink Victorian bed-and-breakfast. Ron Setterberg carrying kayaks to the shore, the colorful sails of the boats docked in the marina behind him. What a story they told.
A story. That was it. His story of Mirabelle Island. Forget Iraq. He was sick of war and violence and death. For once he was going to write something about all that was peaceful and right in the world. The prodigal son had returned and could finally see the good in his childhood home.
He started typing and the words flew off his fingertips. Sentences became paragraphs, paragraphs became pages. For hours, he worked on the article. Writing, rewriting, revising. Finally, he was done and satisfied with the result. It wasn’t just fun and fluff. It was Mirabelle, his all-grown-up vision of the place, warm and touching, a place for making memories.
That was it. He e-mailed the completed article and a batch of his favorite photos off to an editor he’d worked with for years at a popular, high-profile magazine.
It wasn’t a book. It was a beginning.
MARTY AND BRITTANY HAD NO sooner arrived back on Mirabelle, home from their extended honeymoon, than Marty had met with his contractors to discuss the feasibility of his plans. He wasn’t merely satisfied with the results, he was ecstatic. Initial estimates were that the entire project could be completed within his budget and the preliminary marketing analysis supported his proposal on all fronts. All he had to do now was convince the Mirabelle town council this was best for the island and he could begin getting detailed, formal bids. After that, all he needed was the board’s unanimous approval to start construction.
While Marty was floating on cloud nine, Sophie found herself annoyed with her brother. He had the money to do virtually anything he wanted. Why couldn’t he find another island to destroy?
She sat next to Brittany, at the front of the large auditorium, waiting for Marty’s second council meeting to begin. This time, in contrast to the first meeting, there was standing room only. Nearly the entire island had decided to attend. The room was buzzing with conversation, some of it positive, some negative, very little neutral, and all of it revolving around Marty’s plans.
The council members, all except Jim Bennett, came into the room, took their seats and brought the meeting to order. Carl Andersen got the ball rolling and invited Marty to come forward to present his detailed proposal.
Marty had enough booklets to pass out to everyone in the room and a video presentation outlining his idea. He shut off the video and looked out over the audience.
“All of you have your opinions on what’s right and wrong here,” Marty said. “So let’s look at the facts. Tourist season is in full swing. Two of your three busiest months are nearly over.” He cleared his throat. “Who on this island is at full capacity? Who on this island has reached sales comparable to the first tourist month last year? The year before that? The one before that?”
Some looked worriedly around the room. Many bowed their heads in concentration. He was right. Everyone in the room knew it.
“There is no o
ne in this room who hasn’t been affected by a drop in tourism. The world is changing and we have to change with it or risk getting left behind. That’s all there is to it. The initial conclusion of the feasibility study is that my plan will work.”
Marty stepped down and that’s when all politeness left the room. It was neighbor against neighbor, business owner against business owner. The sound was deafening. Sophie ached for her brother, for the islanders. If they didn’t come together, this would tear the island apart.
“Okay, okay!” Carl said, quieting the room. “Let’s open this discussion. In an orderly fashion.”
Sophie glanced behind her to see residents line up at a microphone and begin asking questions, presenting issues, raising concerns. One after another, Marty fielded them. She couldn’t help feeling proud of her brother. She didn’t agree with everything he said, but he was articulate, passionate and well informed.
Sally McGregor, the island’s postmaster and first-class crank, stepped to the podium. She adjusted the microphone. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what everyone else has had to say. All of it’s neither here nor there.”
Tsking, chuckles and outright laughter erupted in various directions in the room.
“Laugh all you want. Here’s the bottom line. Call it a community pool and a municipal golf course all you want, but put ’em on Rousseau property, and the Rousseaus will be the only ones benefiting. Period.”
“She’s got a point.”
“What about the rest of us?”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
“Well, who’s going to pay for it, Sally? You?”
“Hold on. Hold on,” Marty said. “Guests won’t have to be staying at my new hotel or Sophie’s inn to use the facilities.”
“The Rousseau property is on the west side of the island,” someone shouted.
“Yeah,” another person added. “Who’s going to want to trudge all that way with their clubs and their swimming stuff?”
“Well, for heaven’s sake.” This was a third person. “There isn’t room to put a pool, let alone a golf course, in the center of town.”
The hubbub picked up again, and Sophie watched Marty’s confidence falter for the first time. Brittany grabbed Sophie’s hand and squeezed. Sophie had never felt quite so conflicted.