“I’d like a Coca-Cola, please.”
With an almost imperceptible nod, the man pivoted and grabbed a glass from a shelving unit covered with soda and sundae glasses then filled the glass. Ben glanced around at those gathered there. If he judged correctly based on the well-worn clothing, most were island workers. If he were in Detroit, he’d be dressed in a similar fashion and not be gathering the stares he collected now.
Al placed the drink before him, and Ben passed him the coins for payment. The man swiftly rang up the sale on his brass cash register, popped open the drawer, deposited the money, and slammed it shut. Ben flinched. From the man’s compressed lips, he wondered if he could get anything out of him. But he’d faced far worse.
Ben sipped his sweet cola. “Nice shop you have, sir.”
The man scratched his pale cheek. “It’s not for sale.”
Chuckling, Ben met the man’s eyes. “I’m not buying. But I am enjoying.”
One corner of Al’s narrow lips twitched. “Good. Anything else you want?”
The door banged open, and a young ebony-haired boy ran up beside Ben. “Hey, mister.”
Al scowled. “Just because my great-nephew can get away with that behavior doesn’t mean you can, you whippersnapper. Now go out and come back in like a gentleman.”
The offender hung his head, retreated, and then returned, the door gently jingling the bell as he reentered and approached the counter. “Mr. Al, why don’t you pretend I’m your great-nephew?”
“Because you ain’t. I’ve only got the one, and that’s Jack.”
When the child had difficulty getting up onto the seat beside him, Ben stood and hoisted him up. The look Al shot him was a mix of gratitude and apprehension as he grabbed an ice-cream scoop, seemingly anticipating the boy’s request.
“I wish I was Jack. I’d have free phosphates any time I wanted. And all the ice cream, too.”
Al snorted. “Is that what you think?”
“Uh-huh.” The child placed two coins onto the counter. Not enough for a scoop of ice cream.
Ben slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pressed the proper amount between his fingers. Then he removed his hand and placed it behind the child’s ear.
The boy leaned away but Ben extended his palm, revealing the money. “Why do you hide your money in your ear? Is this an island thing?”
The boy blinked up at Ben. “Hey that’s magic—like Miss Maude does, too.”
“Maude Welling?”
“You know her?”
“Ja. She’s very pretty.”
“She’s my Sunday school teacher. She’s my friend Jack’s sister.”
Grinning, Ben sipped his soda, observing Al as he dipped out a large scoop of chocolate ice cream for the boy. “I bet she’s nice to all the children.”
Al slid the glass bowl in front of the boy. “How do you know Maude?”
“I met her when I arrived. At the docks.”
The man’s silver eyebrows bunched together. “She doesn’t normally wander around over there.”
“Yes, she does, Mr. Al. I saw her talking with Mr. Greyson.”
The shop proprietor narrowed his eyes at the child, who began shoveling ice cream into his mouth. He shifted his gaze to Ben. “No offense, mister, but we keep our family matters to ourselves on this island.”
Ben fought the urge to keep his journalist’s poker face in place and affected an air of concern. “I understand.”
“Nuh-ah.” The boy raised his head from his treat, chocolate dripping down his chin. “You’re always bragging about Jack and how he’s gonna end up in the Olympics.”
“That’s different. Jack’s athletic feats have been covered in the newspapers even as far as Detroit.”
A chill of apprehension slipped through at the reminder that Ben lived in the small world of journalism. He shouldn’t give up so easily, but by the set of her great-uncle’s jaw, it was clear he’d get nowhere with him. He’d try a different tactic elsewhere.
The boy cocked his head at Ben. “Mr. Al is right. You’re nice, but no one’s gonna talk with you about Miss Maude. You’re too old to come to my Sunday school class and see her.”
Al gave a brief laugh. “One bit of advice I can offer you, young man. Don’t even think she’d consider courting with you.”
He wasn’t worthy. That he knew. And the reminder was enough to send him out the door.
“She’s got to get over two-timer Greyson first.” The boy dropped his spoon and covered his hand with his mouth.
Throughout the overcast afternoon, Maude delivered mason jars of soup to shut-ins from church and inquired about positions for Sadie. But islanders were more interested in gossip about Greyson than in helping her friend. She couldn’t do anything about Greyson or seeing the attorney right now, but she could try to make Father see reason.
Once home, she handed Bea her hat and parasol. “Is my father here?”
The girl pointed to the office adjacent to the reception area, the door open.
Maude stepped inside, the stale odor of cherry tobacco and dust revealing that yet again Father hadn’t allowed the maids to completely clean what he considered his domain. He’d not allowed Maude to assist him with the books, even though he knew she balanced Uncle Al’s ledgers down to the penny. No, instead Greyson was supposed to marry her, and only then could he deign to allow her to perform office duties. Father was an ostrich—his head firmly stuck in the sand.
“Father, I thought we might talk.”
He gestured to a high-backed Eastlake chair across from the desk.
She sat, arranging her muslin skirt around her. “You can’t be serious about selling the inn.” This was her grandmother’s legacy to her. Mother inferred the inn wouldn’t go to Father when she died. But with Uncle Robert nowhere in sight since her mother’s death, nothing had moved forward to settle the estate. And Maude hadn’t seen the will. That could be why her grandmother’s brother gave her the business card.
Father pulled on the corners of his moustache. “Need to look at other options.”
“Such as?”
“The Welling farm, which my parents bequeathed me.”
The last time Maude had visited the Welling farm was during hay season, and she’d suffered her worst breathing attack yet.
She gritted her teeth then forced her jaw to relax. “But it’s the season now, and we’re fully booked out!”
“Jack needs to go to Lower Michigan. He’s the best runner in the state of Michigan. He wants to start training for the Olympics soon.”
Had he forgotten that Maude couldn’t live on a farm? She clenched her hands. “He can’t be in the next Olympics.”
“No, but four years from then—perhaps.”
Maude unfisted her hands and examined the angry red lines dug into her palms by her nails. “Do you really think he’s that good?”
“Quite simply, yes—he’s an outstanding athlete.”
“But Jack is only twelve years old.” She plucked a tiny peppermint from the milk-glass bowl on his desk and popped the sweet treat into her mouth. “He’s a child.”
“Do you think I push him?”
“No, but …” He’d certainly pushed the marriage with Greyson.
“Would do us good to get off this island—away from the bad memories.” Father closed his eyes momentarily.
“I love this place. I belong here.” I thought I stood to inherit this inn.
Her father laid another ledger atop the teetering pile on his desk. “You have no real life here, Maude—you should be out with other young people your age—dancing, being courted by young men, raising your own family.”
“I want to run this hotel.”
“You—are—not—married.” His face flushed crimson.
“This is a new era, Father.” From the open window, the sound of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves echoed on the street outside. “Mother helped run this inn—and look at the other Cadotte women.”
He scowled. “
Cadotte women, indeed! We could be put out of this home at any time.”
“What?” Her chest began to squeeze. “How?”
“I’ll leave that for your uncle to explain.”
“Robert? He’s here?”
“No, but I expect him soon.”
“But …”
“Enough! I’ll say no more.” He slammed his palm on his desk.
Chapter Four
Would he cross paths with Miss Welling today? As Ben walked down the hill Thursday morning, in search of a bicycle sturdier than those at the Grand, he kept checking the pedestrians, hoping he’d see her. A garishly painted wood-frame bike stand stood near the Wellings’ inn. Stacks of lake-bottom rocks formed a half wall and surrounded the shack, located near the beach.
As he arrived, a pasty-faced adolescent male peered at Ben over the top of the Free Press. Not Ben’s periodical.
The youth set the newspaper down. “Morning. What can I do for you?”
“Thinking about riding over to check on Greyson and Anna Luce. I know them from Detroit.”
Light-colored eyes darted back and forth. “Don’t have any bikes for rent today.”
“The sign says ‘available.’” Ben pointed overhead.
“It’s wrong. I should have flipped it.” The boy turned the sign.
“What about those three over there?”
“Sorry, mister.”
The sound of bicycle spokes whipping air met Ben’s ears just as he turned to spy a youngster speeding directly toward them, his eyes wide with fright. Ben’s heartbeat ratcheted upward. With a pile of rocks ahead, the boy had no place to stop. His leg muscles bunching in anticipation, Ben began to move as the tawny-haired boy stood up on his pedals. Ben ran forward, darting around the wall. As his bike crashed into the stony stack with a sickening crunch, the youth leaped into the air.
Ben dove, like he used to do playing football, and caught the boy in his arms before falling to the ground, arms wrapped around him. Heavier than Ben had guessed, and probably older than the ten years he’d estimated. The boy’s weight smacked Ben to the ground, sending a jolting pain through his ribs as they connected with the rocks at the wall’s bottom. Mein Gott, oh, Lord, this hurts! He rolled over twice, flexing his limbs so he’d not crush the boy. His back throbbed from where he’d landed. Something ripped—his coat. But he’d gotten the youth to safety. He released his grip, and the child scrambled to his feet.
“You all right, mister?”
Searing pain originated in his ribs then flowed to the back of his head. “Ja, I think so.”
The boy rubbed his head. “Thought I was a goner.”
The bicycle vendor joined them. “What ya think you were doin’, Jack, eh? You think you’ve got some kind of special powers you can fly?”
Cringing at the worker’s harshly spoken words, Ben stood and patted the boy’s back. Pain spiked through him, and he gasped.
“Nur ein Unfall—an accident is all.” His mother’s frequent soothing words had come to his lips as easily as setting linotype for an advertisement. Would Banyon forgive him the cost of a new jacket? Ben pulled the torn clothing off, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up. Felt more like himself again despite his aching back.
“Aw, I’m always having accidents.” Jack swiped at the blood trickling from scrapes on his bare arms.
The other youth snorted. “Because you’re always rushing somewhere, Jack.”
“Do you run?”
“Best on the island!” The boy offered a gap-toothed grin.
The bicycle-shop employee guffawed. “Fastest in Michigan—he beat some snot-nosed punk from the Grand last summer—no disrespect meant, sir, if you’re staying there. That kid was the top runner in the whole state.” The youth’s words tumbled out like a falling tray of typeset.
“Jack!” A woman’s breathless voice accompanied the swish of skirts as Maude Welling surged toward them.
Ben’s back ribs pulsated.
The boy sprang up and hugged her. “Sis, you shoulda seen it—this stranger … Hey! What’s your name anyway?”
“Mr. König.” On her lips, the false name rang true.
“Anyway, Muddie—he leaped in the air and caught me before I would have crashed into the rocks over there, hit my head, broken my neck, and died!”
Muddie? It must be his endearment for Maude. Ben’s nose twitched as he stifled a grin, and a groan.
Lips trembling, Maude squeezed her brother tighter. “Don’t say such things.” Her lovely voice caressed Ben’s ears.
Careful to not breathe too deeply, Ben inhaled slowly. “Your brother has greatly overstated my help.”
The bicycle-stand clerk feigned jumping and catching a ball. “You should have seen it, Miss Maude. Just like catching a football!”
“Sir, thank you for saving my brother.”
Sir? In my dreams, she calls me “darling.”
Jack tugged at Maude’s elbow, but she ignored him. Standing this close to the handsome Mr. König, she could see the tiny laugh lines in his strong face. Muscles bunched beneath his pushed-up shirtsleeves, and his broad shoulders stretched the cambric fabric of his shirt.
Maude averted her gaze, suddenly uncomfortable.
The man winced and bent over.
“I think Mr. König got hurt, sis.”
Mr. König held up a hand and straightened. “It’s nothing.” He swiveled away from them and grabbed his ripped jacket, streaked with dirt and grass.
Jack dug the toe of his boot into the grass. “I’m sorry you got hurt helping me, mister.”
“It’s all right.” The man’s breathy voice alarmed her. Was he so injured he couldn’t draw in a whole lungful of air?
“I’ll be fine once I get back to the Grand and lie down.”
Maude suddenly felt like she’d taken a blow, too. This man was staying at the Grand Hotel. Where she sought employment.
“Listen, if the pain worsens, please go visit Dr. François Cadotte. Tell him what happened. And that I told you we’d take care of the bill.” What was she saying? This stranger likely could buy her uncle’s office if he wanted. She chewed her lower lip.
“Miss Welling, I am …”—his sensual lips twitched—“I wish to say I am—”
A shrill whistle pierced her ears. Jack pulled his fingers from his mouth and waved frantically at an approaching carriage. “Stan! Can you take this fella up to the Grand Hotel?”
Stan pulled the carriage to the side of the street. Maude waved a finger at Friedrich König, as she might Jack. “You need to see the doctor. I’d feel terrible if something happened to you.” Almost as wretched as she felt right now, knowing that if she was granted the job at the Grand, she may run into this man again. This very handsome man.
Friedrich König mounted the steps into the back of the empty coach.
“Perhaps we shall meet again, Miss Welling?”
As long as it wasn’t at the Grand.
Chapter Five
Ben awoke Friday to his back ribs spasming as though he were Adam and Maude his Eve—and she’d been pulled free from him. What a woman. Intelligent. Competent. Perhaps not the words many men used to describe their ideal woman, but they were correct for him. Moreover, she was even more beautiful that he’d remembered. Her dainty hands were satin soft. How he wished those silken hands were holding his.
A triple knock at the door announced his breakfast tray.
“It’s open. Come in!” he hollered, as if he were back at the newspaper. Ben slapped his hand against his forehead and tried to rise from the high bed to open the door. But the swelling around his ribs wouldn’t allow the movement.
“Mr. König? You all right, sir?” Ray pushed the cart into the room, multiple covered trays stacked atop. The scent of bacon and eggs wafted toward him.
As he sat up, pain shot through him. “I don’t know.” Sweat broke out on his brow.
The servant pushed the cart near the secretary table and then crossed the carpet to the be
d. “You need help?”
He’d broken ribs before in fights on the streets of Chicago. “It’s not broken, I think, but …” He unbuttoned his pajama shirt.
Ray rubbed his broad chin. “Want me to take a look?”
“I thought if I stayed in bed and slept overnight, it might improve, but nein.”
Ray cocked his head. “You in a fight?”
Ben laughed, but when his ribs complained, he pressed his hand to his side and stopped. “I caught a flying boy.”
“You don’t say—a flying boy? Can’t say I’ve seen any ’round here myself.”
“Poor kid flew off his bike, and I caught him. Only thing was the rocks behind me didn’t make for a soft landing.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe you best see the doc.”
“Do you think you could get me some Dr. McLean’s Volcanic Oil Liniment?” Papa swore by the noxious-smelling stuff when he’d worked too hard at the factory.
“Yes, sir. And maybe you need some rib tape?”
Ben met the man’s eyes. “How’d you know?”
“Used to box.” The man grinned and held up his meaty fists.
“Me, too.” And he was none too proud of it.
“Ya don’t say. I was a heavyweight. How’s about you?”
Ben wiped his brow. “Nein, just fight to keep the thugs away. In Chicago.”
“Thought you was from Detroit?” Ray cocked his head to the side.
“Was brought up in Chicago and moved to Detroit later.” At least that was the truth. He blew out a long sigh. Ben was already tired of the charade. Might as well bring Ray in on the secret—he seemed trustworthy enough. “I’m a newspaper reporter, not a rich industrialist. And not an aristocratic German.” His uncle had made sure of the latter.
“Won’t tell a soul, sir.” The man raised his bushy eyebrows then placed one finger over his lips.
“I’m trying to get a scoop on men who come here to chase wealthy women—lying, conniving, cheating—whatever they need to do to get the young women to fall in love with them. Once they are married and the parents find out who the scamp really is, there is little recourse because of the divorce laws.”
My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island Page 4