by Jean Oram
“I didn’t.”
“You do now?”
“I let something go and it came back to me.” Not that it mattered. It was just a coincidence.
She and Tristen may have had sex on the island but it didn’t mean they were about to fall in love. Especially since neither of them believed in destiny or any of that hokey stuff. She was letting her mind get away from her.
And honestly, if she was him, she would be running away. It had to have hurt his pride a few days ago to see the sensational headlines that he, Tristen Bell, all debonair in a tuxedo, was dating her, all disheveled in a holey Camp Adaker T-shirt. She was a Sasquatch. He was in the McDreamy league.
Why was she even thinking about that? About him?
It didn’t matter. He was done and the papers would soon grow tired of it all.
“I sold the Nymph Island teacup along with some others,” she said, picking up the conversation again, “for an utterly ridiculous price, and someone bought them and gave them to me as a gift.”
“Destiny,” her mother replied with a certainty that should have comforted Melanie. “Who is the man?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“He has a daughter and he’s divorced and he’s just not…not into me. But he’s special.” Damn. Now she was going to cry.
“Oh, honey.” Her mother laid her hand over Melanie’s.
What did she have in her life? A crappy old falling-down cottage that had forced her to sell her beloved antique teacup collection, which had been returned to her for all the wrong reasons, meaning she needed to return the money. She had a developer ruining the cottage’s view, as well as its peace and quiet. Taking down every stitch of heritage, story, the very things that made her island feel like Muskoka. Life was simpler there. It was as though she was visiting an older time, when women like her were sexy with their curves. And Rubicore was ruining it.
Plus, they were giving up on Adaker, the one place that hadn’t given up on Melanie. A place that had made her feel better about the world during a time when she’d no longer believed it was possible. They were taking that away from other children, and that wasn’t right. And for what? So the rich could romp and play and pretend there were no problems in the world, while they destroyed the habitats of rare animals that lived on that peaceful, treed island.
Rubicore had betrayed her. They hadn’t told her who she was fund-raising for.
And now that she had publicly pointed out all the ways Rubicore was a sneaky corporation whose owners didn’t give a lick about anything other than money, they were attacking everyone she loved. They were razzing Finian, a man who had come out about his gangster past and the promises he’d broken to fix his old neighborhood. They were all over Hailey and her previously failing business—saying it was taking off only because she was dating Finian and not because of her talent. They were calling Maya a money-grubbing siren who had hooked Connor and convinced him to sell his corporation, in a move that had stunned Bay Street. It had even brought Mistral out of the woodwork and into a custody battle for a daughter he didn’t want. He was trying to uproot the best thing in everyone’s lives—Tigger.
Tristen had warned her and Melanie had gone ahead, anyway. What kind of person was she for doing that?
“Talk to me,” her mother said lightly.
“Everyone…I…” Fight through it. Don’t cry.
“Is this about the newspapers?”
Melanie nodded, not daring to speak.
“They have been brutal, haven’t they?”
Great, even her mom read the stories. What did she think of her daughter ruining lives, while not making a difference in the world? It was all for nothing.
Nothing.
“Don’t you see?” Catherine asked. “You’ve scared them.”
“They’re being cruel to the people I love.”
“That’s because you got close to something good and juicy. Why else would they care about people like us? What did you find that they don’t want the world to know about, Melanie? There is something wrong happening here, and they know you are onto it.”
“You think so?”
Her mom’s blue eyes shone with pride. “Go get them, Melanie.”
“I can’t. What about Daphne?”
“You fight this battle. She’ll fight her own.”
“I can’t, Mom. I can’t do this to everyone.”
“We are tough enough to withstand this, Melanie.”
“I might not make a difference.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
Melanie sighed impatiently, thinking maybe her mother didn’t get it. “But there’s going to be pain.”
Catherine laughed merrily. “Where there is something worth doing, there will always be pain. Don’t let that stop you.”
“But…” She swallowed.
“We all want you to do this. Do you understand? This is important.” Her mom added quietly, “Not just anyone can do this, but you can.”
“But what about Tristen? What if I ruin his life? All these secrets are being thrown out there.”
“Secrets, when revealed to the world, have a funny way of losing their scary edges. Think of it as airing out his closet and setting his skeletons free.”
“Mom, I’m practically dancing across the world’s stage with everyone’s skeletons right now. I don’t have the right to do that.”
“Those teacups came back to you for a reason. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for yourself and worrying about everyone else. It’s time for us to deal with our own problems. That’s not your burden to bear, and you don’t have much time to set things right with this developer. We’re counting on you to be our voice, Melanie. Don’t let us down.”
* * *
Melanie managed to get Catherine to her appointment in time, then the tire patched during her lunch break. She’d then called Daphne after work to see if she would be up for an impromptu protest outside the municipal offices over Rubicore closing Camp Adaker and her sister had agreed.
The crowd of people had grown steadily, with Hailey’s old friend Polly even coming out to support them. It had turned out the camp meant a lot to Polly as well, her half brother, Josh, having spent time there as a teen. She was eager to hold a gala and put her fund-raising prowess to work, if need be. And if anyone could raise awareness—especially among those with money to spare—it was Polly.
While they might not be able to convince Rubicore to keep the camp running on Baby Horseshoe after their resort opened, the public attention would hopefully force the corporation to reopen the camp elsewhere in order to save face. And as long as the camp continued its excellent work, then Melanie would at least feel she had accomplished something in all this big mess.
But she wasn’t done with Rubicore. Not by a long shot. Her mother was right. This was her battle. And yes, Tristen was right about making the developers feel it in their wallets, but Melanie also knew she could make them bleed with a thousand paper cuts. She could be that bee that drove them crazy, wasting their energy swatting when she buzzed here, there and everywhere.
She grinned, feeling so evil and yet so alive. Taking down a nasty corporation one small step at a time was a nice dollop of awesome sauce on top of the in-your-face sundae she was serving up for Aaron Bloomwood and his crew.
Checking her watch, she figured she could likely catch the Fredericksons over on Baby Horseshoe Island before they turned in for the night. She’d love to see Tristen to get a gauge for how he was feeling about her, but she knew if she could convince the owners of Salty Dog, the last privately owned cottage in Heritage Row, to make a heritage claim, it could possibly help protect the rest of the cottages, even though Rubicore owned them. Time was of the essence.
Mr. Frederickson, his bald head glinting in the evening light, met Melanie on the short path leading from the dock to the rustic cottage.
“Melanie, I thought you’d mistook our place for yours. To what do I owe the pleasure? Did th
at man your sister Maya was seeing finally drown, trying to swim around the island? I haven’t seen him in days.”
Melanie laughed. “No, Connor is fine, Mr. Frederickson. He and Maya have been working out of his new place lately. They’ve started a business together. Even got engaged.”
“Give them our congratulations.”
“Thank you, I will.” She inhaled the pine scent of the island and said, “It’s quiet tonight.”
“I complained to the municipality that those knuckleheads were working too late into the night and disturbing others.”
Melanie held back a smile. A thousand paper cuts. She barely resisted the urge to hug the man.
“Mr. Frederickson? Have you and your wife put any consideration into claiming your cottage as a heritage site?”
He let out a snort. “And have the government breathe down my neck every time I want to fix my leaky plumbing? No, thank you. Plus, we have enough tourists coming by and gawking at the place as it is.”
“I understand,” Melanie said with a nod. She needed to chat him up, then slowly bring him around. But it would take time. Time she didn’t have. “The taxes sure have gone up around here lately.”
His head tipped back, taking in the tall pines lining the path. “I’ll say. Up almost a third that one year.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe how many people lost their cottages. Good thing I have a decent pension. How are you gals doing?”
“Barely holding in there. I’ve actually been looking into the heritage angle for Trixie Hollow.”
“And why would you want the government telling you what to do with your own property?” His tone said it all—I thought you were smart, but now? Not so much.
“Between you and me, Mr. Frederickson, we are this close—” Melanie placed her index finger and thumb a fraction apart “—to losing Nymph Island in a tax sale. If we declared it a heritage site, then not only would we get a tax break, but we could get the likes of them—” she angled her thumb at the large Rubicore Developments sign that was pounded into the recently leveled bedrock, where they planned to build a helipad “—to leave our place alone.”
“Are they bothering you?” Mr. Frederickson’s brow was furrowed, his arms crossed.
“They want our island to house staff. I’m pretty sure they’d pull down Trixie Hollow and build something big. Take out all the trees. Increase traffic between the two islands. She’s one of the last original cottages in Muskoka that has been mostly untouched, you know.”
“There aren’t many of those left.” He glanced back at his own place on Heritage Row.
“I don’t know how they got a permit to take that fine old cottage down,” she said, referring to the missing one. “I thought that sort of thing had to go through the permit process, where the public had a chance to speak up about it.”
“Full of termites, they said.”
“Oh?”
“Came to our door saying they might spread if they didn’t destroy the place. I said by all means take it down.”
“Hmm.” Melanie nodded as though she sympathized, but inside she was screaming. Why didn’t they fumigate the place? Surely Mr. Frederickson wasn’t that far out of touch? “You’ve heard they’ve closed Adaker this year and have no plans to reopen it?”
“I’m sorry, kid.” He dropped a hand onto her shoulder, making her feel small. “I know that camp was good for you, but it was old. A lawsuit waiting to happen. A pile of timber waiting to ignite at the first hint of lightning.”
Melanie drew herself up. “Why don’t they build a new one? I’m sure a big corporation could use the tax break. And it was a nonprofit charity.”
He nodded. “Never a problem housing that camp on the island.”
“Have they made an offer on your place yet?”
“Yep.”
“Us, too. It was insulting.”
She really was going to have to sell every last one of her teacups—again. Because at the end of the day, the cottage mattered more than her collection. If she could sell them once, she could sell them twice.
“I wish I had something to prove our cottage has cultural value.” If she could finally find the kingpin piece and get a tax break, her sisters might consider the cut to their annual taxes as her contribution to the debt.
Melanie inhaled, trying not to panic. Less than three weeks to pay up or the cottage would be seized. Three. Weeks.
“Its age isn’t enough?” Mr. Frederickson asked.
“Sadly, no. Although if you and the rest of Heritage Row go, we’ll be that much closer to being the last of the original cottages in all of Muskoka.” She winked at him, trying to keep her desperation at bay. “Will you consider making yours a heritage site?”
He shook his head. “Too late now.”
“It’s never too late.”
The lines around his mouth deepened in a way that made her sense something bad was in the works. Had he and his wife accepted Rubicore’s offer?
Mr. Frederickson held up a finger. “I have something… Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me see if I can find it. It’s been in the cottage since we bought it twenty years ago. I think it may have come from JoHoBo, back when it was called the Rusty Pelican. Sorry, it’s Missy’s Getaway now. I can never keep up with all these name changes. Hang on.”
Rusty Pelican? Stewart Baker’s cottage? Melanie resisted the urge to follow Mr. Frederickson into his abode and ransack it for clues. The man returned moments later with a package wrapped in an old, thick plastic bag.
“I think this has something to do with Nymph Island. Maybe you can use it for your heritage claim.”
* * *
A Harley rumbled past Tristen toward Melanie’s law office, its engine’s reverberations rattling through him. It stopped in front of a waiting man wearing black leather and chains—the bearded guy from the Steel Barrel. Great. Tristen had simply wanted to drop off Dot’s forgotten cell phone, maybe say a quick hello to Melanie to see how she was doing since quitting the Rubicore battle and then head out to Rosseau to give a quote on mending one of the village’s rock walls.
Who was he kidding? He wanted to ravage Melanie at her desk. He hadn’t seen her since their skin-on-skin escapade two days ago and he’d thought of little else since.
He should march in there and let her know that he respected her. That it had been fun and that he was willing to have more life-altering, mind-blowing, sweaty sex with her anytime, anywhere.
No. He should walk away. Melanie wasn’t the one-night-stand type and going in there would give her the impression that he wanted something more, something deeper.
He stared at the motorcycle, fighting with himself, as it rocked “Gangsta’s Paradise” out of its speakers. The song took him back twenty years and for the first time in his life, Tristen felt old. And white. Really white. But mostly old. Too old to be standing outside a woman’s place of work trying to summon the courage and a good enough excuse to go in and say hi.
The rider, wearing something bright and colourful, released the handlebars, shifting back on the bike as slim hands unhooked the helmet’s chin strap.
An old-style dress. Intricate chain maille choker. No leathers.
The music died as Melanie turned off the bike, her laugh ringing through the street’s early morning silence, hitting him in the chest. Why was she riding a chopper? She should be safely behind her desk reading legal clauses. Not riding a bike with handlebars up near a giraffe’s ears.
She was going to ruin him.
No leathers. No. Leathers.
He unclenched his fists, hoping he hadn’t cracked the screen of Dot’s phone, then resumed walking. Trying not to look up, he caught sight of Melanie shaking out her hair, the helmet gripped between her hands, her moves slow and deliberate.
Hot damn.
His steps faltered. There was something different about Melanie Summer this morning. The weight that had been resting on her shoulders seemed to have lifted. Was it merely the effect of a good motorcycle r
ide? No, it was her hair. The curls were gone. Her brown locks were straight and glossy, flipped up at the ends like a Stepford Wife.
She caught his eye and flashed him a smile. He swore a woman never looked sexier.
Remind him again why he was holding back?
Right. A strong woman with moxie to spare didn’t need a man like Tristen. Well, that idea bothered him. A lot. Bothered him as much as the way her prim and proper appearance was bad, bad, bad for his mind. He wanted to take her home, even if he had to carry her the whole way.
He needed to stop pulling back. Stop being a chicken where she was concerned. Two years of licking his wounds was long enough. They were both out of the Rubicore fight. Tristen no longer had to worry about the monster coming out and scaring her. He could be himself. His new self.
He rubbed a hand over his brow and walked closer. He didn’t want to talk to the biker, but wanted Melanie all to himself. Wanted to ask her out. Touch her skin. Make love to her mouth.
“Hey,” he said, managing to sound casual.
“Hey, Tristen. You remember Ezra?”
“Yeah, hey.” He gave a chin lift in the man’s direction. “What’s up?”
“Melanie just took Marley for a ride. Marley the Harley.”
“Is that why you weren’t wearing any leathers?” Tristen asked Melanie.
She laughed and rolled her eyes in amusement, as though she couldn’t believe he was being such a prude.
He was tempted to withdraw his remark, but had promised himself he was going to stop pulling back. This was him. Right here. Protective. She could take it or leave it.
“He has a point,” Ezra said, eyeing Melanie’s attire in a way that made Tristen want to block the biker’s view. “One truck taking a corner too close, or someone not checking their mirrors…” He slapped his palms together. “Happens too fast and too frequently.”
“You should buy a car,” Tristen blurted out. “With air bags.”
“Wow. You guys know that I already have a mother filling the role of worrywart, right?”
Ezra laughed, his gnarled beard bobbing against his chest. “What about a father? Seems to me you could use one of those, Lemonade.”