by Jane Toombs
Arriving back at the house, Mari learned there’d been no word about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She decided to take that as meaning he wasn’t getting worse—a positive sign. Neither had there been any calls for her. Not that she’d expected Uncle Stan to call, but it would have been be reassuring to hear his voice. She thought about using her calling card and shook her head. There was nothing to report other than her day with Russ and the fact she was having dinner with him tonight. Her uncle wouldn’t consider that news.
Since no one had told her she shouldn’t wander around the house, she decided to take a tour, starting with the ground floor. She intended to visit the kitchen first, but was distracted when she passed what she took to be Mr. Haskell’s study, where floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two of the walls. In looking over the titles, she found one shelf devoted to old photograph albums, some bound in plush, others in leather. Some held yellowing photos of old Mackinac, which she examined with interest.
Over the fireplace was a portrait of a young woman who, because of the style of clothes she wore, Mari thought might be Mr. Haskell’s wife, Yvonne, Isabel’s mother. She’d learned from the magazine article that Yvonne had died when Isabel was ten. Peering at her own face in the long narrow mirror on the wall by the study door, she could see no resemblance to Yvonne. Mari didn’t find any pictures of Isabel anywhere.
Turning to leave the study, she noticed Diana, the cook, standing in the hall beyond. “I was waiting to ask if you’d be in for dinner,” the woman said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was on my way to the kitchen to tell you I’d be eating out.” Deciding the cook might be a source of information, Mari said, “I wondered if there might be a portrait of Isabel Haskell somewhere, like the one of her mother in here.”
Diana glanced over her shoulder. Looking for the housekeeper? Mari asked herself, aware that Pauline could be intimidating. “I’m not supposed to know anything,” the cook said in a low tone. “But I heard tell Mr. Haskell had her picture stored in the attic after she ran off to marry that rock drummer. They say Mort Morrison was pretty well-known, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, Mr. Haskell’s supposed to have burned all the photos of her. They had one in the papers from where she went to school.”
Mari had seen several newspaper photos of Isabel at age eighteen, with Morrison, but in each, her face was half-hidden by her hand, as though she didn’t want to be recognized. In the school photo, taken with five other girls, Isabel looked to be about twelve. Her face wasn’t clear enough in any of the pictures for Mari to decide one way or the other if they looked anything alike.
“After Mrs. Haskell died, they say little Isabel moped about for a long time,” Diana continued. “Her father was away a lot, a busy man, and she badly missed her mother. They were real close, everyone said.”
“How sad,” Mari murmured. Poor Isabel. While Mari’s own mother—could it have been Isabel?—had died when she was born, at least she’d had loving parents in Aunt Blanche and Uncle Stan.
“Yeah, it was that. Mr. Haskell had to raise her all by himself, and they didn’t get on, by all accounts. They say he was kind of strict with her. Well, I got to get back and check on my pies.”
After Diana was gone, Mari started for the stairs to the second floor, planning to see if she could find a way to climb to the attic. Did she belong in this family? Maybe if she could see that portrait of Isabel she might find some feature that had been passed down to her. Besides the hair. Mr. Haskell had said on TV that Isabel’s hair was “an unusual shade of gold.”
Mari fingered her own short curls. Aunt Blanche had always said she’d been named well, since her hair was close to the color of a marigold. Named well? Mari had never picked up on it before, but could Blanche have meant that her birth mother had named her? The thought gave her goose bumps.
Searching for the attic meant she had to open all the closed doors on the second floor. Since she’d already learned that Pauline’s suite of rooms was on the ground floor and that Diana lived on the island, so didn’t spend nights at the house, Mari didn’t worry that she might be intruding.
Behind one door she saw what had to be Mr. Haskell’s suite, surprisingly austere. Most of the other doors led to guest bedrooms except for one that proved to be the entrance to an upstairs sitting room. She ventured inside, toward French doors to a balcony looking out over the lake. Far below, one of the hydrofoils that ferried folks to the island swished past in a spume of spray that glistened in the late afternoon sun.
Behind the next to last door in the hallway, a winding staircase led upward. Mari peered up it and realized she’d found the way to the cupola, not the attic. She closed the door and tried the last one. Locked. It had to be to the attic. She sighed. Stymied, unless she got up the nerve to ask Pauline for a key.
Not today, Mari decided. It was after five and she still had to shower before dressing for dinner.
Later, after trying three different shirts with the skirt, Mari sat at the wicker vanity table, trying to decide if her red earrings were close enough in color to the red belt to be passable. She scowled at herself, annoyed because she’d taken so much time getting ready. What did it matter, when she wasn’t certain she’d be staying on the island or how Russ felt? It was a sure bet he wasn’t spending an hour and a half getting ready just to impress her.
He didn’t need to. Though she’d only seen him in jeans so far, she knew he’d look just as good in anything he had on. Or didn’t have on? She shook her head, warning herself not to get into that. Wasn’t she in a precarious enough situation already?
Chapter Four
Mari remained upstairs until she heard the doorbell. As she started for the stairs, Pauline’s voice floated up to her. “Why, hello there, Russ, how nice to see you.”
He greeted the housekeeper, then asked after Joe Haskell. When Mari was halfway down the steps, he glanced up, saw her and smiled. “Pauline,” he said, “I’m taking Mari to dinner.”
Pauline’s expression gave nothing away as she said, “I had no idea you two were acquainted.”
“We’re both horse people,” Russ told her, as though that explained everything.
Pauline nodded. “Enjoy your dinner.”
After they were outside, Mari said, “She’s always courteous, but somehow she unnerves me.”
“Who, Pauline? She’s harmless.”
“Maybe so, when you’ve known her as long as you must have.” Mari paused to turn and look back at the house. “There must be a great view from the cupola,” she said.
“Old Joe used to have a telescope up in that round room at the top. Is it still there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you’ve never been up there? When I was a kid I spied on everything with that telescope, pretending I was watching for ore boats.”
“I suppose you were actually watching girls.”
“What else?” He handed her up into a one-horse buggy, got in beside her and clicked to the horse.
She’d already noticed he was wearing casual slacks with an olive polo shirt, the color turning his green eyes opaque. Unreadable. Which did nothing to alter his attractiveness. She could almost hear Willa warning her, “Handsome is as handsome does.” But to date everything Russ had done qualified as handsome, as far as Mari was concerned.
“You clean up well,” he told her, his gaze taking in everything from her sandals to her red earrings. “Nothing to spice up an evening like a buggy ride with a pretty girl beside you.”
“This is my first buggy ride.”
“I can guarantee it won’t be your last.”
He meant because she was on the island, she told herself, not anything more personal. She couldn’t expect him to spend all his time with her.
As the horse clip-clopped down the hill toward town, Mari wished she could ask him about the Haskell family. He was too young to have been a contemporary of Isabel’s, but he must have heard about her. But Mari feared to bring up the subject because he then migh
t connect her stay at Joe Haskell’s with the missing Isabel. What if she wasn’t Isabel’s daughter? What would he think of her then?
She’d come here expecting to meet the man who might be her grandfather and go through whatever tests he might wish her to have as proof that they were related. That would take maybe a week, she’d figured. But now everything was up in the air, leaving her in limbo.
“I do hope Mr. Haskell is soon well enough to come home,” she said.
“We all do. Hope you like fish.”
She blinked. “Fish?”
“My choice of restaurant for tonight serves the best Lake Superior whitefish I’ve ever eaten.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever tasted whitefish, but I do like fish in general.”
They passed the Grand Hotel, all lit up for the evening, with carriages dropping folks off at the front. The men wore shirts, ties and jackets, she noted.
“I’ll admit the Grand is the place for a grand occasion,” he said, “but I prefer my favorite restaurant otherwise.”
“By grand you mean like for a wedding reception?”
“Yes.” His tone was so clipped she was taken aback.
Though aware he was scowling, Russ couldn’t seem to stop. Since Denise’s folks had had a summer place on the island at the time, that’s where his and Denise’s reception had been, with everyone stuffed into formal clothes. She’d lapped it up; he’d tolerated it. Maybe he should have realized then that they weren’t compatible and never would be.
“Sorry,” he muttered, aware he was being rude. “I’m glad you’re a horse person.”
He caught Mari’s surprised glance and managed a grin. He’d spoken the truth. Even with this damn spy business between them, he felt more at ease with her than he ever had with Denise, who’d constantly chattered about shops and parties.
“I’m divorced,” he blurted, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to lay that on Mari. “My ex-wife didn’t want to live on a horse farm.”
Which pretty much summed up the situation.
“She didn’t know you raised horses?”
“I’d just passed my bar exam and was slotted to go into my father’s law firm when we got married. When I bailed out to raise horses, Denise bailed out of the marriage.” He paused, then added, “I suppose she figured I’d married her under false pretenses.”
“But if she loved you—” Mari broke off. “None of my business.”
She was right, it wasn’t, but what she’d said was what he’d decided was true. Which had made him wonder if he’d ever loved Denise, either.
“That’s down the river, under the bridge and over the dam,” he said. “Tak’s is just ahead, over there to your right.”
“What do you do with the horse and buggy? I don’t see any parking places.”
“There’ll be guys at the restaurant to return them to the stable—sort of like valet parking.”
“How handy. I’ve noticed the whole island seems to be neat and clean—considering that horses don’t use bathrooms.”
“When the college kids come over every summer to work here, the new ones get the scut work of keeping the streets clean.”
Tak’s was along the water, near the harbor. Russ ushered Mari inside, leading her to the booth that had been held for him. A woman came by and swept the Saved sign up as she greeted Russ. “Be right back,” she said.
“There was a sign out in front saying No Reservations,” Mari observed.
“There aren’t any—for off-islanders. Walt Takala and I were kids together. Lolly’s his wife.”
“I meant to ask if you have a cottage here.”
“My dad does.” Russ had no intention of telling her that this was the first time he’d stayed in his father’s place in seven years. Other years he’d rented a room near the stables when he came over to the island to check on his Blues.
“Does he just live here in the summer, like Mr. Haskell?”
Russ nodded. “Right now he’s off island.”
During the course of dinner, he introduced Mari to both Walt and Lolly, getting a lift from the appreciative once-over his old friend gave Mari. She was definitely something to look at, all in white except for a red belt and a decorative red stripe on her shirt collar, with heeled sandals setting off her long legs. And, for this evening, at least, she was his.
When they left the restaurant, the moon was up, three-quarters full. Russ tipped a valet to get them another horse and buggy, and while they waited, led Mari toward the planked pier, stopping short of it to lean on a rail.
“I can’t get used to all this water,” she said. “It’s so different from the high desert in Nevada.”
He made a noncommittal sound, his mind occupied with where to take her tonight. Not his father’s house, no. And not to Joe’s place, either. A drive in the buggy to a spot where they could look at the moon—that would be best. Slow and easy, he warned himself. Don’t push it.
Once back in the buggy, Mari soon realized they weren’t on their way back to Haskell’s cottage. A tiny thrill of anticipation ran through her. Almost from the first moment they’d met, she’d wanted to know how it would feel to be in Russ’s arms, and it looked as if tonight she had a good chance of finding out.
He halted the horses on a high spot, somewhere near the middle of the island, she figured. Distant music drifted on the light breeze, a sad tune that lingered on the edge of her memory. Far below, the moon laid a path of silver across the lake. “If we could walk on water, I wonder where that moonlit path would lead us,” she murmured.
“I prefer being right here,” he said, putting an arm around her and drawing her close.
Her breath caught as his lips brushed hers, featherlight at first until they teased a response from her. Then the kiss deepened until they tasted each other, evoking a primal need from her very center. The little warning voice that cried Too fast! was overwhelmed by the warmth of his lips, by the silky feel of his hair under her fingers as she clung to him. The zing of attraction between them became a sizzle, threatening to turn her into someone other than Mari, turn her into a creature of passion fueled by this man’s embrace.
She didn’t want to stop, she couldn’t stop; here was where she belonged. The night, the moon, the music were a perfect background for lovemaking. With Russ. Only with Russ. Slowly the identity of the tune penetrated her cocoon of desire until she finally recognized what she was hearing: “Danny Boy.”
The realization was as effective as a pail of cold water.
Untangling herself from Russ, she sat up straight and said huskily, “I’d better go home.” Not as positive a statement as she’d have liked, but all she could manage.
His voice was as hoarse as hers as he said, “You may be right.”
Of course she was right. She’d suspected all along that being with Russ was dangerous, and now she was sure of it. Here she was on Mackinac Island, on what might be a false premise—who could tell? How could she possibly so much as contemplate getting involved with a man who knew Joe Haskell? That wouldn’t do, not at all.
As Russ drove the buggy toward the Haskell cottage, he told himself he was glad she’d called a halt. He’d never dreamed kissing her would get out of control so fast, or that his need would take over so strongly that he’d had no intention of stopping. Whatever Mari was, impostor or not, he wanted her. Here and now. Which was impossible, given the circumstances. He could hardly quit seeing her, though, since he hadn’t even begun to probe at why she thought she could convince Joe Haskell that she was his granddaughter.
“I’ll give us a day to cool off,” he said, earning an indignant glance. “But the next day, we’re taking a private tour of the island.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? Don’t you trust me?”
“No. I mean, yes, but—”
“You don’t think we can behave?”
When she hesitated, he knew she’d give in.
“Bright and early the day after tomorrow I’ll pick
you up. Say eight o’clock?”
“Nine.” Darn, now she’d committed herself. Which, if she were honest, she’d intended to do all along. As long as she and Russ were both on this island, she wouldn’t be able to stand not seeing him.
When he halted the horse in front of the Haskell place, she climbed from the buggy before he could jump out and help her. He did get out, though, and walked with her to the front door, waiting until she opened it. Before she could decide whether she meant to let him kiss her goodnight or not, he bent and brushed his lips over hers.
“Sweet dreams,” he murmured.
Inside, she leaned against the closed door for a moment. She’d never met a man quite like Russ. Maybe there were no other men like him. Once in bed, she began to relive the moments in his arms. No matter how firmly she muttered, “Chemistry,” she didn’t convince herself. Russ transported her beyond herself in a way she’d never before experienced. Mere chemistry didn’t begin to cover how he made her feel.
Her dreams were definitely not sweet.
In the morning she faced a day without seeing Russ, and felt oddly depressed. While she was eating breakfast, Pauline, to her surprise, sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Mr. Haskell’s doctors are optimistic,” she told Mari. “They hope to move him out of the cardiac care unit in a day or two.”
“That’s good news.”
“Oh, yes. Both Diana and I are very fond of him.”
Since Mari could hardly say she was, too, she remained silent.
After a moment Pauline said, “Russ Simon is a decent enough young man.”
Not clear where this was headed, Mari murmured, “Uh, yes, he seems to be.”
“His father flew to New York to be with Mr. Haskell, you know.”
“Russ mentioned they were friends.”
“The elder Mr. Simon is also Mr. Haskell’s attorney.”
Was Pauline warning her? If so, Mari wasn’t altogether sure what about. It stood to reason Mr. Haskell would want a friend to be his attorney. Not for the first time Mari wondered if the housekeeper knew or suspected why she was here. Well, whether she did or not, since Pauline had taken the initiative of joining her at the table, this might be the best time to broach the subject of the locked attic door.