Emily got serious. “Actually, we think George might be having some cognitive issues.”
“We who?”
“Mark and me.”
“Why do you think that?”
She told him the story about George and his wife and the bus and St. Ignace and his possibly having no wife. Then she told him about the mishap with Conrad and the bottle.
“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting time here in Mystique,” John said, sliding his hand onto the small of her back as they walked into Jake’s.
“Manistique,” she corrected him.
“Right, right.”
They sat at a booth, and John went to the bar to get some wine.
Emily couldn’t believe it. Half of her wanted to run out the door right then. The other half still felt something for John. She’d thought she had resolved to leave him for good, but he was slowly reeling her back in.
John brought back white wine. “Have you lost more weight since I last saw you? You look really thin, Emily.”
She dismissed it with shake of her head. “Tell me about the job in Chicago.”
“It’s not exactly a job. I was nominated to be on the board of Lincoln Pres.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Now I have a reason to come out and see you on a somewhat regular basis.”
“Then what?”
He glanced down, then looked up with that long face of his. She couldn’t help but try to reconcile his face now with the stern one she’d seen when Nicholas was dead on the surgery room table. “Should I be completely honest, lay all the cards on the table?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, though she wasn’t altogether sure.
He looked down slowly spinning the stem of his glass. “You asked me what kind of man would leave his kids, be that selfish for any woman, right?”
Emily nodded.
“And you’re right, I shouldn’t leave them. I couldn’t leave them. And if you’re willing to wait . . ."
“Wait until when?”
“Well, Cory is thirteen. So I’ll stay until he finishes high school, goes away to college.”
“That’s a long time.”
“But you’ll be busy with residency for the next three years anyway.”
“True, but that’s a long time to live a lie with Lisa.” Lisa crackled. She had never uttered his wife’s name.
“She already knows.”
“You told her about me?”
“No, not like that. I mean, she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. We’re not going to last and once Cory finishes high school . . ."
“John, what can I say?”
“Why don’t you say you’ll try and make it work?”
Emily drank her wine. She still couldn’t believe that someone wanted her this badly. She rubbed the bridge of her nose as she mentally reviewed the list of complications. Only two, maybe three, remained. But two of them were related, his age and her desire for children. Both were awkward to discuss now, so she brought up the last—
“What about Nicholas?”
“Who’s Nicholas?”
She glared and pursed her lips.
“The boy—of course, of course.” He looked down and shook his head. “Sorry. Look, I know that’s eaten you up. I get it. I thought about the first time I lost a patient. Nicholas was Dr. Olsen’s mistake—and me too, my fault too. Okay. I’m sorry.”
Emily rested her face on her hand and closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, she stared off, her gaze passing over some young men entering the bar. She did a double-take.
Emily jumped out of the booth and accosted the group. “What are you doing?” she yelled at Conrad.
“They let me out of the hospital,” he answered nervously.
“You should be at home with ice on that hand, not at a bar. Are you out of your mind?”
Conrad’s face went pale, and his flabbergasted friends stayed still, their wide eyes on Conrad as he sputtered an answer. He finally got out, “I’m sorry. I’ll go home now.”
“You lost a lot of blood. And with your meds, you definitely should not be drinking.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, stepping backwards. “I’m very sorry. Thank you.” He and his friends scurried out of the bar.
When Emily turned around, she found John standing behind her, and a dozen patrons watching her. The din of bar, which had gone quiet, crept back.
“That’s the guy who sliced his hand an hour ago. Can you believe it?”
John nodded. “Yes.” He gripped her shoulder. “I do have some idea how stupid patients can be.”
“Yeah, but come on.” She stomped her foot on the wood floor. “It’s crazy.”
“Do you want another glass of wine?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, let’s go.” They started for the door.
“Where to now?”
“Don’t you have to get back soon?” Emily asked.
“To where?”
“Mackinac.”
“I checked out.”
“You did? Where are you staying?”
“Isn’t there any more room at the bed and breakfast?”
“No,” she said, laughing briskly. “It’s full.”
“Then I’ll stay in your room,” he said brashly.
“You can’t! I have a special rate. The deer-car rate.”
“I’ll pay the difference.”
“No, no. You’ll have to go somewhere else. Mark knows I’m not married.”
“So? Is he a priest or something?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“You’re joking.”
She had pitched it as a joke, but . . ."Well not a priest. A pastor or some such thing.”
“Seriously.”
She stumbled. “Something, I don’t know. Looks like one, doesn’t he?”
He sighed. “All right. In that case . . ."
“That place off the highway should have room. The Cozy Inn.”
He scratched his head. “Sure.”
They got into the car. He started it and asked nonchalantly, “Why don’t you just stay with me at the Cozy place?”
“I can’t.” But she didn’t have a good reason. “Marilou runs it.”
“Is she a nun?” He busted out laughing.
Emily rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. “It’s just everyone around here knows everyone else, and they talk.”
“Do you really care what they say? Nobody here knows us.”
She shrugged. “No, not really, but still. I don’t know . . ."
John shrugged. “Fine,” he said and drove her back to the Manistique Victorian.
Chapter Twenty
Mark returned to the house, the blunt burden of a withheld confession weighing on him. He had been on the verge of telling Emily that Vivian was dead. But she’d easily dismissed him, showing more interest in that stranger, her friend—whoever it was. Mark really didn’t want to deal with people at the moment, but when he saw George, he instantly ached for the old man. George sat at the dining room table reading his book, sounding the words quietly. “Can I get you anything?” Mark asked in a soft voice as if they were in a library.
George looked up, smiled, and shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“So tomorrow, Emily will drive you to Harris. Okay?”
“That’s very kind of her.”
Feeling slightly underappreciated, he added, “Luckily, she’s going in that direction.”
“Where is she now? Is she with that man?”
“Yeah. Do you know who he is?”
George shook his head. “He came looking for Emily. He asked if he could wait inside. Seemed like a nice fellow, so I let him in. I hope Vivian doesn’t mind.”
Mark was briefly bemused, then realized that poor George didn’t remember Vivian was dead. “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t.”
“Good.”
“He didn’t give a name?”
George shook
his head. “Why? Nervous about competition?”
“Huh? Over what?”
“The girl, of course.”
“No, no,” Mark protested with a weak laugh.
“That’s how my wife and I ended up together. We were sort of on and off, together with a group of friends, and then one day, this friend of her cousin’s came around and started making the hard play.” George whisked a punch at the air. “And I took care of it right then.”
“You fought the guy?”
“No, but I would’ve if I had to,” he replied adamantly. “I asked her to marry me that day, and she said yes.”
Mark nodded his head slowly. “Luckily Emily and I aren’t even remotely like that, so I won’t have to fight this guy—or any other guy.”
“Well you should give it some thought before it’s too late.”
“Speaking of your wife . . ."
“Yes?”
Mark suddenly remembered the pies on the hood of the car. “Hang on a second. I’ll be right back.”
Outside, heading toward his car, Mark caught the pitched whine of an electric car. He turned and saw that the Hintons were back. Sorry, but you can’t stay. Sorry, but you can’t stay. I’m so sorry, but you can’t stay, he practiced in his head.
The car pulled into the driveway and Mark went to open the garage door, then walked back to the front as the car entered.
The driver’s side door swung open first and the woman got out. “We made it,” she exclaimed and then stretched.
What’s her name again? The man’s named Peter. Peter and, er—
“Close one,” Peter said, still inside the car. “I’ll plug it in, Yvonne,” he said.
Yvonne!
“Well hello, Mark,” she said.
“Welcome back, Yvonne.”
“Good to be back. We almost didn’t make it.” She winked at him, closed the car door and approached.
“Why? What happened?”
“It was a little farther than we expected. We were down to a single mile of battery. We’re not exactly sure what happens when the battery completely runs out.”
“Wouldn’t it just stop?”
Yvonne smiled, casually set her hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “It will continue to go on for a short while, but we don’t really know for how long.”
He glanced at her hand. Her fingernails were painted black. “I have some bad news,” he said, slyly backing away from her. “My aunt Vivian got held up and won’t be here this weekend. I wish I were capable of managing this place myself, but . . ."
“Oh,” she said sadly.
“I’d be happy to drive you to another hotel—you can leave the car here to charge.”
She called out, “Peter!”
Peter got out. “Yes?”
“Vivian won’t be here this weekend, so I guess we need to move to another hotel.”
“But you can leave the car charging here,” Mark added. “That’s no problem. I’ll drive you over to the Cozy Inn. I’m happy to do it.”
“That’s a rotten bummer,” he said. “What about that other fella? George. Is he still here?”
“Yes, he’s still with us,” Mark answered, deflating. “It’s just—”
“And you still have Emily to help, right?” Yvonne asked.
“Well—”
“It’s decided then, we’ll stay,” Peter asserted with a nod and a small smile. “We won’t be any trouble.” He opened the rear passenger door.
Mark scratched his head. I’m so sorry, we made a mistake, all the rooms are taken! But no, he couldn’t quite fully muster his inner-Fawlty. Peter pulled out a guitar.
“This way,” Mark said evenly, and they walked on the cement path along the side of the house.
Before they returned, the picture of the Hintons had been fuzzy. Yvonne: late forties with light brown hair, permed in loose spirals. Neither pretty nor unattractive, her face reminded him of a woman he saw regularly at the gym. Peter: early fifties, wisps of gray in his dark head of hair, salt and pepper goatee, average height.
Now it was different. They were staying, and he worried about pulling the whole thing off. Four guests. Breezy Yvonne in particular made him nervous. There was almost a forced or medicated peppiness to her personality. And her big blue eyes, sort of alluring, sort of crazy. Peter gave off the listless mannerisms of a retired person, always prepared to laugh, his distended belly hidden somewhat by his loose Hawaiian shirt of yellow flowers and palm trees. Mark couldn’t quite put Yvonne and Peter together. Only money could do that, he determined, and judging by the car, he had money.
“Hiya there,” Yvonne said to George as they entered the house.
“Hey there, George,” Peter announced as if they were all old friends. “How goes it?”
George looked up. “Fine, fine,” he replied, his stare a bit lost.
Peter approached him. “How’s the book?”
A genuine smile appeared on George’s face. “Oh, it’s interesting.”
The stranded pies popped into Mark’s mind again, so he steered for the backdoor. As he went into the kitchen, he pushed the stiff swinging door closed, happy to separate the guests from the kitchen. Then Yvonne called out, “Oh, Mark,” a bit too expectantly, and he considered ignoring her. But he stopped and plodded back through the swinging door. “Yes?” he said, the kitchen door against his back.
She grinned at him. “Can you show us to our room please?”
Mark thought about telling her, It’s up the stairs, very last room, but instead he nodded pleasantly and answered, “Of course, if you’re ready.”
“An idealist without firm ideals,” George said to Peter.
“This way please,” Mark said, a forced cordiality in his voice. Emily would have been proud of him.
“I’d love to chat more with you about it later,” Peter said, finishing his conversation with George. “Something that I read about him not long ago that I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Excellent,” George replied.
Mark picked up the two suitcases and headed up the stairs. The two guests followed their reluctant host around two corners to the last room, the Lake Michigan room. He dropped off the suitcases at the foot of the bed.
“I’ll see you later then,” Mark said and proceeded to leave.
“We’ll be down shortly,” Yvonne replied.
Shortly was two minutes later while Mark was making a call in the library. He turned his back to the glass door when he saw Yvonne at the bottom of the stairs. He left a brief message: “Sorry, the Manistique Victorian will not be able to accommodate you tomorrow. Please arrange to stay at another hotel. I am very sorry.” He hung up, and almost immediately there was a tap on the glass.
He turned to an overwrought grin and fingers waving at him. He begrudgingly opened the door. “That was fast,” he said.
“What was?” Yvonne said, congenially barging her way into the room. She passed by Mark and settled herself in.
“Coming downstairs,” Mark replied, turning around. He now noticed her chest—or more to the point, he hadn’t noticed before how low her V-neck sweater dipped.
“Well Peter decided to take a short nap, and I decided not to,” she said a bit sternly. “This is nice,” she said, looking at the bookcases. “Are guests allowed in here?”
Mark gestured toward her. “Apparently.”
She barely laughed, and then briefly glanced around, before saying, “Plus I wanted to tell you something.”
He immediately dreaded whatever it was she wanted to tell him. She grabbed him by the elbow.
“It’s about Peter,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Can we talk about this later?” Mark threw out immediately. “I need to make a phone call.”
“This will only take a second,” she insisted.
She stared intently with those big eyes, but to him she seemed to look past him, not at him.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Peter is quite the yelper.”
“What?!”
“Yelp. You know, the review website.”
“Yes, yes. I know.”
“He’s reviewed every place we’ve gone to on this trip. So if you want a good review . . ."
“Isn’t electricity enough?” he said sardonically.
“Sure that helps, but in the end he either loves a place or he hates it. There’s rarely an in-between. I can give you some tips.”
Mark raised his hand to stop her. “No.” I’d throw you out of here in a second if I had it in me, he wanted to say. “I’d rather earn it. That’s what Vivian would want.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I had pegged you as completely authentic.” Then she gazed at him without a flinch or a blink. “I love that in a man.”
Mark’s winced smile came with a twitch. “Thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it.” He moved slightly out of way, leaving an open path to the door.
She pointed to the living room. “I’ll be sitting out there . . ." She fluttered her eyelashes and slightly brushed up against his arm as she walked by.
Mark closed the door and let out a long breath of relief. He hoped Peter’s nap would be a short one. He made the rest of the calls—the immediate needs, the ones for this weekend and next. Not a single person answered their phone, and he left a similar message for each.
Fearing any interaction with Yvonne, Mark sequestered himself in the library—that is, until he heard a car door closing. He moved swiftly out of the library and into the front room and watched from the window as Emily strolled up the walk. She turned back momentarily toward the car but didn’t gesture. Mark focused on the driver. He couldn’t make out any more than what he’d seen earlier. A man, tall, older, but nothing else. Must have been the guy on the other end of the call yesterday, he figured. Boyfriend? Too old, too . . . The car disappeared down the street.
Mark went to the front door and opened it. Emily stopped in her tracks, there on the porch.
“Do you have room for the night?” she asked unevenly, her eyes drifting lower.
“We’re not open for the season,” he said, a bit mechanically like a bad actor reading a script.
“That was yesterday,” she returned, smiling a little. “You need a new reason today.”
“You’re right.” Mark gestured with his head. “Come on in.”
She came inside.
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