Ex’s and Oh’s (3 page)

“At least,” she said. Actually, she wasn’t planning to return at all, but she had her child to consider; therefore, she couldn’t make rash decisions of this magnitude on a moment’s notice. Her grandfather had left her financially sound, but she would have to look closely at her situation before giving formal notice.

“It isn’t like you to fly off the handle, Caroline.”

No matter what he said, she wasn’t flying off the handle. She was testing her wings. For the first time in her life, she was flying into the wild blue unknown that was her future.

And it had only taken her forty-three years.

A
week after requesting a leave of absence from the law firm, Caroline knocked on the door at 408 Prospect Street in Harbor Woods, Michigan.

The house was modest and old. Like the others on this block, it sat close to the street in the shade of large trees. A few of the neighboring homes had issues with peeling paint. Most had small front porches and windows that were open to the breeze blowing off Lake Michigan half a mile away. The windows of this house were closed, the curtains drawn.

As she waited, she glided her fingertips across the letters etched in the mailbox.
K. Peterson.
Had he scratched the letters into the metal or had someone else? She’d found no record that he’d ever married or had children. Wondering about his life, she knocked again.

He didn’t appear to be home.

Now what?

She’d spent the night in a bed-and-breakfast inn on
Harbor Drive. Until yesterday, her familiarity with Michigan had been limited to her association with fellow attorneys in Detroit, its sprawling suburbs and satellite cities devoted to the automotive industry. The Michigan she’d encountered along the three-hundred-fifty-mile drive from Chicago was something else entirely. She’d passed through harbor towns and woodlands, over sand dunes and past scenic overlooks and signs advertising blueberry festivals and wineries and artist communities.

According to the brochure in her room, Harbor Woods had begun its existence as a fur-trading post at the base of a knoll overlooking Lake Michigan. As the town grew and prospered, it spread up the hill and beyond. The higher the houses sat, the more prominent and prestigious they were. Prospect Street was located near the foot of the hill.

Caroline noticed a woman in a floppy straw hat watering flowers next door. Large-boned, she wore a simple housedress and stockings rolled down below her knees.

“Hello!” Caroline called.

Silence.

Trying again, Caroline said, “Could you tell me where I might find Karl Peterson?”

Again, the woman said nothing.

“I’m Caroline Moore. My grandparents spent a summer
here a long time ago. They knew Karl. Does he still live here?”

“What’re their names?”

“Henry and Anna O’Shaughnessy.”

“Who?”

Easing closer, Caroline removed her sunglasses. “My grandmother died before I was born. Her name was Anna. Henry O’Shaughnessy passed away five weeks ago.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I’m sure Karl Peterson would remember them. Do you know where he is?”

Squinting until her eyes were mere slits, the woman looked Caroline up and down and up again. “Talk to Shane.”

“Shane?” Caroline asked.

“Shane Grady.”

“Where might I find him?”

“At the marina, where else?” The woman heaved her large frame around and shuffled up the porch steps and into her house.

Apparently, the conversation had ended.

“It was nice chatting with you, too,” Caroline sputtered under her breath as she returned to her car.

Next stop, the Municipal Marina.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Shane Grady.”

Shane had seen the woman walking up the boardwalk, and in one glance had taken in her appearance, from her sunglasses to her Haan loafers. He’d bet his next paycheck she was old money, and old money always spelled trouble. Hair the color of chestnuts skimmed her collarbones. Her shirt was open at the collar and her slacks sat tidily on her hips. She probably considered her attire casual. She was a looker, but city, definitely city. Chicago maybe, or Boston. He would just steer her toward the yacht club, and get back to work.

He shouldn’t have been out here on the pier in the first place, but he’d taken a call from his ex-wife, and being outside was one of the few things that made such conversations bearable. Not pleasant. Just bearable.

His cell phone beeped in his hand. Gesturing to the woman that he would just be a moment, he pushed the proper button and said, “Whatcha got, Bobby?” He lifted his field glasses to his eyes. “I see it.” Running a finger down the list on his clipboard, he located the name that went with the aging yacht requesting a slip. “He reserved number seventy-three.”

An air horn gave two short belches as a big boat chugged past. Shane automatically waved at Dan Bentley
and his group of vacationers heading out for an afternoon of charter fishing. A little farther out, two Jet Skis crisscrossed paths parallel with the shore.

The cell phone beeped again. “A guy here just missed that charter, Shane. What should I tell him?”

“It just left Dock three. Tell him the next one leaves at—” he checked his watch “—twelve o’clock.”

“I’ve got another—”

“Hold that thought, Bobby. I’ll get back with you.”

He could feel the woman watching him. Finally giving her his attention, he said, “Okay. What did you need?”

She removed her sunglasses and pinned him with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “Are you Mr. Grady?”

“The only person who calls me mister is my kid’s principal. And that’s never a pleasant experience.”

“Shane, then?” Caroline had asked three people where she could find Shane Grady, and all three had jumped to attention at the mention of his name. She’d expected to find someone businesslike. Someone who wore socks. Someone who didn’t give all beards a bad name.

“If you’re looking to rent a slip,” he said, “you might prefer the accommodations at the Yacht Club. I’d do it soon. They fill up in July and August.”

“I’m not interested in accommodations.”

His gaze sharpened. “What are you interested in?”

They seemed to be getting off to a bad start. Reeling the conversation back to the issue at hand, she said, “I’m Caroline Moore.”

His Nextel beeped again. He held up a finger. “I have to take this one. I’m here, Dave.”

He rifled through papers on the clipboard again and rattled off another slip number. “He wants the engine serviced. As soon as they dock, take the boat on over to maintenance. Give it the VIP treatment.”

He looked at her again when the call ended, his expression a prod if she’d ever seen one. “Now, what can I do for you—” he glanced at her left hand “—Ms. Moore, is it?”

“Caroline. I’m looking for Karl Peterson.”

There was a palpable silence despite the speedboats idling away from the pier. “The lighthouse isn’t for sale.”

“Lighthouse?”

When his cell phone beeped again, he swore under his breath but didn’t answer it. “What’s your relation to Karl?”

She wanted to ask him the same thing. Instead, she said, “I’m pretty sure he’s my grandfather.”

Before the phone could interrupt him again, he turned it off and very quietly said, “I’m listening.”

All around her the mid-June hubbub of a busy marina in a tourist town carried on. Another air horn sounded. Seagulls screeched, boats chugged, voices called, and flags
whipped in the wind. She wasn’t sure what to make of Shane’s battered baseball cap and beard, but the way he settled his hands on his hips bespoke of an acquired patience.

“Karl never mentioned a granddaughter.”

“It’s a long story. Are you two close?” she asked.

“He used to take me fishing.”

“Is he a fisherman?” she asked.

“He was a friend.”

“Was?” she asked a little too loudly. She hadn’t considered that the elderly man might not be alive. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive.”

“Thank God.” She detected a softening in him, as if he shared the sentiment.

“This isn’t the time or the place,” he said. “Can you meet me at Chinook Pier later?”

“Chinook Pier?”

“It’s a square downtown where residents and tourists can get an outdoor table and listen to the local bands. Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll see you then.” Caroline retraced her footsteps. For some reason she looked back when she reached the end of the dock. Shane stood at a slight angle facing the water, his field glasses to his eyes, his two-way radio close to his face.

He didn’t trust her, that much was obvious. Discovering the truth was going to be more complicated than she’d thought.

Shane Grady was late. Either that, or he wasn’t coming.

Caroline had arrived at Chinook Pier a few minutes early. She’d had her choice of tables and had selected one away from the live band, where she and Shane could talk without yelling.

Although it was called Chinook Pier, it wasn’t a pier at all, but rather a courtyard with a nautical theme. It was surrounded by gift shops, dress boutiques, specialty stores and restaurants. Ordering a lemonade for herself and another for Shane Grady, Caroline settled back in her chair.

She’d never been a people watcher, and yet she found herself studying the families strolling by. Some adults pushed strollers. Others called to little ones racing ahead. She tried to picture herself doing that.

It was beginning to soak in, to feel real. She was going to have a child, and while that thrilled her, it also scared her to death. She’d never so much as changed a diaper. What about playgroups and nursery school and skinned knees? What about boyfriends or girlfriends and college? How did people do this?

Across the courtyard a family was eating ice-cream cones. A baby slept in some sort of knapsack strapped to the mother’s chest while the father showed two other children
in an oversize stroller how to lick the ice cream before it ran down their hands. It seemed to Caroline that babies required a great deal of paraphernalia. She wondered if all those apparatuses came with instructions.

“Been waiting long?”

A week ago she would have started. Tonight, she simply turned her attention to the man taking the chair across from her.

Shane had changed his clothes. The ball cap was gone and he wore faded jeans, his deck shoes replaced by comfortable-looking sandals.

She reached for her leather tote hanging on the back of her chair and removed a photo album. Slowly, she slid it toward him. He looked at her for several seconds before opening it.

“My parents died in a plane crash when I was eight years old. I went to live with my grandfather in Chicago.” She pointed to the black-and-white photo of three young friends taken on a white beach. “I believe that’s him, Henry O’Shaughnessy. And that’s my grandmother, Anna. I think the other man is Karl Peterson.”

She studied Shane’s expression. At his nod, she continued. “Other than wanting to know everything about what my mother and father were like when they were alive, I didn’t ask about my family tree. But after my grand-father
died last month, I discovered something written by my grandmother.”

He scanned the copy she handed him, then began again, slower this time. When he’d finished, he said, “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“Perhaps, but it does raise a lot of questions. How do you know Karl Peterson?”

Shane watched a drop of condensation trail down the outside of his glass. Onstage, a local band was massacring Moon River. But that wasn’t what had him on edge. Caroline Moore was trouble. He could feel it under his beard the way he could feel an approaching storm.

“Karl took me under his wing from time to time when I needed it. Now, I’m returning the favor.”

She stared at him with those Nordic blue eyes of hers, as if she knew there was more to the story. But she only asked, “Is he well?”

“He’s eighty-five.”

“Meaning he isn’t well?”

He was pretty sure her concern was genuine. “Look. Before his stroke, Karl gave me durable power of attorney.”

“His stroke?” she asked. “How is he?”

“Depends on the day.”

He watched her absorb the implication. “Being a Durable Power of Attorney for someone is a serious responsibility,”
she said. “A person doesn’t give it easily, and certainly not to just anyone. Obviously, he trusts you.”

Beneath her scrutiny, Shane had the strangest urge to fidget. He didn’t owe her anything, certainly not his life story, so he didn’t tell her about all the yelling his parents had done when he was growing up, all the slamming doors and shattering vases and pitchers, the ear-singeing accusations and recriminations. When it got too bad, Shane had escaped to Karl’s house. Weather permitting, they went fishing. To this day it’s what Shane did when life got out of control.

“How did you and Karl meet?” she asked.

Shane pegged her as an attorney, and probably a damned good one. She sure didn’t give up. Finally, he said, “I grew up on Prospect Street.”

He saw the dots connect behind her eyes. “You lived next door.”

“How did you guess?”

Reaching for her glass of lemonade, she said, “I think I met your mother today.”

He made a disparaging sound. “Did my beard tip you off?”

Her smile was wry as she said, “That and your effervescent people skills.”

Her wit surprised him. It had been a long time since Shane had been surprised.

“Would you do me a favor?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“Karl Peterson trusts you. I’d like to meet him. Would you introduce me to him?”

He studied her longer than was considered polite. She was trouble, all right. But what the hell else was new?

On Saturday morning Caroline met Shane beneath the portico at Woodland Country Manor. Rain pinged against the metal roof before running through gutters and downspouts. The building was large and newer than she’d expected.

Inside, a shrunken old lady called feebly to Shane. “Hello, Shane, dear.”

“Hi, Mrs. Wilson,” he answered, squeezing her hand on his way by. Other residents called him by name, too, as did most of the staff.

Walking past people using walkers and wheelchairs, Caroline tried to imagine Henry in a place like this. He wouldn’t have had the patience for it, and she was thankful he hadn’t lingered in his final years.

“How long has Karl been here?” she asked as they turned down another corridor.

“Seven months.” Shane knocked on an open door.

Slowly, they went in.

The man who looked up was old but not bedridden. His hair might have been red when he was young, but now was sparse and white. Relying heavily on a cane, he was reed thin and had probably been tall once.

She searched his eyes for something, for some small indication that his mind was intact even though his body was beginning to fail. He looked from her to Shane, unblinking. Shakily, he held out his hand. “Name’s Karl Peterson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He smiled as if proud of his good manners.