Family Trees (19 page)

C
HAPTER
21

“W
hat are you going to do?” Brad asked Ryan over the phone as they neared the end of their call. Ryan was in the cottage, seated at the computer and scrolling through his gallery of work. He was proud of the photographs he had compiled over the past several months. In fact, the final collection exceeded what he imagined he was capable of doing. There were edits to complete, and some winter photographs still to take, but essentially, his work in Bayfield was nearly finished. He should have been ecstatic but instead, he felt himself at a crossroads.

“I should probably head back,” Ryan told Brad, continuing to scroll through the images. He stopped when he came upon a photograph of Shelby and Ginny in the Meyerses' kitchen. He had taken it from the doorway without their knowledge, hours before Jackie had arrived at the house on Thanksgiving Day. The light that shone on their faces from the window above the kitchen sink illuminated their faces as they laughed together. It was one of his favorite shots from the weekend.

“And leave Shelby?” Brad's words came through Ryan's phone and hung in the air.

“I've already stayed longer than planned, and there's not much left for me to do here. I really want to get these photos printed and framed. See if I can get them shown somewhere in the city,” he confided to his friend. “I don't know, Brad. What would you do?”

“Come back to Chicago. Bring Shelby with you,” Brad said with encouragement. “Don't worry about your family. They'll love her.”

“It's not my family that worries me.” Ryan stood up from the table and walked to the kitchen window. Looking out, he marveled at the expansive frozen lake and the massive shards of translucent ice that were piled up haphazardly along its shore. “Even if I thought she'd ever leave this town, it's the lifestyle, Brad. I can't subject her to that. You know how it is.”

“From what you've said, she seems tough enough to take on all of the attention and craziness that comes with your family,” Brad said on the other end of the line.

“I don't know.”

“Do you love her?”

Silence filled the distance between them while Ryan contemplated his answer. “Yeah,” he finally said, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing the back of his neck. “I do.” Thinking it was one thing—saying it out loud felt like a commitment.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Brad said with so much pleasure that it made Ryan wince. “I wasn't sure it was ever going to happen to you! Ryan Chambers. In love.”

“Easy,” Ryan warned.

“So what's the problem?”

Ryan placed his palm upon the cold windowpane and watched the frost melt beneath his touch. “The problem is, I can't tell her.”

“Why the hell not? Doesn't she feel the same way about you?”

“I think she does. Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“I don't know, Ryan, I guess I'd just be honest with her. Take a risk.”

“But she loves her family—and this place—so much. The last thing I want is to force her to choose. I can't ask her to change her life. And I definitely don't want to drag her into the circus.”

“And you don't see yourself settling in Bayfield.”

Ryan took a pause before answering. “No,” he said. “I don't.”

As Brad talked him though his options, Ryan absentmindedly scratched frost off of the window edges with his fingernail, watching the delicate shavings collect under his nail and pepper the windowsill. Rather than spend Christmas with the family he was avoiding in Chicago, Ryan decided to stay with the family he had come to love in Bayfield. He'd figure out the rest in time.

“I don't take Shelby as the type of woman who's going to wait around for you,” Brad concluded.

Ryan could hear Brad's infant son crying in the background. “Sorry, man—I have to go,” Brad said in a rush.

“Give Holly and that baby boy a kiss for me, will you? Tell her I'll come down soon.”

“I'll hold you to it.” And then, before hanging up, Brad added, “Don't underestimate Shelby. If you really love her, you'll know what to do when the time is right.”

C
HAPTER
22

L
ike much of the wildlife in northern Wisconsin, the Meyers family slowed down during the winter months. Although work on the farm was less rigorous in early December, there were chores to do. Namely, keeping watch over the acres of frozen soil for pests that fed on the bark of dormant trees. As organic farmers, their most successful method for ridding the orchard of pests was by supporting natural predators.

On a quiet Friday evening, while most of Bayfield's residents were tucked away in the warmth of their homes, a stranger slinked into a dimly lit town bar on Main Street. Like a field rat, Avery Martin had crept into town with a wet nose and a keen eye, nibbling on bits of information she could pick up on William Chambers Jr.

Fortunately for Ryan, Nic was sniffing out the reporter before she had a chance to sink into anything juicy.

 

Snow was falling steadily in downy clusters the following day when Shelby arrived in town at Spill the Beans, at Nic's urgent request. The coffee shop's windows glowed golden from the light within and were decorated with garlands of holiday evergreen adorned with silver bulbs. Even before opening the shop's blue door, Shelby could smell the nutty scent of coffee percolating inside.

The
ding
of a delicate bell rang above the door as Shelby entered. She brushed snow off her coat and looked around the space. Seeing Nic seated at the far window with her nose in the Duluth paper, Shelby decided to go straight to the counter to place her order before joining her friend.

“Hey, Shelby, how's it going?” asked Rachelle Yaeger, the shop's owner and the subject of one of Ryan's portraits. She rubbed the small of her back and arched slightly, trying to ease the strain she felt in her pregnant, perfectly bulbous belly. A petite woman with an unruly mess of hair, she looked like a character from an illustrated book on gnomes that sat on the Meyerses' coffee table. And like a gnome, Rachelle was most content in the comfort of her small home, which usually smelled of baked mushrooms and a wood-burning fire. She looked particularly wholesome this morning, with her round, rose-colored cheeks, green eyes, and swollen fingers.

“Hey, Rachelle,” Shelby said in a singsong voice.

“Cappuccino?” Rachelle asked as she finished wiping the counter with a damp towel.

“Absolutely,” Shelby answered, peering into the bakery case, a mischievous smile coming over her face. “And a blueberry muffin. It'll be my lunch.”

“You bet.”

Shelby glanced at Nic again. It was unusual for her not to jump up when Shelby arrived and start chatting and throwing her arms about to dramatically regale her with one story after another. Considering Nic's boundless energy and general disinterest in current events, the sight of her quietly reading the paper was out of character.

“Has she been here long,” Shelby asked.

“Um, about an hour maybe?” Rachelle said. “She grabbed a black coffee and the paper and then plunked down in that spot and hasn't budged. Huh . . . it's not like her, is it?”

“Not at all.”

After paying and thanking Rachelle, Shelby walked across the room to join Nic, who still hadn't bothered to look up from behind the newspaper.

“Anything interesting?” Shelby pulled out a chair across from Nic with a scrape against the wood floor and took a seat.

“Not today, but something's brewing,” Nic said with a sour tone while setting down the paper.

“What do you mean?” Shelby inched her chair in closer to the table.

Nic gave a quick look around and then placed her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Hank and I were at Captain's last night, sitting at the bar, when a woman walked up next to us. She orders a beer and finds a spot in the corner. Then she sets up shop.”

“Sets up shop?”

“You know—laptop, phone . . . Anyway, she's drinking her beer, typing, and watching people. It's like she's looking for someone,” Nic said. “She gave off this weird vibe. Hank noticed it, too.”

“Okay, so?” Shelby said, unsure of where this was going. She began to peel away the paper wrapper from her muffin.

“So when Boots and his wife walked in, this woman looked interested.”

Shelby broke off a piece of the muffin top and popped it into her mouth. “Please don't tell me you spent the entire night watching this poor woman,” she said, brushing away a crumb from her lip.

“Just hear me out. As soon as they settled into a booth, this woman saunters over to him acting all casual-like. Ya know?”

“Did you call me down here to tell me that Boots was talking to some stranger? I don't understand why I would—”

“I overheard her question, Shel.”

“And?” Shelby lifted her mug to take a sip.

Nic pointed her finger at Shelby. “She asked him about
you
.”

“What?” She splashed coffee onto her napkin as she fumbled to set down her mug.

“She wanted to know about you and Ryan.”

“Ryan? Who was she?” Shelby nervously pulled off another piece of her muffin. “Why would she care about us?”

“I think she's a reporter, hon.” Nic tapped her finger on the folded newspaper that lay on the table between them. “She's doing a story, but not for this paper. I scanned the entire thing and there's no mention of you or Ryan.”

“But why?” Shelby rubbed a piece of the muffin between her fingers, oblivious to the small pile of crumbs that was piling up on her plate. “What for?”

In a rare act of tenderness, Nic reached across the table and took Shelby's fidgeting hand in hers. “Maybe you should ask Ryan.”

“Why? I doubt he'd know anything about this,” Shelby said.

Nic shrugged her shoulders. “I'd bet money that he does.”

Shelby slipped her hand out of Nic's and pushed away from the table. She knew people wrote about Ryan; he had told her numerous stories about the media preying upon his personal life, but she had naïvely believed it wouldn't happen up north. Feeling anxious, a variety of possible explanations running through her head, Shelby stood up and pulled her coat off the back of her chair. “Did you happen to see this person talk to anyone else?” she asked while shoving her arms into her coat sleeves. She glanced out the window and was surprised by how much snow was coming down. The heavier bands weren't forecast to arrive until mid-afternoon.

“No. She didn't stay long. But there is one more thing you should know,” Nic said carefully.

“There's more?”

“Yes, but first—are you going to eat this?” Nic pointed at the remaining muffin on Shelby's plate.

“Come on!”

“Okay—sorry! Sorry. On her way out of Captain's, she was walking past Hank and me when her cell phone rang. She stopped to answer the call when she was right behind me, and . . .” Nic pursed her lips together and stalled by reaching for Shelby's plate and pulling it across the table.

Shelby zipped her coat and slipped on her gloves in haste, eager to speak with Ryan. “And . . . ?” she said, trying to hurry Nic along.

“Maybe you should sit back down.”

“Nic!”

Nic looked up at Shelby and said simply, “I heard her thank John Karlsson for returning her call. Maybe it's time you checked in with your so-called
friend.
”

C
HAPTER
23

I
t was Sunday, which meant a football game would be on in the Meyerses' home and Olen would be seated in front of the television. Although Ryan had been raised a Bears fan, as long as he was under Olen's roof and in Packers country, he'd root for the green and gold. The two had formed an unexpected bond over the past several months. For Ryan, being welcome in a stable home was a blessing. As for Olen, it was no secret that after years of living with women, he appreciated having a little extra testosterone in the house for a change.

When Ryan had arrived at the farmhouse for the noon game, Olen told him Shelby was in town and would be returning shortly. As if on cue, Shelby walked through the front door just after kickoff.

“Shelby! You're back early,” Olen called out to her from his recliner without bothering to look at the front door. “The snow's really coming down out there! It's a good thing you came back when you did—we're going to get walloped today.”

“The plows are out, so it's not too bad yet.” She shook out her coat and brushed the snow from her hair before hanging up her things and entering the room.

“At least it's a great day for football,” Olen said as he reached into the bowl of potato chips in his lap.

Ryan stood up to greet Shelby with a light kiss. “Have a seat—the game's just getting started.”

“Actually, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked.

“Sure,” Ryan replied at the same time Olen let out a cheer. Ryan's attention shot back to the television screen. “Come on—come on—come on!” He leaned his body to the right as if he could help maneuver the quarterback past his opponents during a sprint down the sideline. “Almost there . . .”

“Doh! Fumble.” Olen smacked his hands on his knees and leaned back into his chair.

“Sorry about that,” Ryan said with a boyish grin as he turned back to Shelby, who was now standing behind the couch with her hands dug deep into her jean pockets. “You wanted to talk.”

Shelby nodded and motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. “We'll be right back, Grandpa,” she said over her shoulder. Olen murmured something inaudible with a mouthful of chips, his attention focused on the instant replay.

Once they were alone, she leaned against the kitchen counter and turned to Ryan.

“Something wrong?” he asked, standing beside her with his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I was with Nic down at the coffee shop,” Shelby began. “She thinks there's a reporter in town.”

“A reporter.” He had known that it would only be a matter of time. In fact, he was surprised it had taken this long.

“She overheard a woman asking Boots some questions.”

Ryan's fists, hidden from view beneath his crossed arms, clenched tightly. “What kind of questions?”

“Nic's pretty sure she was asking about me—and you.”

Ryan glanced out the window above the sink. The snow was coming down so fast and heavy now that it looked like heaven itself was breaking apart and falling to the ground. “Did Nic get her name?”

“No.” Shelby shifted her weight to the other foot and watched Ryan carefully.

“Any idea which publication she works for?”

“She didn't say.”

“Shouldn't be too hard to find out.” Looking out on the expanse of land that surrounded the farmhouse, he was grateful to have been sheltered in privacy for this long. “Did Nic say if this reporter spoke with anyone else?”

Shelby dropped her eyes and said, “Only Boots and his wife.”

“Boots doesn't strike me as the type of guy who'd say much.” Ryan reached into an overhead cupboard for a glass and filled it with cold well water from the tap. “He's pretty protective of you.” He took several long gulps.

“There's something else you should know,” Shelby said, waiting until their eyes met before she continued. “Nic's pretty sure that John called the woman on her cell phone, just as she was heading out.”

“Perfect.” Ryan took one last drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand before setting the glass down beside the sink.

“I can't figure out why he would be talking to a reporter,” Shelby said. “Why would she care about us? We're hardly making news up here. No one around here cares.”

“Maybe she's doing an exposé on the apple industry, or a winter travel piece on Lake Superior,” he offered with a slight smile.

“Seems unlikely, doesn't it?” She returned his smile. “But maybe it's nothing. Nic could have misunderstood this whole thing. I mean, there isn't anything newsworthy about you working here, is there?”

“Absolutely not.”
But nothing they've covered about me in the past was ever based on legitimate news
.

“And it's not like John or anyone else would say anything to make me look bad. I mean, to make
us
look bad.”

Ryan leaned over to give her a kiss. “I'll find out who she is. Hopefully she's not here to stir the pot. Some reporters tend to blow things out of proportion.” He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the snow blowing into drifts behind the Meyers' house. He knew he didn't have much time before the roads would become impassable. “I'm sorry you have to be involved in this.” He turned back to Shelby, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed her forehead for reassurance.

“So what do we do now?” Shelby hugged him back and buried her head in his chest.

“I'll track down the reporter.” Reluctantly he added, “And you'll need to call John.”

 

A heavy snowfall wasn't enough to cover the tracks of a city reporter in a small town. Finding Avery Martin at the only motel that stayed open during the winter had been easy. Convincing her to cancel the story for the national weekly magazine, however, was not.

“Listen, I'm just doing my job,” Avery said when Ryan met with her in the vacant, poorly lit motel lobby. “When my editor sends me all the way up here to the boondocks to check up on some rumors, I sure as hell am not going back to the office empty-handed.”

As it turned out, Ryan learned that she was an aspiring reporter who wasn't about to drop a story that could lead to something bigger in her as-yet-uneventful career. Despite Ryan's attempt to downplay his involvements in Bayfield, Avery was undeterred.

“I get it,” he said calmly, careful not to be overheard by the curious, bespectacled woman peering at them from behind the reception desk. “But what you don't understand is that no one in this town needs attention from your magazine.
I
don't need this attention.”

“Can I quote you on that?” she asked with a wry smile, fumbling for a pad of paper in her oversized leather purse.

He shook his head. “There's a chance I'll be back in Chicago after the new year. Why don't you give me your card. We can talk then.”

“That won't be necessary. We can either talk now, or I'll just have to rely solely on my sources. Either way, we're running this story over the Christmas weekend. You may even make the cover.”

There was nothing left to say. Getting angry would only make it worse. Without another word, Ryan zipped up his jacket and turned to leave. Before he reached the door, the reporter called out to him. “Listen, there's no need to worry—I mean, it's just a love story, right? Nothing beats a good holiday love story.”

 

Two weeks later, Ryan sat on the edge of the bed in his dimly lit bedroom, waiting for Shelby to wake. Upon opening her eyes, she looked baffled to find him already dressed and wearing his winter coat and knit wool cap. She reached for the alarm clock, cleared her throat, and asked him what time it was.

He leaned in to the bed and kissed her good morning. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she replied groggily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “You're up early. Are you going somewhere?”

“Actually, I just came back.” He reached to turn on the bedside lamp and handed her a glossy magazine.

She took the publication from him and squinted to adjust her eyes to the light. “What's this?”

“It came in early this morning. Boots met me outside the store to give me an advance copy. It goes on sale tomorrow,” he said of the issue, which contained a brief article along with a photographic exposé of the two of them.

“On Christmas? They're running this over the holidays?”

“What can I say, it's a slow news day,” he offered, trying to make light of it.

“You're a terrible liar.”

“Really, it will be okay,” he said. “There's not much here.”

“It's national—”

“It's not credible.”

“Please tell me John was honest with me—that he refused to speak with that woman,” she said with rising concern, reaching for the magazine.

“He wasn't quoted, but—” he said, and then caught himself. “I'm just going to let you read it. When you're finished, come on out to the living room. I'll make a fire. And make some coffee. Then I think we should talk.” He brushed aside a tangle of her uncombed hair and kissed her again, then left her alone with her first bitter taste of tabloid news.