Family Trees (2 page)

“The ever-charming John Karlsson.” She leaned across the counter to kiss him on the scruff of his cheek.

“Only for you, Meyers.” He turned his cheek at the last moment and her lips settled on his for a brief kiss.

“Fiend!” she scolded.

“You want me. You just don't know it yet.” He flashed his most magnetic smile.

She set her backpack on the counter, unzipped the top, and pulled out John's black Windbreaker. Shelby looked at her old friend with a twisted smirk and raised eyebrows.

“So you're not here to get your hands on me?” he asked.

“Oh, I'll put my hands on you all right.” She raised a clenched fist. “You're the most forgetful person I know. I swear you do this on purpose just to have Gran send me down here.”

“Guilty. But come on. Admit it. You love it,” he replied, walking around to her side of the counter and pulling her into a one-armed hug before taking the jacket. “So, what are you up to today? Work . . . or more work?”

“No, no,” she said, wiggling out of his embrace. “I'm going to hang out with Nic.”

“The boss actually gave you a reprieve?”

“Something like that. Nic and I are just heading over to the Island for an overnight at the Gordons'.”

“Perfect day for it. And how is Miss Nicole today? Dark and brooding as usual?”

“Be nice.” She walked over to a stacked kayak display and ran her hand over the smooth orange exterior of a new model.

“Remind me again why you're such good friends with her.”

“Stop. That question is getting old. Just because you don't like her doesn't mean she can't mean something to me.”

“That tells me nothing.” John walked up beside her and put his hand on the kayak she was admiring.

“I never know what she's going to do or say, and I like that. She challenges me. She's fun and crazy and tough. What can I say, she keeps things interesting.”

“I still don't get it.”

“Well, there. That's something you two have in common. She doesn't get you, either.”

“Ouch!” He grabbed his chest, feigning injury.

She shook her head and walked around to the other side of the kayak without taking her hands off its sleek surface. “I love this one. How much?”

“Twenty-seven hundred,” he replied. “We just got it in this week. Fantastic, isn't it?”

“Beautiful.”

“You should buy it.”

“Right. On my salary. Besides, I know a great guy who lets me use the demos for free.”

“No! Who is it? I'll have him fired!”

“Shoot! John, I'm sorry—I have to run,” she blurted out, looking at her watch and rushing to the counter to grab her bag. “Ferry's here—love you!”

“Love you, too,” he said softly, taking a step forward as she rushed away. They had been connected since childhood, with John always seeming to follow one step behind.

Rushing out of the shop's front entrance, Shelby took a last look over her shoulder toward John, then she slammed squarely into another man's chest. She made an audible “Oomph!” upon impact, before collecting herself and seeing that she was in the company of three surprised, but amused men.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn't see you.” Scanning their faces and recognizing no one, Shelby easily pegged them as tourists. She smiled and made her way through the narrow entrance as they parted to make room. When Shelby came to the third man, the one holding the door, she paused. Although a stranger to her, he seemed familiar somehow. Standing just over six feet tall, he was lean with a muscular build, broad shoulders, and a sun-kissed face. Dark brown hair that curled playfully around his ears. A slightly upturned smile. Striking green eyes.

Shelby held his gaze for a moment, and when she couldn't place him, she simply thanked him and continued out the door. She jogged down the grassy embankment, her focus on the ferry landing across the street, when she heard a familiar, precious voice.

“Shee-bie!” a child squealed, pulling his tiny hand free from his father's grasp and toddling toward her with as much speed as a three-year-old could muster. She dropped to one knee and held her arms open, just in time for Benjamin to jump full-body into her embrace. Holding him tightly, she stood and twirled Benjamin around. His legs rose into the air as if he was on a ride at the fair. Their giggles intertwined. She smothered his neck with kisses and took in the graham-cracker-milk scent of him.

C
HAPTER
2

W
hen Ryan Chambers entered West Bay Outfitters, his two travel companions were behaving like boys. Although the group was seven years out of Columbia University, they tended to revert back to their sophomoric pranks during these trips. Brad Thorson gave Pete Whitfield a shove to the left, which was returned by a punch to the shoulder. Pete then reached behind him and gave Ryan a quick shove. Their antics stopped the moment a slender brunette smacked right into Brad's chest with a thump.

“Oh! Sorry!” she gasped, a look of surprise on her face. “I didn't see you guys.”

“Hey—no! It was our fault,” Pete replied with a broad grin. Pete was the kind of self-deprecating guy who joked about being the typical tall, dark, and handsome type—depending on your definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He stood just under six feet, had hair the color of brown ale, and limbs that were brawny from years of playing rugby.

“Gentlemen, let the lady pass.” Pete used his arm to move Brad's body out of her way while Ryan held the door open for her.

She squeezed past the first two before reaching Ryan. Her eyebrows crinkled slightly as if puzzled by the sight of him. Ryan readied himself for what would come next. It was a situation that had played out countless times before. A woman would recognize him from the media as the son of William and Charlotte Chambers, the successful and highly public couple from Chicago whose media empire put them in the social circles—and headlines—along with some of the country's most notable figures.

First would come the woman's recognition. Then her coquettish overture. Flirtation with fame. And his inevitable, yet polite decline. During their college years, Ryan's friends enjoyed the attention he drew from women, as it had been an undeniable boost to their dating escapades. However, now that they had wives waiting for them in Chicago, Brad and Pete had little interest in Ryan's encounter with this woman. They retreated inside the shop.

Ryan dropped his eyes from her gaze, ready for her clever line. Her flirtatious smile. But it never came. Not a word. Not a glimmer of recognition. She simply thanked him and brushed past as she hurried off toward the ferry.

And that was it.

The tension in his shoulders relaxed. Her reaction, or lack thereof, reassured Ryan that this was the perfect place to escape. In this town, he could get the one thing his money couldn't buy back home. Priceless anonymity.

He was about to turn back into the shop when he heard the overjoyed squeal of a child's voice. Ryan watched as the woman pulled a small boy into her arms and spun him around, drew him close, and kissed his neck. The look on their faces took Ryan's breath away. Unconditional love. A love that every child deserves. A tenderness that epitomizes motherhood. Something he had seen many times in scenes from projects his father's company had produced, but never observed in his own home. Growing up as heir to one of the country's most successful media conglomerates, he was raised in the hollow adoration of the public, amid lights and cameras, when what he craved most was the attention of his parents.

The young woman, who had caused a sense of relief in him by giving him little regard, now had his full attention. Seeing her through the child's eyes, and then his own, Ryan realized how unaware he had been a moment earlier. He had been too focused on himself and preserving that precious sense of privacy. How could he have missed it? She was absolutely beautiful.

 

“Hey, earth to Ryan,” Pete called over. “Are you with us?” In public, Ryan was known as William Chambers Jr. or Will. But to his closest friends, he went by his middle name of Ryan.

“Coming!” The sound of Pete's voice made him realize he had been standing there, lost in his thoughts, watching her until she said good-bye to the child and his father. Her husband? Ryan closed the door behind him and walked across the shop to rejoin his friends.

“See something interesting?” Pete asked with one eye raised.

“Just watching them load the ferry,” Ryan answered flatly. He paid little attention to Pete while extending his hand across the counter to the man wearing an Outfitters T-shirt and smoothing out the curl of a scrolled nautical chart. “You must be John.”

“Hey, Mr. Chambers.”

“I'm not much for formalities,” Ryan insisted, reaching out his hand. “Ryan.”

“Good to meet you.” John returned the handshake.

“Likewise.” Ryan smiled. “You have a great operation here.”

“What can I say? Life's not bad when a day at the office is a day on the lake.”

“I can imagine,” Ryan agreed. He looked down at the chart. “Were you guys mapping out our route?”

“Yep,” Pete replied. “Instead of a four-day trip, John recommends we do a short overnight on Madeline and return to Bayfield sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“Head out again when the weather clears,” Brad added.

Ryan leaned in to get a better look at the course John had plotted out in pencil. “Storm from the southwest?”

“'Fraid so.” John looked out the window to his left and squinted toward the rising sun reflecting off the water. “Unless the storm shifts, it'll reach us by around six tomorrow night.”

“When I checked the weather before we left Chicago, I saw there was a chance of it hitting this area. How reliable is the forecast?” Ryan asked.

“It's coming,” John answered. “And believe me. The last place you'll want to be when it hits is in the middle of this lake with your ass stuck in a kayak.”

“Agreed.” Ryan looked at his friends for consensus. “Besides, we're pretty good at changing plans at the last minute.” A shared zest for spontaneity was what had helped forge their friendship in college. But the truth was, Ryan knew his friends were becoming less willing to participate in his impulsive breaks from reality. They were building careers and establishing homes with the women they loved, while he was no more grounded now than he'd been in college. His parents had grown impatient with him. It was time to step up, they lectured. It was imperative that he embrace his responsibilities, take initiative, roll up his sleeves, and help grow the family business.

Pete nodded.

“No problem.” Brad was one of the first friends that Ryan made in college, back when both of the young men were eager to break away from their families, but had very few life skills that would enable their success. While Ryan's mother hired others to handle domestic chores in the home and help raise her son, Mrs. Thorson was a doting mother who did virtually everything for her Brad. As a result, Brad and Ryan were equally ill-equipped for the real world. Once on campus, navigating the Laundromat and making ramen noodles in a coffeepot became a bonding experience for the two freshmen. Then, when Brad and Ryan demonstrated mutual loyalty and stupid courage during a frat party altercation—one that involved a stolen keg of beer, a varsity wrestling trophy, and a taxidermied armadillo—a lasting friendship was born.

“One more thing. There's a sailing regatta today. And, in addition to the sailboats, there will be a number of powerboats out there, so you'll have to keep an eye out as you cross the bay. And you'll want to stay clear of the ferry routes, which run back and forth across the bay right here,” John instructed, pointing to the blue dotted line on the chart that linked Bayfield and the historic town of La Pointe on Madeline Island. “Be careful as you round the southern tip of Madeline. The water can get pretty choppy in the south channel as you make your way into the bay. You'll come across brownstone cliffs along the eastern side of Madeline, right here. I'm sure it goes without saying to stay clear of those cliffs if you hit any whitecaps.”

“We appreciate all of this, John, but we're experienced on the water,” Pete assured him.

“We have our certifications with us,” Brad added.

John put both hands squarely on the counter and leaned toward the men. “With all due respect, I don't care if you're Captain Ahab. This is your first time on
this
lake. It's my job to make sure you have a plan. You need to wear your wet suits and respect the water. And by all means, gentlemen, keep your eye on the sky. Conditions here can change on a dime. I have no interest in pulling kayakers off the lake,” John said point-blank. “Even the experienced ones.”

“All right! All right!” Pete put his hands up.

“Jesus,” Brad muttered under his breath.

“We get it, John,” Ryan said calmly. Ryan respected John because he didn't give him any special treatment. In fact, he didn't seem to give a damn who he was. “We appreciate the advice. What the guys mean to say is that we've kayaked in the ocean, in cold weather conditions, in remote locations.”

“Suit yourself,” John said, turning toward the side door that opened to the lake.

 

John led them outside and down to the shore, where three kayaks sat in the sand, packed and ready for launch. As they walked, Brad casually asked, “Hey, John, do you know who that woman was?”

“Who?” John dropped his cell phone in the sand. “Damn it!” he uttered under his breath while reaching down and brushing the sand from his device.

“You know, the brunette who was leaving as we walked in?”

John hesitated, shoving the phone into his back pocket. “Can't say that I do.”

“Huh. It seemed like she knew you.”

“No.” John shook his head. “Nope.”

Brad eyed John as they neared the lake's edge, but his look wasn't returned. “You sure?” he asked again.

“Okay, all set,” John announced, slapping his hand down on the nearest kayak. The sound echoed within the vessel's hollow chamber. “Time to get you guys on the water.”

“It seems we have a mystery on our hands,” Brad taunted as each man chose a kayak and shoved his day pack into the deck hatches. “And no one likes a good mystery better than you, Chambers.”

“That's enough. Now let's hit the water.” Ryan was the first to put his kayak in the shallow. He settled into the narrow cockpit and took a firm hold of his paddle. Before taking the first stroke, he looked over his shoulder and saw John standing on the beach. John's arms were crossed, his jaw clenched. He stood silently, feet firmly planted in the sand, almost as if he were waiting for some kind of threat to cast off and disappear into the deep. Ryan turned back to the lake and took his first couple of strokes. He then set his rudder and kept on paddling, enjoying the sound of water lapping against the kayak's hull as he glided out toward open water.