Always on My Mind (10 page)

“You’re an incubator. Everything is doubled.” But she did look a little red-faced. “You okay?”

“Yep. Tiger’s outside building a snowman, I think. Boy, that kid has energy.” She pulled off her hat, loosening her long red hair. “He talked nonstop from school. I swear, he could be a lawyer someday.”

“One in the family might be enough.” Darek finished tying the electrical wires together. “I don’t need to be outsmarted by two of you.”

Ivy laughed. “Hardly. I think you do just fine, Mr. Christiansen. Look at this place. It’s gorgeous. If anything, it looks better than before. Can I book it for Valentine’s Day?”

He came down the ladder, set the wire cutters on the counter. Crouched in front of her. “You have other plans on Valentine’s Day.”

Then he touched her face, leaned up, and kissed her.

He could never quite get enough of the taste, the wonder, of kissing his wife. His second chance. His reminder that yes, God loved him. Forgave him for the mistakes of his first marriage.

She cupped her cold hands around his neck and leaned into the kiss, and he lost himself for a long moment with the taste of her, coffee on her lips, the smell of vanilla on her skin.

Yes, she’d be very busy on Valentine’s
 
—oh no.

He pulled away. “Wait. Valentine’s Day is a Friday. I have to be here for the check-ins.” He made a face. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Her smile fell. “What about Casper? Couldn’t he work?”

“Oh, babe . . .”

“You don’t still blame him for the pipes, do you?”

He didn’t know what to think. Once he’d unwrapped the pipes, he’d found the insulation eaten away
 
—or maybe it had never been applied. And yes, heat wrap encased the pipes, but not double layers like Darek instructed. Or thought he had.

“The resort is my responsibility.”

“The resort belongs to your family. That includes Casper. Maybe you should let him help
 
—”

“I have been. We re-drywalled the place, and he helped run new pipe, and I let him paint the ceiling and the walls
 
—”

Ivy was smiling.

“What?”

“You are so funny. I happen to know that you hovered over him every time he picked up a hammer or Spackle knife or paintbrush.”

He opened his mouth, but she put her hand over it. “Don’t even start. I have text messages. Voice mails. Photographic evidence.” She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled to a photo, and held it up. Casper, white-faced from sanding Sheetrock, with Darek behind him, his mask pushed up onto his head, his own hair white. Yeah, for a couple hours there, with Casper helping to shoulder the repairs, the resort hadn’t felt quite so strangling.

“I concede to the prosecution. But still
 
—Casper’s got a job, and I can’t ask him to give up his Friday night.”

“Because, what, his calendar is booked?” She raised an eyebrow even as she tucked the phone away. “Is it just me, or has he suddenly become a homebody? Are you sure he’s okay? He seems . . . I don’t know. A little broken?”

“He’s fine.”

“And what about
 
—? Well, do you think he’s over Raina?”

“Probably. It was just a summer thing.” Darek got up, picked up the fixture from the counter. Balancing it, he climbed the ladder.

“It didn’t sound like a summer thing, the way you described the fight between him and Owen.”

“I wasn’t there until the tail end. Owen and Casper have always
had their moments. Casper’s fine. I’m sure he got her out of his system in Roatán.”

“Maybe. But I stopped by the Wild Harbor today over lunch, and he told me to tell you he was working late tonight. Again. That’s three days in a row.”

He held up the fixture, fitted it to the ceiling, and with a pencil marked the holes for drilling. “Maybe he’s decided to take life seriously. I think Ned might have offered him a management position.”

“Casper, a store manager?
Ho
-kay.”

Darek looked down at her. “What’s that for?”

“Nothing. It’s just so . . . normal.”

He drilled the first hole, blew away the dust from the Sheetrock. “Well, a man has to choose between his dreams and responsibility. He can’t have both.” He drilled another hole. Blew that dust away.

The silence that followed crept up on him like syrup, invading his pores.

Ivy was looking away, out the window, her face stoic. Her hands cradled her belly.

“Ivy?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She ran a hand over her cheek.

Was she crying?

He started down the ladder, but she rose to her feet, held up her hand. “I just brought by your dinner. I figured you wouldn’t take time to eat. I have to . . .” She turned away, then came back with a smile. Something forced if he read her expression correctly. “I have a deposition tomorrow, so I have to head back to work. I’m dropping Tiger off at his grandparents’.”

The parents of his first wife, Felicity. The wife who died after Darek had all but checked out of their marriage.

He came all the way down the ladder. “Ivy, what’s the matter?” He reached out for her, but the door swung open.

“Dad!” Tiger barreled into the cabin, his snow pants dampened, his woolen cap and mittens spraying flakes onto the new wooden floor. He held a wooden box made of Popsicle sticks. “Look what I made you!”

But even as he said it, he slipped, his rubber-soled boots slick on the now-wet floor, and the craft project flew into the air. Tiger slid, feetfirst, bumping the ladder.

The light fixture toppled off the top.

Ivy screamed and grabbed Tiger.

Darek lunged for Ivy, pulling them back as the fixture landed, splintering into a million stained-glass fragments.

And then everything went quiet, only the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Everyone okay?” he finally managed, his heart sinking as he added up the cost of the fixture.

“My birdhouse!” Tiger scrambled up, oblivious to the glass, and tromped across the floor to where his splintered craft project lay.

Leaving wet, blackened, salty footprints on the brand-new carpet.

“Tiger, get off that carpet right now!”

Darek didn’t mean to shout
 
—or maybe he did
 
—but the adrenaline turned his volume even higher, and by the time he’d reached Tiger, the seven-year-old’s face began to crumple.

“But, Dad, my birdhouse
 
—” He held up the smashed milk carton–and–Popsicle stick creation.

Darek grabbed it and tossed the wreck onto the table even as he
picked up Tiger and deposited him on the rug by the door. “This carpet is brand-new, Tiger, and look what you did
 
—it’s wrecked. I’m going to have to shampoo
 
—”

“Darek!”

Ivy’s voice caught him, made him breathe.

Tears streamed down Tiger’s face, his brown eyes filled with hurt.

Darek exhaled, his breath shaky. Oh. He dragged a hand down his face, then crouched before Tiger, reached up, and thumbed away a tear. “I’m sorry, pal. But you can’t just run in here. There’s glass everywhere now, and the carpet
 
—”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Tiger caught his lip between his teeth. He glanced at the distorted birdhouse. “I made you a present.”

Darek took the project, examined it. Oh, buddy. “Did you make this for me?”

Tiger nodded. “It was supposed to be for Christmas, but the glue didn’t dry, and then Mrs. White said I should take it home, but I forgot it in my cubby and then Mom, I mean Ivy, came today and said I should bring it. That you’ve been working so hard and maybe you needed something to make you smile . . .”

Mom.
Yeah, he caught that slip. He glanced at Ivy, who had her hand over her mouth.

“Mom was right,” Darek said quietly. He reached out and pulled Tiger to himself, tucking his son into his embrace. Tiger’s arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry I’ve been working so hard. I promise things will get better.”

Tiger released him, leaned back. “And then we’ll build a snow fort?”

“A snow
castle
!”

Tiger glanced at the glass. “I’m sorry I made your lamp fall.”

“It’s okay, Tiger. I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt. Go have fun with your grandparents. I’ll see you later tonight.”

He stood as Tiger ran outside.

“Mom?” Darek said, turning to Ivy. He cupped her face.

Ivy smiled, her eyes wet. “He’s done it a couple other times recently. I think, maybe with the arrival of this baby, it’ll sink in.”

He pushed her hair back behind her ears. “I don’t deserve you. I know this. And I know I’ve been working long hours. But it’ll get better. I just have to get the resort into the black and then
 
—”

“Then our lives will slow down?” She laughed, a sort of sweet mocking, and took his hand, resting it on her belly. “I doubt that.”

He widened his fingers, feeling the baby move inside. The sense of it could buckle his knees. No, he didn’t deserve Ivy.

He had to make a go of this resort
 
—for her and Tiger and this baby.

“I’ll be home later.”

She patted his cheek. “I know. I’ll leave the light on.”

A
GGIE AND
T
HOR
W
ILDER
lived on a farm that overlooks Lake Superior about four miles out of town. Turn on old County Road 41, then at Wilder Trail. Their house is at the end of the road about a quarter mile.

Gust’s words hung in Raina’s mind as her used Aveo bumped along the icy road leading back to the estate, drifts of snow just barely wider than her car guiding her through a shaggy, snow-covered forest. The pine boughs hung low and shivered as her car dragged through them and shook white powder on her windshield.

A gal could get lost back here until the thaw. She made a mental note to head home long before the five o’clock sunset. Even now, just after noon, shadows hovered over the path like disapproving sentries.

Maybe she should have waited for Gust’s grandson, Monte,
but after spending three days helping Gust boot up his computer, set up e-mail and his Facebook page, and learn the rudiments of an Excel sheet, she left him to begin cataloging his inventory, including prices.

They had an eBay jackpot in their future if she could just wipe off the dust, take a few pictures, and convince Gust that his best clientele could be found beyond the tiny borders of Deep Haven.

And she could probably catalog Aggie’s entire “estate” on her own. How much work could it be to sort through the few possessions of a small-town farmer?

She slowed as she eased her car over a fallen drift, praying she didn’t get stuck. Casper certainly wouldn’t be around to save
 
—

See, there she went again, letting him creep into her thoughts. So he’d pulled her out of the mud, once upon a time. Right now the man probably sat on some white-sand beach, forgetting about her, just like she told him to.

And frankly, she should too. Move on. Fresh start.

As she drove out of the grip of the forest, the land began to clear and white drifts rolled away from the road, downhill. Leagues below, the lake spread out, all the way to the horizon in a breathtaking expanse of glory, the open water in the middle steel gray under a smoky sky. She imagined that, in summer, touched by the cirrus-streaked blue sky, the view could steal her breath.

The road arched and she kept her speed lest her wheels start to spin. At the top, she spotted the house.

Clearly Aggie and Thor had been more than farmers. Or perhaps just extremely successful farmers. The house, now covered in snow, rose three stories in the middle of a grove of dormant fruit trees. A mansard roof capped the third story, with a turret that jutted against one corner.

Green-shuttered windows on the second story peered over a shingled wraparound porch. Pillars made of stone, probably handpicked from the lake, propped up the roof and added an Old World feel to the structure.

In fact, as she drove up and stopped at the end of the plowed road, where it opened into a parking area, the entire place felt old.

Or perhaps vintage. Valuable.

Raina got out, pulling her satchel onto her shoulder, and surveyed the house. Around back, she made out a dilapidated greenhouse. And behind her, a barn for livestock or vehicles.

She could imagine sipping lemonade on the porch in the summertime, watching the boats travel the lake. See children running in the grassy field, apples dripping from the trees.

The image rushed up and wrapped a hand around her neck, choking her. Her eyes burned, and she bit her lip, blinking away the tears. Shoot. Someday, please, she had to get past this.

Probably she was kidding herself. How did you forget losing a part of your soul? Or even worse, giving it away?

The hollow places inside burned as she recalled Gust’s instructions:
Monte shoveled to the front door and left it unlocked, so you should be able to get in.

She found the shoveled trail and hiked up the wide stairs that led to the front door. The protection of the porch left it clearer of snow, and she stood for a moment at the top, staring at the view of the lake, the road. The past.

She could imagine standing here in the fifties or sixties, a young girl in love, watching for her date’s Mustang . . .

She’d clearly read too many historical romances while recuperating. She stamped her feet free of snow and opened the door.

Time caught her up and settled her into an era of parlors and
tea, of family dinners around a dining room table, the smell of pot roasts infusing the home with the taste of welcome.

She could nearly hear the voices calling from the upstairs bedrooms.

She closed the door. A stairway ran from the foyer to the second floor, a worn red carpet waterfalling over the oak treads. Green wallpaper, the color of jade, lined the entry hallway, and behind the door, on an oak coat stand, hung a blue woolen jacket.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

Her voice echoed in the frigid air. She stepped into the octagonal sitting room to her left in the three-story turret. A sheet covered a high-backed parlor sofa with eagle claw legs; another sheet draped a chair of the same design. In the center of the room, a marble-topped coffee table with carved legs held a milk glass tea set.

She ventured into the room, found dusty black-and-white portraits, solemn descendants of the Wilder clan in silent vigil over the capsule of time. A bookcase suggested highbrow reading
 
—she recognized hardback Dickens, Alcott, the Brontë sisters, Austen.

Only the ancient square Panasonic stereo television pushed against the far wall gave a nod toward the modern era.

Raina crossed the hallway into the living room and found herself in the seventies, with wood paneling and built-in hickory cabinetry filled with framed photographs, figurines, and yet more books. In the center of the room, a green davenport, the fabric worn nearly through, suggested hours spent there reading. Two more chairs, dressed in gold velveteen, held needlepoint pillows crafted with Christmas patterns.

The place seemed as though someone had simply shut the door and walked away. Raina wandered through the dining room to
the kitchen. A hand-tatted lace runner draped the oak table, more milk glass in the corner hutch.

Dark-hickory cupboards hung in the kitchen, accented with Tiffany-style overhead lights designed in fruit patterns. A side-by-side stainless steel oven, white Formica countertops, tall orange stools at an overhanging counter, and a floor covered in a wild geometric-patterned rug in lime green and red reflected a high-style early seventies makeover.

Although the freezer box stood empty, the green General Electric fridge stirred up memories of her grandmother’s frozen chocolate chip cookies hidden inside.

She opened the cupboards and took a quick visual inventory of the contents, her gaze lingering on a collection of Ranger Joe dishware, then headed upstairs.

Four bedrooms all contained double beds with eyelet dust ruffles, homemade quilts, and needlepoint bolster pillows. Papered in a print of tiny roses, each room held a writing desk and wardrobe and netted a small collection of vintage clothing. It wasn’t until she examined the bedside table of what she assumed must be the master bedroom that she hit the jackpot.

In a drawer of the round table she found two books. One, a handwritten journal of poetry. The other, a diary.

She picked it up, began to page through it. Scrawled on each page seemed to be the ongoing activities of each day, like a day planner.

Raina flipped to the front. Stared at the date.

O
CTOBER
1929

Arrived at the station today, 3 p.m. Met by Father’s man, Duncan. He drove me to the school. It’s not at all
what Father said, and I shouldn’t have believed him. I think I might perish here, and I suppose that is what he intends after the debacle in Paris. He says that he will have to arrange a marriage here, to someone who would overlook the rumors.

I have ruined myself and I miss Mummy more than I can bear.

Raina closed the diary.

She felt like an interloper. Clearly some mistake had been made. Certainly whoever lived here must be returning . . .

Indeed, outside, she heard a car door close. She got up and peered out the window. A black pickup was parked next to her car.

Downstairs, she heard feet on the porch, the door opening.

She turned, clutched the diary to her chest. Uh . . .

“Hello the house, anyone here?” The voice, male, drifted up the stairs.

She swallowed. “Here, I’m up here.”

More footsteps. She chased away her fear with the truth that anyone who might want to hurt her probably wouldn’t announce himself.

Right?

She tucked the diary back in the drawer and headed out of the room just as the man appeared on the landing.

A real estate agent, maybe, a business look about him. Tall, with short blond hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders, lean hips. Wearing dress pants, holding leather gloves.

“Monte Riggs. I think you already met my grandfather, Gust.” He held out his hand and smiled at her, a dimple in his right cheek.

“Raina Beaumont.”

She waited for him to make the usual connection to her aunt, but he didn’t, and for some reason she liked him all the more for it.

“Grandpa says you’re new in town?”

And right then, she knew. She could reinvent herself. She didn’t have to be the woman with a past, a woman dogged by her mistakes. Just . . . Raina. At least until her aunt Liza returned home, and by then she’d have figured out what to do with the rest of her life.

“Yeah. I used to be a caterer, but I’m house-sitting for the winter. I’m not sure if I’ll stick around after that. We’ll see.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Next time try to find a house in Florida.”

“No kidding.”

“I was a little afraid you’d get stuck. I hired a guy to plow the driveway, but I wasn’t sure how good a job he did. I thought I’d better come and check on you.”

Gallant as well as handsome.

“I know you want me to catalog the place, but I think there’s been some mistake. The house feels lived in or, at least, would if there was any heat on. It’s like someone simply went out intending to come back.”

Monte shoved his gloves into his pockets, walked down the hall, peering into the rooms. “I know. I was out here once before, after Penny came in with her collection of milk glass.”

“Penny?”

He turned back to her. “Yeah, Penny Townsend. She’s the granddaughter of the owner, Aggie Wilder, who passed away about ten years ago. Before that, Aggie had to be moved into a nursing home. Apparently she fell and broke her hip one day and could never return to the house.”

“So they just shut it up?” She followed him down the hall and up another flight of stairs.

It opened into a giant room, empty save for the buffet built into the far wall. The windows jutted out of the mansard roof, offering a breathtaking view of the lake. He walked to a window as if also mesmerized by the view. Then he faced her again. His eyes held mystery and just enough sparkle that a girl might be hypnotized by them.

“Penny lives in Minneapolis with her family, and she owns this place. Until a couple years ago, they used it in the summer for vacations, but with her kids grown, she wants to sell it. She said that we were supposed to sell it all.”

Raina stared at him. “Seriously? There are years of memories here
 
—pictures and books. Personal books.”

“We’ll catalog it all, but she said she went through everything she wanted.” Monte walked across the floor, stood in the middle. “I wonder what they used this room for.”

“Shuffleboard?”

He laughed. “So, Raina Beaumont, my grandfather tells me you have introduced him to something called the Intro-net.”

“Right. It’s my pleasure. He hadn’t a clue how to use that computer you got him.”

“I know. It’s my fault. I work out of Duluth doing estate sales, and I should have been here to set it up for him. I blame the weather.”

“It’s been brutal.”

“But that’s no excuse. And I have to admit, sometimes Grandpa’s stories can turn me blind.”

“He does like to spin a yarn. But he means well, and just think of all the history trapped in that head.”

“I think he’s been in Deep Haven since the dawn of time.”

He headed to the stairs, then turned and held out his hand as if she needed help. Sweet. She waved him off and grabbed the banister, but the thought counted.

“Well, we’re going to bring him into this century,” she said. “I set up a Facebook page for him and taught him how to use Excel. You know, if you list your store on eBay, you might have a real haul.”

“You, Raina Beaumont, are a true gem.” He stood on the landing. “I didn’t know how I was going to get this place cataloged and ready for sale. You are exactly what I was hoping for.”

Another smile. It hit her like a fresh breeze.

“I’m heading back to Duluth, but is there anything you need before I take off? I’ll leave my cell phone number at the office. Grandpa doesn’t have one, so don’t bother. And don’t worry; I don’t expect miracles.”

She looked around at the rooms, the furniture, the accessories. “Frankly, I don’t know where to start.”