Chapter Three
The month of June in the small resort towns of northern Michigan holds the early promise of the coming summer season. As the weather warms and the days grow longer, the wildflowers show along the edges of the woods and the first trout begin to rise along calm eddies of the creeks and streams in the late dusk of evening. Traffic and shoppers in the downtown districts begin to gather, building steadily to the arrival of the Fourth of July weekend when summer officially begins its high season. By late June the docks and boat hoists are in the water as summer families prepare for the long-awaited season of swimming and boating. Along the banks of the tiny harbor of Round Lake, the docks and piers fill with the magnificent boats of summer residents and weekend cruising visitors.
The EmmaLee rested serenely on the surface of the small inland harbor of Charlevoix. Other boats cruised by slowly admiring her handsome lines, taking pictures and pointing to various parts of the ship.
Megan Clark stood at the rail at the stern of the EmmaLee with a cell phone against her ear. She had changed clothes after the funeral and was dressed in khaki shorts and a New York Yankees t-shirt.
“Rebecca, is that you? I’m so glad you finally got in,” Megan said. “You need to come downtown. Will your parents let you get away, or do you have to unpack?” She listened as her friend from Chicago, Rebecca Holmes, answered. The Holmes summered each year in their house out on Lake Michigan, just down past Charlevoix Country Club. “Well hurry,” Megan said, “we’re going to have dinner in about a half hour and I want you to join us. We have a lot to catch up on.” Megan nodded as her friend confirmed the plan. “Okay, great. I’ll run the launch over to pick you up at the shopper’s dock. We’ll see you in a few minutes. Bye.”
Megan ended the call as Sally came up behind her. “Is Becca in yet from Chicago?” Sally asked.
“Yeah, she’s gonna join us for dinner.”
Sally stood next to her stepdaughter at the rail of the ship. “That’s great, honey. I spoke with your father. He has some business to deal with in New York for the next couple of days and won’t be able to come up.”
Megan could see from Sally’s face how disappointed she was. “Sally, you know he’ll come as soon as he can.”
Sally just nodded, watching the steady parade of boats making their way around the EmmaLee. “I’m going up to the house tonight after dinner. I think I’ll probably stay there for a night or two. You and Becca are welcome to join me.”
After her marriage to Alex Clark, Sally had kept her home up on Michigan Avenue north of town on the bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan. “I need to check in on the old place and I want to spend some time in my studio to spread a little paint on canvas.”
“Becca mentioned she really wanted to stay over on the boat tonight. You know how much she loves it out here. Maybe we’ll take a boat ride after dinner.”
“You two go ahead and invite some other friends if you’d like.” Sally looked up at the soft orange and red colors in the clouds coming in from Lake Michigan in the fading light of the day. “I just need a little rest and time to gather myself after the funeral today.” She paused for a moment and her shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of the day. “It will never be the same up here without George around, honey. I wish you had been able to spend more time with him. He was the best friend of my mother and father…back before they were lost in the accident. He treated me like his own daughter all these years since. I feel like I’ve lost my father again.”
Megan moved over and hugged Sally. She didn’t say anything because she knew nothing she would say could possibly help. She had only known George Hansen for a few years, but she had come to know him as family as well. She held onto Sally as they each tried in their own way to deal with his passing.
The Charlevoix Country Coroner, Jacob Henry, paused for a moment before he looked up from his notes. His glasses were resting up on his forehead. The few wisps of gray hairs still on his head were pushed back as a result, leaving only his heavy untrimmed eyebrows to break the cold impassive shininess of his face. Across from his desk sat the County Sheriff, Elam Stone, a middle-aged public servant with an ever-expanding waistline that caused him to order new uniform pants every year for the past ten years. His hat sat on the coroner’s desk, sweat stains spreading up from the leather band that wrapped around it.
“Elam, the autopsy reports on George Hansen seem pretty clear to me, the coroner said. The doctors down at the hospital who first worked on him after he was brought in, declared cause of death to be coronary-related. Since he had been dead for over three hours before they had a chance to examine him, they were really just speculating,” the coroner said. He took particular pleasure in over-dramatizing the situation for the benefit of the sheriff. It was a small county and he had very little work that kept him interested. George Hansen was a prominent community leader who was found dead in his boat of what appeared to be natural causes.
“When we got the body and had a chance to do a thorough examination and autopsy, we were a bit surprised to find lake water in the man’s lungs. Most people who die sitting in a fishing boat of natural causes don’t have lake water sloshing around in their lungs.”
The sheriff pushed his hat aside and leaned his arms up on the desk, almost knocking over the cup of coffee he had been served. “How does Hansen take a big swallow of water down his windpipe from the lake and then sit back in his boat and croak?” he asked with a sincerely puzzled expression.
“There are a few scrapes and contusions on his legs and arms that are concerning,” the coroner answered. “It’s possible he fell overboard and then managed to pull himself back into the boat, scraping himself up as he did, and then died from the exertion of all that.”
“I suppose,” said Stone, still with a question in his voice.
The little Chris Craft runabout, EmmaLee II, cut through the slow rolling swells coming in through the channel from Lake Michigan. The varnished brown hull stood out sharply against the deep green water of the lake. Megan Clark and her friend, Rebecca Holmes, sat on the front leather seats, Megan at the wheel. They looked out across the vast distance of the big lake into the glare of the bright setting sun on the horizon. The sky was cloudless and glowed bright pink along the sharp edge of sky and water. Megan kept to the right of the channel, cruising slowly in the “no wake” zone, allowing other boats room coming in from Lake Michigan.
Rebecca pushed the hair back from her eyes, loose ends flying in the breeze over the windshield. “I’m glad Sally suggested we take Little Emma out tonight,” she said.
Megan looked in all directions for other boats as they passed the end of the pier. The big red lighthouse rose up above them on their left, the bright signal light passing around every few moments, just beginning to show in the fading light. The wind out of the southeast had calmed to just a soft whisper and the waves coming across the bay were laying down to a comfortable light chop. “Yeah, I wish she would have come with us,” Megan said. “She’s feeling pretty low with Uncle George and the funeral…and my Dad is being a jerk about some business deal.”
Megan turned the boat off to the north along the shore, the low rumble of the engine rising as she pushed forward a bit on the throttle. She could see Sally’s yellow house up on the bluff, just down past the big condominiums next to the pier. A few lights glowed on the first floor, but she couldn’t see anyone moving around. The high dunes along the shore running up to North Point in the distance spread up into dark clusters of pines and cottonwoods. A couple walked along the shoreline, their dog running up ahead jumping into the water and barking at gulls.
She thought again about Sally and how close they had grown in the past few years. Megan’s mother had died when she was very young and the memories of her passing from cancer were blurred, but still painful whenever those thoughts came back. Sally had been such a wonderful new addition to her life. She had come to love Sally Thomason almost from the first time she had met her as a little girl. All of
their lives seemed to come together so naturally after that first summer in Charlevoix when Sally and her father had fallen in love, and then the wedding the next year. The two of them have been so happy together these past years, she thought. Only in the last few weeks had she noticed a tension growing between them.
The explosion of a fireworks rocket up ahead on the far shore brought her attention back to the moment.
“You’ll never guess who I saw today,” Megan teased.
Rebecca reached over the back of the seat and grabbed two Coke’s out of the cooler that lay on the floorboard. She opened them both and handed one to Megan. “I can’t begin to guess,” she answered.
“Do you remember Will from last summer?” Megan asked. “Right at the end of August, we met him down at that party in Boyne City.”
“Will?”
“Will Truegood, his family is Native American.”
“Oh sure, that Indian boy,” Rebecca said. “Where did you see him?”
Megan winced at her friend’s description. “He was downtown at the park when Sally and I were walking home from the service up at the cemetery. He wants to take me fishing.”
“He asked you out?” Rebecca asked.
“It’s not like a date. He just likes to fish and wants to show me the river out by his cabin.”
“Girlfriend, you can’t go out with him.”
Megan let up on the throttle and the boat slowed, rising gently over low swells. She turned to look at her friend. “Excuse me, but I can go out with whoever I want to, but I told you it’s not a date.”
“What do you think Rick will have to say about you being seen with some local… and he’s an Indian, for God’s sake!” Rebecca said.
Rick was Rick Brandtley, son of Oliver and Judith Brandtley from Grosse Point. The Brandtley family had made a considerable fortune many years ago as one of the primary parts suppliers to the big Detroit car companies. They had a summer home in Charlevoix just down the street from Sally’s house up along the big lake. Megan and Rick had dated often during the past two summers. They kept in touch when they returned to school each year and had spent some time together at the Brandtley’s home over Christmas.
Megan felt her anger rising. “Becca, I can’t believe you. When did you become such a ….,” she paused, trying to stay calm. “Rick won’t care if I go out with an old family friend to go fishing, and frankly, it’s none of his damn business.”
“Oh, I think he’ll consider it his business,” her friend said sternly. “Have you seen him up here yet?”
“No, they won’t be up until after the fourth,” Megan answered. “Just relax. I don’t know if I’ll even see Will again and I’m sorry I said anything.” She pressed the throttle forward and the boat lurched out ahead up toward North Point. Megan tried to put Will Truegood out of her mind. She had been looking forward to seeing Rick again and spending time with him up in Charlevoix over the summer.
The two girls watched as a big twin-masted sailboat came around the point up ahead from the bay down in Harbor Springs. The low sun lit up the bright white sails of the boat, luffing softly in the light wind.
The big artificial mayfly landed softly on the calm water of the eddy pulling back behind the cedar deadfall. Only the slightest rush of water over the limbs of the downed tree could be heard in the quiet of the fading evening. The low light of the sun found its way through the heavy woods and cast a glare across the surface of Horton Creek. Will Truegood twitched the fly line and watched the fly move with a quick hop across the water. He waited, holding his breath, knowing the drag on his line from the faster current near him would pull the fly out of the feeding lane for the nice trout he had watched rising for the past few minutes. The fly held its precarious position for a few seconds more. The sounds of the water and a light breeze through the trees echoed in his head. He leaned over, holding the rod out as far as it would go to prolong the presentation of the fly to the wary fish.
And then the water broke in a subtle take as the trout sipped the fly, making only the slightest break in the surface of the stream. Will lifted the rod instinctively and felt the joy in connecting with the heavy weight of the fish. He pulled the rod low and away to muscle the fish out from the snags of the downed tree limbs. The fish ran hard to stay down in the cover of the tree, but Will put the heavy butt of the rod into the fish and pulled him back away from the trouble. The bend in the rod was hard and pleasing and he knew he was on to a good fish. He moved cautiously back across the river to the near bank making sure of every step as he played the fish in the loose sandy bottom that was intertwined with rotting downed tree limbs from past seasons. As he reached the undercut bank of the river, the fish tired and came up to the surface, gasping for another reserve of energy to run again. Will slipped his wooden net under the fish and held it low on the surface to keep water moving through its gills. The trout lay on its side in the water surrounded by the net. Its green sides and brilliant orange belly showed brightly against the clear water of the creek.
Will let out a long breath. Damn, what a nice fish. He reached down and cradled it gently under its round belly. It lay there calmly, resigned to its fate, not knowing it would soon be free to return to its cold sanctuary. He watched the fish lying there on its side, its gills moving rapidly to capture some flow of water and oxygen. He thought it was the most beautiful fish he had ever caught, but then he knew he always felt that way. He pulled the net down and away from the fish and watched as it regained its equilibrium and found new strength to dart away quickly from the clear sandy-bottomed shallows of the river, back down into the dark protection of the cover of the deadfall.
Will moved back and sat on the bank of the river. He felt the pull of the current against his legs and the chill of the cold water press through his waders. The sun was a deep orange blinding light now through the low branches of the cedar and hardwood forest. Movement upstream caught his attention and he watched a young whitetail deer nose out from the underbrush across the river. It stepped downed cautiously into the current to take a drink. Will tried to remain still, but the deer looked up suddenly in his direction. He looked into the deep brown eyes of the deer only yards away and it seemed to accept the fact the two of them were together in this place and there was room for all who cared to be there.
The deer dipped its head back down to the water and took one more drink before it turned and jumped effortlessly back up onto the bank and disappeared into the darkening woods.
Sally Thomason sat on the familiar soft cushions of the wicker couch on the sun porch off the back of her house on Michigan Avenue. The water of Lake Michigan glittered in the late evening sun’s reflections. The windows had been opened halfway up to let in the cooling breeze off the lake. An empty sketch pad and pencil lay on the table in front of her. She noticed a small boat coming out through the channel from behind the pier and could see it was her old Chris Craft runabout, the boat her parents had given her those many years ago. She could see Megan and Rebecca sitting up front, enjoying the beauty of the fading day and the exhilaration of the boat ride.
She allowed her head to fall back and rest on the cushion behind her, letting out a deep breath and thinking back on the day’s events. The loss of her dear friend, George Hansen, lay heavy on her thoughts. She knew he was getting on in age, but it was still so hard to think about losing him… and then the earlier conversation with Alex.
She was beginning to feel guilty about being so harsh with him. She knew how difficult this new situation with the business was and she was growing more worried Louis Kramer had gotten them into serious trouble. She couldn’t help but feel the awful weight of jealousy when she thought of Anna Bataglia, Alex’s lawyer. She had met Anna on several occasions down at Alex’s office and at receptions in the city. She was the type of woman who always seemed to know everyone in a room and hugged and kissed most of them like they were her closest friends. She would occasionally hold onto Alex’s arm when they were talking in a crowd and Sally often
noticed the lingering kiss on his cheek at the end of a party or meeting. She had no specific reason to believe Anna and Alex were anything more to each other than close working associates and friends… but, she is so damned beautiful!
Her rapidly declining mood was broken by the sound of the doorbell in the front hall. She struggled to pull herself up from the soft escape of the couch. Most of the lights were out through the house and deep shadows from the setting sun played across the rooms as she made her way to the front door. She turned on the front porch light and opened the old stained wooden door. Standing before her on the porch was Louis Kramer, her husband’s business partner. His usual confident air was gone, and she could see a panic in his eyes that was only thinly disguised by the immaculate styling of his hair and clothes. He rushed past her into the house without being asked.
“Louis, what in hell are you doing here?” Sally asked.
He just kept walking down the hall toward the kitchen. She followed him in and saw him opening the refrigerator door. “Do you have any wine? I need a drink, now!” he said in his heavy Texas drawl.
Sally came up beside him and pushed the door closed. “I want you to get out of my house, now!”
“Sally, I’m sorry.” He put his hands on her shoulders, attempting to calm her. It wasn’t helping. She pushed his arms away and stepped back against the far cabinets. “Sally, really I just needed to talk to you. You need to know what’s going on here. Alex is freaking out on me.”
“It sounds like he has every good reason. What in hell have you done?”
He opened the refrigerator again. “Can I please have a drink?”
She went over to the small wine refrigerator under the counter and pulled out a bottle of white wine without bothering to look at the label. She pulled a corkscrew from a drawer and handed them both to him. “Let me get a couple of glasses and we’ll go sit down.”
The Summer Town Page 3
